The train is thundering through the kind of  landscape that seems typical of the un-forrested parts of northern europe: open plains, groves of trees and small hillocks on the horizon. Everything is covered in a thin layer of snow, the black trunks of trees sticking out against the white. The thin pink streaks against the pale blue sky alert me to setting of the sun and despite the heater being set to Death Valley mode, I lean closer to the window and cringe my neck to look behind me. The western sky is brightly lit in that pinkish orange tone that only a sunset can produce, with hills and valleys formed by strips of cloud. The horizon is a pale yellow shifting into amber just above the winter white plain.  I realize that I seem to write a lot about sunsets but I guess it’s like any person with a camera having a recurring motif in their pictures, be it happy people a parties, their infant child or landscapes. For me it is the sky and particularly sunsets, there’s nothing quite so vividly colorful and beautiful.