It's one of those nights, summer turning to autumn, when the sun sends sideways glances at the earth and turns the day's heat into shades of pink and gold. We are walking on the cliffs at Garrarus and at each further climb towards the top field we stop and watch it disappear . . .
It's the witching hour, the gloaming. Patterns and shadows play across an amber horizon and as usual I am drawn towards the . . .