Thursday, 13 June 2019

Sphagnum

Sphagnum [above a little more than life-size] is pillowing over my awareness horizon because Charles W. Cathcart was mentioned as part of a wikipedia Did you know: tag. There was a time in 1982 when I knew a helluva lot about Sphagnum from a class assignment in graduate school but if you don't use it you lose it and what I now know about moss can be written on a postage-stamp in the 630 words which you are now reading.

In 1982, I was a star-struck groupie of Lynn Margulis taking her eccentric but brilliant course BI504 Evolution. As part of "Organism Day" we were each requested & required to write an essay on any living species - its biogeographical  distribution, ecological niche and evolutionary relationships - and bring an example to class. That morning everyone made a presentation about their chosen organism and took questions. I had recently read a report by Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) about Gowing's Swamp in Concorde, Mass. That's Henry "Walden" Thoreau [prev]! Accordingly, I borrowed a car and drove out to find Gowing's Swamp [before GPS, maps.google and smart phones] which was behind a school near Revolutionary Ridge. Thoreau (and I) caught the swamp at a snap shot in its transition from a pond to dry land - a process called succession by ecologists. I scooped a little clump of Sphagnum moss into a tupperware container; ready for delivery in class. But obsessive me was unable to determine which of the ~380 species of Sphagnum I might have in my hand. With a great deal of chutzpah, I arranged to take some of it to the world's expert on the taxonomy of mosses, who was a professor across the river in Harvard. Organism Day was a really good learning experience for us students - Margulis realised that content is the least important part of learning in college - process means much more in the long run.

One of the "this is nifty" bits of information I included in my report was the fact that sphagnum was used in WWI as a sterile wound-dressing. It is amazingly absorbant - able to hold 20x its own weight in water. That water is almost always acidic because sphagnum acts as an ion exchange column taking in Mg++ and Ca++ and sending out H+. That acidity discourages a lot of microbes from growing. It also took only 20 years to destroy the copper pipe-work in our mountainy home where the well-water has been filtered through centuries of sphagnum and peat. In addition, Sphagnum cell walls include a variety of phenolic compounds which, like phenol itself and TCP, are mildly antiseptic. Charles Cathcart and Isaac Balfour, the Keeper of the Royal Botanic Garden, Edinburgh wrote an article in The Scotsman extolling its virtues despite the fact that the Germans had been using the stuff for the previous 30 years. In the real-ekonomik of materials in war time, cotton fibres were needed for gun cotton [structure above R] rather than cotton wool AND had to be imported through U-boat wolf-packs AND was less absorbant AND was not naturally antiseptic.  Sphagnum moss otoh grew in abundance across the uplands of the British Isles [they were all British in 1914]. In an early example of crowdsourcing, women and children were mobilised for moss drives to gather the raw material. In Germany this part of the process was carried out by Allied PoWs as well as civilians. The pickers were instructed to box-clever “fill the sacks only about three-quarter full, drag them to the nearest hard ground, and then dance on them to extract the larger percentage of water.” Water is water and it's heavy, so you don't want to schlep it about the world - better to ship orange-juice concentrate from the warm lands of the south and reconstitute from the tap close to final destination.

Wednesday, 12 June 2019

Unclean unclean

<Insert bell emoticon> [if you believe in emoticons . . . and have leprosy]. Last week was a bit slack, between the end of exams and the meeting to allocate final marks. I went in to The Institute only once to save the planet from the carbon footprint of several 80km round trips. There is only so much bloggin' a fellow can do at home without turning into a Shawshank Redemption extra, so I did some outdoor work. The real driver was to find some compost to fill the bottomless buckets to plant out the beans and courgettes that we started from seed 3 weeks earlier.  We have a parallel composting 'system' made with walls of 10cm concrete blocks; which would be more functional if there were more people to create kitchen waste.
  • A row of three 'domestic' bins [as above]: for kitchen peelings, 'good' garden weeds and some lawn-mowings
  • A row of three annual bins: for more pernicious weeds and enormous quantities of spoil from Autumn clean-ups
  • Fresh matter is started at one end of the row; left to rot a bit; occasionally turned . . . with a fork; when full, it is turned into the middle bin; which mixes things up and gets the top layer closer to the worms; that bin is left for a while and then turned into the last bin.
  • In order to make room in the last bin, it must be cleared. It should be then a "friable loam", full of goodness, suitable for nourishing the beans, tomatoes, chard and whatever is surviving under our 'care and attention'.
Should be a friable loam but only becomes that if the end-product is sieved out. We have a couple of garden sieves but they are a bit pathetic for high through-put. This year I used one of our collection heavy-duty plastic grocery crates. They have uniform holes in the base and are designed to be held in both hands = sieve! The result of my exertions yielded:
  • 8 bags of friable loam
  • a heap of ash-roots 
    • which strike up from the surrounding trees and penetrate the compost heaps
    • this is an excellent reason for being more active in the process of turning the compost: the heap is harder to work the longer the roots are left undisturbed
  • a couple of bags of 'lumps'
    • where do the stones come from? 
    • avocado stones do not bio-degrade
  • a bucketful of rubbish
    • where does the tinsel come from?
    • those orange paint-chips are from the last lawn-mower
    • tea-bags do not bio-degrade
One thing that I didn't really appreciate until recently is that the composting process is entire microbiological. The worms have only an ancillary mixing role - their gut flora is doing the heavy lifting. The microbes - bacteria and fungi - are chomping their way through the grass-clippings; banana skins and cabbage stalks. I make their work easier if I increase the surface area of the kitchen waste with a rough chop before throwing in the kitchen bin. It's a balance: I really want the trillions of microbes to do the heavy lifting because I'm getting too old and feeble. But a helping hand from me with a kitchen knife or garden fork is a great help to the process.

