Where the hill turned a corner the sunny blue skies and white clouds met the murky purple-grey of the approaching storm. At this critical point the light seemed unreal and a ghost dog was sitting by the bracken, glowing palely with gravity-defying ears.
A join in the sky far overhead showed blue skies meeting darkness.
Looking south it seemed the inhabitants of cloud land had taken against the hills below and plunged them into deep gloom.
Looking north a rainbow still shone faintly, contrasting with the darkness of the hills.
The light on the fell was beautiful but it seemed a good idea to hurry home before the clouds overwhelmed us.
We took one last look at cloud land, which still seemed like something out of Studio Ghibli, and I resisted the impulse to wave.
Running home before the rain I spoke to another walker, or rather raved, about how wonderful the clouds had been. I appeared so overcome that he assumed I must be someone visiting the area for the first time. Apparently Henry Miller said: “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” Maybe painting and the need to look at things keenly has taken me to the place where one remains slightly unhinged but it does make every day incredibly interesting.