We took a holiday along the neglected and lonely coast of south-western Scotland. At night the only man made light that I could see was the lighthouse at the Mull of Galloway, twelve miles away. As we were exploring the garden of the cottage, the neighbour had leaned on the stone wall, looked at the sky and said that we would not often be blessed with days like this at the end of September. He was gloriously wrong and we had days of cold, dry sun. One particular evening had been full of umber sunlight and now the night was clear and still. As my eyes grew used to the darkness, treasure unfurled in the skies. First, the familiar constellations, then the unfamiliar  line of the Milky Way right across the sky, from horizon to horizon like an old friend whose arrival brings regret for the lost years between meetings. As the minutes passed, more stars appeared, thousands, millions, all coloured like a basket of jewels until the billions of stars rested over me like a cathedral with a roof of stained glass. When the puzzled hound nuzzled my knee to tell me that he had finished his patrol of this strange new place, I still looked up. I could barely stand it. I looked at the dog and he too was looking up at the stars, his head cocked on one side. Whether he was puzzled by these strange lights, or was looking in vain to see what I could see, I couldn't say, so we slipped inside for a glass of malt by the fire which is, as they say, entirely another story.