Lord Deenie and Sir Hugh were each slumbered in their favourite place of repose, sleeping-off a somewhat overloaded lunch as the low filtered light of midwinter struggled through the mist in a weak attempt at penetrating the glazing and slinking past those spaces reserved solely for shadows.

The gentle pulsing of plump tummys was occasionally interrupted by the twitching of a hunt-borne limb as dreamland quarry were pursed and, perhaps, cornered. The afternoon lost interest and wandered away across the waters of the loch before ushering the last of the light into the shelter of a narrow cave hidden amongst the heather of the rocky hill.

Inside the darkened room the bewhiskered gentlemen began to stir, heads lolling and legs uncrossing as wakefulness replaced illuminated dreamscapes with the reality of nightfall. They rose in unison, in silence, with aristocratic grace, before following the scent of the departed light outside with two clatters of the swinging catflap.