Tuesday, 11 June 2019

Abilene - a bad deal for all

Dau.I and Dau.II aka Thelma & Louise and I went on a million metre road trip last week-end to visit my aged mother. At least when we were aboard the ferry, we could all take our eyes off the road and have some downtime. Four hours is a long time to be looking at a featureless ocean and, as uncertain [puka puka] sailors none of us had the stomach to while away some of the time eating over-priced fish and chips. Someone had, however, thrown in a book of Times Jumbo Crossword Puzzles and we did a bit collectively towards solving the current puzzle. I was pretty sure of the answer to this clue:
34 Ac Town in Texas (7) A_I_E_ _
But checked on Google, to be sure to be sure which offered Abilene . . . Paradox. Which was intriguing because I'd never heard of it.

It turns out to be a malign subset of groupthink. Groupthink is where, in an effort to fit in with those around you, you find yourself agreeing to some daft or dysfunctional outcome. The Abilene Paradox is named for a story where one member of a family in Texas suggests driving the two hours in to Abilene [R it's a long long way to Abilene] for dinner. Another relative says that sounds swell. The next almost sounds enthusiastic and the final person agrees wholeheartedly. They head off to Abilene, get caught in a dust-storm, have a crappy meal at the only place in town still open and return home at midnight feeling 'dissatisfied'. In the post mortem, it turns out that they have all been really terrible in their ability to communicate their true thoughts and desires to their nearest and dearest. Assertiveness training required all round!

About 15 years ago, someone at work suggested that we might do a Kris Kringle = Secret Santa at the annual December office party. A couple of other people had heard about such things and a couple more had actually participated in one. Suddenly everyone is agreeing that we should all do this at the office party. I find the whole charade embarrassing and intrusive: the only value in doing a Kris Kringle is if you can use it to be intentionally and anonymously cruel to the people who really annoy you at work. KKs also came up with Dau.I and Dau.II on our jaunt through England. One of them suggested it was A Good Thing because it meant that you only had to buy one present for your workmates at Christmas.  Here's A Better Thing: don't buy any presents for your colleagues at Christmas: keep that sort of conspicious fatuous consumption within the family. Crappy [and hilarious?] plastic presents, which cost €5 and have a half-life of 5 minutes, do nothing good for the planet.

This is another peculiar example of how the human mind ticks in order to feel happy about itself - prev: Gell-Mann Amnesia.

Monday, 10 June 2019

Cheekpoint for Culture

In January I did a Sunday Miscellany for the letter K. There I shared a version (with lyrics and a Soviet flag) of Kalinka, the classic tempo-switching Russian folk song Kalinka. We're used to see this sung by a bunch of smart, portly, Red Army soldiers with enormous hats and several chins. Well you can hear it with no less professionalism and a little less weight: sung by Columbus International Children's Choir from Ohio. I like children's choirs for themselves and also for the thought that participatory sports like this can help kids stand up straight and give it socks. London Capital CC do Chinese . . . Josh Groban and kids Raise me Up. That's not the CICC's entire repertoire of course:

You get the idea. These kids have flown all over the world to sing at international events, so they must be good (or backed by a truly enormous vanity bank-roll). And now they are coming to The Déise this Thursday . . . for Free!
If you decide to dig in to help out the Development of the Cheekpoint corner of the Sunny South East, then you will be building social capital on earth and treasure in heaven. Cue Hadyn's Kyrie.

Caribbean Killer-bots

I was having a [mindful] walk with The Beloved talking inter alia about Roundup and Monsanto. I was brought up sharpish, and quite correctly, for using the word 'weeds' as something that glyphosate / Roundup kills so effectively. After all a weed is just a plant in the wrong place and time. Poppies are undesirable in a field of corn because a) the remind us of Flanders Fields b) they hoover up some of the fertiliser that the farmer has bought and distributed across the field at considerable expense. But I'm planning on harvesting a bagful of poppy-seed from rough road-side verge site on the back-road to work . . . just as soon as the flowers die back and set seed.

