There was snow forecast for Saturday so on Friday we drove up into the highlands to a small town called Pitlochry. The purpose was lunch at the Moulin Inn and a visit to the most excellent Wilson's shop to purchase either a replacement ferrule for a friendly old walking stick, or failing that, possibly a replacement stick.

The route took us via Dunkeld, the road hugging first the Isla then the Tay rivers under the grey lagged sky of a winter morning. The rivers were forged from black glass, broken only by silver necklaces of waves where they passed over the shingle beds. Amazingly beautiful and matched exactly to the mood of the day. If in their depths there lay the secret of these hills then there it would remain undisturbed for today at least. In a landscape of dark hills topped by the remaining snow like ice cream on chocolate the rivers, and throughout the day, even the highland burns were signalling more snow, more snow, get down before it comes.

Lunch was something of a disappointment - the Moulin has its own "micro" brewery and my favourite amongst their ales is one suitably named "Old Remedial". 5.2% strength and with the rich taste as dark and as secretive as the rivers and burns that day. Perhaps it is because I have given up smoking and my taste buds are jumping faster than they have done for many a long year, but "Old Remedial" is not the elixir it once was. A certain flatness where before was only subtle curves of taste, a lingering note of old socks where before were the delights of bitterness and dark chocolate. And sadly too the "French Onion Soup" which was once worth travelling sixty miles for its rich taste and continents of hot melted cheese doing tectonic exercises on its surface was a complete disaster. Croutons instead of bread - the unforgiveable sin of crap cookery; cheese, such little as could be found, dropped in sheer shame to the bottom of the bowl and onions still aldente from the effort no doubt of opening the packet. Lunch at the Moulin will not be something we will repeat in haste.

And in an effort to retrieve something from the day, we drove from Pitlochry over to the Spittal of Glenshee, over raw moors and past more snow capped hills and even darker rills and burns. Thank God for the Spittal - a travellers inn which is always staffed by students from somewhere and whose welcome is unfailing and service exemplary. There had been a meeting of farmers and the restaurant was replete with good crack listened to with endless patience by as fine a collection of working dogs as you could ever see. Spaniels, retreivers and collies the size of a small barn. Filled with good coffee and the best part of a Scrognut, we made our way home. Glenshee, the Glen of the Fairies, is showing signs that the struggle to make a living there is getting harder. If it was a cathedral, it would have a preservation fund, but it is that more precious place, one of the spirit, and it will survive, even with the odd caravan park.