Sunsets over Holingbury, seeing the end of the world

Last May, we spent a weekend with Paul and Claire - Paul is Anne's younger brother - he is a slim and quirky, working in the building trade - he is a gifted craftsman in wood - I relish Paul's bizarre sense of humour, his wicked word play -

Claire is tall and quiet - she has long shining hair - she writes poetry - when we stayed in her house, she was working as a primary school teacher in Ditchling -

Claire's heart was more in her poetry than in her teaching - the new deputy was getting the school ready for OFSTED - the joy of inspiring children was being subverted by the requirement to evidence it -

One of the governors of the school had told Claire that he was an airline pilot - I got the impression that Ditchling was a beautiful village, enmeshed in nets of snobbery and privilege -

We sat in Claire's kitchen, with its yellow walls, its shelves of books, vases of dazzling daffodils, bare floorboards - Paul poured out bumpers of red - he said, smiling - I'm opening another bottle, without apology - 

I suddenly glanced out of the window - it looked as though the world was ending - huge red clouds covered the sky - bands of fire rippled above the black line of the Downs - I thought of the vast canvas by John Martin - perhaps, any moment, I would hear the sound of terrible, wonderful, trumpets -