Imagine you’re starting a new chapter of your life by buying a brand new home. It’s a universally coveted, usually life-changing purchase that brings a world of excitement and opportunity. Who doesn’t want a place to call their own? But then suppose that you meet the seller to collect the keys to the property, only to be given a paper certificate showing its location on a map instead. It has your name on it, but there are no keys and when you visit the address, you discover it’s actually a public library. According to the seller—a third-party company—the library is yours. At least, that’s what it says in their company database. But the librarians don’t believe you, and nor do any of the patrons. You might feel as if you’ve been had.

This is what happens when you buy yourself or someone else a star. You pay a private company, with no legitimate claim to the nomenclature of celestial objects, and they print you a worthless certificate. Your chosen name is entered into the company’s database, and as they alone see it, the star you were assigned now has a name.

You might take your certificate to a local observatory or planetarium and ask the resident astronomers to point out your star for you, but don’t be surprised if they decline the request. They will be rolling their eyes and sighing at the thought of yet another person being ripped off.

There’s a chance that the star on your certificate isn’t readily visible in the hemisphere you live in. It may be far too faint to be visible to the eye, and in some cases too faint to be visible even with a decent amateur telescope. In any case, the astronomers probably won’t want to give up their time to help you see it in the sky.

Most likely, they will feel sorry for you, because the naming rights for stars are simply not for sale, and never will be. Stars are allegedly sold by companies whose business model relies upon misleading naive members of the public. The International Astronomical Union (IAU), which among many other functions arbitrates the names of astronomical objects and features, maintains a concise but comprehensive page of questions and answers related to the naming of stars. Regarding the sale of naming rights, it states:

Star names are seldom granted, and only when there is agreement within the IAU’s relevant committees. New names must adhere to a set of rules that are in keeping with the long-held traditions of cataloguing the sky. At no point can any name be sponsored by any individual or organisation. The IAU concludes:

The same thing is true of ‘land’ on other worlds, such as the Moon and Mars. There are many companies purporting to have a legal basis for selling extraterrestrial plots, but these too are illegitimate and their products amount to nothing more than a printout and private database entry. The United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs (UNOOSA) proposed the Outer Space Treaty in 1966, and it was ratified in the following year. Signed by all major space-faring nations and 118 states in total (as of 2026) it is foundational to space law, and establishes the principles by which nations (and their citizens) must share the ownership of space. Article 2 of the treaty states:

So it is that the Moon and stars cannot be claimed, owned, bought or sold. They can only be found, freely, by anyone willing to go looking. No one can sell you what is already yours.

It’s slightly ironic that the idea of naming a star, well-marketed as a romantic gift, resonates so strongly with so many, because stars are hardly rare. Our own galaxy contains more stars than the sum total of all humans that have ever lived; across the Universe, stars outnumber the sand grains on all Earth’s deserts and beaches. You could plant a tree in someone’s name, and from a cosmic perspective it would be considerably less common and thus more special than a star.

But if your heart was originally set on buying someone a star, why not buy them the gift of stargazing instead? It’s a wonderful hobby that will provide a lifetime of fascination and discovery. You could purchase a telescope or a book to help them explore their interest in the sky. If you want to do something astronomical in memory of a loved one, consider a donation to a non-profit such as Astronomers Without Borders, to help more people access and enjoy the splendour of the stars worldwide. There are so many meaningful gifts we can give and other things we can do to celebrate each other, and there is simply no need to feed these spurious companies selling tacky certificates. If you know someone who is likely to fall victim to such deceit, give them a friendly warning not to waste their money, and steer them instead towards the real and completely free beauty of the stars.

Among the many strange and wonderful novels I enjoyed as a child, one stands high among the rest. Jules Verne’s Voyage au centre de la Terre, first published in 1864, sees the young and cautious Axel dragged into the depths of the Earth by his eccentric uncle Professor Otto Lidenbrock. The two are accompanied by their stoic local guide Hans, and together embark on an adventure so grand, I was since surprised to realise that it runs fewer than 300 pages. The story is compelling, deeply rooted in the open scientific questions of its time, and delivers an emotional rollercoaster spanning awe, excitement and the terror of isolation.

