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For a year， Matt Gaw hiked across the country at night—savouring the planets， the midnight light and the sense of earthly troubles shrinking into the universe. 一年來，马特·高徒步夜行，足迹遍布整个国家——品味星空、午夜之光和俗世烦恼消失在宇宙中的感觉。
I still remember that first night walk in King’s Forest near my Suffolk home， two years ago. The clouds were smoking-room-thick， so there had been no visible sunset. The cold， white sky did not even blush. Instead， the light thickened and clotted as darkness began to form， seeping out from between stands of pines. It puffed from the shadows of my footsteps on the track and welled up from the deep ruts made by 4 × 4s.
I’m not sure why I kept walking that night. Partly it was just the rhythm： the metronome swing of the legs， the freedom of having nowhere to be and no place to go. But also， I’d been rallied by my 10-year-old son who， in his campaign for an ever-later bedtime， argued that an average human spends 26 years of their time on Earth asleep. His words had wormed their way into my brain. When was the last time I had been out at night？ Not camping or running or toddling home from the pub， but really out into the dark. Was my life being only half-lived？
And so I went into the wood. Night had always seemed a dark and gloomy place， a solid， black bookend to day. But there among the trees， as the retinal cones clicked off and the rods kicked in1， I could see that night was not just one long stretch of unforgiving darkness， any more than daytime is a constant bright blue sky. No， night is full of its own subtle shades of light， capable of illuminating the landscape and inspiring in us a sense of connection and wonder.
For the next year， I walked and walked at night. Over a number of months that spanned the seasons， I travelled across Britain in an attempt to explore the shades， subtleties and lights of the nocturnal hours. I paced the full-moon-lit coasts of Suffolk and swam in its light. I strolled through London as it tossed and turned to sleep， and I patrolled empty， suburban streets in Bury St Edmunds—even sharing a memorable cup of tea with an owl on a town centre roundabout. I went north to Scotland， a country where， in lowland woodlands， mountainous regions， cruelly cleared Highlands and on wild coasts， the dark lives.
Galloway Forest is one of the UK’s handful of International Dark Sky Parks， a place where the stars still gather in large numbers and the night sky is protected for its scientific， natural， educational and cultural value. Here I learned to unpick the dot-to-dot riddle of constellations. And here I looked through a telescope into another galaxy—Andromeda—and was left reeling by both its fuzzy， spider’s egg beauty and the idea that the light I was seeing had travelled for millions of years to reach me： light much older than the first tool-wielding humans. Since Covid-19 became an unwelcome satellite to our lives， I’ve been thinking about these journeys a great deal. Part of it is， of course， simply an itch to travel again. I want to return to these landscapes. After weeks of shut-in， I yearn to be on the Isle of Coll （which is free of streetlights） to see the Milky Way cracking across a star-filled sky that stretches from horizon to horizon. I want to be back on the west coast of Scotland， watching meteors over Ailsa Craig， the stars dropping like gannets; or to fall asleep in the haunting shadow of Wistman’s Wood， waking to find Dartmoor transformed—the definition of day gone and a detailed landscape rewound to a simple but exquisite pencil sketch.
But there is something else. I found that at night the world both shrinks and expands. Even after the eyes have adjusted， big landscapes—the miles of moor， tor and bog—are reduced to contrasts， to smells or the occasional heart-quickening fidget in the undergrowth. Yet look up and the bubble pops. The stars rush in， bringing with them a connection to the seasons， but also an almost impossible， self-shrinking sense of the universe’s scale. A dizzying “You are here”， an affirmation of being alive. Perhaps that is why the night skies have been so important during the lockdown： they help the largeness， the weirdness of that giant word “pandemic” become so much smaller.
As soon as it is safe and responsible to do so， I will start exploring the night again， seeking out the magic of darkness and experiencing the quiet joy of the land transforming into a place of subtlety and shades. But for now， I still take comfort in the night. I know when I look up and see the stars， the moon or the bright glare of Venus， I am seeing a light in the dark that connects us to all living things and all ages. No matter where we are， how isolated we may feel， we all see the same stars.
