On Thursday, 12th August we had just gone to bed when we realised that tonight was the night - so we hopped out of bed again. Yes, it was reckoned to be the best night to see shooting stars. Having got to the ripe old age of forty six without ever having witnessed this sight it seemed to good a chance to miss. Admittedly, I was loath to go outside at 10.45pm in just my dressing gown but Luke was insistent and I didn't want to look like a killjoy so off we trundled to the back garden.
What an eyeopener it was; I'm always harping on about how much I enjoy the garden and surrounding area but to view it at night was just as lovely. The sky was very clear and though it was late it was still easy to make out the clouds and all the bright stars. In a way this was the problem because I always seemed to be scanning the wrong part of the sky when a shooting star would rush to it's demise. I'd be alerted to one, just as it's died by Luke gasping or saying, "There's one". How irritating to be always just missing it. I was sure I was going to have to go another 46 years before I saw one when, Whoosh, unbelievably a little blur of light raced and crackled along before disappearing into the sky a second later. Hooray. I'd seen one, my very first ever shooting star! How exciting!
For forty minutes we craned our necks and scanned the skies before notching up three sightings for me and seven for Luke. It reminded me of being a child before Christmas when I was caught up in the wonder of it all and sensed magic in the air. I just felt infinitesimally small under the huge and ancient universe. How much fun it would have been to see Father Christmas glide across the skies in a sledge pulled by reindeer! Nature is a wonderful thing, isn't it?
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