The sun roof's open, so are the front windows. A warm breeze billows into the car from all directions. The M90 moves apace, The Who belt out Baba O'Reilly, and the road bridge pops onto the horizon. Downhill and up again, the motorway twists and turns. Goosebumps rise on my forearms, and the bridge is just ahead.
The air changes. It drops several degrees. The breeze doesn't billow; it whips and snaps into the car, chilled with the salt tang of the sea.
The windows stay down, the sunroof stays open and the sunlight stays bright.
Scotland in the summer is wondrous. When it's not grey.
And sometimes when it is.