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There’s something special about those long Scottish summer evenings when the light fades so slowly that you hardly notice night falling. On just such an evening, the band and I found ourselves walking on the beach at Troon, gazing out to sea as the sun set on the mountains of Arran. The band decided it would be nice to build a fire and started gathering driftwood. I found myself seized by a strange melancholy and wandered off on my own along the beach.

It was a beach that I remembered well, particularly a secluded spot where large flat rocks bordered the sandy shore. My mind drifted to an evening just like this one many years ago and, to the gentle accompaniment of the waves, a song took shape in my mind. A song of longing for a lost love, for a past that ebbed as easily as the water washing over the sand, only to return with the tide of memory. With a tear in my eye, I took out my harmonica and started to play. Walking back along the beach towards the glow of the fire, I could hear my friend and bandmate Dee Sharpe gently strumming his guitar. As I drew nearer, Dee, no stranger to melancholy himself, picked up on my melody and, as the sun finally set behind the mountains of Arran, this song came together around the campfire.