Dying of the light

There wasn't much raging going on here - just a huge old tree heading inexorably towards its death at the top of the rise overlooking the fields (today full of geese), the firth, Bute and the distant hills of Arran. The air was full of cawing and other bird noise - not song-like, but quite raucous - and in the distance a dog was barking and someone shouting at it.

That, of course, is why we were up on the farm road instead of walking out the Ardyne beside the sea as we'd intended. It was hoaching with dog-walkers, their cars neatly lined up in the car park as they took the half-mile walk along the shore road, leaving little offerings tied to the barbed wire or lurking, unbagged, in the rough grass beside the road.

(And I've just corrected some hilarious predictive text errors in the above...)