Solitary confinement

Dau.I "The Book" came to care for her parents a tuthree weeks ago. Her male parent was behaving strangely and the family were concerned about his stability. It was good to have a good pair of caring hands on site, not least because of an elder-accident that needed attention. In her mind, read a good book is a pretty good solution for many forms of mental disequilibrium, and I guess she didn't lick this up off the stones. Accordingly, she lent me her copy of How to Be a Good Creature: A Memoir in Thirteen Animals by Sy Montgomery. Montgomery is bankable having written a good many books where she has hung out with field biologists and written about what field research is like and how much it is likeable. Quite likeable, is the answer and Montgomery could have been a competent scientific researcher [tenacity, patience, resilience, painstaking] if she didn't prefer writing about the animals in a breezy, intelligent and accessible style. How To Be is a consciously attractive old-style book: untrimmed page edges; rubrics for each section; generous margins ; quirky colophons in red at the header and footer. You don't get that generous treatment by a big publisher [Houghton Mifflin] unless you are, as I say, bankable. Montgomery is one of very few authors who is actually support themselves by what they write.

If you detect a tinge of snottiness from me about writing poety books about science rather than doing, like, actual science, it is because you are well-tuned to emotional baggage . . . not to say hypocrisy. If I was a real scientist, I would have seen a lot more of my scientific papers through the peer-review process. Instead, I crapped out far too often because I lacked finish. On the other hand, I've written thousands of 500-800 word Blobs about all sort of aspects of the scientific process. If I got even 10c-a-word for my efforts, I wouldn't now be driving a Yaris. I guess we work in the same science-lite field. The other thing we have in common (apart from being born in the 1950s) is that we are both service brats with WWII veteran fathers.

The first chapter is about her first puppy acquired when she was The General's Daughter living on a US Army base in the 1960s. After that we are introduced to a trio of emus; an enormous hog; a huge tarantula; a ruthless weasel; 'nother dog; a pair of tree kangaroos; another dog, an octopus; a one-eyed dog. I think that adds up to 13, but I may have left some of the dramatis personnae on the cutting room floor. The conceit is that the unhuman animals have taught the author to live a better life. Not least by developing compassion and empathy for her companions. That's fair enough and worthy of attention but there's an under-current of inequality in many of the relationships described. I'm in the process of marshaling my arguments about the ethics of 'owning' animals but there is something really sketch about the interactions with "Octavia" the octopus.

The New England Aquarium in Boston has acquired a succession of Giant Pacific Octopus Enteroctopus dofleini, [prev Octopus apollyon] because it is a big draw for visitors. A number of books have come out recently pushing the idea that, for all their being invertebrates, cephalopod molluscs are a smart as [insert your favorite mammal here]. I am agnostic about octopus IQ but IF the are as clever as an ass, THEN they should not be isolated in a cage [or a 2,000 litre tank]. The Irish Donkey Sanctuary will not allow people to foster one donkey - you have to take two. For donkeys, in Ireland, in the 21stC; solitary confinement is considered a cruel and unusual punishment. If you think that you're getting a handle on normal octopus behaviour when the creature is so constrained, then you are delusional. It looks like octopus as fashion accessory. harrrrumph! I've had something to say about octopodes in the past including my own contribution towards presenting an octopus to the public . . . after it killed itself.

That is forever England

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field.

That is for ever England

The Soldier by Rupert Brook (1915)

Within a month of the publication of this quintessentially romantic Edwardian take on soldiering, Brooke was dead and buried on the island of Skyros as an early, septicaemia, casualty from the Gallipoli campaign. He didn't last long enough to see most of his friends blown to buggery in Flanders or Turkey which might have taken some of the gloss of his poetry.  WB Yeats characterised Brooke as ""the handsomest young man in England" and, at Cambridge before the war,  he broke the hearts of men and women including George "Everest" Mallory. Alfred "Oscar Wilde's Nemesis" Douglas was scathingly dismissive of Brooke and all his poetry stood for.

St Peter's Cathedral, Likoma [L] is a bit like Brooke; planted in a corner of a foreign field, trying a bit too hard to be English and making no concessions to the actual island location in which they can be found. It's rather cheaper and easier to get to Skyros than to Likoma which is a tropical island in Lake Malawi. We've been there recently. If your nose for geogoddity is the least bit like mine, you may have been intrigued by two enclaves in the section of the lake allocated to Mozambique. One of those black lines surrounds the island of Likoma; the other encircles Chizumulu; and they are both exclaves of Malawi surrounded by foreign waters.

