It was early afternoon. However, the diffused daylight was beginning to ebb.

Abandoning the warmth of my abode, I ventured outside. A short train journey brought me from Drumfrochar railway station to Whinhill and , as I left the station towards the grove of trees which grow at the root of the hills, above the many habitation which, at this time of year, still bore the jolly trimmings, I could not help but be marveled by the vista unfolding before my eyes. It is a rare and ephemeral sight, indeed, in this region of Scotland, to behold, such a white, virginal winter wonderland as far as the eyes can see, such a quaint scene as found on christmas wishing cards. All was quiet except for the giggles of delighted children reveling in the snow.

Walking through the snow-covered paths, barely trodden by any other souls was an indescribable pleasure, though tiresome at lengths. Tranquility reigned unrivaled. Not a thing stirred. The skeleton frame of what had possibly been, in more clement times, a barn rose among the thickets of vegetation and gnarled tree, stalwarts of nature with their overstretched spindly limbs. Up on the hills, noble firs rose proudly, pared with the mantles of winter that were sprinkled with snow.

The pavements were covered with a treacherous layer of ice that had been marred by grit, mud and car exhaust, hampering the ability to walk through the streets. The danger of falling and breaking one's bones had never been more acute than on the streets running down the hills toward the town center where people congregated in order to enliven an already declining mall.