In Ireland, in the summer, sunset happens just before ten. As close as it is to the Arctic circle, the days stretch forever in the summer. (Conversely, in the winter, the sun dawns late and sinks shortly after five.)
As children in our grandparents' crumbling house by the sea, my sister and I used to be put to bed while it was still broad daylight outside. No flashlight was necessary; I just pulled out my book and read and read.
At some point the sunlight on the scarred, faded wallpaper by my bed glowed orange and red. In an instant, everything in the room looked as though it was in a different dimension. The effect of that late sunset inside our bedroom was magical, and I haven't seen that since the last time I slept in that house.
It was as though we were transported to a place where everything was the same, but it was all lit from within. I've spotted that light in paintings, or less intense versions in my own house, but it's never quite the same.
I close my eyes and I see that orange light, so intense that it seems to be coming from the bed , the walls, the floor, the carpet ... from my own fingers.
Something as magic as that cannot last for very long, and in a few moments the sun sinks. The room turns grey and silver. And fades to black.