When I first visited Doolin (in Co. Clare in the West of Ireland) I was struck by what some might call the mystical pull of the place. It had an energy which some (outrageous hippies!) said was due to a convergence of leylines in the area. Others put it down to lots of people high on Guinness and traditional music.
All along the thin strip of rocky terrain between Doolin and the coast there are signs of an ancient civilisation. Why here? Perhaps it was the west. Those holy islands. The sun dies each evening in a blood red sky and they’d wonder if they would ever see the bright sphere again. Now we look at the sun and know that it’s going to rise tomorrow. Unless you live in Galway, in which case it will be hidden behind some rain cloud or other.
And, of course, The colours have meaning:
Red sky at night

It’s going to be shite

Or, to put it another way, if it’s raining in the evening it’ll be raining tomorrow. If it’s bright in the evening it’ll be raining tomorrow.