Trinity House

When I was a teenager, I spent a tiny bit of time at sea on a working ship. The gig was finagled for me by an old boyfriend of my mother. Note the passive tense: I did essentially nothing to make this happen. Nowadays, there is a whole industry mapping out Gap Years for privileged youth so they can get into the socially preferred colleges and universities. One week as a supernumerary 'working' for Trinity House was plenty enough to convince me that actually working at sea would be a long old way outside my comfort zone. Trinity House* are / were responsible for maintaining and operating lighthouses, lightships and buoys round the coast of Great Britain. The Commissioners of Irish Lights = CIL = Coimisinéirí Soilse na hÉireann does the equivalent work for the island of Ireland.

While in England recently, I idly picked up a copy of Granta 61: The Sea - Voyages, Mysteries, Discoveries, Disasters 1998, like all Grantas there were a number of interesting pieces inside. Including one about the North Carr lightship by the son of one of her last skippers. In December 1959, that vessel broke away from its moorings in a gale and drifted engineless out to sea. The Broughty Ferry lifeboat was launched but came to grief on the rocks and the entire crew of eight was drowned. By luck, determination, situational awareness and bower anchors the lightship was just able to ride out the gale on a lee shore and everyone aboard, and indeed the ship itself, survived. Let us bow our heads for the RNLI.

It was natural in that context to reference an earlier lightship tragedy, when the South Goodwin Sands lightship's anchor chain parted in a gale on the night of 26/27th November 1954. The only survivor was a 22 y.o. government scientist Ronald Murton who dived through the galley hatch as the ship rolled onto its side on the notorious sandbank. He clung to a topside stanchion [pointed out with broad arrow L] for eight hours in the dark until he was winched off by a USAAF rescue chopper from RAF Manston. That aerodrome is more recently used as a lorry park to mitigate the logistical disaster known as Brexit. RIP the crew who perished that stormy night: Horace Skipp (Master) George Cox, Ken Lanham, Sid Philpott, Walter Viney, Henry Lynn, Tom Porter. [Wreck picture credits Lighthouse Digest September 2009].

After his ordeal Murton continued his life's work on the migration and ecology of woodpigeons Columba palumbus. He was employed by the Dept Ag and Fish for this project because pigeons were a scourge for cereal farmers. In the 1950s farmers could indent in triplicate for a supply of free shot-gun cartridges and blast away at these profit-depleting avian pests. Murton's [obituary] appraisal of the Evidence concluded that pigeon numbers would never be reduced by any economically justifiable quantity of lead. That conclusion changed government policy on control methods. He wrote the book on his bird The Woodpigeon (1965).

That storm on 26th November was wreaking havoc in other parts of these islands, as noted by my pal Russ in his blog in 2019.  

(*) Formally, by royal charter of 1514 "The Master, Wardens, and Assistants of the Guild, Fraternity, or Brotherhood of the most glorious and undivided Trinity, and of St Clement in the Parish of Deptford Strond in the County of Kent". A mouthful! like “The Provost, Fellows, Foundation Scholars and the other members of Board, of the College of the Holy and Undivided Trinity of Queen Elizabeth near Dublin” my other Trinity.

Only the righteous

Third weekend in July, I was over in England for a Significant Anniversary. International travel can be a schlep, and I wasn't inclined to lease an executive chopper and land on my friend's lawn in time for cake and then zoom off to my next appointment. And that's how I came to spend 4 nights with The Boy and his family in and around Bath = Aquae Sulis. My father was very restless, and so not for me restful. He tended to tack something extra onto a Perfick Day, putting children beyond their sell-by and often in tears. He didn't know when to stop. I think that was one reason why he joined the British Navy as a chap in 1931 - and indeed he did get to see the World. The habit of rushing through places, rather than being IN them, skipped my generation. But the Let's Go spirit seems to have re-ignited in The Boy, so I had a full diary.

On Sunday morning before Matins we walked down to the River Avon, borrowed a Canadian canoe, and paddled up river for half an hour. Eeee, it were lovely: we {didn't have to | couldn't} look at each other so we were encouraged to look out and about. The seating / setting also had some element of the confessional and I 'shared' some of my failings by way of explaining why [unlike some] I never reached the top of my profession and, rather than retiring early, was only able to retire when I became eligible for a free travel pass. It seems that part of the River Avon is now home to beavers, which gives visitors the chance for some 'bigger than a breadbox' observational biology on top of the birds.

