The wind was blowing spasmodically in all direction. A wind whose coldness blasted in our face and numbed all senses. Clouds rolled silently, now covering the sky with their dark and menacing mantle, now letting beam of sunshine filter through, now parting away to show a tinge of deep blue sky. The fresh air of the fluvial shore was invigorating and welcomed on this Saturday morning.

Hills around the Clyde still bore shreds of white, the last remnants of Winter snow that had fallen on several occasion during December and January. One could glimpse, across the wide sheet of water, the faint shadowy shape of Arran Island that etched against the sky.

The strident laughs of playful children and the occasional barking of dogs rose sharply over the incessant and almost hypnotic murmur of the waves that rolled on the beach, leaving streaks of white foam as they ebbed.

That afternoon, after lunch and a cup of tea, as we were back in the Greenock Cut Visitor center, while some of us were making a bird feeder and other busied themselves with building a newly acquired electric saw. I went outside and started to roam the nearest pasture field, trying to take photographs of Canadian geese.

I could see them gathering in large flocks in the field. They moved in concert with seemingly not a care in the world.

I had to make up for the short focal length of my longest lens by getting the nearest to them as possible.

Approaching them, though, was not without difficulty. As I slowly moved closer toward them, they moved nervously further away. And then, in a frantic flapping of wings and a pandemonium of cries, they were gone.

For several tines, I stalked flocks of them, walking here and there, moving from field to field, my fingers growing numb in the cold wind that blew in sudden gusts, until I felt certain of having taken enough shots of them. The light of the day was progressively and dark clouds closed in, obstructing the golden brightness of the sun.