Some people never have the joy of having grandparents. I was lucky enough to know all of mine, although both grandfathers died relatively young. I did however have effectively three grandmothers.

Not being the result of weird 1970s fertility experiment, this was largely because I had a Great Aunt who effectively adopted me as a grandson. She was my dad’s aunt and the next one down in age order from my actual grandmother and one of many siblings, who first exposed me to the kind of kindred mafia that can occur in bit families, the kind of thing that can be summarised as treating each other on a spectrum of toleration to outright conflict between the siblings, but woe be tide anyone from outside the clan that dared to criticise; and instant, instinctive, closing of ranks and a momentary forgetfulness of ongoing bitter feuds in the face of a common attack on the Family.

So, my Great Aunt lived across the road from myself and my parents (I’m an only child, if you do not count the dogs). I have no idea, thinking back, how this state of affairs came to be, as the family did not come from the Chester-le-Street area, coming mainly from Gateshead and South Shields. I never questioned it as a child and I do not know if it was coincidence (highly unlikely) or whether she moved to be close to my parents – and me – which is much more likely.

My Great Aunt had an interesting life. Like my grandmother, and most of the clan, she left school early as the important thing was getting some work to help ends meet and they both worked in one of a small chain of fruiter’s shops in the North East (many were the horror stories of large and terrifying spiders etc. crawling out of the bananas; apparently, there was only one young man who worked in the store and he got the unenviable job of dealing with the unwelcome stowaways). What changed things was that for reasons unreported, my Great Aunt ended up married to the man who owned the chain of shops.

Suddenly, she had status and money, and there are several pictures I have of her dressed up at meetings and conferences in the south of France or Rome. One of my most treasured possessions is large bronze medallion she gave me, an award her husband had received at one of these do’s. they had no children together, which is why she ‘adopted’ me. When he died young, he left her with a generous allowance but left the real money to a daughter from a previous marriage. She never got on with his daughter; as far as I remember she never even mentioned her in the twenty years I knew her and only found out about she existed from the comments from my dad when he was executor to her will.

Of course, this ‘good fortune’ meant that the relationships with siblings became extremely strained. She had broken ranks and was now ‘above herself’. The only siblings she ever stayed on speaking terms with was her younger brother – and he was the sweetest and gentlest of men, I was always fond of Uncle Albert – and my grandmother – although in the latter case this was largely by necessity as they had to share me. I remember many Christmas days, which would have a section where my grandmother would go over to my Great Aunt’s house for sherry and cake (suspiciously without my parents, my mum could be cunning when she wanted to be!) and I would sit and watch the tension build to the point we would leave just before the outbreak of actual hostilities.

But I loved my Great Aunt; she was always kind to me, happily let me play with her collection for brass ornaments with my sticky fingers without complaint, and they would be shiny and clean the next day ready for me to abuse them once more. She made wonderful scones and her apple pie was, and I mean this, ambrosia; I so regret never getting her recipe for it, because I have never tasted better. With hindsight, I was the grandson she never had; and I’m proud to add her to my roster of grandparents. I think she’d be very happy to know that.

This week’s soundtrack: ‘A Lady of a Certain Age’ by The Divine Comedy, not because of the sentiments but because it’s a bloody good song.

Well, Fulham is certainly full of character.

Let me explain that Fulham is a region of London to the West of the city and near to Hammersmith and Chelsea. I must say I have never been before, and we were only staying there because there was a cheap hotel a mile and a bit from Hammersmith Apollo, one of the iconic London music venues Well, strictly is currently the Evertim Hammersmith, but surely no one calls it that outside of Evertim employees so the renaming is vaguely ludicrous, at least Shepherds Bush Empire and Brixton Academy, comparable venues, only have to put up with ‘O2’ blighting their name, which is conveniently forgotten about by anyone who actually, as I do, loves those venues. We were there to see Californian pop/rock band Train but although the gig was great – it is always good to see a band that can properly entertain – not just play, entertain – live, some of the most memorable moments were not at the Apollo at all.

