Chapter 19

Sunrises v Sunsets

'And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking

Racing around to come up behind you again'                                                                 Time -Pink Floyd

It’s the 30th June 2020 and I’ve just worked out something that I’ve never really stopped and thought about before.

In my life so far there have been 22,374 sunrises and 22,373 sunsets. Now, accepting the fact that in the UK the chance of a clear sky averages out at around 30%, that’s still quite a few.  Considering that each occurrence had the potential to lift the spirits or trigger all sorts of emotions, hopes or even sometimes fears, that’s a huge number of opportunities that have passed my way.  Whilst I’ve no idea what the final number will be, it’s a fundamental law of physics that there will be more to come.  And Pink Floyd weren't strictly correct; the sun doesn't actually race around to come up behind us again; it's the earth rotating on it's axis from west to east that's the prime cause. 

We’re all living in our own little patch on Planet Earth as it rotates around its axis.  In Bristol, at 51 degrees north of the equator, we’re whizzing round at almost exactly 1000km/hr.  I can’t cycle, run or even drive that fast so, unless I hop on a fighter-jet at some point during the day and race westwards at more than this speed, I’ll eventually be caught up by the approaching nightfall.  

Note: I know it doesn’t feel like we’re travelling so speedily, but the fact is we’re actually going a lot quicker.  Our planet is hammering it around the sun at 107,000 km/hr and we’re part of a solar system racing around the galaxy at 800,000 km/hr.  Now at this point it gets mind-blowing because our galaxy is travelling through our patch of universe at 3.6 million km/hr.

So totting that all up we’re all bombing along at a cool 4.5 million km/hr.

I honestly don’t know why I’m training my socks off to find a couple of km per hour on my bike.  More importantly, I think the traffic police are being unnecessarily picky for clocking me at 44 mph in a 40 mph zone.

So what about all those thousands of dawns and thousands of sunsets?  Clearly as a young child I was oblivious.  I don’t actually recall when I first started to appreciate such spectacular morning and evening solar displays.  I suspect Mum and Dad would eagerly take any chance on our Cornwall holidays to share with us the vision of the glowing sun sinking into the Atlantic and every time there was a red glow in the evening sky at home you could guarantee that either a parent or grandparent would quote the old folklore: ‘Red sky at night, shepherds’ delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherds’ warning.’

Let’s just assume that at some point in my teens I began to acknowledge that there was something special about these phenomena, something that makes me want to pause for a few minutes and soak them all up.  However, I am also aware there is a difference in my response between a spectacular dawn and a similarly glorious sunset.  Let’s use the Time Machine to visit a selection of some that I clearly remember from over the years and see what we find.  Following the correct astral-chronology we should start with sunrises.

It seems quite mundane that for 35 years I made a daily 6-mile commute from north-east Bristol to the factory in Yate.  Usually by bike it would take around 25 minutes and for the duration of the journey I’d be heading in the direction of the rising sun.   Of course, leaving the house at 6.30am did mean that for a significant part of the year there was nothing to see.  From November through to February it was completely dark, but by early March it was possible to discern a lightening in the eastern sky and, if I raised my eyes from the road ahead, the shapes of trees and buildings would emerge across the adjacent fields as the dawn started to break.

‘Morning civil twilight’, known as dawn, starts when the geometric centre of the sun is 6° below the horizon.   ‘Evening civil twilight,’ known as dusk, begins at sunset and ends when the centre of the sun reaches 6° below the horizon.  Both civil twilights last about 40 minutes each.

By mid-March I’d enter a six week period when the morning commute could coincide with a clear sky and a rising sun.  It didn’t happen often as the usual fare was cloud, wind or rain, but occasionally, as I wheeled the bike out the garage, usually when it was cold and frosty, I’d notice the first hints of pastel blues and pinks over in the direction I was heading.  Sometimes these precursors of the coming sun would be complemented low in the western sky by the bright light of Venus, whilst high overhead the day’s first transatlantic jets would leave lines of fiery vapour trails as the sun’s early rays illuminated their exhaust gases high up on the edge of the stratosphere.  By the time I’d left the built-up area, I’d be sneaking glances in the direction of Westerleigh, waiting for the orange ball to slowly appear over the horizon.  Just a glimpse of a few moments would be enough to generate some helpful positive vibes with which to face the day as the sky quickly brightened, the pinks faded and the blue strengthened.

