“Hinterland” once had a rather specific meaning in the economic geography of empire: the inland territory – empty or resource-rich – behind a coastal possession. Then Denis Healey hijacked it: the old wag referred to Mrs Thatcher as having none of that saving touch of general culture that might have softened and humanised a mind bent on one direction only.

To have hinterland is not just to practise a wide appreciation but to have something of the negative capability of the poet, holding opposites easily in mind, sustaining ambiguity, reacting to circumstance.

In both senses, Scotland has always consisted largely of hinterland. A tradition of general rather than specialist culture still prevails, while Scotland’s deeply toothed, fractal geography – the coastline of Argyll is longer than the coastline of France – means almost everywhere except the central Highlands is profoundly affected by its relationship with the sea. And it was by sea that the early evangelisers came to the West of Scotland, establishing networks of faith and learning across its sometimes bleak hinterland.