One cold, but sunny, November morning the delightful assistants wrapped themselves up in cosy hats and set off for a pre-luncheon leg stretch near the small Perthshire village of Kettins in the Vale of Strathmore.
They progressed along a straight, tarmacked road, keeping an eye out for a side road that would enable them to get away from the occasional passing car. A group of trees ahead, at the edge of a field of kale, seemed to offer hope of such a turn-off.
Right enough, on one side of the copse a tempting-looking track led round the edge of the field.
It was a bit slippery in places due to a thin coating of ice, but they took their time, watched their footing and carried on boldly in the cheering sunshine.
To their right was a beautifully constructed dry stone wall with a freshly ploughed field on the other side of it.
Ahead of them the view stretched out over fertile lowlands, sloping gently up into the hills of the Angus glens.
At the far end of the field, the track curved round into a squelching morass. Not keen to gloop on through the muddy sludge, they turned round and headed back the way they had come.
As they walked back, the chill air nipping at their cheeks, their thoughts happily turned to the pot of hot soup awaiting them in the old folks’ home.