June 21st 2022
We’re in a gorgeous, sunny, warm spell. In the garden, my sweet peas are in their first flush, and I pick a bunch to take for Felix. As I drive towards the Green Hill, I notice an enormous pink splodge in the sky ahead. It looks as though the sun is going to put on a proper show this solstice morning.
When I arrive, it’s like a scene from a psychedelic 1960s film. The sky is vibrant in lurid shades of orange and purple, and the sun is not yet visible. I wander over to a large group of foxgloves, taller than me, which are suffused with light, with bees busy climbing into their blooms. Sheep are baaing in the distance. Then I notice an intense yellowing in the sky and a round yellow disc starts to rise behind the hills in the distance. Very quickly, the sun rises above the horizon, and the intense purple and pink drains away, replaced by a yellow glow.
In that moment of transience, I feel a strange, untouchable, sense of communication with Felix. That point at which night becomes day, when the sun rises again, is a temporary gateway to somewhere else, some other kind of state.
I go and lie next to Felix. The sun warms us both.
The Green Hill 