I also recalled a traumatic episode of rowing with others from my childhood. In ~1935 my father graduated from 'Dartmouth" aka Britannia Royal Navy College shortly after 'the greengage mutiny' when the cadets protested about the hideous quality of the food. In 1965 a pal of his from those days became officer i/c the College. Me and my sibs had gotten quite chummy with the Duffy boys when we lived close to each other in Plymouth. So it was somewhat natural that I'd go a spend a week with them one Summer holiday. Being there, it was entirely unsurprising that the four of us would borrow a couple of skiffs from the College and row upstream one evening like Swallows and Amazons. All good fun . . . until the tide turned, a stiff breeze blew up and we were a mile from the wharf as darkness fell. I wasn't the youngest, but I was possibly the weediest and, as we will see, lacked the bottle which had won WWII in 1945. In adverse circumstances, I was quite unable to match the pull of my ship-mate and so we were more or less rowing in circles. After a good bit of justifiable ribbing from the rest of the expedition I mutinied: stood up in the boat [cardinal sin!]; gave the sole-boards a mighty tonk with the handle of my oar; roared out "I . just . can't . do . this" and burst into tears. That shut 'em up!

You may be sure that The Boy was careful about criticizing my paddling after that confession. A short time later he called "kingfisher!" and we both turned to follow the halcyon Alcedo atthis pacing upstream. They say that only the righteous get to see the kingfisher, I am so glad we saw that one together.

On the last night with my ex-pat family, three generations of us walked up to the flat-top of Solsbury Hill [whc prev] behind their house. We strode out and and made it to the top just as the sun sank below the hills to West. By way of libation to Sol Sols Sulis, The Boy had packed a small picnic: chai latte and cherries. Perfick!

 

Bearing witness

About 40 years ago, I was invited to upskill myself in the white-coat, real-science lab across the corridor from my office. I had been hired to teach population genetics because that _had_ been an important and edge-cutting area of genetics. Pop.Gen. was quite the doldrums in the early 80s, but someone had to teach it, and I was that person. The technology to look quite directly at variation in DNA was coming on-stream and they were about to inject steroids into Pop.Gen. So it was a smart move to learn which end of an Eppendorf to open [hint; not the sharp end]. I spent half a year getting to stage where a) I could generate useful, repeatable results b) I knew it would always be hard work. I recognised b) because I was working back-to-back with someone who really understood what she was doing.

I had a long weekend in England recently because my molecular mentor MolMent was having a knees-up to celebrate her 50th wedding anniversary. My parents celebrated their 50th in 2000AD and my father dropped dead [of "medical misadventure"] 6 months later. It seemed better to bear witness at the anniversary, than at a funeral, so I booked a bed-in-a-shed with The Boy in Bath, which is a 2 hour train-ride from Weymouth [as L Donald McGill, kiss-me-quick, candyfloss & sandy sandwiches] where my friends had retired early about 10 years ago. 

They were able to do that because MolMent left real science shortly after teaching me everything I know about it and put herself through Law School. She parlayed that qual to London working as a Patent Lawyer specializing in molecular biology for MegaPharm. Developing and marketing new biologics generates billion$ for shareholders, with million$ crumbs available for the Effectives. Obvs she was an asset - knowing both the law and real science to exacting standards gave her powerful negotiating power round board-room tables.

At these things (weddings, funerals, celebrations) I've learned late in life to follow my mother's lead and wade in despite being the emotional basket-case that I am. At one point I strolled to the end of the garden where a 50ft cliff fell away to the tide-line. Standing at the top (and not falling away under the influence of fizz) there was a fine view out over the bay to Portland Bill and Chesil Beach. The view point was already occupied by a husband and wife - who were not made of the same wade-in social steel as I was affecting. I told them the story [not for the first time, not for the first time that afternoon] of me and MolMent and how I'd never met anyone with such a deep "feeling for the organism" understanding of sub-microscopic molecules and processes. "Molecules schmolecules" replied the bloke, "that woman really understood Intellectual Property"; and proceeded to tell me a £15million board-room war-story.

Errrm, quite so. Some people, by genetics or upbringing or both, are destined to be lucky make their own luck by hard work, long hours, good memory and finely tuned crap-detector. It doesn't matter which college, or no-college, such folk go to, they do well anywhere anytime anyhow. That's another reason not to agonize about which college or course to choose.

Their was-delapidated, now painstakingly refurbed by Himself, Edwardian mansion with sea views is about 300m from the flat where my newly-wed parents lived in 1950 . . . and scavenged coal from the train-tracks to Portland. 

Waking the dead

Born within the slipstream of our father’s and
mother’s lives, we follow involuntarily in their wake.

True dat!  It's a sentence from early in My Father's Wake, how the Irish teach us to live, love and die (2017) by Kevin Toolis. Toolis was born and grew up in Edinburgh but Home was a modest storm-drubbed 3 room cottage on Achill Island, Co Mayo. He thus has cultural feet one planted on each side of the Irish Sea. Me, too.

