Seriously. This is Mr PB with his bag of shopping for our Hogmanay dinner tomorrow night - venison fillet, plus an oven-ready partridge for another occasion. And there's the clue, for we go to our local stalker, the wonderfully named Winston Churchill, for our venison, and he lives and runs his business in the snowy recesses of Glen Lean, up a dirt track from the road to Colintraive. We've used his business for almost as long as it's been running, since he sold venison from his house to now, when he has a large processing barn and fancy labels on all his produce. You may well have come across it in shops.
Had we phoned first before leaving to collect our order, we could have had it delivered - or at least waiting for us at the road end. But instead we had the adventure of parking beside the proper road (gritted, not snowy), putting on boots and yaktrax, and setting off up the undulating track ploughed into furrows and ice by the cars of the more adventurous. On our way down, we had the amusement of watching two vehicles attempt to drive up but failing; we also had the satisfaction of an early walk and the exercise gained by climbing a slippy hill in snow.
The extra photo is of Mr PB setting off up the hill on our way to the shop. Going the messages, but with a difference ...