The sun is setting over the Firth of Clyde, and you can just see the low shape of Arran in the distance.
There was the smell of smoke from a bonfire crackling at a nearby house.
The wind was very cold, blowing in from the Firth of Clyde in the last of the light over the empty seashore. The distant shape of Arran was a pale lilac outline.
Sheep quietly ate turnips from the furrows of the ploughed fields, their fleeces turned a gentle pinkish colour by the last of the winter light.
Light all gone, time to head for home.