The cathedral was built by the UMCA Universities Mission to Central Africa which answered a call from David Livingstone 'to help Christianize the people of The Dark Continent and do their best to oppose slavery. This group eventually settled on the Lake in 1884 because the climate was less devastatingly malarial and denguey: you can't convert the heathen if you are dead. The investment of British money, British missionaries and British architectural standards was key to establishing British hegemony over these islands despite them being much closer to the Portuguese/Mozambique shore.

The Portuguese colonial government sat down with their British counter-parts in the 1950s to thrash out the common ground and iron out any difficulties between the two empires. They agreed to a series of drainage and flood control works around the Shiré River, the plug-'ole of the Lake, which drains from Lake Malawi and eventually joins the Zambesi deep in Mozambique. In exchange for owning a third of the cost of these public works, the Portuguese got access to the fishing up to the median line of the lake . . . excluding the Likoma archipelago.  These signed-off economic and political agreements between colonial powers established the default position on the boundaries for the independent states of Malawi and Mozambique. Protestant Missions converted 60% of the people of Malawi.

Dig it and dung it

As a nipper, my father went to school in Mourne Grange [Cricket XI R] where young Protestant boys could be taught the three Rs and a bit of Latin to fit them to become patriarchs or die early in a malarial outpost of empire. There was a good bit of bible, and Cranmer's Book of Common Prayer about the education. Although, to be fair, Mrs Carey the headmaster's wife, read chapters of novels to the lads on Sunday evening after evensong on church. One visiting dignitary was asked to read the lesson from Luke Ch 13, which happens to contain this sentence "And he answering said unto him, Lord, let it alone this year also, till I shall dig about it, and dung it". The visitor was, momentarily, non-plussed but recovered with "And he answering said unto him, Lord, let it alone this year also, till I shall dig about it, and dung <harrrump> manure it". He presumably realised that using the D word would likely precipitate a gale of suppressed giggles through the poo-minded congregation.

I was reminded of this over the weekend because I spend a couple of hours scooping sheep-shit up from the haggard [which had been used a night-nursery and delivery ward for several days in April]. If the sheep aren't grazing it, I'm meant to mow it and mowing <fffrrrrPPPT> sheep pats is only amusing the first couple of times. Furthermore, all that pre-digested grass and coliforms does wonders for the kitchen compost stirred into the mix.

There is demand for compost as we are now planting out some vegetables to eat later in the Summer.  There was a morning frost on 5th and 6th May which would have fritzed any beet and chard seedlings if they'd already been planted out. We have a 3 bin rotation [R] which converts kitchen scraps + nettles + grass-mowings + a bit of straw into a fine friable loam. It is a fine judgment as to how much work I want to put into it. The worms and the lactic acid bacteria should do the heavy lifting but I find we get a better product if I turn the first, least digested, bin over by forkfuls at least once. This aerates the 'matter' which may or may not be good; but it also mixes a clot of straw up with some over-heated grass-mowings to restore a homeostatic equilibrium that makes the worms' work easier. It takes about 40 minutes to mindfully steadily turn one bin into the next. It takes a little less time to spoon the garden-ready compost into bags because a) there is less of it - there is a plume of CO₂ over compost heaps from the energetic exercising of microbes b) there are no tangles to catch the fork.

Having bagged the friable of bay-3 and transferred the contents of bay-2 into the vacated space, I had a nice cup of tea. I returned for my upper-body work-out by heaving bay-1's material into the middle bin. This has the additional benefit of putting the most recent, green, tangly, material to the bottom of the pile and mixing it up with more rotted stuff. I'd take a photo, except why bother: the composting area looks exactly like it did last year except the plastic bags of loam are a different colour.

And it's worth putting the verse from the Gospel of Luke into the context of the Parable of the Barren Fig Tree. Which I interpret to mean that lecturers can easily write off the class cut-up as an unteachable pain-in-the-arse BUT a bit of care attention can often bring out the best in unlikely people. Not everyone is cut out for academic work but there are other ways in which folk can demonstrate their worth - to themselves and to their community. That's the take of a once-upon-a-teacher; your mileage in dealing with troublesome people will certainly vary.