Although Axel is our narrator, I contend that neither he or his companions are the real stars of Journey to the Centre of the Earth. Nor the plesiosaurus, ichthyosaurus or mastodons they encounter. It is the setting that steals the show—the barren, brittle wilderness of Iceland and the Snæfellsnes Peninsula, where the team begin their sojourn into the Earth’s interior. From chapter seven:

A deft wordsmith in his native French, Verne made Iceland’s landscape vivid in my imagination, even through the inherently imperfect lens of translation (credit must be given to Robert Baldick). The book rendered a faraway place, utterly unlike the familiar climes of England and Scotland where I spent most of my childhood, viscerally real—I could almost smell its scorched surface.

So fascinating was this place to my young mind, that it set in motion a kind of long-distance love affair. This would ultimately blossom into a personal odyssey when a new opportunity landed in my lap—the chance to travel to and work in Iceland. Not to follow Axel’s journey into the mouth of Snæfellsjökull (although the thought did frequently cross my mind) but to pursue a phenomenon almost as compelling as a lost subterranean world—the Northern Lights. For a life-long skywatcher, who grew up in Scotland within sight of the ‘mirrie dancers’, it felt like winning the lottery.

For years I took family groups and photographers to witness nature’s greatest light show, and effectively entered what would eventually become known as astrotourism. I’ve always revelled in that unique invitation the sky extends, beckoning us to visit remote and wonderful places to see auroras, eclipses and the rich wonders of the Milky Way. This has become a major part of my career, which I continued to pursue even whislt holding a full-time post at the Royal Observatory in London.

After I left the Observatory to become a freelancer in 2019, my decade of experience as a seasoned aurora-chaser set a new direction for my writing career when, having already delivered a few books for Collins (HarperCollins), I pitched a Northern Lights guide for the Publisher’s astronomy list. The submission met significant interest, and a little over one year later, the first edition of Northern Lights: The Definitive Guide to Auroras landed on bookshelves in September 2021. Curiously, I found myself thinking of Otto and his far-fetched theories of our planet’s interior. The famed real-world scientist Edmund Halley, himself a subscriber to Lidenbrock-style ideas, posited in 1716 that ‘magnetic effluvia’ escapes the subterranean realm near the Earth’s poles to give rise to the auroras—one of many stories presented in my book.

I had leapt from book to land to book; from reading about Iceland to experiencing Iceland, and then to writing from that very experience. More than 130 years after Journey’s original release, Verne’s ghost had extended a hand to steer my young self on an unforgettable path, and I would end up an Arctic addict, searching far and wide for the best nights under the auroral oval. However, I couldn’t have predicted what would come next.

Northern Lights proved to be a valuable title, rising to become a bestseller in its niche. It caught the attention of aurora experts and travel providers world wide, and ultimately led me to the Norwegian firm Hurtigruten. Sailing a fleet of ships into Arctic Norway, Hurtigruten has long set a gold standard for aurora experiences, and thanks to Northern Lights I was invited to contribute. In 2024, I was appointed the company’s Chief Aurora Chaser, and since then I’ve been developing cutting-edge forecasting tools, engaging the world’s media and delivering world-class aurora-chasing voyages.

Journey brought me Iceland and Northern Lights brought me to Norway. Once again, I turned to writing. After five years, the first edition of my book—a brutally economical fit in 112 pages—needed an update to remain definitive. After thousands of aurora sightings across hundreds of nights, and with new advances in the field of space weather forecasting, there is much more to say. Collins agreed, offering a generous 160-page budget for the second edition, which releases in 2026. I wonder where I’ll go from there.

Never doubt that books have the power to literally take you to unexpected places, regardless whether you’re a reader or writer. In absorbing the sights, sounds and textures of Iceland through Verne’s sumptuous writing, I started on an inevitable course to the island. In absorbing the real magic of the Arctic sky, I developed the foremost book on my favourite subject and built a career that brings me back every year.

Why is it that, in the age of the James Webb Space Telescope and other observatories on the bleeding edge of astrophysics, we still find ourselves unable to let go of the constellations? For a century they’ve been formalised by astronomers to rigorously compartmentalise the sky with international agreement. Yet their varying sizes and boundaries are merely arbitrary, and with our precise celestial coordinate system, we could simply discard them. We could, If we wanted to. Instead, we hold onto them, not out of an academic need but rather a sentimental one. They are a part of who we are.

