Yesterday evening the sky decided to put on a show. A partial solar eclipse swept across the UK, the first since 1999, back when we had dial‑up internet, and thought a Nokia 3210 was the height of technological wizardry. The next one won’t grace our shores until 2091, which means most of us will be watching it from the great lodge in the sky. So yes, this was a big one. The whole country went delightfully eclipse crazy. People were hopping across Europe like migrating starlings, chasing the perfect viewing spot. Anyone lucky enough to own a pair of eclipse glasses suddenly found themselves in possession of a priceless artefact. You could practically trade them for a four‑bedroom house in Chester. For a few glorious hours, they were the new Bitcoin.

And you can understand the excitement. Anyone under twenty‑six has never seen one, and the next chance is sixty‑five years away. It wasn’t just a celestial event, it was a generational moment, a cosmic postcard reminding us that the universe still enjoys a bit of theatre.

Yesterday evening also happened to be the monthly Blood Bikes Wales North East meeting. So, in true volunteer‑spirit fashion, we nudged the start time back by half an hour and turned the club car park into an impromptu observatory. Riders, controllers, volunteers, all of us gathered together, helmets swapped for eclipse glasses, radios quiet for once, watching the moon take a theatrical bite out of the sun.

For a moment it felt beautifully symbolic. A team dedicated to serving the community, standing shoulder to shoulder, witnessing a rare moment of cosmic alignment. The sky dimmed, the temperature dipped, and the whole world seemed to slip into that ancient, enchanted hush North Wales does so well.

Or at least… it would have.

Because this is North Wales… the land where clouds are permanent residents and the sun is an occasional tourist. So our grand celestial spectacle consisted of: a cloud with a bright light behind it, followed by a cloud with a slightly dimmer light behind it, before returning to a cloud with a bright light behind it.

That was our eclipse. A three‑act performance by the same cloud.

After ten minutes of heroic squinting, we admitted defeat, packed away the “observatory,” and headed to the bar, where at least the lights are reliable.

I remember the last eclipse well, the legendary summer of 1999. I was at the Whitby Gothic Weekend, surrounded by a sea of black‑clad pilgrims who had bravely ventured into the sunlight for the first time since the late eighties. It was like watching vampires on a team‑building exercise. They hissed, they squinted, they clung to the shadows of the nearest lamppost. A glorious sight.

While the crowds risked spontaneous combustion out on the seafront, I chose a far more civilised approach. I watched the eclipse on the pub television, safely indoors, day‑drinking with friends. A cold pint, a comfy seat, and the cosmic ballet unfolding on a screen above the bar, that, surely, is the gentleman’s way to witness celestial events.

There was something wonderfully surreal about it. Outside, the world was dimming under an ancient astronomical alignment. Inside, someone was arguing about whose turn it was on the fruit machine. The moon slid across the sun with mythic grandeur, and we toasted it with lager and laughter, as if we were attending a solar coronation.

And honestly, I stand by it. If the universe insists on performing rare cosmic theatre, the least we can do is enjoy it with good company, a drink in hand, and absolutely no risk of sunburn. It’s the only way… observe the mysteries of the heavens, but do it comfortably.