Winter sends some weather from the future: it's been some months since my hands felt bitten like this. Double-coated Dog cares not a jot. We are in the park admiring the width of old firs, the silvery trunks of birch, the feral pre-schooler in the undergrowth.
'I should have just got a dog,' the mother says. She is holding his raincoat open and smiling. Ice rain puts him off the feral life. He runs for coat cover.
We are at the hill's brow when the rainbow breaks.
A dinky white terrier stops to wait for a damp man. 'That's the trouble with this weather,' the man says, 'you never know.'