It’s not a place I visit often although it’s only a couple of miles or so from home. Winter Hill, the areas highest summit is crowned by a number of transmission masts, one of which glows like a red spinal column at night. This large mast is my homecoming beacon. Whenever I’m returning from a trip south I know I’m home when I see the vertical line of red dots climbing into the night sky. It’s visible from way over on the M6 perhaps thirty minutes before I get home.
This relationship, which has developed over many decades, prompted me to ponder on the subject of beauty during my walk among the masts, a web of thoughts which may manifest into a piece of writing over on The Call of The Muse soon. I’m not often drawn to such manmade structures, they would usually not fit with my own concept of beauty. However I sense my definition of this elusive, evocative word is changing to encompass such vistas.