For three years I have been pondering how to solve a tricky riddle. There are so many people who would love to learn about the night sky, but it is very hard to organise an outdoor course for this in this country because the weather is so unreliable. I need to sort the dates for my courses at least a few weeks in advance and it is impossible to predict the conditions that far away. Also, the best times of the year for star, moon and planet-gazing are not the best times for weather. Mid-summer is great for many outdoor activities, but with the late sunsets it is not perfect for stars.

The solution, it dawned on me (pehaps I should say dusked?) is to create a club for those who are interested and then, when the conditions are right I will let everyone know where and when I will be for a couple of hours of guided stargazing. There will be no charge – as there will be no guarantees – but I should be able to give a couple of days notice in most cases and less in a few. Most of these will take place in the South Downs in West Sussex, but I will also endeavour to host a couple of nights when out and about in other parts of the UK or perhaps, in time, abroad. All you need to do to join this club is to come on one of my courses, public or private.

Last night the visibility was great and we enjoyed the nearly full moon, Gemini, Pegasus, Taurus, the Plough, the North Star, Cassiopeia, Jupiter, Cygnus, Auriga, Orion and probably quite a few others! In total we looked at five different ways of finding north from the stars and many other techniques for finding direction.

I took the picture of the moon above last night. It is full today and so was one day off full last night, but it does look quite full. It goes to show how tricky it can be to tell the difference between phases precisely. Everyone can get very close, but I do not know of anyone in the world who can, without fail, gauge the phase of the moon to the day just by looking at it. This has implications for using the slightly involved ‘phase method’ of finding direction (see the book), as for each day you are out in your estimation of the moon’s phase this can throw your estimation of direction out by 12 degrees.

Here is a bit of a red herring from a navigation point of view, but fun all the same… When I was going through my photos this morning I was about to delete an unsteady one of Jupiter (the second one shown here), when I hesitated because I spotted something that jumped out at me. Below the bright Jupiter and in a crooked line there are four stars, but just above them and to the right of Jupiter there is a very small blue smudge. This, as I hoped and suspected, was Uranus. It was not visible to the naked eye last night, but showed up on the longer exposure of this photo. A lovely small ‘discovery’ to start the day with. Not sure my name will go down there with Herschel’s though!

I set off as the last light from the sun faded in the southwest. Cassiopeia and Cygnus neatly sketched out north for me, even when Polaris was well hidden. When moving south I used Jupiter and Aquila.

Four hours later I returned, having spent nearly all of it alone, in beech woodland and without using a torch. Moving at times with my left hand extended out to fend off inquisitive lower branches, I covered about six miles; this was no race.

In every woodland walk there are times when you feel the forest is on your side and times when it is inviting you to make haste the exit. When the sun has gone down, the trees never lose their ability to thrill and scare.

The only light I used all night was the single flash from my camera to catch my nemesis. I closed and shielded my eyes, to protect my night vision, and then pointed the camera and ‘shot blind’. This picture, which I did not look at until reaching the end of my walk, must have been of some ogre, a menacing hunched figure, one who crouched silently by the path of those who were foolish to walk alone at night in the woods. Turns out it was a tree stump.

Or perhaps it only turned into a tree stump when my camera came out? Heisenberg wrote of stranger things and called them physics.

My sources tell me that the first is a Magpie Inkcap (Coprinopsis picaceus) and the second is Green Elf Cup/Wood cup/Stain (Chlorociboria aeruginascens).

My thanks, in no particular order, to: Nick Weston, Brian and Ross Gardner.

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A thousand apologies for that title.

Seriously now, are there any fungi experts out there?

Yesterday I came across these two rather fun specimens during a family walk in our local woods. Thought one was a Panther cap, but looks a bit too ‘pointy’ for that. The blue one is beautiful, but not one I can even guess at. I’m assuming it is a fungus, but could be a lichen at a stretch I suppose?

If anyone knows someone in the know please could you waft these images under their expert noses. Much obliged. Credit will be given. My email address is here.