Across the ages, the night sky has engendered inspiration. Our ancestors filled it with stories, and translated its incorporeal quality through millennia of poetry, visual arts and music. Debussy made moonlight sing, Van Gogh made starlight dance, and on countless unrecorded occasions, lonely pilgrims and seafarers conversed with the tapestry of heroes and creatures gazing back down at them – old and familiar friends, introduced to them by their elders. Once drenched in mythology, now scrutinised with technology, the night sky has lost some of its mystery but none of its magic, as storytelling remains deeply embedded at the heart of astronomy. Today we tell scientific stories about the earliest moments of cosmic history, of black holes and alien worlds. Our new stories are grand and yet also intimate, connecting our lives directly to the extraordinary lives of stars through the very atoms we are made of. Still, the constellations continue to enchant novice stargazers and make the night sky effortlessly memorable. Their mythological tales employ themes and humour that are less relevant to us today, but the characters are no less fascinating.

Like so many astronomers who grew up during the age of physical books, I have my own childhood copy of H. A. Rey’s beautiful title The Stars: A New Way to See Them. First published all the way back in 1952, it is as far as I know the only book in print to boast a cover endorsement by Albert Einstein. The collision of Rey’s love for stargazing and his inimitable talent for creative illustration (most widely seen in the Curious George series) resulted in something truly special—a timeless classic at once both charmingly traditional and subtly progressive.

“Many thanks for your lucid and stimulating book. I hope it will find the interest it deserves.”

— Albert Einstein, letter to H. A. Rey, 30 September 1953

The Stars is beloved among stargazers around the world for popularising then new and still more accessible interpretations of the ancient patterns that adorn the sky. Rey took it upon himself to redraw the well-established imaginary lines that join the dots, creating new pictures of the same heroes, animals and objects. In some cases, he re-posed them, assigning different stars to their heads or limbs, but he was careful to avoid altering their sizes or degree of overlap. He respected the agreed parameters of the eighty-eight constellations (selected from a collection catasterised over millennia) by the International Astronomical Union in 1928.

Until that year, a surprisingly large list of changes were proposed by various astronomers hoping to make their mark on western star lore. Famously, Edmund Halley (who worked at the Royal Observatory nearly three centuries before I did) once introduced a pattern to commemorate the restoration of the English monarchy by Charles II. Taking the form of an oak tree (the ‘Royal Oak’ Charles supposedly used as a hiding place to escape capture, and after which so many pubs take their name) the now obsolete Robur Carolinum was subsumed into the large collection of stars assigned to Jason’s ship, Argo.

Most such attempts to squeeze new characters into a crowded sky have perhaps proved too substantial to be palatable, and it would be hard to improve on Rey’s effort to refine the way we see them geometrically, but I believe there is room to expand on what they can tell us. Those distant ancestors who breathed life into the stars weren’t entirely different from us, but they did inhabit and world with different values, and their star stories occasionally remind us of this. Take Cygnus the Swan, for example, who the Greeks most commonly associated with Zeus. In one legend, he adopts the form of an elegant bird to engage the princess Leda in an extramarital affair. Granted, in another less salacious tale, the swan represents Orpheus, slain at the hands of violent zealots and immortalised next to his harp (Lyra.) But like so many stories from the era, it too fails to resonate with today’s newcomers. Perhaps that is why Rey sought to pass over it, preserving his word count for more apposite myths.

Throughout my career, I’ve had the pleasure of introducing the constellations to curious youngsters, whose imaginations are well prepared to bring them to life. I’ve also imagined and even dreamed about ways to modernise them, to reflect the ongoing stories we tell about the Universe—both scientific and personal. With this goal in mind, I’ve been quietly publishing my own star lore in a series of rhyming picture books for young children. The short stories, beautifully illustrated by Anni Betts, introduce various creatures among the constellations who take on new roles as educators.

In book one, Cygnus the Swan is no longer a nonsensical disguise for the concupiscent Zeus, but rather a brilliant astrophysicist. She delights in answering the questions of an inquisitive Greenwich Park squirrel who longs to understand the stars. Book two introduces Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, renamed Carl and Ursula (can you decipher these names?) and our squirrel discovers the underrated magic of navigating with the night sky.

