The near perfect viewing night is so rare, but it happens. When it does it makes you realise how much we denizens of the night stumble around in the mist and fog of bad seeing; when we are not sure is a dim star split, is it yellow or pink and was that porridge splat of dull light that just floated by a galaxy, a nebula or an undiscovered 
comet. Those kinds of nights come too often, when we are battling to scratch this muddy sky to give up its secrets. The really striking night also comes as a surprise. We go through days and nights of thunder, rain and dire meteorological warnings and then it is as if the great sky god having done with flexing muscle suddenly, on a whim, says, 'Now watch me surprise you!' and the great cosmos opens again. 

All is new, is vibrant, pulsating and alive and the most humble telescope has suddenly grown splendid optics and as you turn to the familiar dim objects you start grasping for phrases such as 'sharp', 'contrast', 'filament', 'mottled', 'festoons' etc. You also view with some urgency, as you are convinced that unseen, from behind your back a layer of cloud is fast approaching to wipe it all away. I got an hour of such a sky two nights ago, following three days of storm and rain. I completed all binocular doubles in The Fishes, The Southern Fish and The Whale.