India & Ireland

A couple of weeks ago it was, as every year, 15 August, Indian Independence Day. Which for reasons of callous Imperial convenience, was exactly 2 years after VJ Day 1945. For callous Imperial realpolitik short-termism, the Raj had been dismembered and "Pakistan" celebrated its independence the day before on 14 Aug 1947. Pakistan didn't last even 2 dozen years before it, in turn, had to hive off Bangladesh as an independent polity. Both these partitions resulted in uncountable ethnic cleansing deaths  There is, has to be, more to defining a nation than we're [almost] all Muslims or Protestants

Over the last ~6 years, I've acquired far too much information about, and a deal of affection for, a student from my days at The Institute. It started when I was assigned to mentor him during the writing of a thesis for his Masters in Pharmaceutical Regulatory Affairs. Correcting his English and polishing his crap-detector developed into buying him morale-boosting cake and listening to him [Bob the Scientist for The Win!] as he ran through career and domicile options. Around about this time of year, I will send him a how's she cuttin'? sort of e-mail because I know that, despite living in The Independent Republic of Cork Ireland he identifies as a) a citizen of Tamil Nadu b) Indian. I know this because of his description of reacting to the turkey-cock strutting at the Wagah Crossing, when he visited there.

I was hand-clapping delighted when this year's enquiry triggered an invite to his first-born son's 1st Birthday Party. The little chap is not entitled to Irish citizenship because of the Racist Referendum of 2004, but you can bet your sweet bippy that he will grow up speaking perfect idiomatic Corkese and play GAA with the best of them.

As I was in flag-wagging mode I checked out the difference between the green&white&orange tricolours of our two republics. Apart from horizontal vs vertical, the Indian flag sports a saffron stripe, not an orange one. And the Irish green #9A is greener than the Indian green #6A.

India  Green White Saffron  #046A38 #FFFFFF #FF671F
Irela  Green White Orange  #009A44 #FFFFFF #FF8200 

And talking of Wagah and face-off at the borrrder consider our own sublimated hostility to people on the other side of a political frontier in Ireland that is completely ignored by wren and badgers. By their hats shall ye know them?

Hilbert's hOYOtel

We were down in SW England last week distributing, on the turning tide, the final ashy remains of my departed mother. She died in Jan 2020 just before Coronarama shut everything down for a couple of years, so it was only now that her descendants could get closure in an off-shore breeze. Team Ireland [self, Dau.I and Dau.II] flew in Monday evening and out again Wednesday morning, leaving all Tuesday for the obsequial logistics. That required two nights in a hotel and there is a convenient OYO establishment just downhill from The Boy's gaff, so he booked us two rooms for two nights there.

OYO is [comparatively] cheap because they run a tight ship: turning over a lot of the work to software. Because an app, once written and debugged, doesn't require a salary, holiday or employer's PRSI. If they could use a Roomba to make the beds and something from Boston Dynamics to cook a full English [as L] then I guess they would. When we got there on the first night, there was no concierge, no night manager. But we had been e-mailed six digit pass-codes to the front door and rooms 21 and 26. All good: we said g'night and agreed to do breakfast at 08:15 the next day. 

When I left home, I'd packed all my kit in a  small satchel, and it was handier to bring the whole caboodle along with me rather than deciding what I would need [abacus? binoculars? camera? derringer? ear-buds? fork? glasses?] for Tuesday's shenanigans. It had been a long day when we returned to the OYO just before 10pm. Because I R old, Dau.I helpfully coded up my door and flung it open for me to enter my bedroom. We found it occupied by two disconcerted randommers and their luggage. At least they were clothed. We retreated downstairs and phoned the 'manager' (whom we'd met briefly at breakfast 14 hours earlier) to sort things out. He came over "I'll be there in 7 minutes".

He started out with a <<TMI!>> explanation about how the software had, somehow, sent my door-code to the next booking for that room AND overlapped that booking with mine. He then apologised. I replied that the apology should have come first and I was frankly Scarlett about how his company had screwed up . . . just please to find me somewhere with clean sheets to sleep. These people should have been in room 22 please come with me to that room, it will be ready for you. Room 22 was in a different wing of the OYO . . . and occupied by a German called Braun, who should have been in room 31. I refused to go up two flights of stairs until the Manager had ascertained that it wasn't occupied by a flock of chickens. 

Math nerds will immediately think of Hilbert's Grand Hotel paradox which was central to ein gedankenexperiment elaborated by David Hilbert exactly 100 years ago in a lecture about Infinity: Über das Unendliche. Imagine a hotel with an infinite number of rooms, each occupied by a guest. Just before 10pm on a Tuesday, a weary traveller arrives seeking accommodation. The manager moves the occupant of room.1 to room.2, the person in room.2 to room.3 and so ad infinitum thus freeing up room.1 for another guest. And if the weary traveller is accompanied two daughters, they may be similarly found room at the infinite inn.

