The orange glow of sunrise mirrors the sinking fullness of the moon. And despite the brittle crunch of the frost beneath my feet, I feel a powerful echo of my time in Cameroon. A feeling that is visceral, making no rational sense. I try to ascribe it to the spacious peacefulness of the morning or the notes tumbling from a single robin. But the truth is that it is neither of these things, it is simply a fleeting aroma, which just for a moment, collapses time and place,.
I glance up from my sitting spot and there is another echo; the mustard yellow of the lichen, adorning the hawthorn, displays a world of plateaux and craters, not so dissimilar to those of the moon hanging over the horizon. For a moment, I am unsettled, there is something alien and unreachable in both.
Then, somewhere above me the strong repetitive voice of mistle thrush explodes, welcoming the sunlight, as it floods down the valley and both the moon and the unease fade into the distance.