As any star knows, timing is everything. The Zambezi Valley’s cloudless winter nights gel almost perfectly with the river’s peak flow, when 145 million gallons of water plunge 354ft into the ravine each minute. Cue the delicate tango of heavenly light and moisture-laden air.

Both Zimbabwe and Zambia open their Falls National Parks on three nights each month – before, after and on the full moon – and I arrive as 1,300ft-high plumes of spray, visible 31 miles away, are silhouetted against a sunset of molten honey. Tropical night descends at speed, smothering the surrounding rainforest: slit-faced bats flit around my head and the vast cascade roars menacingly behind a dense tangle of milkwood trees and Zambezi tail flower.

Fifteen minutes after I reach Zambia’s Eastern Cataract viewpoint, a supersized moon levitates above the bush. Enter the moonbow. Its first smoky lines rise vertically from the boiling water beneath the falls, chase the cliff up to the famous rail bridge, shimmering intermittently as bursts of spray ride the breeze. Over the next half hour it strengthens, reaching towards the gods until it forms an elegant arch above the gorge.

It has an eerie, otherworldly beauty, but lacks a rainbow’s intense palette. The moon reflects just three to 12 per cent of the sun’s light, not enough to stimulate the eye cones that distinguish different colours. I detect hints of purple and green. But the moonbow’s glory is short-lived. After climaxing around 8pm, its midsection wilts and it becomes two disconnected pulses of fading light. An hour later, as the moon rises above 45˚– too high to generate the bow at ground level – the curtain comes down. Show over.

A baobab tree silhouetted against Botswana’s star-drenched skies

Six thousand miles north, visitors are drawn to Arctic Sweden’s relentless midnight sun, visible 24 hours a day for three weeks either side of the summer solstice. I hike the top 65-mile slice of the Kungsleden Trail in late June, sometimes taking an early evening kip behind the lodge’s blackout blinds before rising at 2am to tramp in hazy light through barrel-like glacial valleys beneath snow-draped peaks. Unsurprisingly, crowds are not a problem.

Six months later, Abisko, Kungsleden’s northern trailhead, endures months of midwinter darkness. Sitting around 150 miles north of the Arctic Circle in the leeward shadow of high mountains, its “Blue Hole” in the disintegrating clouds offers regular clear nights for aurora viewing. The town’s victory in a live northern lights playoff on Japanese TV, watched by 17 million viewers, perhaps accounts for the near-hysteria when I join a visiting tour party.

As the aurora emerges, the Japanese stumble outside, necks craned, fingers pointing at the luridly bright apparition. They cheer, scream and bump into each other, knocking over camera tripods. One man slips on the ice and lays on his back, mouth open, gesturing towards the sky like a stranded fish. It’s joyful carnage, but having travelled for 36 hours across eight time zones, they’ve good reason to be excited.

At the opposite end of the Earth, you’ll find another astounding astral spectacle. Antarctic cruise veterans laud the peninsula’s penguins and whales, praise the pristine landscape, and spin yarns about intriguing stops, from Port Lockroy, the UK’s most southerly post office, to Ukraine’s Vernadsky Research Base. But I’ve never heard a single person mention the White Continent’s summer sunsets. They really should.

In crystal-clear, -30˚C air, I witness a sinking sun paint the sky blood-red above the serrated outline of volcanic peaks as our small ship slides past icebergs with toothpaste-blue caves on a slate-grey ocean. A whale graces the scene, but it’s as supporting actor not A-list star.

The northern lights above Abisko in Sweden

Expect more vast white expanses 6,000 miles away in Botswana. It’s salt, not snow, but the Makgadikgadi Pan, covering an area the size of Switzerland, offer similarly theatrical southern hemisphere skies. At dusk the first stars and planets appear, divine flakes that rapidly develop into an astral blizzard. That burning grey smudge above the horizon? It’s sunlight reflecting off cometary dust billions of years old. For added drama, sleep alfresco on the salt flats beneath nature’s planetarium, tucked up in silence so deep it’s said that you can hear the blood pulsing through your veins.

You don’t have to travel long-haul, of course. Head west for a guided full-moon hike above Carmarthenshire’s bucolic Towy Valley, climbing up to Garn Goch’s ruined Iron Age fort. Even in truculent weather, its backlit clouds, hooting owls and mounds of ancient rocks provide an evocative setting for a heinous B-movie murder.

So, wherever you are, no matter how photogenic the landscape or prolific the wildlife, remember to look up. It may just provide the most awe-inspiring, memorable, strangely spiritual experience of your travelling life.