Whatever about The Past, End-of-Life issues are a foreign country: they do things differently (t)here.

• When we came back to Ireland in 1990, my boss was British but had been living and working in Dublin for 8 years. One  afternoon the department had emptied for the funeral of a colleague's mother. Two pints down in the pub that night, the gaffer had admitted he would be appalled if I or anyone else gate-crashed the funeral of his father. 
• otoh I have an old friend who was working in one of the Dublin Art Colleges. A colleague's mother died back home in London. My friend did her normal, booked a return flight to LHR to show face at the funeral. Consternation among the tiny gathering of neighbours and immediate family.  
• In 2001, after my father died in England, we had a nuclear-family conference round the dining room table with the undertaker. You could see the colour drain from his face when I suggested it would be nice to carry the Old Man into the church.

Toolis had a couple of medical NDEs as a child and had sojourned in Male Medical wards in the local hospital for several weeks. He witnessed more death in that time than his school-mates would come up against in their entire lives. When he grew up, he became a free-lance journalist covering The Troubles. He seemed to have a talent for blagging his way into people's homes and asking intrusive questions; which the bereaved or traumatized were too avoid answering. From there he became a war correspondent wherever hell was going down and he witnessed grief, loss and coping in each different place & culture. Because [troubles, Palestine, Bosnia, Sunni, Shia] alien cultures can be your next-door neighbours. But East West - Home is Best. IF Home is Achill rather than London.

Toolis is firm in his belief that the Irish system is the Norm even a Universal manifestation of the human condition and has been since Homer wrote the Iliad. Or even since Cro-magnons were banging two rocks together picking flowers for their beloved dead. In La Douleur et les Regrets d'Andromaque sur le corps d'Hector son mari [R 1793 Jacques-Louis David via wikicommons] Hector is clearly 'open coffin' in the Irish way. But he has a book to sell, and the Irish market for end-of-life issues is microscopic (folk would rather read death-at-a-distance through Donna Leon, Patricia Cornwell, PD James). The hook is to demonstrate that the Western way of death is sanitized, medicalized, disempowering and Closure-avoidant. Readers in USA, Canada, UK etc. are doing it all wrong. Indeed Merriam-Webster tags wake "to remain awake on watch especially over a corpse" as archaic because Americans don't do that anymore.

His lifetime accumulation of experience as a death-witness for strangers qualifies him to critically evaluate his own father's short, messy, painful end from pancreatic cancer. Sonny was not lucky, I regret his early loss. Sonny would have dismissed the thought. Under the sun, death comes when it comes. In Ireland because death is integrated in community life it becomes normal - as well as inevitable. In England it is invisible. One of the great aspects of Sonny's death is that the community knows what to do without having to involve The Man at all. And yes it is, since Homer's day, women's work. The body is washed and dressed [A Lot of cotton-wool will be required]; a coffin and hearse is booked; hang-sangwiches for 5,000 miraculously appear; along with a monster tea-pot or two; extra chairs and delph are borrowed; hugs and handshakes; sorry for your troubles on repeat.

It's nice that "wake" is used in it's other meaning in the opening quote; because Sonny went shoring [beachcombing] every day he lived on Achill. It me! It Grace! Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar. Traveller, there is no path only your wake on the sea.

Radio Tirana

In April 1939, the self-proclaimed King Zog of Albania [L lifted from commons.wikimedia] fled the country with the country's gold-reserves in his carry-on luggage. The power vacuum was filled by the Provisional Administrative Committee of Albania until an "army of liberation" arrived from Italy. The PACA issued a bulletin to its diplomats abroad including the advice . . . stop Listen regularly to Radio Tirana stop . . . which was moderately amusing because I did just that when I was learning Portuguese in the mid-80s. In addition to formal lessons from a wonderful me-local officer from the Instituto Camões, and reading novels in parallel text editions, I had scanned the airwaves hunting for Portuguese language broadcasts. By far the strongest signal was from Radio Tirana blaring out Marxist propaganda, music & current affairs to former Portuguese colonies in Africa many of which were still in a state of unresolved armed struggle aka USA/USSR proxy-war. I listened into Tirana while doing the washing up: it certainly tuned my ear to the cadence of Portuguese.

I only know <TMI> about King Zog because I was urged to read Indignity, a Life Reimagined by Lea Ypi. Her great-grandfather Xhafer Bey Ypi was leader of PACA and had been briefly Prime Minister of Albania in 1922. Indignity follows Lea Ypi's journey through The Archives to discover what happened to her grandmother Leman who grew up in Salonika but emigrated to Albania as soon as she could. 100+ years ago, Lea Ypi's forebears lived in Salonique le Magnifique where French was, since Crusader times, the lingua franca for that cultural and religious melting pot. But in the family they might switch to Turkish, Albanian, Arabic or Ladino. It was impossibly romantique. One of them died of a surfeit of baklava!

