Maraid watches her son, James, striding out across the grass, a bottle of milk for each of their visitors in hand. His father, grandfather and uncle are all lost to the sea; her mother-in-law still knits socks for men who will never wear them. The visitors are here to paint, to record, to celebrate - so they say - this island and its purity, the language all but vanished across the water.

They pay of course but what, some wonder, will they cost? Maraid has lost so much already it's hard to know what she might still have to lose. And yet, as fathers are shot at their kitchen tables and grandmothers are killed at the bus stop how do you even ask such a question - let alone answer it?

Some think Maraid may be giving what they can't afford. At the end of the summer, as the visitors head home, there will be a reckoning.