My grandfather told me this story.

Once in his youth he was camping in the Yorkshire moors. He often stayed there for 10 days or more and took in the high air. He walked the waving hills for hours in the afternoon, on occasion stopping to sketch the scenery. He was not a brilliant artist but enjoyed its calming effects. On this day when returning from his afternoon walk, he saw that his tent had been blown away by the passion of the wind. The tent had found its way over a fence and among some sheep. The sheep took no interest in it and got on with feeding upon the grass, my grandfather jumped over the fence and retrieved the tent and by evening had put things back in order.

That night the stars were bright, the sky was dark and the moon glimmered with frost. He put his head to his...