I’ve harped on about looking up and around before, and London has much opportunity for moments where you stop and go, ‘will you look at that?’. As you walk from Fulham High Road towards Hammersmith it is quite noticeable that the area, while hardly a slum now, has seen better days, as grand Victorian terraces look out on the four busy lanes of the A4, where perhaps there was a quiet lane and a park when they were first built. A slightly battered Georgian townhouse hides, recessed, from the Kebab and chicken shops. The entrance to Barons Court Station certainly would do justice to any member of the minor aristocracy who considered on a whim to investigate the station attributed to them.

Best of all is St Paul’s Studios, a whole row of buildings built in Arts and Crafts style in 1891 to designs by the architect Frederick Wheeler; they are private houses now, but were built as artist’ s studios for bachelor artists, and have magnificent arched glass roofs to provide maximum light to the studio space; not at all what we expected to see but quite magnificent (find out more if you are interested at https://baldwinhamey.wordpress.com/2013/12/10/st-pauls-studios/ )

So, there is plenty to enjoy even when slogging through London to get to a gig. Mind you, you do have to be a bit cautious, especially later when there are fewer people around. We had to negotiate the group of teenagers who seemed to have developed an urge to through live fireworks at each other; never a recommended pastime (to be fair, they took no interest in us, seemingly content to maim each other, but even so). We walked briskly on as the police car glided into sight.

Weirder was the serenade early in the morning. As I lay trying to sleep, the wavering voice of a woman came through the open window, from somewhere unseen in the street (I am making the broad assumption of an older lady). She was, quite incongruously singing ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ in an accent that was almost out of Dick Van Dyke cliché (and no, I was not dreaming this). She went on to go through several verses that she may have made up, but seemed perfectly to fit. Then there was a rattle – going through bins, I thought – and then no more. It was quite surreal. It is hard not for me to think that she comes outside the Travelodge every day at the same time looking for what she can scavenge, and in the process, beats out some ditty or other. The question is does she sing the same thing every day? I guess I will never know, but there is a story there.

What is real and what is not? Good question I think, and one that harks back to long evening – or rather early mornings – in university rooms over cans of cheap lager and tea. I think that in broad terms most of us walk through life in a mix, grounded in one way with what is immovable and fixed but away with the fairies in our own heads. At times, one or the other dominates. Sometimes it is cold reality time – the exhaust fell off the car and no amount of daydreaming is going to fix it (or pay for the inevitable repair bill). Then there are the times when what exists within our heads dominates what is outside, because we want it to, as we delude ourselves that the object of our desire really does love us (tomorrow she’ll change her mind and come around, obviously) or actually that coat you bought on a whim and makes people physically sick when they see it will eventually come into fashion.

The musings on this largely comes from finally catching up – ten years late – with the excellent ‘Life on Mars’, the main pleasure of which (apart from the wonderful creation that is Philip Glenister’s Gene Hunt) I having a good discussion with the Lovely Wife afterwards on what the blessed sakes it was all about and what was real and what was not, and whether in fact the whole point is more that what you perceive as being real is more important than any empirical measure that might exist. You believe that something is real, then, to you at least, it is indeed real.

The fact of the matter is that none of us has the identical view of what is real – we cannot have. We might generally agree on some broad approximations by conscious or unconscious consensus but if you dig into the detail we will eventually disagree. As I am writing this I am wearing a blue T-shirt. I think it is quite a pale, bright, blue. But it is not blue, I am perceiving it as blue, and a shade. My eyes are picking up the light signals and my brain translating those as this specific shade of blue, and therein lies the source of difference. Anyone else seeing this T shirt might pick up the same data (let’s assume our eyesight is equivalent) but that other person is not going to see the same shade of blue. They may not even see it as blue at all, depending on how their brain processes the data. We do not, cannot, have the same view of ‘reality’ and while in the interests of fairness I might say that both of our views of reality might be valid, in the final reckoning they are not. For me, only one reality is valid, and it is the one that my brain has cooked up. The rest of you are deluded, poor things.

