That old psalmist David saw the sky as God’s handiwork. And it would seem familiarity does not breed contempt; though we have begun to journey in among the stars, yet still we gaze upwards in something akin to joy.

Of course, any self respecting fan of John Wyndham would treat this with healthy scepticism. There are risks associated with the skies. Many would argue the heavens are no more or less heavenly than this little globe. Our atmosphere seems so fathomless that the thought of visitors seems utterly preposterous, and the concept of a meteor crash a distant fairytale.

I would argue that we have no idea how much we don’t know.

Occasionally, we are subject to old fashioned awe and wonder, for after all this world is governed by light and who can stop their heart beating just a little faster at the sight of lights in the sky? One such case was our British Northern Lights. Most of us here clutter of to Iceland to see these properly, but on May 10, 2024, many viewed them right here in Berkshire. Before that, the US had its Great North American Eclipse, visible from Mexico to Canada crossing the States. Go back 463 years or so and Nuremberg records a sky battle which did not seem earthly at all:

Signs in the skies can raise more questions than they settle.

I won’t say we moved to Cornwall to see the total eclipse in 1999, but it was sure handy. We bought a little cottage in a Cornish valley and on the appointed day we set out the deck chairs in the back garden and waved breezily to everyone else gathered in the gardens and fields valley. It was just like Tolkein’s Shire. One would hope for a clear sky for a total eclipse, but typically for Cornwall it was grey. There was a closeness about ther air and the atmosphere of a village fete. Some cracked open cans of beer, some sipped coffee, and you could hear the hubbub of excitement. So what if it was grey? We were having a party.

As the moment of the total eclipse approached it grew dark and brooding; but that suits Cornwall and its inhabitants are utterly unphased by it. And just before the locals who knew lots about astronomy were about to declare it officially happening, and I was more excited than I could express, a man appeared at the back gate.

“Do you want some tomatoes? he shouted in my direction.

Do I what? My internal dialogue enquired crazily. Pardon? This is an eclipse. It won’t happen again in our lifetime. Tomatoes?

But I’m English, and all I said out loud was “Pardon?” and I walked reluctantly nearer.

He explained he had far too many, and if I could use them they would not go to waste. That was 1999, and I have reflected many times since that for some reason this man simply wanted to interrupt the awe and wonder with a little mischief. I stood there miserably and conversed politely while all of Hobbiton celebrated behind me and I missed The Moment. I am told that someone knocked on the door of the old lady next door to us to offer her a glass of bubbly: but that she never answered the door in the dark, on principle.

Here just outside London, we have been informed the aurora borealis can bee seen from the UK this weekend; and of course the sky is packed with meteors.

And as I have grown older I have become less reliant on The Big Moments. The pull of the sky, with all its risks and possibilities, has gained increasing hold in my heart. While Stonehenge and Newgrange are built to distil some of its most dramatic moments, I have learnt to pause each day and allow time to stop: to stand in the rays of the sun, to gaze into infinite blue or fathom the greys of a stormy sky. In truth, every moment staring into our planet’s sky is a benediction.