The sky is big this morning. There’s a point in the road where the landscape opens up and the sky becomes vast – it feels like you’re in the middle of a painting, by someone Dutch, or German, I can’t remember who but the sense of recognition sparks at the back of my mind – and the sky is wild this morning, clouds scudding over as the storm brushes past, mad streaks of colour that hint at winter coming, the fields all earth and brown and flooded silver where the river spilled its banks.

I want to tip my head back and drink in the vastness of this sky, its bigness, its streaks, its clouds rushing madly over.

There is nothing mellow about this autumn morning. It is vast and scudding, wildly changeable, streaked with the winds of the falling of this fall. It is energising, liberating, captivating. It is the earth: madly, wildly alive, and I too want to feel this energy, to drink up its madness, to be vast and big and madly, wildly alive.