Rhododactylos eos

Creeping out of the hotel on Saturday morning, after having checked out via an impressive eastern European receptionist, I rounded the corner onto North Bridge. I turned up the collar of my raincoat, expecting icy raindrops down my neck, as the pavements were slimy with that peculiarly Edinburgh mix of overnight drizzle, well-trodden chewing-gum and the involuntary, probably projectile expulsion of Friday night alcoholic excess.

But a reward was waiting for me the moment I left the shadow of the old Post Office: the sky, all of it from spectacular horizon to spectacular horizon (and is there any cityscape to beat that bridge view?), was lit up in a pink hued feast of underlit cirrus cloud. Homer called the show "rosy fingered dawn". The effect was breathtaking, but only lasted a minute. For a rendering into words, albeit at the day's end, try the last volume of Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast trilogy, where, in the land of tramps, the equivalent of music or theatre critics, sitting in raggle-taggle dignity on a west-facing hillside, comment aloud, for the benefit of the equally tattered crowd of afficionados, on the infinite subtleties of sunsets.