Ringing true

As the Guardian of the Ringstone, I've had many occasions to talk about the technique of splitting stone with an elegant lack of effort by understanding the crystalline structure of the rock and using the mechanical advantage of [a hammer and] wedges. A wedge being a form of lever where a long easy travel in one direction is complemented by a small powerful force at right angles. As Archimedes said, you can in theory move the very earth with a long enough lever and a place to stand. I've been a teensy bit obsessive about this craft on The Blob. One of the keys is to practice until you don't have to look at your hands, With a hammer and cold chisel, you must have faith in the hammer; if you check up on it, t'bugger will hit your chisel hand out of spite. I think it's probably true that, like Zatoichi, a blind rock-splitter would be as good as their sighted peers . . . not least because they will listen / hear better to know which wedge needs to♬k-to♬k rather than to♬k. 

If the ringing in the stone conveys important information about the invisible progress inside, the same is, Tally Ho apparently, true of the sounds made by hammer on caulking iron. You can hear whether the oakum is tight in the seam. As the caulking progresses - best carried out with a meitheal - the hull gets drum-tight and sounds it. If the hull isn't drum-tight, the ship will take in water and the mariners will have to pump instead of dancing horn-pipes in the off watch. As we saw in February and in contrast to Gertrude Stein's "a rose is a rose is a rose", hammers is a broad church to comprehend very large differences in purpose. Caulking hammer's head is made of a hard heavy wood the business end of which is bound by a metal band. The head is split along it's length to better absorb the shock of each blow and protect the user from white-finger and other repetitive-shock injuries. A by-product of the design is that it acts like a tuning fork and the pitch of the hammer will change as the working face gets worn away and the peculiar g=head gets shorter.

In the cited video, Leo makes the case that the caulkers mallet is not retro hang-over from by-gone times. It is an exquisite tool designed by insight, trial and error over many centuries: each part works synergistically not only with the other parts but also with the operators hand. That was my experience when I was using a tradesman's hammer in a peculiar craft. The binding of an old book is a thing of beauty even if you can't read. What I learned over 4 years of Tuesday evenings in the bindery of the university library is that each aspect on the binding enhances the function of the whole. The book opens to be read; but stands upright on a shelf; it can be packed tight; a single index finger can pull it from the shelf without destroying the spine. Leather, acid-free paper, cotton-thread and a bodkin, cardboard and cloth if engineered together properly [a hammer helps!] will be fit-for-function for 1,000 years. You can't say that about your iPad or my Yaris.

Caprivi Strip

I tell ya b'ys, cigars have a lot to answer for. In the 19thC a lot of patriarchal silverbacks got round tables in Europe and mapped out parts of the world where none of them had ever been; all quite certain that they were doing good for their country. British patriarchs additionally deluded themselves that they were also doing good for the people who finished on at least one side of any line they drew on the map. Anglophone writing of history asserts that their Belgian [Casement] and German counterparts were more inclined to other the natives if not actually deny their humanity. Whatever the motivations, it is undeniable that lines were drawn on maps which were largely terra incognita. There is no truth in the urban legend that the Verebinsky Bypass, a kink in the railway line between Petersburg and Moscow, represents the Ruler's finger protruding over the the edge of the rule.

A few days ago I was writing about the button [Heligoland] on Bismarck's trousers [Zanzibar] and hinted that the Caprivi Strip was part of the same negotiation. The cartoon [L] of Southern Africa may remind old-time Blobbers of a similar outlandish shape in South-Central Asia which I characterised as "the map of Afghanistan features a strange scut tail reaching East to fondle the backside of China". The resulting Wakhan Corridor is 300km long but only 15km wide in places. The Caprivi strip is bigger: 450km long and 30km wide. The narrow shaft of of the dick strip has those suspiciously ruler-straight lines which indicate that neither side has had boots on the ground or theodolites in their saddle-bags. Here be a bit more detail:

In 1890, when the Heligoland-Zanzibar Treaty was signed, the German political zeitgeist was shifting its focus from boots on the ground [and pickelhaube on the head] in Europe to a colonial empire across the sea, like the Brits had. "Face" and optics were at least as important as economics. In 1887, sod was turned for the Kiel Canal, a route that would connect Baltic and North Sea Germany avoiding the Skagerrak. The Kaiser opened the canal in June 1895. Water transport was definitely in the air when the diplomats were throwing shapes around the HZT table. The German delegation mused Wouldn't it be nice to have a direct connexion between our South-West Africa [NM now] and our East Africa [TZ] colonies?

