My fearless team treads lightly across the roiling waters of the Doirlinn like a pair of Manannans' own steeds. They are a marvel to behold. I myself have never before witnessed such graceful, fleet footed horses as these. Pride swells in my chest as I watch them sprint through the salty waves, their black bodies glistening in the sun and their long, white maines flying behind them like battle flags. Careful not to slip on the rocky stretch, or slide on the many crumbling, discoloured oyster and cockle shells that litter the beach, they pull the chariot across the long tidal shingle bar that links Davaar Island to the mainland, staying well ahead of the incoming tide.

As all seems smooth and under control, I tie the reigns to the frame and perform a few feats for the ladies. Lost in the excitement of the moment, I take my two finest swords in hand, balance on the sideboard and twirl them round my body in ever-increasing speed. Hand-over-hand, the blades turn faster and faster, until they look like whirling spirals caught in golden beams of sunlight. Under the feet! Over the head! Behind the back! I flaunt my acrobatic skills to the hilt until we reach the south shore of the loch.

Up ahead is a procession of strange sidhe creature marching out of the woods toward a lone rider in a chariot. A damsel in distress! I leap from the side board, toss aside one of my swords and grab the reigns. Waving the other sword in wild circles above my head, I shout "Avel! Avel!" and my horses run like the wind between forest and shore.

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avel = Breton, wind