The best spot to view the moon is, in my opinion, just in front of the gates to the church near where I live, at half-past eight on a dry clear cloudless morning, in January or February, facing westwards towards the setting full moon, still high above the hay bales of the farm with the mist rising from the grass as the cows munch the hay in their troughs. The village is awakening: some are leaving for work, the shop is open, the school children are queueing for the bus. This lasts for only a few fleeting seconds as I am forced to continue walking to get the bus, from where I cannot see that pale white orb. It symbolises the future, of space travel, of my quest to learn Physics; it nestles happily in the recent history of the Victorian architecture that is the village; it represents the ancient legends that have no historical meaning but serve as examples of how to lead your life and inspire me to want to achieve something in my chosen field; it is a constant in this world, something which is shared by everyone. The moon is important to me, and this place is its temple, the place where I worship it with my eyes, with a few seconds idly spent staring into it. I feel that this is probably the one place that I will miss when I move to Durham University.