This turf is green Ulva, and this is Gometra, and the shell is Little Colonsay.

With this wet sand I have moulded Ben Grieg, and this higher pile is Ben More.

If I had but a sprig of heather, now, or a pebble from the shore of Scridain!" The voice, while harsh, was not disagreeably so, and neither the words nor the manner of using them smacked of the rustic.
"And where are Loch-na-Keal and Ulva and Scridain ?" demanded Haward.
"Somewhere in North Britain, I presume ?" The second question broke the spell.

The man glanced over his shoulder, saw that he was not alone, and with one sweep of his hand blotting loch and island and mountain out of existence, rose to his feet, and opposed to Haward's gaze a tall, muscular frame, high features slightly pockmarked, and keen dark blue eyes.
"I was dreaming, and did not hear you," he said, civilly enough.

"It's not often that any one comes to the store at this time of day.