Several years ago, I wrote about Georg Cantor's elaboration on Hilbert's paradox where he proved that some infinities are bigger than others. Guests, rooms and unexpected occupants is a theme in the writings of Saki  . . .  The Lull - The Guests - The Unrest Cure.

It's a week now and I have had neither explanation nor apology [except sort of from the manager as above] nor compo from OYO. ⛥ for the sandstone Georgian Facade.

 

Scatterlings

My folks did their courting in and around Portland Bill in the English West Country. She was working in London after WWII but came down on weekends to roar about the dusty lanes of Dorset in his tiny car. Eventually he proposed to her in 1950 on a bench along the Cobb at Lyme Regis in Dorset [whc prev in re Mary Anning and the Jurassic Coast].  ~50 years later he died and about 20 years after that she followed on. 

There were only five of us to witness logistics at the Crematorium in January 2020. A while later, we squeezed in a memorial service in the quaint local church [with tea and cakes in the village hall after] at the end of February. But the CoViD pandemic and lockdown put the kibosh on any further obsequies. In particular, a cardboard tube of ashes from the crem required something to be done. We do death better in Ireland than across the water. One good feature.ie is the Month's Mind when family and friends regather 30 days after a death - that convention helps with closure. But something similar can be achieved on the disposal-of-ashes front.

As Coronarama drained away, the family agreed to reconvene at Lyme Regis on our ancestors' wedding anniversary 19th August 1950 2025. And it was so. We checked to find that the tide would be on the turn at 15:00hrs and met for lunch at Tom's [menu] beforehand. We were, by geneation: (F1 #3) + (F2 #5) + (F3 #2) + 3 partners  = a coven of 13. There were no ravens but the fakkin' herring gulls Larus argentatus attacked two of us to snatch away ice-creams. Something should be done about that and Lyme Regis Town Council has policy if not a clearly effective strategy. Small boys with catapults for the win?!

The beach, the Cobb and the Marine Parade were heaving with humanity but the breakwater was quieter . . . possibly because there was an unbalustraded 6m drop to the sea. My BiL aliquoted the contents of the cardboard tube into sequential capfuls - with the help [dig dig who forgot the spatula?] of a librarian's pencil supplied by Dau.I. It all went away efficiently with an off-shore breeze and the drizzle held off until 4 o'clock. Job done. We can now move on and start working though my generation.

That's me [back L] masquerading as a parking attendant in Summer kit. I know I pass as Parkie because a large biker with a larger motorbike asked if he could park on the yellow lines for a couple of illegal minutes. "Be my guest, Knock yourself out" I answered. 

Famous for fifteen minutes

. . . locally. Before we bought the farm in 1996, we'd been on a couple of site visits to see what it really looked like, because the auctioneer's description ticked all the boxes: old farmhouse [✓], outbuildings [✓], 16 acres [✓]. The first time, it was June, the previous incumbent had died the year before, the meadows were waist-high; the grass flecked with any number of wildflowers. We parked toddler Dau.I up against a tumbledown wooden gate for a breather and took a photo. That became Dau.I's gate and by extension the 1 acre field beyond became Gort na Dau.I. Over the next 30 years, that rich tapestry of biodiversity has been maintained . . . because we failed to follow standard agribio advice = kill all the dicots [2,4,-D], lurry on the nitrates and watch the perennial ryegrass Lolium perenne take over [this corner of] the world.

Agribio philosophy has recently made a 180° volte face over nitrates and ryegrass; requiring farmers to embrace weeds biodiversity and low impact N instead. Last year we were poster-farmers for traditional hay-meadow - showing our confused neighbours how to embrace their inner stichwort Stellaria graminea. This after two generations of being told that such weeds were a scourge to be extirpated. Our man in biodiversity was so taken with our hay-rattle Rhinanthus minor that he nominated us for the County Farming For Nature event as part of 2025's National Heritage Week; funded by National Parks and Wildlife Services (NPWS). 

Team Biodiversity returned earlier this Summer to craft a 5min video [from ~2 hrs of footage] about us, our foxgloves [as R], our stone walls, our ring-stone and our steading. That video [5min FB media] summing up 30 years of caring for the plan[e]t life, was given its first public airing in Myshall Community Centre  on Saturday 16 Aug 2025. Not only us: 3 other farms and their custodians - each with their own passion for the natural world - were shown off to a packed  meeting room. We also had an official photographer [and therefore!] two TDs, and six County Councilors: all to be looking for their face in a square of the local paper the following week. 

