Saturdays

It's always a good sign when Gail gets up, make a cup of tea and then retreats to bed for a while. My sign that she's not going to work today, and so there's a chance of getting a decent walk somewhere other than boring old Ferryhill. Another good sign, when we go out the front door and I'm directed into the Mini. (I do wish she'd clean the inside though, all that sand that fell out of my coat after last week's trip to Balmedie makes the seat look a right mess, and those smears on the window obstruct my view out!)

After a short drive, I leap enthusiastically out the car and if I didn't have such short legs, the wind might have blown me over. We must be at Torry Battery, by the harbour. Sea to the north, groups of men in funny clothes hitting balls with sticks (seems so pointless) to the south, lots of wind - did I mention that already - and several couples sitting in cars, binoculars trained on the water at the harbour mouth.

Gail and I follow our favourite route round the coast, past the lighthouse and the old 'Torry Coo'. Boy it's cold. As it starts to rain horizontally, we meet a pretty border collie. Her owner, an old man with a well-indurated face, greets mine with a single word. "July". He doesn't smile, but looks resigned.