Animals are inherently compelling. Indeed, our distant ancestors felt the urge to immortalise them on the celestial canvas (not forgetting Lalande’s commendable effort to add his cat.) This is arguably truest for children, so I believe that a vibrant array of familiar and strange creatures provides a perfect entry point for budding astronomers.

Ultimately, these stories are about the importance of curiosity, patient teachers, and contemplation of the natural world. One can develop a lifelong passion for astronomy without necessarily pursuing it academically—I would argue that everyone should, regardless their occupation. The sky’s canon need not be overwritten; there is room enough for small, alternative editions that celebrate nature itself, and the animals that have held such long appeal are already there in number and diversity. Thus, in the spirit of H. A. Rey, my re-invention invites accessibility but I keep the images intact. After all, we inherited them from the stargazers of the past and it is only fitting that we leave them for the stargazers of the future.

The December 2025 issue of the UK-focused Astronomy Now magazine spotlighted seasonal stars and festive gifts for the winter. I was fortunate enough to be invited by the magazine’s then incoming Editor, Stuart Clark, to discuss my popular title, Unknown Universe, which profiles the first years of the James Webb Space Telescope through more than 120 of its astonishing images. Space (by which I mean page space) is always in short supply, and I’m hardly known for my brevity, so the printed item had to be downsized. As such, for completeness, you can find the unabridged interview below.

How did the idea for the book come about?

When Webb’s first public images were released in July 2022, I could tell that astronomy books would never be the same again. As the first two launch anniversaries passed, the library grew and I occasionally considered when it would be appropriate to celebrate the mission with a dedicated title. In the autumn of 2023, my book Diamonds Everywhere was released. It’s a project I’m very proud of, but it was a huge undertaking and after its release, I intended to take a break from writing. However, my incessant habit for sharing and deciphering every new JWST image to friends and family ultimately led to several people suggesting I pitch a new title. Collins (HarperCollins) was very enthusiastic, accepting the pitch in early 2024. The book was published in October that same year and, after a great reception, a paperback arrived this summer.

Who is your book aimed at?

Anyone who is captivated by the bewildering beauty of the images made possible by the observatory. They look gorgeous in print, and invite admiration regardless whether you understand the details, but you can also read my insights to discover their scientific secrets if you’d like to know more.

How did you go about making a book on JWST stand out from the crowd?

Multiple authors actually began to tackle this subject around the same time, and it seems we all took different approaches. For myself, I wanted the images to reach from edge to edge across each spread, and have the text be more supplementary than the other way around. I included a comprehensive but accessible technical introduction to the telescope and its history, with original 3D renders and diagrams, and also processed images myself to furnish the pages with objects not widely seen before. I had the great privilege of including a foreword by my former professor, Mark McCaughrean. who was a senior advisor for Science and Exploration at ESA, and is on the JWST Science Working Group. Mark kindly gave me permission to include some of his own magnificent images.

Now that we’re four years into the JWST’s mission, which of its discoveries do you think has had the most scientific impact?

No doubt this will change in the long mission years ahead of us, but to date I think JWST has been the most disruptive in the area of galaxy evolution. The JADES survey reveals extremely distant galaxies, presumed to be very young as they appear to us now (just a few hundred million years old.) Yet some of these supposed infant galaxies are chemically or structurally mature, harbour black holes more massive than we would expect, or are simply brighter than models predict. Did the first galaxies just develop quickly or is there a flaw with the established theory? The latter is an exciting prospect.

What is your desert-island astronomy book (the one book you can’t imagine never being able to read again)?

I wouldn’t last long without my copy of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos. It’s a masterpiece that elegantly interweaves science communication and pure imagination.

What’s next for you?

I have three titles on the slate for 2026, two co-authored with my good friend Dr. Ryan French. The Little Book of Eclipses (June) will serve to inspire budding eclipses-chasers of both lunar and solar events. Cosmic Light (September) takes the concept of Unknown Universe to the vibrant world of multi-wavelength astronomy. Northern Lights: The Definitive Guide to Auroras (August, 1st ed 2021) is receiving a greatly expanded and updated second edition. Amongst all that, I’m close to finishing my first sci-fi novel, aimed at teens (and adults who are young at heart!)

Unknown Universe was first published by Collins (HarperCollins UK) in October 2024. Due to popular appeal, it recieved a paperback edition in August 2025.

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