It was nice. The plain people of Myshall made tea and scones to greet; and sandwiches, tea and iced-dainties for lunch and did the wash-up afterwards. We got to hear how other farms were managing the transition to a bee-friendly landscape. And talk to some of the politicians including the resourceful youthful Dan Pender whom we met last Summer. Amazingly, this chap - he will go far! - remembered my name, where he met me and my connexion with TCD from a brief encounter 14 months earlier.

We also met an official someone who maintained that hay-rattle Rhinanthus minor is now sufficiently rare that there is a market for hay-rattle seed. Apparently there are machines which can selectively pluck the rattling seed heads from the meadow [timing is important]; thresh out the seed, bolt out the impurities, dry the seeds and pop them in packets for sale. Could be a nice little earner. This year, we intentionally gathered seed for the first time from our cowslip Primula veris corner of the yard.

But enough already. I hope that someone else (anyone else) goes forward to represent the County in the National showcase of FFN Farming for Nature. 

Up Sturra

The family were round the kitchen table for a few days in the middle of August. With 3 generations we seat eight. Everyone has their particular druthers [me: sofa, cuppa, flapjacks], but Dau.II had her sights on Blackstair / Sturra which fills our view-finder [as R] to the South of the farm. She [~30] persuaded her brother [~50] and father [~70] to keep company. As family we only needed one rucksack with 3 apples, a bottle of water and a small slab of kindle mint cake. When something tall is literally in your face everyday, it takes somebody else's oomph to make a closer inspection. My mother spent her entire childhood in the shadow of Dover Castle. But she didn't go visit until her own children were bored and fractious one drizzly Dover afternoon.

The forecast was phew wot a scorcher, so we set off before 09:00hrs and <shame> drove the first 'boring' 1.5km along the metalled road. It's a fine, varied walk through Coonogue, Rathgeran & Knockymullgurry with maybe our left feet straying onto Bantry Commons on the Wexford side. We started off along a walled sunken  >2m< narrow lane canopied over with scrubby trees: noting a riot of sloes Prunus spinosa for gin later in the year. 

At the top of the lane you should, and we did, ignore the broad 'dray road' heading East for Coonogue ridge. Instead veer right and pick up a much travelled footpath heading straight uphill and more or less due South. The path pushes upwards through the heather (Erica spp and Calluna vulgaris) and other species typical of dry heath. In other words: same as we have on our hill on the N side of the valley. After a while things flatten out into a pavement [called Móin na Gaoithe = Bog of the Wind] of worn granite and schisty slabs which make for dry footing and yompy progress. It was quite blowy when we were on the face of the hill but warm and dry. Dry esp. underfoot with what sphagnum was present bleached a delicate pale green. 

At the end of the pavement there is a little rocky cliff after which the way marches steadily uphill to the summit. We had been paced by three young[ish] chaps; passing them out as they rested and vice versa.  They turned out to hail originally from County Nepal. It was rather endearing therefore, when we compared notes at the Summit cairn, that they reckoned the view was a) extensive b) magnificent. All things are relative: Mount Leinster [800m], in context, looms over the landscape like Mt Everest [8,000m].

I liked it better 30 years ago when heights were still given in feet. Our hill, Knockroe, was about 1,000 feet further from the Earth's centre than our front gate, and Mt Leinster was another 1,000ft higher. 220m - 540m - 795m doesn't have quite the same ring.  

The first time we three yomped to the top of Blackstair was about 20 years ago. For several consecutive summers in the 00s, we hosted a Summer Camp for Dau.I, Dau.II and their pals. Their big brother usually came back from wherever he was roaming and our pal Lulu was the other adult in the room outdoors as well as being caterer-in-chief. As the kids got taller we stretched the expeditions further. The year when Dau.II was prolly ~10 they all made it to the top of Blackstair; which meant that none of the adults had the excuse to rest with the asthmatics, emblistered or exhausted. It stands to everyone involved that a few handfuls of sub-teens were separated from their parents and forced allowed to walk through I'm tired to the local top of the world. They washed A Lot of dishes too.

Wimmin in STEM

The Blob was born when  I started a new job in The "Not-a-University" Institute. It wasn't in the original programme of works, but I soon decided that my mission was to recruit and maintain more Women in Science. The Future of Ireland as a Technological Nation [FITNa polybloboprev] would be better served by including the 50% of the population who identified as women: different ways of seeing; different ways of interacting with peers; different lived experience . . . might bubble up a greater choice in the solution space. I started to write ~700 word Brief Lives of women [living and dead] in science & tech thinking that one of those tales might inspire one student to come aboard and stick it out and get qualified. There are more than 100 biogs there now.

