This spell of calm weather continues to provide stunning skies and languid light.
The fields are quite water-logged again after the parching they received in the Summer. On mornings such as these, the puddles look like windows to another world. A world, perhaps, which holds the promise of a lexicon bereft of the word Brexit. It was tempting to take the plunge.
Once we reach the sea wall by the old kirk, we normally head homewards, but this morning we decided to carry on to the cliffs at the Bay of Semolie. With the Sun gaining a little height, the place positively glowed.
After an absence of a few months, the Fulmars are back on their ledges, like Boxing Day Sale shoppers encamped outside the entrances to high-rise emporia.
Whilst with little breeze to carry it away, sea spray hung about the cliffs, as if unsure what to do.
Amongst the yellowing grasses and sedges along the clifftops, rosettes of Buck's-horn Plantain were looking decidedly green and festive.
Our two mile potter had morphed into a five mile hike, so by the time we returned home, it was midday and lunch beckoned. Win, win.