Poignant like a Turner painting, but I prefer viewing a painting rather than reading one.
A still, calm day, the light filtered through high cloud so that the water was shiny grey, like metal. On the horizon a bank of fog.
If the author's mission is to bore me, she's succeeded. The only problem here is the moody character. There is a simile and some pathetic fallacy. But I find neither device entertaining in themselves.
Page 1 rambles on about pebbles in pockets and more description of a hill and lambs salted with some back story. Some lady called Fran is dead.
First thing said:
Some swearing at the end of chapter 2.
The only thing this opening does is make me want to travel to Shetland. Consequently, I imagine this book filling bookshelves in travel agencies around the world or serving as a resource for amateur meteorologists interested in the region.