The British side realised that this gave them an extra card to play and, after a lot of blather and bluster and show of reluctance, graciously pulled back the skirts of Botswana to allow German SW Africa to get a sniff of the mighty Zambesi river where it turned East at the border with Zambia. This gave the German Empire about 100km of prime river-front property in the middle of Africa. They were delighted to have put one over on the Brits. The Brits were beside themselves with glee because they knew the Zambesi fell off a cliff 40km downstream of the new German territory at the Victoria Falls. No amount of locks would get German steamers past that.

Plonkety plonk

 "Il meglio è l'inimico del bene" an old Italian proverb quoted by Voltaire means Perfection is the enemy of the good enough. Which resonates for me, as an evolutionary biologist: successful species are a kludge of attributes that work better than those of competitors despite being a long way from perfect. Think the recurrent pharyngeal nerve, or male nipples, the phalanges of your pinkie toe . . .

The Western World has a contemptible obsession with stardom: there is only one [Zatopek] winner of the 10,000m; only one Harry Potter; very few millionaire golfers, soccer players or film actors. In horse racing it's ever and always "Eclipse first, the rest nowhere". The difference between first and second in many fields is not statistically significant or reproducible. Run the race or exam next week and the order will be different: the consequence should be that everyone over a certain threshold is deemed to be good enough . . . and a lot better than slobby old me sitting on the sofa swigging tinnies.

I'm not a black&white bloke, indeed my last true name means 'grey'. My sister briefly shared a flat in London in the 80s with a woman who went on to become one of the top wine-tasters in The World. So I'm inclined to believe that there are people out there who practice enough, and are sensitive enough, to discern subtle differences among wines. Me, I'll trust someone who makes a living visiting hundreds of co-ops and vineyards for LIDL. If the company is going to order 1000s of cases at €100/case then that product is not going to be drain-cleaner . . . it will be good enough for €5.75. In the range €5.95 to €15.95 it's all going to be a matter of taste. I am told by my brother, who's been there, that €50/bottle wines are something else entirely but I'm on the pension now, so I'm not going there.

I wrote a few years ago [whoop, whoop, numbers alert] that competitive wine-tasting is largely flim-flam, boondoggle and blackguardry. IF the label is soaked off or the wine is decanted THEN most people can't identify a wine to grape-variety, let alone terroir. I was delirah therefore to discover the 2018 Master Sommelier Exam Cheating Scandal. It is a tale of hubris [overweening arrogance inviting disaster] and huckster. Who knew that there was a Court of Master Sommeliers, Americas (CMSA)? Who cared enough to let it be known that there were fewer Master Sommeliers than astronauts? Whose sense of self is so tied up in the business that they actually append "MS" to their business cards?
Answer: people whose interest in wine is conflated with their interest in money.

In 2018, and not for the first time, there were shenanigans and insider dealings in the process of accepting new members into The Inner Circle. The examination is in three parts, each section of which costs €1,000 to take . . . with no guarantee of success. Indeed only 1 candidate in 12 passes through the ordeal. It reads like the "servitor" section of the exam is licenced hazing by the judges AND is regressively snobbish in its 19thC ideals about what a Sommelier is. For reasons beyond comprehension, in 2018 one of the judges send out a txt to candidates hinting at which six wines would be on that year's tasting panel: Subject: Heads up // "PG, CndP". Which being interpreted was pinot gris / grigio & Châteauneuf-du-Pape. 

tl;dr The Court of Master Buffoons decided to cancel the certs of all the successful candidates that year on the assumption that any and all of them could have been given the Heads-Up. Like a typically patriarchal, smug, self-aggrandizing coterie of bluffers they refused to have a proper investigation or an external audit to their arbitrary and capricious decision. The Optics are terrible and the lawyers are rubbing the hands.

St Julian's Day

Today, as promised yest, we watched the "sunrise" from St Fursey's Altar. Like Whistler's Mother it was an arrangement in Grey and Black:

It was all rather wonderful: a bit of drizzle, a brief sting on hail, occasional sulphurous roils across the hills to the South but mostly a gradually lifting [and unlifting] grey. Good to be alive; time to think of those who felt they'd be better off dead. Salut Paul!

St Julian of Norwich, her day: "al shal be wel & al shal be wel & al manner of thyng shal be wele"

• Kika [R, L] from Sailing Uma picking trash for a day
• with InTheSameBoat a Norwegian clean-up charity
• What rainfall looks like
• The Belgians épatent les Françaises with €2½
• Colette goes back.
• The movie
• Killian Jornet runner Up tops out twice
• Composure found by OzzyMan
• Re-planting estate trees in Norfolk
• KISS that veggie soup