我仍然記得第一次夜行，那是两年前，在萨福克我家附近的国王森林。云层像吸烟室里的烟雾一样浓密，因而看不见日落。冰冷、苍白的天空甚至都没有一丝红晕。到了夜幕降临时，光线反而堆积、凝结，从片片松林间透出，从我行走在小路上的脚步的阴影中冒出，从四驱车留下的深深车辙中涌出。
我不知道自己那晚为何一直走。一定程度上仅仅是因为节奏：双腿摆动的节拍，所到不定、所往不知的自由。但也由于我被10岁儿子说动了，他向我争取越来越晚的就寢时间，辩称每个人在世上平均有26年的时间花在睡觉上。他的话慢慢潜入我的思想。我上一次在夜里出行是什么时候？露营、跑步或者从酒馆踉跄回家都不算，而是真正地走入黑暗之中。难道我只在享受一半的生命吗？
于是我走进了树林。夜晚似乎总是一个黑暗、阴郁的地方，一块阻隔白昼的漆黑硬书挡。但是在那里，置身树木间，随着视锥细胞关闭，视杆细胞开始发挥作用，我发现夜晚不只是无情黑暗的漫长延伸，正如白昼不总是明亮的蓝天。不，夜晚充满了自己微妙的光影色调，能够照亮自然景致，在我们心中激起一种联结感和奇妙感。
接下来的一年，我一次又一次地夜行。在跨越季节的数月时间里，我走遍整个不列颠，以探索夜间时分的色调、微妙变化和光影。我踱步于洒满月光的萨福克海岸，徜徉于灯影之中。我漫步穿过伦敦，看它辗转反侧渐至入眠。我在贝里圣埃德蒙兹空荡的郊区街道上闲逛——甚至在城中心的环岛路上与猫头鹰共饮一杯隽永的茶。我向北走到苏格兰，在这片土地上，黑暗寄居于低地林地、山区、光秃的高地和荒凉的海岸上。
加洛韦森林公园是英国为数不多的“国际暗空公园”之一，一个依旧繁星聚集的地方，其夜空因科学、自然、教育和文化价值而受到保护。在这里，我学着拆解点点相连的星座之谜。在这里，我通过望远镜望向另一个星系——仙女座——看到它毛茸茸、蜘蛛卵形状的美貌，想到我目之所见的光旅行了数百万年才来到我的眼前，光比最早使用工具的人类还要古老得多，我感到一阵目眩神迷。
自从令人反感的2019冠状病毒病绕着我们生活转以来，我一直在思考这些旅程。当然，部分原因仅仅是出于对再次步行的渴望。我想返归那些景观中去。在几周的足不出户之后，我渴望到科尔岛上去（那里没有路灯），看银河划破布满星星的天空，看天空从一头的地平线延展到另一头。我想回到苏格兰的西海岸，看艾尔萨岩上空的流星，看流星像鲣鸟一般冲下;或是在威斯特曼深林萦绕不去的阴影下入睡，醒来发现达特穆尔国家公园摇身一变——白天的清晰消失不见，繁复的景观倒回成一幅简约却精致的铅笔素描。
但是不仅如此。我发现在夜里，世界既缩小又扩大。即使在眼睛已经适应夜色后，广阔的景观——绵延数英里的荒野、石山和沼泽——也简化成明暗对比，只留下各种气味或灌木丛中偶尔让人心跳加速的那种动静。然而抬起头，穹苍冒出，星星冲进来，展现其与四时的联系，同时又使人感到宇宙令人不可置信的无穷以及自己的渺小。一声惊讶的“你在这儿啊”就是对活着的确认。或许这就是防疫禁闭期间夜空如此重要的原因：它们有助于将“疫情大流行”这个大词所包含的巨大感、诡异感变得渺小许多。
待到夜行变得安全可靠的时候，我会第一时间再次开始探索夜晚，追寻黑暗的魔法，感受大地幻化为一个微妙之处、色调深浅有别之地的寂静欢喜。但是此时，我仍然在夜晚中得到慰藉。我知道，当我抬头看星星、月亮或是金星明亮炫目的光芒时，我是在黑暗中看到一束光，将我们和所有的生物、所有的时代联结在一起。无论我们在哪里，无论我们感到多么孤独，我们看到的是同一片星空。
（译者为“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛获奖者）
I still remember that first night walk in King’s Forest near my Suffolk home， two years ago. The clouds were smoking-room-thick， so there had been no visible sunset. The cold， white sky did not even blush. Instead， the light thickened and clotted as darkness began to form， seeping out from between stands of pines. It puffed from the shadows of my footsteps on the track and welled up from the deep ruts made by 4 × 4s.
