I currently live in a corner of the world where there are no horizons. Instead, great mouthfuls of sky are chewed by these first western Alps, each mountain, each ridgeline lessening the percentage of stars I can see, obscuring incoming weather and hiding the rising and setting of the sun. By the time she appears, it is already morning, when she disappears, it is evening, with still hours of daylight. In the middle of winter, the sun only appears in our sky near noon and then “sets” a very, very short time later.
Beautifully written. I have never lived anywhere with big skies, but I love holidays on the west coast of Ireland when you look out at sea and know there's nothing until north America, and the sunsets over the beaches are the best.
Thank you. I've never been to Ireland (yet), but I suspect it is similar to the west coast of Scotland, all that water and colour and movement, mixed together with a healthy dose of magic.
I grew up overlooking the oceans of the North Island of New Zealand and now live amongst the Southern Alps in the South Island.
Sunrises, sunsets, stars, moons, they mark my days with meaning and joy.
I thought I would feel a "lack" of big sky, horizon sunrises and sunsets, when moving to the mountains. But I don't. I love watching the moon slowly setting early in the morning. She chooses different mountains to slide behind depending on her mood of the month. The shadows cast on the ridge lines as the sun sets in the evening are also spectacular.
I still have the "salt of the ocean.. mixed in my blood" though. I am being called back to the ocean for the next stage of my life. 🌄
Thank you for taking the time to share this, I really appreciate it.
New Zealand is somewhere I long to visit/live for a time and your words just reinforce this.
Finding wonder and beauty, no matter where we live, is a deeply entrenched part of my being, especially finding natural wonder. I miss the ocean, but she will wait for me. I will probably miss the mountains when I am not amongst them, too and, whilst I miss wide open spaces, I also love being surrounded by forest. I suppose the natural world, in all her moods and glories, is home, and why should I choose just one place to live and experience?
Has it taken me this long to stumble into The Crow’s Nest to look around? Yes. And what a discovery. I’m reading several of your spirited essays in the dark of a Saturday morning in the western U.S., where a line of foothills delays my sunrises but reflects dramatic alpenglow some evenings. My favorite time to start a walk is just before dawn. What better reset button than to witness the opening of the day? Maybe you’ll inspire me to give myself that treat today.
Thank you so much for this comment, it really made me happy.
I try and find similar beauty here, the alpenglow, or the first rays of a sun I cannot see hitting fresh snow high above me.
And a very big yes to the walk just before dawn, I miss that, this was the time I used to walk the family dog, and it really set my days up to be a better version of themselves, even if the walk was windy, wet, or snowy and there was no sun, it still made me feel alive. I think I might have to try and recapture that, just without a dog!
Gorgeous writing. I love both dusk and dawn, but wonder why it is that dusk seems to pass so quickly but dawn takes it sweet time? Although I suppose that could be to do with the current season - winter, northern hemisphere, days are short.
And to be fair to the sun, "slow to arise and in a hurry to rest" is how I approach my days as well.
Thank you. When I used to walk Orlando before the dawn it really gave me an appreciation for that strange lightening of the sky, almost imperceptible, taking its own sweet time, as you say. There would always come a point where I'd realise I could now see much further and the shadows had retreated for the day, and it always caught me by surprise.
These days, mornings for me come with a dawn chorus from my daughter, who delights in telling us 'dodo finis', ('sleep finished'). There's no dissuading her from this, either, even if it is before 6am. Yawn.
Sounds delightful, if sleep-impeding. My sister used to tell her daughter "we get up when the sun is up" and it (sort-of) worked for a while. My niece would stay in bed talking and singing to herself till the sun rose. But then she decided there was no reason not to get a head start on the day and let the sun sleep in.
Where I grew up, in Orkney, that wouldn't really have worked well, however, seeing as the sun was up before 4am in summer...!
At present, shutters and blackout curtains help a bit, but Ailsa really doesn't like to stay in bed once awake, maybe once she finally moves to her own room she'll be able to keep herself amused for a bit longer. (Keeps fingers crossed!)
