The darkness out on the lanes was intense tonight. The
conditions were right – no moon and a clear sky – and none of the houses I
passed had their security lights on, which is most unusual. When I reached the
pub, that was closed and in darkness, too. The air was still and misty, and a
sense of gloom and of being somehow outside the familiar comfort of time began
to impress itself upon me. It reminded me of a chapter in my novel, the one in
which the protagonist is menaced by slithering demons.
And then time re-asserted itself. Nine low tolls of the
ancient church bell floated across the invisible fields to sound the hour. Apart
from that, all was silent. No traffic, no owls, no rumble of distant aircraft.
I sometimes wonder why walking the lanes at night isn’t a popular
occupation. I’m glad it isn’t, of course. Having the night wholly to oneself encourages
a sense of privilege.
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