In many ways, I would love to see how someone else perceives the world, and to be able to compare world views, but I do not think that is ever possible as it will always be through the filter of my own grey matter that would distort any such input. I would be fascinated to know how those with elements of synaesthesia perceive the world; this is where the perception of sense is different from that seen by the majority; people talk of ‘hearing’ colour or ‘tasting’ music. I have always thought that would be fascinating, and again it all relates to that processing by the brain. But, as I say, I’ll just have to use my imagination.

This week’s soundtrack: ‘Even Better that the Real Thing’ by U2

I’m impressed by moderation. I appreciate it does not seem the most obvious sentiment to express, but the context is in being able to apply moderation as a way of life. If people possess a skill you do not feel you have there is a tendency towards one of two positions; to hate them for it or to be impressed by it. I find practising moderation difficult, so I am impressed with people who can and do live life with more balance. Usually I am either on or off, happy or sad, full of beans or ready for bed. I do not do inbetween, and as a result live with both the advantages and the drawbacks.

Helpfully for me I have disciplined and controlled people in my life or else I would be all over the place. Personally, I can go from one extreme to another in a matter of minutes. I am not good at hitting the sweet spot in the middle, at least not first time. I usually need at least three attempts to get it right – note, those who know me, have patience, please – probably best epitomised by my driving test experience which was the definition of ‘goldilocks’. First test failed largely on being too hesitant, second one failed on being too aggressive and third one passed as just right. There are other areas of my life that have taken a similar porridge temperature trajectory (although the bears have not come home to catch me, at least not yet). It would be nice to hit the sweet spot first time, but I suppose personally I need the practice.

What can bother me more is getting a handle on my swings of mood, and I suspect those close to me put up a lot with them too. I can get cross very quickly, but calm down just as fast. I also have a good line in panic, although on this one I have worked out that letting a minute or two of ‘oh goodness sake what do I do now?’ is often rewarded by a sustained follow up of cool practical thought and action as to best save the situation or at least initiate a decent attempt at damage limitation. I refer longer term readers to the Mount Fuji experience as a key example of turning something potential disastrous (and, to be honest, dangerous) into something that, as the cliché goes, you end up laughing about. Acting instinctively can be helpful at times, and at least you know what is going on with me, I’m terribly bad at hiding what I am feeling at any one time, unlike some whose inner thoughts and feelings are hidden behind a mask that really, really, should be in use playing high stakes poker, if they were not so disinclined.

Of course, both types work together. I get them to jump off the cliff into the clear, warm water when otherwise they’d probably never go, spending too much time considering whether it was worth it or not. Mind you, they’ve already paused long enough to take the time to (1) check that the water is deep enough for it to be safe and (2) checked that the sharks are not circling waiting for a free meal to drop in on them. A win-win scenario for us both I feel, and yes I feel annoyed with myself for using ‘win-win scenario’ in something not written about my corporate work life. Time to sign off when I’m behind, I feel…

This week’s soundtrack: ‘I Go to Extremes’ by Billy Joel, off the 1989 album ‘Storm Front’ – right back to being 18 and my first year at University.

That is a lie, by the way, from a personal point of view, but seemed an appropriate title this week. Rules are divisive things, even just taken from a personal perspective. In general I am in favour and not a rule breaker by nature, but I do sometimes take the Madness inspired route of bending them if they have the appropriate level of flex (which many do, if you look hard/creatively enough). Some of them are more important than others, and some of them more relevant than others. Unfortunately, many of the rule I come across professionally are largely there because organisations have abrogated responsibility or introduced rules for political (I mean this in the most generic sense) or emotional reasons, often under pressure, and therefore are often poorly thought out (if thought was used at all). Even when they have logical or technical justification, rules need revision and updating, and that process, should it exist at all, almost always lag the changing environment in which those rules are supposed to operate.