At the end of July, the rest of the family made a site visit to the Coolock branch of Dublin City where Dau.I the Librarian is currently working. After the tour, I borrowed a Book - getting into the spirit of place, like: Female Innovators Who Changed Our World: How Women Shaped STEM (2022 €20!!) by Emma Shimizu. As it happens, I have a bit of a part-time unpaid gig writing 250 word book reviews for the Coolock Library newletter. So there was just a smidgen of pressure to pick a book that was available on the shelves at Coolock.   

Right off the bat, I asked how much overlap there was between Bob's list and Emma's. I'd already written about 8 of Emma's 45 chapters: Constance Tipper, Gerty Cori [R on 2011 stamp], Rachel Carson, Virginia Apgar, Rosalind Franklin, Stephanie Kwolek, Tu Youyou, Françoise Barré-Sinoussi. With another three who are indexed in Female Innovators but don't warrant their own chapter: Florence Nightingale, Grace Hopper, Hedy Lamarr. Nobody on Emma's list has any connexion with Ireland; whereas ~20% of Bob's wear the green jersey. 

Everyone who essays these brief biogs of STEM women comes with baggage if not an explicit agenda. I, for obvious chauvinistic, want-of-imagination, reasons push the Irish connexion. Emma edges towards the dispossessed and non-whites who have played a blinder with life's crappy hand of cards. This makes interesting reading for me because so many of them are never 'eard of 'er. But perhaps that's not the best call for a 15 y.o. girl teetering between science and 'business' or modern dance. That youngster won't have heard of anyone, so may be better influenced by someone who is an 'achievable' role model - a bit more like herself . . . The Blob has loads of white Irish examples! Please please, we don't need to hear the Marie Curie story again (and again), even 15 y.o.s in unacademic catchment areas have heard of Team Curie.

Cruella de Cork

I rarely browse in the library because I think that I want to read non-fiction, especially science; but the overwhelming majority of library books are novels. Most pubic libraries are especially thin on the Dewey Decimal 500s (Natural Science and Mathematics). However, we were in the library while awaiting a train, and I noticed the recent acquisitions shelf. I'll have that, I said, when I saw Missing Persons or, My Grandmother's Secrets [2024] by Clair Wills. I also snagged No More Tears [bloboview] to get ahead of the reservation queue.

Wills [R] is about my age. Her mother escaped from a 30 acre farm in West Cork in the 1950s and emigrated to England where she worked as a psychiatric nurse in South London. Some of her uncles joined McAlpine's Fusiliers to dig drains and pour concrete in post-WWII Britain.  Like me, every year through her English childhood, Wills and her family went 'home' to Ireland. One difference was that my family were 'shy breeders' so that cousins to hang out with were sparse: only a diminishing store of elderly female relatives who died one after the other as we grew up. In the 1960s a whole lot of history [from last week to last generation] was not in front of the children. And much of this material was known-but-not-spoken.

Not murder like in the Case of the Stradbally Postman [whc prev] but othering and exclusion of those who kicked over the traces and got with child. There is a hint of rite-of-passage here, when girls turn ~13 they are inducted into the secrets of those who know. Boys of any age get none of that. And if you're probably gay, like one of the uncles? Not much hope or happiness there. Wills' theory is that attitudes to unwed pregnancies [and the gays] changed for the worse as ALL aspects of social welfare were handed off to The Church in the late 19thC. Before then a) there was nowhere to escape b) communities were kinder and less judgmental. The stranglehold on public morality eased off in the 1970s, although hideous cruelty continued until the end of the 20thC to be habitually meted out on the weak by deeply unhappy spiteful wearers-of-the-cloth. Unmarried mother's allowance (1973) enabled single parents, with some difficulty,  to raise children at home rather than in A Home. “The mother of a friend of mine, now in her eighties, who worked for the local county council before she was married, found herself - more than once – filing the admission papers of girls she’d seen at dances a few weeks before”. I didn't have to be like that, and maybe in isolated rural Newfoundland it wasn't.

In a recent interview [60m YT] about the book Clair Wills was asked whether it was 'history' or 'memoir'. A distinction mainly important for those who are shelving or publicizing it. It is, clearly, both. And she is self-aware enough to acknowledge that, because we all mis-remember difficult things, there might be some fiction in the mix. Talking of fiction: further reading in similar issues in West Wexford with Claire Keegan's Small Things Like These [2021 bloboview]. Further reading on the life and early death of Clair Wills Uncles in I could read the sky [1997] by Timothy O'Grady (words) and Steve Pyke (pics) [bloboview]. Mebbe it's time to re-read  Saints, scholars, and schizophrenics : mental illness in rural Ireland [1979] by Nancy Scheper-Hughes. 

If, like so many Irish families [like mine], yours has mother-and-baby homes looming unspoken in the wings, this book may be too close to the bone. There are several Clair Wills readings, excepts, interviews, reviews on YT and the wider 'net to give you a taster without the full challenging meal.