It had been a trying day, beautifully topped off at tea-time when I had lovingly created tuna melts on special gluten-free pitta bread with my favourite Comté cheese for my evening noms and had watched them fall (in painful slow-motion) squidgy-side down on the floor before nary a taste was had.
Solitude called me after that, and beckoned me away for a walk far from frustrations and noise.
By the end of the road (the dead-end leading to next village by means of a muddy public footpath, in oxymoronic style) the sun had started going down, but something weird was going on with the light. I couldn't quite see what it was through the trees, but a man walking his little spaniel passed me going the other way and told me that there was a single sun dog in the sky.
Ah, said I. How wonderful, said I. I must have a proper look, said I, and left him, thinking that I'd somehow time-travelled back to ancient Egypt and was half expecting to see the sun being herded to its far-horizon rest by a particularly brave wingèd border collie.
Yes, yes, I hadn't a clue what he meant, but after finding a break in the trees I saw this, and realised that something special was going on, even if it wasn't solar deity-related.
No, that's really not a fault of my camera, although you'd not be penalised for that assumption. That, my dears, is the atmospheric phenomenon know as a left-hand sun dog.
From what I understand, they generally come in pairs, one to be see on either side of the sun amongst some kind of halo effect, but this is Scotland, so you're not going to get two for free...*
I walked further east and watched the sun go down hounded by that dog, and have to admit the effect was incredible through the wispery clouds.
And then it was gone. It did, however, leave behind a spectacular sunset in its wake.
*Ah, stereotypes, gotta love 'em!
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