To the Lighthouse

That's the title of a book by one of my favourite crime writers, P.D.James, and it's where I went this afternoon between sleet showers - really because my friend wanted to show me a neat little bit of land appropriation by the people who've bought the foghorn building, now a private house. Here, we're looking due south down the Firth of Clyde, where the sky was a menacing blue-grey, dark with the next load of sleet. 

It was bitterly cold, but we walked briskly and talked even more briskly so were able to keep warm enough - though when we'd been sitting in her house drinking tea I found the chill once again attacking me through my damp trousers. 

It took me hours to get warm again, even with the help of a powerful malt whisky and Mr PB's excellent curry.