Some suggestions for would-be astronauts on a low carbon budget

Astronaut training is tough. It takes dedication. Start by getting to know the constellations, their faces, their mannerisms, their habits and haunts. Whatever your language and your culture, they will recognise you. The stars have seen civilisations rise and fall. They speak all languages. They collect the ever-changing names we give them one by one in a basket or a jar, whatever comes to hand, so that later they can arrange and re-arrange our spider webs of connotation into songs and poems of their own. They are grateful to us for each new name when it has resonance and depth, when it has heft in the hand. So name them with care. Their songs and poems must nourish them for eternity.

Sorry, I have to emphasise the point. For everyone’s safety. Before your first mission you must be thoroughly acquainted with the constellations. Not by rote or by schema. You must recognise their faces instantly in the crowded room of the night sky, as you would know your best friend or a past lover, by just a glimpse of their smile or the crook of an eyebrow. Astronaut training is demanding. Train yourself on the fuzzy nights and the patchy nights, so that when Orion’s belt alone is briefly visible you can put your hand without thinking to the hilt of his sword. Hone your skills on the bright nights, when the Milky Way overflows and Cassiopeia near drowns in the cream, when Pleiades is not a sober quorum of seven but a sorority ruckus of seventy. Even on these nights when the ocean of star phosphorescence threatens to overwhelm you, especially then, you must not lose your bearings.  

An appropriate launch site is critical. It must fulfil a number of logistical requirements associated with space travel and be suitable for achieving the appropriate trajectory. The final decision is yours, but a generous slab of exposed gritstone or a flat segment of limestone pavement, high on open ground without tree cover or surrounding slopes, preferably itself a little convex, are good starting points.

That’s how I began as an astronaut. On a favourite gritstone edge deep in the Pennines I laid out my carry-mat and my bivvy-bag then climbed aboard a four-season sleep sack as dusk came on. The checklist dictated that my feet were pointing north. It was optional, but I kept my socks on. I’d recommend that you retain your socks, at least for your early flights. Space travel can be a bit nippy.

As the long, ponderous countdown to the night continued I dozed off. (It’s OK, that is an approved procedure for a rookie astronaut – make yourself comfortable.) When I opened my eyes they took a great reflex gulp of the night sky and I could easily have become hopelessly disorientated, gyros toppled, the launch aborted.

The training kicked in immediately. People always say that, don’t they? ‘The training just kicked in!’ As if it is a surprise to them. But all your long hours of studying the constellations have been an expression and a deepening of love and recognition. So how could this love fail to well up and steady you now, when you need it most?

The Pole Star, the axle on which the whole star-scape in the northern hemisphere appears to rotate, reaches out a hand to me and I cling to it. As my giddiness abates, I recognise the familiar stars near to the hub of the great wheel of the sky and reaffirm my acquaintance with the outer constellations of the rim, so bringing online the necessary flight-guidance system, a dome of recollection from horizon to horizon, circling the compass.

Again I dozed. Just a few minutes. A slight tremor woke me for the second time. Odd. Gritstone is not a tremulous sort of rock. Its calloused palms can grind bones. I chose it for its steadfastness. But for sure I felt it quake. Looking up I can see that the earth has stirred while I slept. The stars are not quite where I left them. Waiting in the wings, our planet has been preparing herself, rehearsing her rotation. The countdown is nearly complete. You should expect some vibration as the launch sequence commences – after all, a whole planet is limbering up.  

The stars, naturally, remain at their places. It was never the stars who rotated. That was a story we invented to stop us feeling insecure. The constellations are a tableau vivant. Not a flicker of movement. Or did I see Leo wink, just once, to put me at ease? Then the world, she begins to dance and sing, pivoting effortlessly through the night as I lie face to the sky, in the very front row of this enormous spinning space-theatre of ours. Until the first glimmers of morning she pirouettes across the stage of the universe, her audience in rapture.  

Re-entry may be a worry for you. It gets a bad press. All that burning up and bouncing off. I’d advise you just sleep through it for the first few missions. The sun will come up and tap you on the shoulder when it’s over. There, see. You are back safe. The sun pretends to rise and the earth pretends to be rock solid again. The gritstone is once more implacably stationary, far too massive to consider anything as frivolous as movement.

You will want to talk about it. When you have been into space for the first time you simply have to tell somebody. After I landed from my first mission the old bachelor badger of the hillside below was just making his way home past the edge of my launch pad. ‘I’ve just been into space. Into space!’ I blurted out without preamble. ‘First time, huh?’ he replied, not even breaking step.

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