The stars, the sky and the sound of a kettle

We step out of the bright lights and warmth of the kitchen to stand in the cool autumn night. It's so dark that it's difficult to see the movement of my own hand in front of my face.

We walk around the side of the cottage, our eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the absence of light. Beyond the garden, there are only fields and trees.

We stand for a while. The dog sniffs and snorts around the garden, and in the distance there is the sound of foxes geckering, hoots from owls and the eerie sound of deer barking.

It's a clear night without a moon, but the blanket of stars above is bright and, after a short while, the darkness steps back and shadows and shapes begin to emerge.

I tilt my head towards the heavens and consider that I am peering into a far-distant past. The light from some of the stars and galaxies above began its journey towards me millions or even billions of years ago. Some of these ancient stars may have already died; the light I now see from them is just a memory of what once was.

I peer deeper into the night sky and try to identify some of the constellations in order to locate some of our nearest stars. After being temporarily distracted by the movement of satellites silently gliding across the ancient starlight, I eventually find Vega.

Even its light is old; it has taken 25 years to reach me. I wonder at the fact that the light from this distant sun began its journey back just after the millennium, in 2001.

The dog pulls on her lead and it breaks the moment. It's time to go back in.

We enter the cottage the way we went out, the dark temporarily extinguished, forgotten behind us. The kettle is boiling noisily, there's an advert playing brashly on the TV, and our world is once again lit by electric light.