I’m not sure why I kept walking that night. Partly it was just the rhythm： the metronome swing of the legs， the freedom of having nowhere to be and no place to go. But also， I’d been rallied by my 10-year-old son who， in his campaign for an ever-later bedtime， argued that an average human spends 26 years of their time on Earth asleep. His words had wormed their way into my brain. When was the last time I had been out at night？ Not camping or running or toddling home from the pub， but really out into the dark. Was my life being only half-lived？
And so I went into the wood. Night had always seemed a dark and gloomy place， a solid， black bookend to day. But there among the trees， as the retinal cones clicked off and the rods kicked in1， I could see that night was not just one long stretch of unforgiving darkness， any more than daytime is a constant bright blue sky. No， night is full of its own subtle shades of light， capable of illuminating the landscape and inspiring in us a sense of connection and wonder.
For the next year， I walked and walked at night. Over a number of months that spanned the seasons， I travelled across Britain in an attempt to explore the shades， subtleties and lights of the nocturnal hours. I paced the full-moon-lit coasts of Suffolk and swam in its light. I strolled through London as it tossed and turned to sleep， and I patrolled empty， suburban streets in Bury St Edmunds—even sharing a memorable cup of tea with an owl on a town centre roundabout. I went north to Scotland， a country where， in lowland woodlands， mountainous regions， cruelly cleared Highlands and on wild coasts， the dark lives.
Galloway Forest is one of the UK’s handful of International Dark Sky Parks， a place where the stars still gather in large numbers and the night sky is protected for its scientific， natural， educational and cultural value. Here I learned to unpick the dot-to-dot riddle of constellations. And here I looked through a telescope into another galaxy—Andromeda—and was left reeling by both its fuzzy， spider’s egg beauty and the idea that the light I was seeing had travelled for millions of years to reach me： light much older than the first tool-wielding humans. Since Covid-19 became an unwelcome satellite to our lives， I’ve been thinking about these journeys a great deal. Part of it is， of course， simply an itch to travel again. I want to return to these landscapes. After weeks of shut-in， I yearn to be on the Isle of Coll （which is free of streetlights） to see the Milky Way cracking across a star-filled sky that stretches from horizon to horizon. I want to be back on the west coast of Scotland， watching meteors over Ailsa Craig， the stars dropping like gannets; or to fall asleep in the haunting shadow of Wistman’s Wood， waking to find Dartmoor transformed—the definition of day gone and a detailed landscape rewound to a simple but exquisite pencil sketch.
But there is something else. I found that at night the world both shrinks and expands. Even after the eyes have adjusted， big landscapes—the miles of moor， tor and bog—are reduced to contrasts， to smells or the occasional heart-quickening fidget in the undergrowth. Yet look up and the bubble pops. The stars rush in， bringing with them a connection to the seasons， but also an almost impossible， self-shrinking sense of the universe’s scale. A dizzying “You are here”， an affirmation of being alive. Perhaps that is why the night skies have been so important during the lockdown： they help the largeness， the weirdness of that giant word “pandemic” become so much smaller.
As soon as it is safe and responsible to do so， I will start exploring the night again， seeking out the magic of darkness and experiencing the quiet joy of the land transforming into a place of subtlety and shades. But for now， I still take comfort in the night. I know when I look up and see the stars， the moon or the bright glare of Venus， I am seeing a light in the dark that connects us to all living things and all ages. No matter where we are， how isolated we may feel， we all see the same stars.
