A delightful conjunction of astronomical events yesterday and this morning. A 95% solar eclipse at teatime, and the Perseid meteor shower in the wee small hours of today.
I didn’t join the huge queues of people trying to buy eclipse glasses in Bridport or begging on Facebook, as I remembered the eerie atmosphere of totality was the best thing from March 1997, and I wanted to watch the light and effects rather than staring fixedly at the sun. By 18.30, the sunlight was already taking on a definitely altered quality, and as the maximum approached, the colour slowly drained out of the landscape as it got darker and very slightly cooler. Not at all like dusk, when the colour and angle of the sunlight changes.
I was surprised at how persistent the traffic noise from the Sidmouth Road was – people still needed to be about their business despite the celestial display. The cows kept on munching their silage and appeared unconcerned by the gloom, and only a yaffle (a green woodpecker, with a raucous call and bouncing flight) flying up and down the valley behind us broke the silence.
The shadows cast by trees made an interesting study, as the crescents of the sun (inverted of course) danced in the breeze. Our damson tree’s leaves are fretted with lots of insect damage which made for some better-focused images. I did try the colander trick too.
After 19.15, it slowly got lighter and warmer again, and that was probably the end of the last significant eclipse I’ll ever see!
Some hours pass…
I set my alarm for 2.00 and went quietly outside into a surprisingly warm night, feeling the warmth radiating from the parched dusty ground. I walked into the stubble field near our house which has a good view of the northern sky, where our two cats found me, little glimmers of white in the simmerdim, and furry caresses as they wound round my legs.
As my eyes acclimatised to the night (sadly not nearly as dark as when we moved here in the 1980s), I saw the constellations my Dad taught me – the Plough, Cassiopeia and the Pleiades; eventually, the arch of the Milky Way made itself visible, very faintly. A stately procession of Starlink satellites from west to east, and a small number of bright and faint sparks dashing to Earth. In my mind, I heard “Catch a Falling Star” by Perry Como – one of my Mum’s favourite songs in my childhood. I really heard, over the nighttime hush, the distant murmur of the surf and the hooting of tawny owls, as well as the rustle and pattering of cats’ paws as they went about their nocturnal investigations.
As I turned my footsteps back to the house, I wondered if my son had seen the same meteorites – he said he was going to go out and watch too. A late birthday wish from me…