#212: The Lights on the Pier
Where does the evening’s magic come from?

As we sat on the pier on a mild late-August evening — the hug of a cardigan keeping me just warm enough — the grey evening was transformed: from a hazy, dull sky that dirtied the coloured houses, to a pulsing blue expanse casting golden reflections on the water, all via the simple flick of a switch.
The lights on the pier had been turned on, and suddenly the tables and chairs were lit up like Van Gogh’s ‘Café Terrace at Night’. All it took was a burst of electricity and a few objects, these lamps standing tall along the wooden structure, to turn the night into something magical.

It’s not as if the pier isn’t also attractive in the day — particularly, I imagine, in the sunshine. But there’s something special about a dark evening sky pierced by golden light.
As I glanced down the pier, I remembered the novel The Remains of the Day, a book full of the regrets and missed chances of an old butler. In the final chapter, the butler sits on a pier watching the colourful lights.
This simple British seaside is a far cry from the elaborate stately home he is used to, but it’s here, on this pier, under these lights, that a stranger’s musings provide the butler with a revelation:
“The evening’s the best part of the day. You’ve done your day’s work. Now you can put your feet up and enjoy it.” — Kazuo Ishiguro
And I think maybe that’s where the magic of an evening lit by lights comes from. During the day, during the hustle and bustle, can we really stop to appreciate those lights? When there are things to do and time moves far too fast, what use do we have for a pier glowing in lamplight?
But in the evening, when all is done, when the air moves slower and we can stop and stare. We can sit on the pier and appreciate the simple beauty of waves glittering in electric light.

