Sunday, 24 February 2013

‘A cheap sunset on a television set can upset her 
But he never could’ (Wilco, Hummingbird)

There’s something universal about a good sunset. It’s a display of nature at its most luridly colourful; the intense reds and oranges seemingly a world away from the subdued browns and greens of our naturally British scenery. Everybody stops and stares. Wordsworth talks of the tranquillity of sunsets, and yesterday, at five pm, as the sky turned lysergic, the bridge over the loch was thronged with students. Nobody was talking or walking though; just quietly watching.

I can’t blame them. People, particularly photographers, get snooty about sunsets, as if they’re above such lurid displays of colours, as if they'd rather live in a world of green and brown and grey, with all the joy of Wordsworth’s blank verse. But you’ll find me on the bridge, with the people, watching the sun as it disappears in a blaze of dumb, fun colour.

(Ps: all this time not spent birding has resulted in 3,500 words on my dissertation. Only 11,500 left to go. In the meantime, I also conducted this here interview.)

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