Rules are at the top of my mind now after a bit of an encounter while volunteering at the weekend. The house that I am a room guide for was partially closed for an event, which is an unfortunate necessity at times. Most visitors (and us volunteers) take this stoically but there are always a few that feel they are owed more. This time I was approached by a man of a certain age, with wild white hair and a jacket, adopting an appearance I would probably describe as ‘tousled’. After looking meaningfully at my name badge, he fixed me with an icy blue-eyed stare (which I can only assume he though was intimidating based on what came out his mouth) and challenged me as to why I could not at least take his wife around the closed area of the house, you know, no one would know.

I apologised, and told him that was not possible – I was under strict instruction that the area was closed.

‘So you’re doing it by the book,’ he sneered.

I just looked at him.

‘Yes. Apologies.’

At this point he marched off in the huff muttering – in that way that you know they want you to hear –

‘Typical British Civil Servant attitude…’

Which amused me immensely for various reasons.

The sad thing is if he had not tried to intimidate me I might have tried to find a solution for him, although, in this case I was under clear orders.

I’d contrast this to a few years ago, when while on duty I ended up talking to couple in their 90s. they were on, they told me, their ‘farewell tour’, in the process of visiting touchstones from their childhoods while they were still fit enough to do so. The lady concerned had often come to the house when she was a child, as her parents were friends of the caretaker at the time. She told me that her main memories involved playing in the tunnels (two access tunnels run the length of the house, giving access for servants from the servant wing to the staterooms) and cellars – as she put it, ‘running about in the pitch black and screaming a lot’.

The tunnels are not open to the public, but then again I not been told to never show them to someone who might have a specific interest. It was a quiet day, so I asked if she would like to see if it was as she remembered. So, I helped her down the stairs into the tunnels. Afterwards, she was on the verge of tears, and thanked me profusely – it was as she remembered, albeit now well lit, and for a moment she has been 12 again.

I think to deliberately break a rule is, mostly, a bad idea. Bad rules need to be changed, not ignored. However, sometimes a bit of bending and creative interpretation might just be a good thing, if it can achieve some good.

Today’s Soundtrack: Charmless Man by Blur

I have never found myself able to keep a diary. Funnily enough, writing this weekly blog on whatever drifts across my consciousness is probably the closest I have ever gotten to that. I have often tried to write one, mainly to record places I have been, interesting things that I have seen, that sort of thing, and I have lost count of the times that I have started to write one, but it rarely lasts more than a couple of weeks, before it stutters and becomes erratic before dying once more. It is not that I get bored with my life or recording it; I quite like recording places visited as you tend to forget where you have been over time but the slightest confirmation that you have been to a place can often unlock the dormant memories of that experience. Possibly it is a symptom of my general lack of discipline which tends to exhibit itself as I slowly drift away from whatever it is towards something that looks more interesting.

Of course, then there is the whole question of who a diary or journal is for. I can entirely understand that if you are in the public eye for whatever reason, then maybe it is worth making some notes as you go along. Most of us do not have to worry too much about what we might say one day as normally we won’t be called out for inconsistency several weeks later; if you are well known then this is more likely to be something you need to address. And as any trip to a book discount store will prove there is always the autobiography or memoir to churn out at some point. If you have made copious notes, then that is going to come a bit easier. I was amused on reading the (very entertaining) memoir of Jeremy Paxman his admission in the foreword that much of the recollections therein came not so much from his memory or notes but from contributions of others that a better reflection of events; particularly amusing coming from a journalist.

