The cold wind from the sea feels like a wall of ice slamming us front on as we step out of our cars and walk towards the harbour. I promptly pull out my cap and gloves, but through every possible gap, the cold seeps through and punishes us. The Walton lighthouse stands proud, a green beacon signalling boats about the harbour.
In near darkness, we shimmy down the granite bluffs for the correct angle. My ears and the exposed part of the back of my head are no longer giving my brain signals of their existence. Soon appears a faint glow in the horizon, as dawn kindles hopes of warmth in our hearts.
The show begins. The horizon glows molten gold. A dark cloud fast dissipating in the wind has its edges shining red. The lighthouse still emits the friendly green beacon. The wind rattles my flimsy tripod. I don’t change settings as my gloves don’t permit my fingers to push the right buttons. I just fire away, praying something holds.
Morning joggers appear, running through to the end of the road, to the lighthouse, and doubling back. The horizons explode. Gulls appear from nowhere, filling the air with squawks. Crisp sun rays soon appear, fulfilling the promise.
A warmth no blanket could provide slowly spreads all over, and I realise it is from within.
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