But here’s the thing about sunrises: It’s usually chilly, if not downright freezing, when you actually witness one.  Of course, it’s likely to be a bit warmer during the summer, but not many of us are up and about before 6am.  Even in the desert it’s usually worth wearing an extra jumper if you’re hanging around waiting for the spectacle.  In fact you’ll be almost wishing it would hurry up and get a move on so you can quickly appreciate the scene, grab a few photos and then head off for breakfast, by which time the temperatures will already be hotting up.

I can confirm these desert observations using a few dips into the files. 

Back in 1984, when Uluru, the huge lump of sandstone that rises out of the endless Australian Red Centre, was still called Ayers Rock, I stayed in the nearby hostel on my RTW backpack trip.   With a few fellow travellers, I planned to climb the 350m to the top to watch the dawn.  However, we didn’t quite get the alarm calculations right and ended up having to jog through the darkness, using torchlight to try to stay on the path and praying we wouldn’t step on some deadly snake or scorpion.  Reaching the foot of the climb, and still worried we’d miss the actual sunrise, we treated the ascent like some sort of crazy fell race.  It was steep, warranting a handrail in places, and was exposed enough that a fall might be fatal, but eventually the path levelled out onto the large plateau where we chose a spot to sit, recover, and watch.  The exertion had kept us warm but now, waiting for the sun, I was regretting choosing to wear shorts.  Fortunately within a few minutes we were rewarded as dark blue turned to orange, followed shortly by the burning glow of the sun as it rose above the desert, silhouetting Mount Katherine, another sandstone feature on the eastern horizon.

Another group had also made the top and were perched about 40m away.  Silhouetted by the sun, they conjured up the timeless image of a small huddle of our primordial ancestors, quietly contemplating the daily gift of light and warmth that the Dreamtime Gods unfailingly delivered.

Half an hour later, as the strangely lumpy Olgas, 25km to the west, were bathed in the morning glow, we were heading down, eagerly anticipating a coffee and fried breakfast.  Out of respect for Aboriginal beliefs, it is no longer permitted to climb Uluru so I don’t suppose too many people will now have that experience.

One of the good things about Dad working in Egypt was that we were able to visit many of the sites in our own little family group rather than as part of an organised tour.  As established ex-pats, he and Mavis knew their way around, and back then (1978 - 87) it was still possible to jump in the car, drive across Cairo and out onto the desert road that circled to the west of the Giza pyramids.  Here it was easy to choose the perfect spot, invariably empty and free from the hassle of vendors, guides and camel-owners, to wait for the Sun God Ra to make his daily appearance.  Two occasions are memorable.  In 1979 with Jackie and Rick, Naomi and Sally, and then again in 1985 with Sue, we made the early trip and waited, still only half-awake in the pre-dawn chill, for the sky to lighten.  Since their construction 5000 years ago, the Pyramids have been silent witnesses to the daily spectacle and on just two of those 1,825,000 days it felt like a privileged experience to share.

However as affluent, transient Westerners, it was only another hour before we’d swapped the solar wake-up call of a timeless desert morning for a morning swim and club sandwich at the nearby Mena House Sports Club, popular with the ex-pat business community and their families.

When it comes to cold mornings, nothing can beat Christmas 2011 when, as a family, we were lucky enough to be trekking on the Everest Base Camp Trail.  The turnaround point for us was Thyangboche, a small cluster of houses and lodges that nestle around a famous ancient Buddhist monastery.  At an altitude of 4000m the village sits in a col, surrounded by towering Himalayan peaks, with a clear view to the north of Everest’s summit, peaking over the protective ridge of its neighbour, Nuptse.  It was a cold night and I think we slept in most of our gear before reluctantly dragging ourselves out of the cosy sleeping bags and into the dim, freezing pre-dawn light.  Just 25km away, the outline of the Everest massif was increasingly discernible, and fortunately we didn’t have to shiver for long before the first rays from the sun, still barely rising over China, had touched the high eastern faces of the mountain.  Like a golden waterfall, the light raced down the slopes, illuminating the wispy plumes of spindrift being blown from the ridges.  It would be another hour or so before the sun would reach us, 4500m lower down the valley, and the temperatures were still well below freezing.  Even removing a glove for a few seconds to take a photo resulted in numb fingers, so after about half an hour we didn’t need much encouragement to watch the remaining dawn unfold through a window of the lodge.