On a different subject, my thanks to James Garrett for booking a private course for 15 people on Saturday afternoon and to all those who came. We set off from Ditchling Beacon on top of the South Downs and after some exploration and investigation of an area rich in natural clues, we were able to wrap the day up with Jupiter, then Capella, Arcturus, Deneb, the Plough, Polaris, Cassiopeia. Way to finish. I was so glad to have an excuse to be on top of the Downs. Thanks!

“He stood and carefully examined the sky, to ascertain the time of night from the altitudes of the stars. The Dog-star and Alderbaran, pointing to the restless Pleiades, were halfway up the Southern sky ,and between them hung Orion, which gorgeous constellation never burnt more vividly than now, as it soared forth above the rim of the landscape. Castor and Pollux with their quiet shine were almost on the meridian: the barren gloomy square of Pegasus was creeping round to the north-west; far away through the plantation Vega sparkled like a lamp suspended amid the leafless trees, and Cassiopeia’s chair stood daintily poised on the uppermost boughs. ‘One o’clock,’ said Gabriel.”

…

“The sky was clear – remarkably clear – and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse. The North Star was directly in the wind’s eye, and since evening the Bear had swung round it outwardly to the east, till he was now at a right angle with the meridian. A difference of colour in the stars – oftener read of than seen in England – was really perceptible here. The sovereign brilliancy of Sirius pierced the eye with steely glitter, the star called Capella was yellow, Alderbaran and Betelgeux shone with a fiery red.
To persons standing alone on a hill during a clear midnight such as this, the roll of the world eastward is almost a palpable movement. The sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of the stars past earthly objects, which is perceptible in a few minutes of stillness, or by the better outlook upon space that a hill affords, or by the wind, or by the solitude; but whatever be its origin, the impression of riding along is vivid and abiding. The poetry of motion is a phrase much in use, and to enjoy the epic form of that gratification it is necessary to stand on a hill at a small hour of the night, and, having first expanded with a sense of difference from the mass of civilized mankind, who are dreamwrapt and disregardful of all such proceedings at this time, long and quietly watch your stately progress through the stars. After such a nocturnal reconnoiter it is hard to get back to earth, and to believe that the consciousness of such majestic speeding is derived from a tiny human frame.”

I will try not to spoil the moment by pointing out that if Castor and Pollux were ‘almost on the meridian’ then it would be hard to see the square of Pegasus in the way that Hardy describes. I will try but fail. Rare is the fiction writer who has ever attempted to portray the night sky without betraying their lack of fundamental understanding. Hardy’s efforts are much better than most, as you might expect from a literary giant. So few writers appreciate that the stars, if described in detail, must be fixed in time, both nightly and annual, as well as in direction. There is nothing casual or random in the appearance of the night sky at all. Fortunately the errors are rarely obvious enough to spoil a good story!

I adore the Witterings in winter, the barbecue and beach towels may have to stay at home but it is invigorating to get blown along on miles of abandoned sand. In between games of hide and seek amongst the beach huts, games of football on the sticky sand and races to pieces of seaweed, I noticed some interesting patterns in the sand.

This photo shows how there tend to be broad ripples parallel to the coastline itself, but closer inspection reveals more subtle patterns and these can be used to decipher the action of the water and therefore yield more clues to direction. The ripples of sand fan out over the small hills that are exposed at low water. There are tight-packed parallel ridges where the water action is uniform, but a more confused system of diamonds where incoming water meets the returning undercurrent from earlier waves. All of these patterns can be used by walkers in low visibility to orientate themselves, if the sound of the water is not helping, but they can also be used by divers searching for a clue to the direction of coast in low visiblity.

We were put through a gentle rinse and spin cycle as what felt like typical cold front conditions mixed things up, sunshine and cold rain wrestling each other throughout an enjoyable afternoon. The skies matured into a more settled pattern towards the end of the day and allowed us a clear view of an incandescent Venus and later the stars, including the ones we needed most: the plough, polaris, auriga, Cassiopeia and Orion.