Along the old Deeside railway line, jumping over the tufts of grass that poke up through the sprinkling of snow and skipping between the puddles that look like liquid gold when the sun catches them in just the right way.
The path is lined with trees; besides the few evergreens, their bare branches probe delicately at the sky and their damp bark smells heady and fertile. At the riding school, the horses watch sagely over the dry stone wall, clad tightly in their winter coats, gnawing tufts of grass purposefully.
My soundtrack is the throaty caw of crows and the mellow tones of wood pigeons and, of course, the thrum of traffic in the background, though there is comfort in that Sunday dusk traffic. I imagine cars of wind burned faces and dozing children returning from the hills and the woods for an evening of ironing school uniforms and finishing homework and hanging on to the last few hours of the glorious weekend.
Back in Peterculter, I cut through a quiet side street and squint against the low rays beaming through the gaps in the houses and cars. This time last week it was dark and I smile to myself as I think that our corner of the world is tilting ever closer to the sun.