Walked the 75 route today, terminus to terminus — or the southern half of it, Castlemilk down to Bridgeton, which was already more ambition than I'd originally planned when I looked out the window at quarter to ten and decided it wasn't actively raining.
It was actively raining by the time I reached the terminus.
The drizzle had that particular October quality of not committing either way: too fine to justify pulling a hood up, persistent enough to get your collar damp within twenty minutes. Dreich is the word, and it earns its place in the language. I set off down the hill with the map already softening at the fold lines.