Bliss was it ...

Wordsworth isn't a favourite poem of mine, but the line that popped into my head for a title is very apt in its sentiment - "to be young was very heaven" - except, of course, that I'm far from young. But today's weather was blissful - the chill air and the hot sun producing ideal walking conditions - the sky blue and the walk worthy. It was also strenuous, and all the more satisfying for that, taking us up and up through the forest to emerge on this hight viewpoint, looking down the Firth of Clyde towards Arran and the Cumbraes. (I can see my house in this, if I enlarge it). The tall pines creaked alarmingly in the easterly wind, the gorse was a blaze of colour on the hillside and along the track, the sliver birches were just coming into leaf in that enticing froth of light green that is so typical of the season.

We met two people at the top of this track - not together, one man with a dog, one woman with no dog. We smiled and agreed it was a fine day. Further down, a couple with a small dog on the lead: careful distancing with the track between us, friendly smiles as to co-conspirators. Most people avoid these more strenuous walks, which is why we find them so therapeutic. We didn't have to avoid a single cyclist, be puffed at by a single jogger. The dogs were well under control, on leads. We came home mid-afternoon to tea and toast in the garden - it was too late to think about lunch. (We've discovered lunchtime is a good time to walk, when normal people eat)

But here's a thing: all day, I've felt it was Friday. Yesterday, it was Saturday in my head throughout. Anyone else finding time elastic and meaningless?