There’s no doubt sunrises provide an awesome spectacle but invariably you’ve got to make an effort to be up early and be prepared to hang around in the cold. I also maintain that, sub-consciously, a sunrise rarely commands your attention for any length of time.  It’s the start of a new day and your mind will be switching onto the plans, routines, problems and challenges of the next few hours, leaving little time to mentally relax and take it all in.

Sunsets on the other hand…

The day is nearly done, usually any work has been completed, rarely are you rushing off somewhere, and the mind is just beginning to mellow.  Maybe you’re on holiday, maybe by the sea, maybe with someone you love.  Often it will be pleasantly warm and usually, if the weather is settled, you can anticipate the prospects of a decent display a few hours in advance.

Wherever and whenever it happens, there’s almost a stately predictability.  It just needs a bit of clear sky near the western horizon, enough to allow the rays from the setting sun to reach the upper atmosphere.  The low, shallow angle ensures it takes longer for the light waves to move through the air, interacting with gas molecules and dust particles along the way.  Acting like millions of prisms these minute obstacles scatter the light into wavelengths corresponding to frequencies associated with the red and orange end of the spectrum.  Any clouds will absorb and enhance the colours and the effect can last for many minutes before finally fading as the advancing wave of darkness marches westwards.

Let me share just a few favourites from the last half a century.

Goa in 1983 was an unspoilt tropical paradise.  Small coastal fishing villages spread along hundreds of miles of palm-fringed beaches and backed inland by a green network of canals and rice fields.  Further from the coast, the tidy, rural, catholic-influenced Goan farms slowly morphed into the more familiar haphazard rural India landscape stretching eastwards towards the rising hills marking the boundary with Karnataka.  Nigel and I arrived in November ready for the chance to relax for a few days.  A tough five weeks trekking in Nepal, followed by a few weeks of tight-budget living and travelling in India had worn us down and we’d just spent 24 hours on the deck of the tramp steamer that plied between Bombay (Mumbai) and Panjai, the Goan capital.

After a short bus-ride to the coast, we found rooms in a delightful ramshackle villa, tucked away amongst the coconut palms, only a short walk from the beach.  Perfect for a week of recuperation, letter-writing and laundry, it was within a few minutes of the road where we were spoilt for choice from the rank of tiny restaurant shacks and bars.  Omelette for breakfast, read and bananas for lunch, a swim, a read, a stroll, a snooze and the day had drifted slowly by, the sun sliding gently westwards adding a golden hue to the shimmering Arabian Sea.  Families, couples, fishermen all appeared on the beach for their evening promenade, or just to sit, chat and absorb the changing kaleidoscope.  Reassuring, relaxing, remarkable and the perfect way to find a suitably chilled mindset with which to enjoy the ridiculously cheap evening beer and fried fish delicacy.  A few days later Nigel was heading home and I was heading south.  Maybe I should feel some guilt that we were some of the early tourist pioneers leading the way for what is now just another package destination, the beaches backed by anonymous tall hotels and neon nightlife.

Roll the dial forward just four years and you will find Sue and me travelling around mainland Greece and a few of the inner islands.  The mix of tent or room, bus or boat had allowed us to slowly meander between ancient ruins, warm pebbly beaches, and harbour-side bars and restaurants. For the final few days we’d headed south of Athens, through Attica to a fishing village on Cape Sounion, a distinctive rocky promontory jutting out into the turquoise Aegean. Perched on the cliff tops, guarding the sea approaches to Athens since 480 BC, are the imposing ruins of the Temple of Poseidon.  Greece is a perfect place to combine romance and sunsets and I managed to get the timing just right to ask the question.  Fortunately she said ‘Yes’ so the memory of this particular evening is saved, (rather than erased), forever.