Memoirs can be a dangerous thing to read, especially if it is written (or ghost written) by someone who you like or admire; you are never sure that you are not going to discover something that you would rather not have known about that individual. My preference is to go for people I think look interesting, that I not know much about their background and with whom I do not have any major investment to date. The Paxman book was a good example of that, and by the end of the book I had a lot more respect for the man than perhaps I would have had otherwise. I had a similar experience in reading the autobiography of cooking duo Si King and Dave Myers (otherwise known as the hairy Bikers) where I had no idea of the rough nature of their backgrounds and frank descriptions of the close shaves with death both had experienced over an eventful couple of lives. Oddly, and this is just coincidence, most of the autobiographies I have read recently seem to involve at least one brush with the Grim Reaper, seems to be a showbiz thing to have to survive accidents/cancer/brain tumours etc. etc. on the way to actual stardom. Not entirely sure it is worth it. But I guess they must mention it as life events go there is little more personal than your own life being in danger; even marriage or children, often side lined for their own safety in such books, involve others and are thus a shared experience.

I won’t ever be in the public eye (I hope) so my lack of diary is unlikely to hurt me later. My life is a good one overall, and the people most dear to me know what is going on in it most of the time anyway, so that is good enough for me. If I was to write an autobiography I would have an urge to make it up anyway, as what goes on in my head is – and I think many of us share this – far more interesting and better than reality anyway.

Today’s Soundtrack: Could have gone for the obvious, but I’m going for ‘Every Day I Write the Book’ by Elvis Costello

In our road, there is parking restriction to try and prevent those commuting into London from parking in our road rather than in the overpriced car parking at the station itself. I probably should explain that we live a couple of streets away from the trains station that would take us on a twenty to thirty-minute ride into the centre of London, yet neither of us do or have ever worked in central London, which sometimes perplexes people; in the end, we are here because of family and we were lucky to find a house we liked and even more blessed to find it at time when we could actually afford it; now we would have no chance. Anyway, we have this restriction so if we want to park the car in the street it must be moved elsewhere in the morning. When we bring it back, ideally we would like to park it outside our house, which I think most people would appreciate. But quite often we have to put it wherever we can, as parking is a at a premium, often some distance away.

Now, we have no right to the bit of pavement outside our house, or a right to park there. But it is hard not to feel that in some way it should be ours and to feel a little grumpy when it is occupied by a strange car (i.e., one not recognised as a fellow resident in the road, similarly afflicted). It made me think about how territorial we are as a species. It is entirely understandable, as we are a social species that live, mostly, in communities. We have, at least in our own heads, the idea of what is ‘our’ space, and wo betide anyone that might encroach on that (without our permission). To give a personal example, our house is largely surrounded now by people with young families. A year or so ago one of them had guests with their own little offspring, and it was not long before a football came over our back wall. I was in the process of coming out of the house when a small boy – encouraged by his Dad – climbed over our back wall to retrieve his ball. A short, cold – but polite – conversation ensued with the adult concerned and all was resolved amicably, but thinking about it I had two main issues. First, the back wall is off dubious quality and I would rather not be responsible for a child coming to harm, and that was the practical reason. But the other was simply that they had invaded my territory without asking. Contrastingly, our new next door neighbours, whose two boys regularly punt balls over our fence did ask once, and thus we happily throw the balls back for them when we notice they have made an appearance.

This whole territorial thing was thrown into stark perspective this weekend when we attended a couple of large scale music events in London, both with crowds of over 40,000. The events concerned allowed folding chairs and picnic blankets. Now, even though the event space was large, that is a lot of people to fit in and with the chairs etc. each person takes up a lot more space than a human being on their own would. What resulted on both days was effectively a seabird breeding colony, with each group or pair – including us – staking out its territory as best it could and trying to stop other groups encroaching on that. Unlike a seabird colony I did not see many actual squabbles break out – thankfully most territories were established before too much alcohol was consumed, but there was certainly the odd glare and the occasional muttering. We like living in community, indeed we need to, but community is at its most welcome when it keeps a reasonable distance.

