One by one, lights were coming on in the scattered houses across the rolling hillsides which I could see in the departing darkness of the night. People were easing themselves into the day to prepare for their trips to work.
The lights of some of the distant farms were already on, for farmers work to the Earth’s clock. Those are the places which I once heard an English Monarch, in a Christmas message, call “remote farms”. They are not remote to me, for I know them and know the lanes and tracks which lead to – and from – them.
Then, a red-kite skimmed overhead, black against the lightness of the patchwork clouds drifting almost imperceptibly overhead. I could feel no movement of breeze and, though mid-Winter is approaching, it did not feel cold.
Turning to retrace my steps, I noticed over to the South-East a narrow strip of orange-pink, almost hidden by the mountains, where the December Sun was about to rise. I stared at its beauty, imprinting the view on my memory.
Looking down towards the village, I thought of the generations of now-forgotten people who had seen similar mornings. People who were now forgotten, whose struggles in this once-remote area were too hard for me or the present generation to understand.
The Earth slowly moved on its rotating journey and a little more light came across the scene. The noise of cars along the road, their drivers heading for work and unable to appreciate the beauty through which they travelled. That broke my reverie.
And then I was home again, knowing that I live where I know I should live.