I can see why Rob’s Mum felt claustrophobic in Wales, the Lincolnshire sky dominates the landscape. The Lincolnshire sky is the landscape.

HumberWhen we arrive it is the inside colour of a creme egg, sailing broad across the beet field. I could watch it for hours from the arm chair if it wasn’t for all the home baked distractions. When I look again it is sadder and silver.

One day I will wander round the steelworks and see the sky through the towers and wires but for now we’re caught up in Christmas and the blast chimneys remain an enticing promise on the horizon – at the edge of the sky they billow cumulus colums of steam, solid as stone angels.

When we get back from the football it is dark, there is apple pie to eat, and an owl is disturbed. It wings out low and silent over the waterlogged beets, it’s underwings a handkerchief in the dark.

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