Lights on an Island.

If I might be forgiven paraphrasing the oldest football cliché in the book, tonight’s walk was a walk of two halves.

The out walk was watchful, since I didn’t know which bits of road surface might be treacherous and which not. In the event, I needn’t have been concerned. Only the stretch of my own lane between its junctions with Bag Lane and Church Lane was slippery; everywhere else was OK.

So, the out walk finished at Rose Mount as usual, where the cascade of lights looked more magnificent than usual. Maybe it was because I noticed that there’s a point on the lane from which the dressed fir tree appears to be surrounded by mature trees on the periphery of their land. Seen from that position, the pulsating corkscrew takes its place centre stage, flanked on either side by a border of skeletal branches. Or maybe I was just in the mood to see something magical. Who can tell and does it matter?

The walk back was free and easy, and that was when it came into its own. It was one of those nights, you see – very cold, but quiet and comfortable. The air was clear and there was no moon, so the stars presented themselves in all the majesty at their command. And what majesty. I was out much longer than usual because I stood for ages looking straight up, staring and staring and staring. This wasn’t a night to indulge in academic identification of constellations, but a night for simply staring in wonder. It’s the first time in my life, believe it or not, that I’ve truly felt a sense of standing on an island – a tiny ball of rock suspended in an endless three dimensional space of unimaginable proportion. I know I’m not the first person to say that, but it’s the first time I’ve felt it so deeply.

And when I looked in awe at those millions upon millions of little lighted specks – all suns and planets in their own right – I thought how odd it is that we make tiny facsimiles of them and hang them on trees at Christmas.