I went for a walk up the hill, beyond the lake. It was deep twilight, almost dark, a tinge of a lighter sky in the far west. Here in the Lincolnshire wolds, all was quiet. There were sheep high upon the hill and I sat down on the cool grass beside them.

In the far distance upon the horizon, a bright light remained. Something quite prosaic no doubt, a barn door open, even a harsh security light, but here in this comfortable gloom it held a hint of hope.

Thus in an empty country, long ago, a vague questioning wind the only sound, most shepherds have sat long ago and seen a light and wondered what did it portend and, curiosity aroused, they walked towards it.

I for my part walked slowly back into the dark valley to the yellow light of my cottage.