It is odd becoming detached from places you knew so well in the past. Generally, I think it is fair to say that most of us struggle with change in any part of our life even when it is clearly for the better. Most changes are probably neutral anyway in terms of the overall impact they have on us; but the outcries that often emerge when an alteration to a well -liked building – as an example – is proposed can show how much people can object to change even when that change has no impact on them at all other than offending sensibilities. Incidentally, let me be very clear here, I have signed enough petitions of my own over time that I’m not criticising this, merely observing it.

I grew up in an old mining village in County Durham, about three miles from the town of Chester-Le-Street in a bungalow on what at the time was considered a ‘nice’ part of the village; my school headmaster (and local councillor) lived down the street; that kind of place.

I’m an only child but the lack of siblings (which was not deliberate on my parent’s part, they just did not happen and apparently, I was a bit of a ‘miracle’ as it was) was compensated for by a dog and any number of other pets over the years.

But apart from the revolving and evolving cast list of beasties that shared the house with us there was always a dog and considering my parents it was made clear that when I was old enough the job of walking her (and her successors) was laid firmly at my door. So, I spent a fair amount of time walking around the village and the fields behind our house that stretched up a farm at one side and a large comprehensive school on the other. As an aside this was the school I should have gone to, an ugly mass of white Sixties depression. My parents were persuaded by my junior school teachers (in their attractive Victorian red brick across the road) to find a better solution, and as the comprehensive periodically was set on fire – and we knew some of the teachers who had been physically attacked by pupils in class –  they did not need much in the way of persuasion

So, the view I grew up with was mostly of fields that you could run and play in, and a view to a largely empty horizon.

I have just come back from a weekend visiting my father, who now lives alone in the same bungalow. It has been six years since he came home from hospital after his cancer treatment, and five since the last dog died. I still find it odd that some canine is not greeting me as I walk through the door, or that I do not need to worry about putting down food at a level a dog could normally reach after decades of that being a recipe for disaster. Stranger still is that when I look out that window now what I can see has changed completely. An ever- increasing housing estate now covers the horizon and most of the fields; the farm is still there but more derelict every year and no doubt will be replaced by more houses at some point. Perhaps stranger still is that the school has been levelled, and this time they are not going to rebuild it.

The place I grew up with has irrevocably changed. I have mixed feelings about it as I miss that piece of my history which is now consigned only to memory. However, people need somewhere to live more than I need the view. And in the end, it helps me with the inevitable cutting of links; I go back to see my Dad and that is pretty much the only reason. My home was in one place when I was a child; now it is somewhere else, and in another Season, it will probably be somewhere else again. Change is inevitable, how well you cope with it is the measure of success.

Well that was a surprise. A Bank Holiday weekend in the UK where – at least where I was – it was gloriously sunny all weekend.  Somewhat of a rare occurrence.

We were lucky enough to be with friends down on the Dorset coast, a spectacularly beautiful part of the country in all weathers but especially nice when it is sunny and warm. In addition, the sea is clear and relatively warm in the summer and so it was nice to take advantage of that and get in several sessions of proper swimming in the sea – and one dunk for me in a cold river ford, but that was just for a laugh – it was not deep enough to swim in but was deliciously cooling on a very hot day and it seemed to amuse my fellow waders, most of whom under the age of six.

Swimming and I have an odd history. I was never very into it as a child and I think part of that was body self-confidence (or rather lack of) and a general dislike of swimming pools – something I carry to this day, I’d much rather jump in a river. For whatever reason when I ended up at my secondary school I was a very basic swimmer and could not manage backstroke.

So, then came the humiliation of remedial swimming lessons at lunchtime, as this was the kind of school where while it was OK to be useless at sport, basic incompetence was not tolerated. I hated the whole idea, if only because everyone knew I had to do them and I was therefore excluded from the fun everyone else was having during the break time.

