I’ve been home in Orkney for a few days and every night have failed to, as intended, go out and look for shooting stars. It’s the peak of the annual Perseid meteor shower, full moon week and a conjunction of Venus and Jupiter and I had astronomical plans but either the sky has been clouded over or I’ve been in bed before it was dark enough.

We’ve been out to Papay and I had the idea to go looking into rockpools at night with a UV torch. I wanted to write about Papay at night in the style of Kanye West rapping about LA at night: “Cop lights, street lights” he lists but I would find “moon light, light house”. But it was not to be.

Now I’ve got a day and night to myself here at the caravan and have been working on my book edits. There’s no wifi or phone reception, no telly or radio, and no children to put to bed. The warmth of the day has lulled into evening and I have decided, at 9pm, to just sit with the lights off and observe what happens as it gets dark.

After a golden hour where the light catches the almost-ripe barley, the sun sets in secret, obscured by a band of low cloud on the Atlantic horizon. At first it’s not a darkening but everything getting bluer: A bluening. The tide is coming in and mist is appearing in front of Hoy. It’s less like night is falling and more as if it’s rising from the sea, enveloping us softly.

Ravens croak past and curlews are on the wind. It’s cloudy and I don’t think I’ll see meteors tonight. I don’t feel like Kanye but what I do feel like, back here at the farm where I grew up, is my younger self. I’m a restless teenager not a 44-year-old Mum. I want to drink coffee and stay up all night.

As it gets darker, the caravan windows become mirrors, my ghostly face illuminated by the laptop screen. I remember the painting by Sylvia Wishart hung in the foyer at Stromness Academy where I gathered with friends every morning.

Between the clouds in the east, a red gibbous moon has risen. By 10pm, the headland across the bay is a silhouette. Two or three points of light appear out at sea to the south, blinking. They’re not vessels but something else, probably something to do with the new West of Orkney Windfarm. Instead of planetary conjunctions, I’m seeing feats of marine engineering, like shooting stars landed on the Pentland Firth.

At about 10:45, as I’m watching the sea, the whole southern sky flashes red behind the clouds. I am not sure what I have seen and keep staring. A minute later, it flashes white and I am open mouthed. Lightning, sheet lightning! Totally unexpected.

Over the next hour, more lightning strikes regularly, illuminating the sea and the caravan for thrilling pulses, followed by extremely long peels of thunder, I count 30 seconds. By 1am the thunder storm feels like it is directly over the caravan, heavy rain clatters off the metal roof and my bed is strobe lit and vibrating with thunder. My heart thumps and I feel like I’m on a boat in a sea of storm.

I wished for lights at night and got more than I expected. I’ve seen new lights at sea to power our lights on land. I’ve seen light that struck me open mouthed with awe. Rare enchantments can be found if we look.

Reflections 1 by Sylvia Wishart