Deceptive ...

A friend has just commented on Facebook that my collection of photos from this afternoon look like summer, and indeed we've not had the snow that I've seen in photos, lying perceptibly on the ground. In fact, for the second day in a row, the only snow I've seen was a flurry of tiny white balls swirling round my (just-about-dry) washing on the line in the early afternoon. 

I spent the morning organising bits and pieces. A phone call to my hairdresser in Greenock set up an appointment for the week when our next stage of easing lockdown should happen, allowing me to travel out of Argyll. It's crazy - Argyll & Bute covers such a big area of land, but my hairdresser, only 40 minutes away, is out of bounds. Encouraged by that, I did something about my hair in the meantime; I also did another washing, made stock from the rather splendid chicken we had on Sunday, and did my Italian lessons for today. I do think better in the morning ...

We had intended heading north and west to walk this afternoon, but the sight of heavy clouds over our destination had us turning round and going south to walk over the road between the farms at Ardyne. The wind on our faces was fierce on the outward road - real sunglasses and wooly hats stuff. The most pleasing thing as far as I was concerned was that my back didn't ache at all; I've been working on posture and core strength and it seems to be paying off. I'm glad - there's nothing more ancient-making than an aching back after twenty minutes of walking. We had a chat with a BT Openreach man who was squatting over a hole in the verge, but other than him saw no-one. I did, however, see a dead fox lying just inside the gate of a field where there were some sheep - it looked as if someone had laid it out carefully and was in fact the first fox I've seen in these parts. Urban foxes yes - in Glasgow, London and Edinburgh - but not here.

Blipping the view to the blue remembered hills of Arran across the fields. And I'm thinking how strange it is that such a placid-sounding day began, as will tomorrow and the next after that, in a mood of futile despair at the imprisonment created by the lack of social interaction. Didn't Thatcher say there was no such thing as society? Oh yes there is - and I'm missing it.