A lid of pale grey was clamped on the world and, as afternoon wore on, showed little sign of lifting. The light then began to leave as it had arrived: a dim glow leaching back into the dark. Still, better to travel hopefully, and so I crossed the moors at dusk to Stanage in time to see the cloud’s western fringe slide a little, revealing the sun setting behind Manchester and bathing the grey crags in light the colour of marmalade.
The moor beneath High Neb and the old packhorse causeway at this time of year is largely dead bracken, which in this light seemed to glow with bronze heat. The white clumps of molinia turned to honey. The underside of the cloud was brightly apricot, deepening to purple and indigo as the sun slipped away. And to think I might have missed this.
