There is a soft pink light on the hills, as the sun goes behind the clouds half an hour early. From up here in the lantern room of Belle Tout lighthouse you can watch the walkers without being seen. The moon is rising, huge on the hill. It is almost full, a face blurred by a veil of cloud. My phone camera fails, miserably, to do it justice, but even as I fret things are changing. The sky is shifting to blue and the temperature is dropping. The horizon has become a haze and you cannot tell sea from sky, but for a faint line of pink in the thickening murk. The heaters are on full blast but they cannot fight the pressure drop. The lights are vanishing from the hills. The walkers are hurrying back to their cars, the road far below is suddenly busy, nobody wants to be caught out here now the show is over. Hurry away, all. But I am safe up here, suspended between the sea and sky.