I’m searching for The Nimble Men, and I know exactly where to find them. Soft moss cushions squelch underfoot; a bracing breeze pinches my cheeks. Migrating geese honk from the north, and roars of rutting red deer stags bellow around the glen.

To my left, the sword-wielding stars of Orion stand under a smouldering moon. He is serenaded by the haunting thrum of a snipe on the moorland. A curlew lullaby drifts up from the loch, and I pick out the Plough constellation to my right. The stage is set for a mesmerising night.

Blood-red claw marks slice the sky, and clouds become velvet folds as darkness falls. A gap emerges; the show begins. Over the Lochboisdale mountains, the sky wobbles as if someone is standing behind a curtain. Waves glow in viridescent green, interwoven with faint kisses of pink. The stars shine bright; heavens hung with fairy lights.

Silver wisps as fine as spider web threads waltz over the hills, before twisting and twirling in turquoise and teal. Sabre white flashes slash through raspberry ripple red. The wind gusts harder and drowns out whooper swan chatter.

I stand in awe, and can’t help wonder what the birds make of it all. Can they feel the magnetism of this celestial storm? Do we all stop and slow, mesmerised by the dance of Na Fir-Chlis? As clouds blow in, the playful sprites exit stage left for the night. The light in the dark is here again. Autumn begins.