Delphi – up and about just before six to watch the Pythian sunrise, the bunched mountains and outcrops of rock losing their dusky shadow to the warm necessity of the sun. The trees in the valley seem almost lush, but dwindle to scrub along the harsh and rugged walls. A stillness through everything – even the air scarce dares to move. Then a low breeze, the flags pulse and flutter helpless against their poles, the movement of the fabric like the uneven footfall of an unshod horse upon the dust. And I do not know where to look, to the hills losing their cool shadows, or to the east, where I know the light will be. Slanting, the dull ratcheting of the sun into position, fine distinctions sharpening the angle, and a long line of shadow cast by stone. Then, at last, the smooth curve of the plain blushes under the sun’s caress.