Cosmic conjuring

At five minutes to nine last night I was standing on the pavement outside the Argentinean restaurant where a group of us were having a meal to say goodbye to one of our number, staring up at the moon with one of the waiters.

The moon was a dull, shadowy red, with a white crescent of light slipping away in the top-right corner (if circles can be said to have corners). I imagined bright valleys and mountains fading into darkness, though I suppose the moon is more craters than valleys.

And then the white light was gone, and there was nothing but the dimming, rusty edges of the perfect circle of moon.

And then quite quickly, at 9.01, the shadowy centre stretched out and ate the moon. And there was nothing there but ink-black sky.

It was amazing. I know that that is rather the point of an eclipse and I am probably quite obtuse, but the utter disappearance of the moon sort of surprised me. It felt like stumbling upon something secret.

I think this is because in all the pictures of lunar eclipses – and google will find you thousands – you never see a picture of absolute black nothingness. Which when you think about it is not altogether surprising. Nothing is not nearly as impressive as bitemarks in a brilliantly silver moon, or the slow fade to red. But watching the moon disappear is the most astonishing part of the whole thing.

No wonder ancient cultures feared the vengeance or the abandonment of the gods. It’s like watching black magic. And remarkable to think too that in those few moments – and only in those moments – the whole surface of the moon must be completely dark.

And people were watching all over the world, all kinds of people in all kinds of places, wherever it was night. I like that.