I’m looking across at a harbour, late at night after the sun has gone down, and the dimensions of the port are not as I remember them in the daylight. There’s a series of white markers that link to some low level uplighters, standing proud and indicating something of importance. To the left of this, and after a period of drab pipes and beams, are a dazzling array of white beacons, broadcasting their resilience into the night. In front of this are long tubular rays, shimmering like warning markers before the industry behind them.
What I find remarkable is the change between this view and that of the daytime where the actual structures that stand out are those that are not lit up this evening. There’s a whole building that stands as an impressive roundhouse, iconic to a degree but which at night looks like a failed bus shelter. And the water in front of the structures in this dark becomes part of them, increasing the visual depth and warmly leading us to the dazzling lights beyond.
So what, you say? The what is that depending on the time of day when stories are set, the whole ambience and the perceptions of the characters are changed, producing different levels of fright, perception, awe and awareness. Approaching this harbour during the day it looks like a Scottish ideal, whereas at night it becomes more of an unknown, a journey of discovery and has senses more on edge.
This brief tableau has made me think more about when things are happening in stories and to couple that onto the what is happening to produce a more accurate and pleasing tale. Placing myself in situ has become an even more involved task than it already was and in my mind I need to swing around more before jumping into the action.