Indignity built upon last Summer's book about the Near East Levant: Splendour and Catastrophe on the Mediterranean. That looked at commerce, wars, parties, fires, punctilio & pogroms in Beirut, Smyrna and Alexandria - but it could have included similarly cosmopolitan Salonica. By happenstance I was simultaneously ear-booking Love in a Time of War: My Years with Robert Fisk by Lara Marlowe; like Lea Ypi's family 100 years earlier, Lara and Robert are ducking in and out of Paris and Beirut in search of culture and pastries.

Bannister

I have, so, a camera, several cameras, but that does not make me a photographer. Dau.II otoh has a bit of an eye. She was down to the Déise in June, being handy. We seized the moment between chores to clamber over a headland that is only accessible for an hour each side of low tide. You can tel it's low tide because the tide mark is halfway up the rocks:

Credits: Dau.II for the crisp picture; me for the tacky sentiment.

 We've been beach-combing together for at least 20 years, but we aren't in competition. She is more for 

may came home with a smooth round stone 

as small as a world and as large as alone.

while I lean towards the discarded work of human hand. 

I swear I offered free choice of beach from Benvoy to BallyDwan. But we found ourselves on a stretch of coast which I'd visited about 10 days [20 tides] previous and given up on 7m of bright orange hawser with an eye-splice at each end. I had come with a collection of sharp objects to separate the useful from the tangle. The  hawser had, after 10 sleeps, become even more useful than it had seemed on first presentation. So I worked and worried until I had reduced the load to what a 70-something can carry away [L sic transit] over some modest cliffs.

I think it will do for a fixed-rope adjacent to the stairs between our house and the garden above and behind it. Me, I trip lightly up and down this familiar route even in the dark, even with armfuls of laundry, but I have noticed that [much younger and seemingly fitter] visitors approach the task with trepidation. Sooo, the local bainisteoir = gaffer [L] intends to install a bannister for safety.

Kick-sampling

Kick-sampling is a technique for assessing water quality in the wild. I've done some kick-sampling myself. Heck, I've taught kick-sampling. Almost the only time I ever used the Lidl middle-aisle fisherman's waders were for kick-sampling up to my knees in a stream.

This year, for the first time, we're doing something different with our traditional hay-meadow: harvesting the seed to [potentially, hopefully] propagate wild-flowers away from our nursery. We were requested-and-required to remove and Ragwort Senecio jacobaea from the meadow before harvest. Insects and pollinators like the bright yellow flowers but the whole plant is generally poisonous to live-stock, especially horses. It is a prolific of seed which are wind-dispersed, but the plant is a biennial, so a rigorous regime of uprooting [traditionally by small farm-children] will eventually get the scourge down to manageable proportions. Every year, if we look, ragwort will be found; but only a few scattered plants which are a distinctive green at a moderate distance and have unmistakable leaves close-up. Ragwort is thus a 101 task but it takes a little time to course systematically over the estate.

We were also instructed to remove "thistles". As I found last year, there are two closely related thistles common in Irish fields one of which Cirsium dissectum is a desirable indicator species and the other Cirsium arvensis a terrible creeping thing altogether.  But in the priorities of seed-collection it is Caedite eos kill them all - or at least stop t'buggers propagating.

Accordingly, over a couple of days, whenever the spirit was upon us (and it was not drizzling - for who wants wet socks?) one or other of us would sally forth with clippers and a feed-sack to heap cut thistles into sheafs and dump them at the field margin. 

Gotta say that it's the best sort of work: necessary, a bit physical, a bit mindless, in the fresh air <hello trees, hello sky>, WFH. I clocked off several hours of my then current ear-book The Education of an Idealist [2019] by Samantha Power: one time Dubliner [Hartigan's], one time war reporter [Bosnia]; one time US Ambassador to the United Nations [Obama]. It is readable and gives good insight about how firm beliefs and election manifestos turn squidgy under the pressures of Realpolitik. Despite pre-election promising to close up Guantanamo Bay, Obama was still its commander in chief at the end of his 8 year presidency.

I show-and-told the results of seed-stripping 10 hay-rattle plants. One collateral benefit of coursing over the meadow, stalking and killing thistles was to fill my loosely tied boots with misc wildflower seeds. It was striking a) how much of the kick-sampling was hay-rattle seed b) the huge discrepancy for seed-size among different species [from much smaller than a poppy-seed to big-as-tomato-seed] c) the wild variety of seed shape and seed-appendage and d) how each adaptation might help a seed get somewhere else and then get a grip on the earth and still have some oomph to get something green above ground to start photosynthesis. Chekkittout: