As the family packed up and left - a detailed evacuation, rescuing hair bobbles and trombones, socks and slippers - our attention turned south to Westminster and to the streets of London, where Parliament debated the latest "deal" on Brexit while a million souls marched against it. Yes, we looked south and saw the Tories quit the chamber when the Scottish voices began to question; yes, we looked less willingly south when the BBC once again put the question about "getting Brexit done" to English voters who seemed a million miles away.
So yes, we also looked south late this afternoon, down Loch Striven to the Firth of Clyde, where the hills of Arran lay needle-sharp under a pale sky and a tanker lay alongside at the POL depot. Birds sang overhead in the russet leaves of the wood behind the chain fence of the depot lands, and the sea gurgled soothingly on the high tide shore.
I feel at once a million miles from Westminster and unable to forget it. I feel as close to France, to Germany, to the rest of Europe as I do to the Home Counties (why ARE they so called?) and I hate the thought of what is happening. I have a feeling I shouldn't be posting about politics here, but it seems to consume thought other than when I'm immersed in the present moment of a lovely sunset.
Best just to look at the photo ...