Season of sunsets
At this time of year it can feel here as if it is always sunrise or sunset.
We wake on weekdays in the dark grey early morning. (Many people are getting up earlier in the pitch dark: we are lucky that my husband usually works from home and that school is only a few minutes away.) It is not until we are having breakfast that the sun first touches the tops of the hills, making the dead bracken glow red like Ayer’s Rock. The sun seems to spend much of the rest of the morning struggling to get out of bed. There are two or three hours of proper daylight; then by lunchtime it has given up the struggle and is sliding back under the duvet again. (I know how it feels.)
Yet what we miss in proper daylight is compensated for by the beautiful effects of low sun. Winter light is much more interesting than summer light. Slanting frost shadows and skies tinted apricot, plum, lemon, tangerine: there is a whole fruit salad of colours in the light of an ordinary December afternoon.
Last Thursday, however, the sunset really excelled itself. People all over Scotland were posting their photos of it on Facebook. By half past four, the sky seemed to have turned into a molten river of fire. Strange beams of light and fingers of shadow suggested otherworldly events in the offing. Now, this really was worth getting out of bed for.