In the days before children appeared on the scene, we shared many adventures with Jo Williams.  She’d hooked up with Chris on my first Activities Club trip to Sennen and a couple of years later they were married.  Canoeing, walking, cycling, caving, surfing and partying, she enthusiastically partnered Chris in the whirlwind of adventures and excitement that occupied our social set in those days.  Holidays in France in the camper-vans, winter cottage breaks in the British mountains or the odd crazy challenge weekends, she was always there.  Her determination to succeed with UVF treatment was a feature of the early nineties, and her stubborn fortitude in the face of the cancer that finally claimed her marked the early years of the next decade.  Whenever I remember Jo, it’s often to think back to 1991 and the Canada trip we made with them and Mike and Bridget.  After a trek in the Rockies and a few days in Vancouver, we caught the mail boat on Vancouver Island to the start point of the infamous West Coast Trail, a hundred mile wilderness route that traverses cliff tops, thick deciduous rainforests, creeks and deserted beaches, in an arduous five day walk.  We camped on the boundary between beach and forest, hanging our food out of reach of the bears, and sat in the evening around fires made from the bleached driftwood.  Notorious for its wet weather, we were incredibly lucky to coincide with an extended run of dry, clear days and the accompanying bonus of beautiful Pacific sunsets.  For me these serve as a fitting retro-memorial for Jo.

Is there a “family sunset” favourite memory?  Yes, many.  In fact too many to easily choose just one so let’s select a theme and sit outside the tent or van on the clifftops of The Lizard or St Davids. Evening meal complete, we’d try to guess if we’d actually see the sun drop below the Atlantic horizon or if the final plunge would be masked by distant haze or clouds.  The boys would briefly stop throwing a ball around and we’d probably have fleeces on and be enjoying a beer. If it wasn’t blowing too hard we’d stay out, chatting with friends until the sky colours diluted and the first stars appeared.

For sheer spectacle it would be difficult to beat one summer evening at the Hillsley cottage where Kate and Malc’ were hosting an evening BBQ for the gang.  We’d worked up an appetite walking and mountain-biking and were relaxing in their beautiful garden with its panoramic views to the west over the Severn Valley to the Welsh hills beyond.  The beer, wine, food, and the weather, combined with the comfortable atmosphere created by longstanding shared experiences, made for a lovely evening.  The sunset was magnificent, the reds oranges and blues as loud as I can ever recall and it lasted for ages.  We were transfixed and conversations were put on hold, as though we all appreciated we were witnessing something special. I’ve emotionally labelled this particular display as a ‘celebration of long-lasting friendships.’

And yet it’s really not necessary to travel at all.  From our bedroom window of, there are clear views over the Downed rooftops, across Stoke Park and UWE to the distant Brecons on the horizon, fifty miles away to the north-west.  At any time of year, the setting sun can reward us with an evening display that can be viewed in the warmth, and there’s no urgency to be doing anything else other than watch it drop behind Sugarloaf, the bump on the skyline, and just relax into the experience for a few minutes.

(The Sun sets behind Sugarloaf and is visible from our bedroom window in Downend between 20-27th May from 21:03 to 21:12) 

For me that’s why sunsets win out over sunrises.  It’s usually a warmer, more relaxed experience and invariably you’ve longer to appreciate the spectacle.  I’m hoping that there’s a few thousand more to go, and if I ever reach the point where I can’t be bothered to go for a stroll up onto the common with Sue or even just get off the sofa to go and look out of the widow, then it’s time to ask someone to flick the ‘off switch.’

I wanted to bring you a brand new story

Wanted to sing you a brand new song

Hopin' the notes would flow real easy

Hopin' the words wouldn't take too long

I didn't want to make you think

I didn't want you to make you frown

But in the heart of a quiet little English town

Walk with me when the sun goes down

I don't wanna sing about rural poor

I don't wanna sing about country life

I don't need another song about greedy bankers

Don't need another song about my life

Don't wanna sing about street life heroes

Don't wanna sing about well bred clowns

But in the heart of a quiet little English town

Walk with me when the sun goes down

Show of Hands – ‘Walk with Me’ - for Sue with whom I’ve shared so many sunset spectaculars.