A wet front has blown in from the Atlantic bringing with it dreech, Hebridean like weather. Layer on layer of black cloud blocking out the light. Darkness at noon, or more precisely darkness at quarter past eight in the morning. Not that Wilf was bothered. He sat with me under the arches savouring his bowl of water, nibbling on the end of a croissant, listening to the laughter of the early morning tipplers and watching the townsfolk scurrying past. On our sodden way back to the car I could swear that he jumped in every puddle he saw. Nothing quite like a satisfying splosh to raise a dogs spirits. If the mischief quotient is anything to go by he still has a lot of life left in him yet. Trust a dog to get you laughing on a morning like this.