gentle evening light in Crosdale, oil on canvas, plein air sketch, 6×8 inches
Off to paint the last light on the hill I carried my paints up to the ridge where you can see mountains in the distant west. Plunging down the side of a steep valley I emerged from an enormous shadow into what was left of the sunlight. It lit up the lower slopes of the valley, open to the west. I perched on a ledge at the blind end, facing the sun.
The vast hill slope on the right side of the valley was black and looming while, to my left, orange warmth still lingered on the white grass that slid down to the stream far below. A bright yellow strip of light curved along the side of the water, travelling from the open end of the valley to its closing wall. I knew that all of the values in my painting would probably float rapidly away from anything resembling reality as the light quickly dipped and the sun glowered lower.
sunset lighting up Crosdale, 6×8 inches plein air oil painting
An unreal scene stretched out below me and around me, with electric purples and blues and deep viridian in the distance and in the shadows, glowing whites and ochres in the highlights. The sky was packed with odd-shaped clouds which appeared indigo against the sun, floating in bright yellow air. I painted quickly, and terribly, until the light went leaving a threatening red horizon underneath a bank of dark cloud.
Walking down towards the town I lingered for a long time watching the red sky and, passing a natural grotto cut into the hill, where water poured out of the earth into a rocky cave, I wondered why I had never noticed it before. Did it only appear at night? Remembering I had forgotten to bring a torch I hurried on, down the path with stones still bright in the remaining sky light.
one last blast of light over Crosdale, plein air oil sketch on canvas, 6×8 inches
Turning the corner and facing east instead of west I could see the town’s lights spread out, dazzlingly, below. It was unnerving because I could no longer see where I was going so clearly. The farm gate reached, I dithered, not wanting to clatter through the yard and wake the occupants, so I carried on along the fell wall through the bracken, heading for a path down through a small wood which would also take me home. The fell-wall walk was time-consuming with no light and huge pools of mud leapt out of the bracken, splattering my feet and legs, while the odd rock did its best to throw me off balance.
Reaching a wooden bench near the gate leading to the wood I paused, sat and drank hot cocoa from my flask, ignoring the gaping opening behind me where another deep valley cut into the hills above, allowing a deafening stream to roar off into the darkness of the trees below.
Next the stoney, slippery path down to the trees had to be negotiated, with bright rocks and dark earth patches concealing holes into which I sometimes dropped without warning. In the trees it was suddenly pitch black and I found myself holding out my hands to the sides, as if expecting a helpful bannister or wall to appear. The way lunged steeply on and, abruptly, two black lines, even darker than the rest of the shadows, showed up, jutting across the path. I remembered them as tree roots before a sudden drop and launched myself past them, thanking the trees as I landed safely. Ahead, the darkness ended in an archway of paler dimness. The edge of the canopy of trees was near. A stone suddenly moved behind me and I felt myself scare. The edge of the wood seemed both extremely near and terribly far away. The urge to get out of the blackness to where I could see again was strong but not so strong that I would risk falling on the stones of the slope by hurrying too much.
Back in town, everything smelt oddly human after spending so long straining my senses in the dark. Cars and houses seemed to have plastic perfumes. Everything synthetic seemed to smell strong. I wondered if this was an inkling of how my dog might perceive the world of scent. When I reached home I could smell that people had been visiting, but slices of pizza soon put paid to any more meandering thoughts.
Where is the painting of the red sky and the black trees I hear you cry? Alas, it’s still in my mind and has yet to be committed to canvas. So this, rather less sinister, afternoon painting from an earlier plein air session will have to do instead.
looking down Settlebeck Gill, an afternoon painting in hazy light, plein air sketch, 6×8 inches, oil on canvas