我仍然記得第一次夜行，那是两年前，在萨福克我家附近的国王森林。云层像吸烟室里的烟雾一样浓密，因而看不见日落。冰冷、苍白的天空甚至都没有一丝红晕。到了夜幕降临时，光线反而堆积、凝结，从片片松林间透出，从我行走在小路上的脚步的阴影中冒出，从四驱车留下的深深车辙中涌出。
我不知道自己那晚为何一直走。一定程度上仅仅是因为节奏：双腿摆动的节拍，所到不定、所往不知的自由。但也由于我被10岁儿子说动了，他向我争取越来越晚的就寢时间，辩称每个人在世上平均有26年的时间花在睡觉上。他的话慢慢潜入我的思想。我上一次在夜里出行是什么时候？露营、跑步或者从酒馆踉跄回家都不算，而是真正地走入黑暗之中。难道我只在享受一半的生命吗？
于是我走进了树林。夜晚似乎总是一个黑暗、阴郁的地方，一块阻隔白昼的漆黑硬书挡。但是在那里，置身树木间，随着视锥细胞关闭，视杆细胞开始发挥作用，我发现夜晚不只是无情黑暗的漫长延伸，正如白昼不总是明亮的蓝天。不，夜晚充满了自己微妙的光影色调，能够照亮自然景致，在我们心中激起一种联结感和奇妙感。
接下来的一年，我一次又一次地夜行。在跨越季节的数月时间里，我走遍整个不列颠，以探索夜间时分的色调、微妙变化和光影。我踱步于洒满月光的萨福克海岸，徜徉于灯影之中。我漫步穿过伦敦，看它辗转反侧渐至入眠。我在贝里圣埃德蒙兹空荡的郊区街道上闲逛——甚至在城中心的环岛路上与猫头鹰共饮一杯隽永的茶。我向北走到苏格兰，在这片土地上，黑暗寄居于低地林地、山区、光秃的高地和荒凉的海岸上。
加洛韦森林公园是英国为数不多的“国际暗空公园”之一，一个依旧繁星聚集的地方，其夜空因科学、自然、教育和文化价值而受到保护。在这里，我学着拆解点点相连的星座之谜。在这里，我通过望远镜望向另一个星系——仙女座——看到它毛茸茸、蜘蛛卵形状的美貌，想到我目之所见的光旅行了数百万年才来到我的眼前，光比最早使用工具的人类还要古老得多，我感到一阵目眩神迷。
自从令人反感的2019冠状病毒病绕着我们生活转以来，我一直在思考这些旅程。当然，部分原因仅仅是出于对再次步行的渴望。我想返归那些景观中去。在几周的足不出户之后，我渴望到科尔岛上去（那里没有路灯），看银河划破布满星星的天空，看天空从一头的地平线延展到另一头。我想回到苏格兰的西海岸，看艾尔萨岩上空的流星，看流星像鲣鸟一般冲下;或是在威斯特曼深林萦绕不去的阴影下入睡，醒来发现达特穆尔国家公园摇身一变——白天的清晰消失不见，繁复的景观倒回成一幅简约却精致的铅笔素描。
但是不仅如此。我发现在夜里，世界既缩小又扩大。即使在眼睛已经适应夜色后，广阔的景观——绵延数英里的荒野、石山和沼泽——也简化成明暗对比，只留下各种气味或灌木丛中偶尔让人心跳加速的那种动静。然而抬起头，穹苍冒出，星星冲进来，展现其与四时的联系，同时又使人感到宇宙令人不可置信的无穷以及自己的渺小。一声惊讶的“你在这儿啊”就是对活着的确认。或许这就是防疫禁闭期间夜空如此重要的原因：它们有助于将“疫情大流行”这个大词所包含的巨大感、诡异感变得渺小许多。
待到夜行变得安全可靠的时候，我会第一时间再次开始探索夜晚，追寻黑暗的魔法，感受大地幻化为一个微妙之处、色调深浅有别之地的寂静欢喜。但是此时，我仍然在夜晚中得到慰藉。我知道，当我抬头看星星、月亮或是金星明亮炫目的光芒时，我是在黑暗中看到一束光，将我们和所有的生物、所有的时代联结在一起。无论我们在哪里，无论我们感到多么孤独，我们看到的是同一片星空。
（译者为“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛获奖者）