I live for sunrise and sunset, and if I don’t have a big sky with one of those for days on end, I can tell in my soul that something is off. Same with being close to water. When I endured the gray winter skies of Seattle, I once drove three hours to the coast for two hours of sunshine and mostly blue skies, then drove back to Seattle, knowing I could make it through another week. I also love how you mention South Uist, as I just made plans to spend a few weeks in the Outer Hebrides, starting with landing at the Lochboisdale ferry station (from Mallaig) and mostly staying in pods or cottages with sky and water views. I can’t wait.
I love this, thanks. The sun is something which deeply affects me, too. Winters in Orkney were very difficult, and provided me with my first doses of depression (Seasonal Affective Disorder). To go to school in the dark, before the sun rose, and to go home after it set, with barely a glimpse of daylight, just school artificial lighting, was tough. I love that you drove so far to find the light, recharging lizard-like(?!), before returning. That's fantastic about your coming plans, too. Have you been there before? It's a stunning corner of the world, one I love dearly, and I know there is still so much I've not yet seen. When you catch the ferry, look back and inland along Loch Nevis, I used to walk and camp out on that shoreline, for weeks. It was tough, as the ground all sloped at a ridiculous angle, and it was covered in ticks, but no one else went there (no paths, at all), the wildlife was incredible and the views remarkable.
Have you read Milkman by Anna Burns? It’s set in roughly 1980s Ireland and the main character’s appreciation of the pink of a sunset is seen as non-conformist and a little strange and even dangerous, which was a mindset I had never imagined before. I don’t know if this reflects a real attitude or if it was more a literary device. It’s a central symbol in the story, either way.
Beautifully written. I have never lived anywhere with big skies, but I love holidays on the west coast of Ireland when you look out at sea and know there's nothing until north America, and the sunsets over the beaches are the best.
Thank you. I've never been to Ireland (yet), but I suspect it is similar to the west coast of Scotland, all that water and colour and movement, mixed together with a healthy dose of magic.
I so relate to this. Beautifully written also.
I grew up overlooking the oceans of the North Island of New Zealand and now live amongst the Southern Alps in the South Island.
Sunrises, sunsets, stars, moons, they mark my days with meaning and joy.
I thought I would feel a "lack" of big sky, horizon sunrises and sunsets, when moving to the mountains. But I don't. I love watching the moon slowly setting early in the morning. She chooses different mountains to slide behind depending on her mood of the month. The shadows cast on the ridge lines as the sun sets in the evening are also spectacular.
I still have the "salt of the ocean.. mixed in my blood" though. I am being called back to the ocean for the next stage of my life. 🌄
Thank you for taking the time to share this, I really appreciate it.
New Zealand is somewhere I long to visit/live for a time and your words just reinforce this.
Finding wonder and beauty, no matter where we live, is a deeply entrenched part of my being, especially finding natural wonder. I miss the ocean, but she will wait for me. I will probably miss the mountains when I am not amongst them, too and, whilst I miss wide open spaces, I also love being surrounded by forest. I suppose the natural world, in all her moods and glories, is home, and why should I choose just one place to live and experience?
Thanks again, this comment really means a lot.
Thank you for your heart reply Alexander.
Nature is our medicine whatever form it takes on - forest, ocean, mountains...
You may like to read my post "Wanaka New Zealand" which shares my thoughts on how some experience the natural beauty here. 😊
Ooh, I shall have a read, thank you. Nature really is our medicine.
Has it taken me this long to stumble into The Crow’s Nest to look around? Yes. And what a discovery. I’m reading several of your spirited essays in the dark of a Saturday morning in the western U.S., where a line of foothills delays my sunrises but reflects dramatic alpenglow some evenings. My favorite time to start a walk is just before dawn. What better reset button than to witness the opening of the day? Maybe you’ll inspire me to give myself that treat today.
Thank you so much for this comment, it really made me happy.