Of course, I was entirely wrong about all this and looking back I am happy that I had to go through it. I’m now a competent swimmer and can enjoy it when the opportunity arises and I have some of the teachers at school to thank for that. But it was not the physical education staff that ran the lessons; it was other members of staff that took the classes on a voluntary basis, when their main role was teaching science or geography. I do not know what their motives were – I suspect that for some it was having experienced similar issues in their own lives. All I know is that these lessons were executed in a calm and matter of fact way, with a lot of patience. I can recall the day that I first allowed myself to lie back in the water – with a supporting hand initially – and realised that I did not sink; a moment of revelation from which thankfully there was no going back.

It is a shame I cannot say thank you to those people who helped me back then; some of them at least are no longer with us. Apart from the practical upshot of learning to swim and the freedom that gives me, it taught me another lesson. Sometimes you must accept that in order to achieve something important you might have to go back to the start and accept that your ego might have to take a back seat while you re-learn something you got wrong the first time but you were not prepared to admit because of the shame; because in the long term you’ll be in a better place.

Sadly, not much opportunity for wild swimming in Hertfordshire; and anyway, as the year goes on maybe it will just be a little too cold. But it was fun when it lasted and I’m sure I’ll be taking the plunge again at the next opportunity.

I can entirely understand the excitement around the total solar eclipse yesterday in the USA and I hope that lots of people get to experience something which I found very special. Hopefully they will get to see a bit more than I did all those years ago in Cornwall, but the sort of feelings that I recall from way back in 1999 have stuck with me, which is why if anyone ever asks me if it is worth putting yourself out to be right in the shadow of a total solar eclipse the answer would always be yes.

Back in 1999 I co-organized a group to go down to Cornwall for that eclipse, about fifteen of us camped out in Helston village hall; well it kept the costs down.

On the day of the eclipse everyone was rather excited. There was a general sense of anticipation in the local area, and perhaps also a little bit of nervousness. There is something very primal about celestial events, and the pub whose board outside jokingly read ‘Repent! The End of the World is Nigh!’ summed up the feeling quite well.

That enthusiasm was a little dampened by the fact it was obviously not going to be the best weather conditions at the relatively early hour the eclipse was due. We climbed up onto fields near the sea, on one side looking down onto Falmouth bay, and inland looking towards the massive radio telescopes of Goonhilly. As we sat down to wait we were at first mildly concerned we would be moved on by the approach of someone who was clearly the local farmer; in fact, he invited us to go into the middle of the next field and join his family and friends. That was the first thing; people acting in a way that was disturbingly friendly to complete strangers.

As we watched the clouds steadfastly obscuring the sun, we kept an eye on the clock. Eventually, fortified on sausage rolls and cake it was time.

We could not see the sun, but you very quickly saw something was changing. The best way I can describe it is that a wave of darkness swept towards us from the telescopes, and rolled over us and past, out to see, the darkness intensifying all the time until it was completely black. Serious, complete blackness. And silent. The cows in the field, the birds and everyone in the field were for a few seconds completely silent, as though everything was holding its breath. Looking out to see you could see light at the edge of the shadow, but for a few moments everything just stopped and the only movement was tiny flashes of light from the cameras of the masses that had collected on Falmouth beach.

And then suddenly it was over. It was as though               someone had turned up a huge dimmer switch as the return to daylight was quick, but also gradual. Suddenly the birds were singing as though it was dawn, the cows were mooing and pretty much everyone was hugging each other and giggling like five year olds. Champagne appeared in small plastic cups. No one seemed remotely upset we had not actually see the moon pass across the sun until a little glimpse through the clouds after the fact. But everyone under the shadow had felt it happen, and that was enough to cement it as an experience and for a short while at least bind everyone together with that shared happening.

The sense of euphoria lasted for most of the day. Nobody wanted to talk about it; there was not much to say, there was just this sense of release, as though the tension of the darkness had been lifted, the sun restored and life goes on. It is very easy to see how in the past such events were extremely portentous. We all knew that a few seconds later it would get light again, throughout much of history that was not the case. It must have been a terrifying experience in the past, but now it is a reminder of the celestial spheres and another of those wondrous things that the moon is just big enough at certain points to completely blot out the sun.

It’s just marvellous.