We were at a wonderful dinner party last night in the remote wilds of Strathdon, which is a very long way from anywhere else much, which broke up when we all suddenly realised that it was after one in the morning. Thus we were driving home in the very early — or late– hours; at this time of year, of course, it isn’t really quite dark at two AM; the sky is a strange washed-out greyish-navy; a light which is not the dawn of the new day, but a reflected light from the last of the old one. There was plenty on the road; none of it human. Rabbits, of course, pheasants; an owl, floating white and ghostly over the hedgerow. Lots of deer, moving I suppose from one feeding ground to another under cover of night. We felt a bit like trespassers; the only vehicle moving for miles and miles. But one thing did seem quite strange; a significant proportion of the lonely little houses we passed — at least half — had the lights on in at least one room. But these people are presumably out mangling wurzels or whatever by six; so do they never sleep?