We have just came back from a Sundayish run to the Turriff dump with innumerable empty bottles, a regular chore. It snowed again last night, but we awoke to bright blue skies and the interminable dripping of thaw. And that, we rather hoped, was IT. We have got tired of snow. But it turned out that the Frost Giants hadn’t absolutely had their final say. As our little car travelled slowly up the mile and a half of potholed drive to home, to the South – on our right — the sky was clear and blue, with the sun shining brightly. Straight ahead, the frowning brow of Delgaty hill was white with last night’s snow, with blank white cloud above it. The cloud simply ended overhead, like the edge of a sheet. And to the North – our left – the sky was curdled black, and the snow could literally be seen rolling across the countryside; the next farm had disappeared, and the advance clouds of boiling whiteness was closing on us fast – it felt like an almost allegorical moment of passing between two opposite systems, as if one was to choose darkness or light, winter or spring. In sober fact, just for those moments, the cline between two weathers must I suppose have been only a couple of hundred yards wide and it just happened to coincide with the track. We got inside just as the first wave of pelting flakes reached the house – before long it will go away again, and I will walk the dogs.