It's like that with invasive species. Life is so diverse and has so many ways of making a living that there is nothing, however fearsome or toxic, that will grow so abundantly that it will take over the planet or even a small part of it. With time, some other species will evolve to eat that mother up. The ingenuity of evolution is limitless; the limiting factor is time. The trouble is that humanity has created systems which allow instant transposition of things, including all variety of living things, to completely new habitat where there can be a passing disruption of the normal checks and balances. Bring a Plasmodium bearing Anopheles mosquito from Brazzaville to Paris in an Air France Airbus and you can get a few cases of malaria near Paris-CDG but it does not start an Ebola-like health freak-out.

I wrote a while ago about a "thick as pig-dribble" American aquarium owner who released a gravid female lionfish Pterois volitans into the ocean off Florida in the 1980s. Her offspring have now spread from Cartagena to the Carolinas eating everything slower than them as the go. Several native fish-species are now on the edge of the abyss because of this new kid on the block. Not very effect solutions have included have spear-fishing competitions and trying to create a market for lion-fish fillets. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but you have to grant that lionfish [L] are spectacular: the black and white stripes are a text-book case of aposematic colouring: I R poisonous; don't bother chomping; you'll regret it. And that's part of the problem - apart from the appetite - swimmers don't want to have a painful [rarely fatal] jolt of toxin from a brush with a stately passing lionfish.
Now you can't keep a good geek in his box and a group of them working at RSE have invented a hunter-killer submersible robot for hoovering up lionfish like it was an arcade game. It's like a drone with little directional propellors attached to a transparent plastic cylinder for storing the catch. The two metal arms point forward from the 'bot are bug-blatter shock electrodes which stun the fish so that they can be scooped up. Movie-time!! 'nother. The next step is surely to hire a pattern-recognition expert from Google and then the system will be totally autonomous. The disadvantage (for the lionfish) is that there can be no mistaking them, in the Caribbean, for an innocent bystander. And the next-next step is to start a mail-order business shipping dew-picked omega-rich free-range gluten-free lactose-free max-airmiles organic lionfish fillets to millennials who are willing to pay $39.99/kg + P&P.

Sunday, 9 June 2019

Saturday, 8 June 2019

Trad Grub

I'm ready for Brexit! I won't feel the loss if I never go back to Britland: my commitment is to Project Europe. Nevertheless most of my blood-relatives live across the water, and I/we go there two or three times a year usually by ferry - because we are so righteous about the carbon footprint of air travel <not!>. With time to spare two years ago, I parked [free for the first 20 minutes] in Tenby - a rather civilised seaside resort about 20 minutes from the ferry port. The main attraction of seaside resorts - even the upmarket variety - is the tourist tat shops selling t-shirts and silly hats; fish and chips; seaside rock and toffee; plastic buckets and spades. I bought some welshcakes, some fudge and a couple of mugs with Welsh dragons - partly because Pat the Salt was born in Cardiff 94 years ago this month.

Last weekend Dau.I and Dau.II made a 1 million metre road trip to visit their grandmother. Now that the older girl has joined her father in the public service, she is constrained about taking days off work so we had to go there and back again through Wales in the [long, bank-holiday] weekend. There was only one qualified pilot, but we had both a navigator and a radio-operator on board. Actually we didn't switch on the wireless at all, so we had two GPS competent navigators - who had the grace to operate in turn rather than offering conflicting alternatives.  On the way home, the active-duty navigator started making, increasingly loud, noises about The Pembokeshire Pasty & Pie Company [L above] which has been operating in Tenby these last ten years.

Accordingly, we peeled off the main road and rumbled into Tenby - tums a-rumbling anyway because of all the hot meat pie talk from the back-seat. We parked close to the centre of town and wandered around buying toffee and welshcakes for the folks back home and suddenly there we were right in front of the PP&P Co. I strode in with
"We've come a long way, so these had better be good"
"Just how far have you come?"
"From the A477" which, at 8km, sounds a little less dramatic.

We ordered a couple of mutton and potato traditional welsh pasties and one vegetarian equivalent and went down to a bench near the beach and started our scoff. These things are clearly hand-made: Megacorp QC wouldn't allow for such failures in the pastry envelope or slightly burned bits of leaked filling. But it was all the better for that touch of authentico. I think the lads who started the company had dreams of creating a chain across Wales and across the World but as far as I can see that never happened. Which is fine. Make the foodies get out and find the good stuff.

Talking of Foodies and the Good Stuff, I'll tell you about a new food and photo blog called Nisa's Kitchen mmmmmm Good.