ometimes the Twelve Pins seem to sleep all day, a pride of tawny beasts slumped together, breathing just perceptibly, their fur ruffled by cloud-shadows. Then in the evening they rigidify, revert to the inorganic. Once when I was lying on the terrace of our house overlooking the {Roundstone] bay, listening to music from the room behind me and watching a summer night subvert the scale of all things, I felt I could raise my hands and spread my fingers over the mountain range, solidly dark against the still wine-flushed sky, as if over the keyboard of a piano, and