I try and find similar beauty here, the alpenglow, or the first rays of a sun I cannot see hitting fresh snow high above me.
And a very big yes to the walk just before dawn, I miss that, this was the time I used to walk the family dog, and it really set my days up to be a better version of themselves, even if the walk was windy, wet, or snowy and there was no sun, it still made me feel alive. I think I might have to try and recapture that, just without a dog!
Thanks again.
Gorgeous writing. I love both dusk and dawn, but wonder why it is that dusk seems to pass so quickly but dawn takes it sweet time? Although I suppose that could be to do with the current season - winter, northern hemisphere, days are short.
And to be fair to the sun, "slow to arise and in a hurry to rest" is how I approach my days as well.
Thank you. When I used to walk Orlando before the dawn it really gave me an appreciation for that strange lightening of the sky, almost imperceptible, taking its own sweet time, as you say. There would always come a point where I'd realise I could now see much further and the shadows had retreated for the day, and it always caught me by surprise.
These days, mornings for me come with a dawn chorus from my daughter, who delights in telling us 'dodo finis', ('sleep finished'). There's no dissuading her from this, either, even if it is before 6am. Yawn.
Sounds delightful, if sleep-impeding. My sister used to tell her daughter "we get up when the sun is up" and it (sort-of) worked for a while. My niece would stay in bed talking and singing to herself till the sun rose. But then she decided there was no reason not to get a head start on the day and let the sun sleep in.
Ha! That's brilliant. (Sorry for the late reply!)
Where I grew up, in Orkney, that wouldn't really have worked well, however, seeing as the sun was up before 4am in summer...!
At present, shutters and blackout curtains help a bit, but Ailsa really doesn't like to stay in bed once awake, maybe once she finally moves to her own room she'll be able to keep herself amused for a bit longer. (Keeps fingers crossed!)
4am! Much too early. Hopefully she leans in to slow mornings in the new room. Until then, there’s coffee!
I live for sunrise and sunset, and if I don’t have a big sky with one of those for days on end, I can tell in my soul that something is off. Same with being close to water. When I endured the gray winter skies of Seattle, I once drove three hours to the coast for two hours of sunshine and mostly blue skies, then drove back to Seattle, knowing I could make it through another week. I also love how you mention South Uist, as I just made plans to spend a few weeks in the Outer Hebrides, starting with landing at the Lochboisdale ferry station (from Mallaig) and mostly staying in pods or cottages with sky and water views. I can’t wait.
I love this, thanks. The sun is something which deeply affects me, too. Winters in Orkney were very difficult, and provided me with my first doses of depression (Seasonal Affective Disorder). To go to school in the dark, before the sun rose, and to go home after it set, with barely a glimpse of daylight, just school artificial lighting, was tough. I love that you drove so far to find the light, recharging lizard-like(?!), before returning. That's fantastic about your coming plans, too. Have you been there before? It's a stunning corner of the world, one I love dearly, and I know there is still so much I've not yet seen. When you catch the ferry, look back and inland along Loch Nevis, I used to walk and camp out on that shoreline, for weeks. It was tough, as the ground all sloped at a ridiculous angle, and it was covered in ticks, but no one else went there (no paths, at all), the wildlife was incredible and the views remarkable.
I think one of the most atmospheric sunrises I witnessed was on Hirta with a shaft of light flooding over from Boreray.
Oh this sounds wonderful Lynn! One day, I'll make it out to St. Kilda, one day!
Have you read Milkman by Anna Burns? It’s set in roughly 1980s Ireland and the main character’s appreciation of the pink of a sunset is seen as non-conformist and a little strange and even dangerous, which was a mindset I had never imagined before. I don’t know if this reflects a real attitude or if it was more a literary device. It’s a central symbol in the story, either way.
Oh, no, I haven't, but it is on my list now. Which keeps growing and growing in a wondrous fashion. Thank you! The premise sounds really interesting.
It's one of the more effective experimental styles I've read lately
1970s actually