When I was a child in the 1970s we were on a holiday on the west coast of Scotland and by chance, taking refuge in the car from the torrential summer downpour in the barren square of Portree, my father turned on the radio. What came on was a creepy, disturbing drama set on Skye. A young woman, the only visitor to this country hotel not on the suspect list for a grizzly murder is sitting in the dead of night by the unconscious body of another would-be victim of the murderer. "How appropriate!" my mother laughed, and we listened on. The landscape of the story was the same landscape that was around me, though I couldn't see it for the rain, and there were strange characters, a crazed climber, beltane fires and murder. I thought it was great and it really, really stayed with me. It was years later that I read Wildfire at Midnight and realised that this was the self-same story I'd heard as a child. It's cracking, unashamedly romantic, but really rather well written. A good read for a sick day tucked up on the sofa, or a quiet night in. Mary Stewart's great - if only new pulp fiction could manage the same alluring balance of literary poise and good swash-buckling plots. No one else does it as well.