This is one of those questions that sounds incredibly easy.

Until you actually try to answer it.

If I could go back and witness any moment in history, what would I choose?

There are, obviously, quite a few possibilities.

I could go back to the time of the dinosaurs.

Although, having thought about this for approximately three seconds, I suspect I’d spend most of my time hiding behind a tree while something enormous wandered past.

Not exactly the historical experience I had in mind.

I could witness the signing of some great historical document.

I could stand on the sidelines of a famous battle.

I could meet one of the great writers, scientists, artists or thinkers who changed the world.

Or I could go and see something completely ordinary that, at the time, nobody realised would become history.

But there’s one moment I keep coming back to.

Apollo 11.

20th July 1969.

The day human beings first stepped onto another world.

I’ve always had a bit of a thing about space.

Give me an old science-fiction programme, a ridiculously complicated spaceship and the vague possibility that one day humanity might wander around the universe and I’m interested.

I blame Red Dwarf.

Or Star Trek.

Possibly both.

But Apollo 11 feels different.

Because it actually happened.

On 16th July 1969, Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins climbed aboard a Saturn V and left Earth.

Four days later, Armstrong and Aldrin landed on the Moon while Collins remained in orbit above them.

And then came that moment.

The ladder.

The lunar surface.

The first human footprint in the dust.

I’d want to be there.

Not watching the footage on an old television.

Not seeing it years later in a documentary.

Actually standing there.

Which does raise one or two minor logistical problems.

For starters, I’d need a time machine.

Then I’d have to explain to NASA why a bloke from the future had suddenly appeared at the launch site.

And I imagine that conversation would probably end with somebody asking me where I got the time machine.

At which point I’d have to admit that I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.

Assuming I got past that part, I’d probably be told not to touch anything.

Which is probably sensible.

Because if you’ve spent years and an enormous amount of money building a machine capable of taking three people to the Moon, the last thing you need is some bloke from 2026 wandering around saying:

“What’s this button do?”

But imagine being there for the launch.

Standing somewhere nearby as that enormous Saturn V came to life.

The noise.

The vibration.

The sheer scale of it.

We sometimes forget just how ridiculous the whole thing was.

Human beings looked up at the Moon and decided they were going to go there.

So they built a machine.

A very, very big machine.

And somehow, it worked.

That alone would be worth seeing.

But I don’t think the bit that would affect me most would necessarily be Armstrong stepping onto the surface.

I think it might be looking back at Earth.

That tiny blue planet sitting in the blackness.

Because Apollo 11 wasn’t just about getting to the Moon.

It changed the way we could see ourselves.

From up there, the borders disappear.

You can’t see countries.

You can’t see political arguments.

You can’t see someone’s bank balance.

You can’t see the things we spend so much of our time arguing about.

You just see Earth.

One small blue world.

And on another world, three human beings.

That thought gets me every time.

And perhaps that’s why I’d choose Apollo 11.

It’s not really because I’m fascinated by rockets.

Although I am.

It’s not because I’d want to meet Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins.

Although, obviously, that would be rather brilliant.

And it’s not even because I’d want to take photographs.

Although knowing me, I’d probably spend half the event worrying about whether I’d brought enough film.

I’d want to be there because it was one of those incredibly rare moments when human beings did something that seemed almost impossible.

Simply because someone decided it was worth trying.

And I think that’s the part I like most.

History tends to remember the names at the front.

Armstrong.

Aldrin.

Collins.

And rightly so.

But Apollo 11 wasn’t built by three people.

It was built by thousands.

Engineers.

Scientists.

Technicians.

Mathematicians.

People checking calculations.

People testing equipment.

People finding problems.

People fixing those problems.

People staying late because something wasn’t quite right.

People doing jobs that, at the time, probably felt like ordinary work.

Until you put all those ordinary jobs together.

Then something extraordinary happens.

That’s probably one of the things I find most fascinating about history.

We like to turn it into stories about individuals.

One person had the idea.

One person made the decision.

One person took the risk.

One person changed the world.

But most of the time, that’s not really how it works.

History is usually thousands of people doing their little bit.

Most of them never becoming famous.

Most of their names never appearing in a school textbook.

But without them, the famous moment wouldn’t happen.

And I think there’s something rather lovely about that.

So yes.

If I could go back and witness any moment in history, I’d choose Apollo 11.

I’d find somewhere safe to stand.

I’d stay out of everyone’s way.

I’d probably take far too many photographs.

I’d try very hard not to touch anything.

And when Armstrong finally stepped down onto the Moon, I suspect I’d just stand there completely gobsmacked.

Because sometimes you don’t need to understand a moment.

You don’t need to be important.

You don’t need to be part of the story.

Sometimes it’s enough just to be there.

To watch something happen that nobody had ever done before.

And to realise, even for a few seconds, that you’re watching history being made.

That’s where I’d like to be.

Right there.

On the sidelines.

Probably with a camera.

And almost certainly wondering how the hell I’m going to get back home.

Stay safe,

Bc