Sunday, 5 January 2020

Oxford, my Oxford



It’s the end of a year and the new one has a great ring to it: 2020. That’s pronounced twenny-twenny if you cultivate the currently trendy glottal stop – or, if like me you doan’ speak proper. Looking back over twenny-nine’een I think how lucky I am to live in this great ci’ty with its history, fine buildings, good pubs, live music and free lec’ures.

Enough of that, it’s the lectures I want to reminisce about. I probably go to two or three a week when I and the students are in residence (not many outside of term time). They span a universe of subjects from politics to geology, quantum computing to genetics. Here’s a few that have stuck in my memory from last year.

A very topical one held at the Martin School was entitled ‘How China will save the planet’. That brought them out – or was it the free wine following the lecture (happens sometimes)? The lecturer shocked us by saying that China has the most solar panels in the world. What’s more China has the most wind generators in the world. But then again he told us that China burns more coal than any other country in the world. Actually, he told us, their use of coal had been declining, but economic incentives to encourage that were removed and it has risen again. I have seen piles of the stuff lying about in the streets of some Chinese cities.

Then there was the lecture by the Geology Group on the origin of plant roots. There were very few of us there for some reason but I found it fascinating. Most fossils are derived from quite large things of course, but roots, especially pre-historic roots are thin and wispy, hardly likely to become fossilized. But there is a fine grained rock called chert in which fossilized plants have been found in extraordinary detailed form – particularly in Scotland. This provides views of root formation from the Devonian period some 400 million years ago and provided some strong theories of how plants evolved roots .It might sound a dull subject, but with a good speaker and many colourful slides it was fascinating.

Around the same time there were a couple of lectures which updated the whole subject of human migration out of Africa. The lectures were intent on combining knowledge gained from the fossil record with that available from the analysis of DNA. They introduced me to the term anatomically modern humans (us) and how our genetic make up contains DNA from other extinct human groups such as the Neanderthal, which I knew of, but also the Denisovan which was new to me and contributes as much as 5% to the DNA in Asians, including, presumably, my half Taiwanese grand-children.

Another lecture addressed time: its measurement over the ages from the basic egg-timer to today’s cesium clocks which are accurate to one second in 150 million years! The lecturer was quite old, which sort of befits the lecture, but his lecture was bang up to date. He told us that all the measures that we use in everyday life, like the meter or kilogram are derived in some way from the measure of time and other constants of nature. Disappointing really, I always like the idea that that there was a rod and a ball which standardized these things in a triple locked cellar somewhere near Paris.

Other lectures covering everything from the gig economy, to fracking to Brexit filled many pages of my indecipherable notes and maybe, just maybe, improved my understanding of the world in 2019.
In conclusion don’t forget to listen out for the glottal stop in twenny-twenny. Still not sure what it is? Laager drinkers can try the Elocution Bar within my website pub for elucidation.

Tuesday, 3 December 2019

Rewilding: Green or Greener


Yes, I’ve learned a new word. I hated it at first: my normal reaction to hearing a new word is revulsion and deep suspicion that somewhere in the OED there is already a perfectly good word with the same meaning. But then I realised that we are rewilders and this new word has swiftly been added to my vocabulary!

Since we managed to buy the field behind our 
house in the Cotswolds we have planted many trees, hedge plants and wildflowers and I have created a pond. I had been feeling a little guilty about owning a few hectares and not farming it productively, but now I find that as a rewilder I am actually part of the growing army who claim to be saving the planet! Gosh. And there’s more: I am one of the few people who, during trips, collects their own urine, brings it home and pours it into the compost bin! I know you do not want to know the details of that so let’s just recall, and slightly rephrase, the words of the Yorkshireman from the Fast Show: “I’m considerably greener than you”. 

In fairness we were green before the word was ambushed by conservationists.  We dutifully took our old newspapers and magazines to a place that recycled them, we grew a lot of our own food, why, at one time we kept goats, pigs, chickens and sheep on our smallholding where we planted hundreds of trees. We also composted, manured and ploughed the fields and scattered. Yet, somewhere along the line we have developed an antipathy towards the near religious zeal of many of the greenies and hearty dislike for the Green Party’s sole MP. How has this arisen?

For one thing, though always concerned by my own, often grudging, use of the air transport, I am constantly amazed at the vast number of activists who fly to conservation conferences. Also I began to sense that the core activists have agendas which are not centered on conservation. My personal belief is that the problems caused by technology will be solved by technology – not by zealots who are anti-technology, have strong beliefs in controlled economies, collectivism and the like and imagine a paradisal society of low population living close to nature yet with all the benefits of modern medicine. They reject the potential technologies of ocean cloud whitening, carbon capture or fusion, yet embrace a future where the planet is densely covered in ugly, destructive wind turbines and solar farms. What’s more they delight in a future imagined by a sixteen year old child of high intelligence but little experience or breadth of knowledge and are often vegans with a wish for us all to live amongst soya bean plantations without a cow, sheep or pig in sight.

Yes we are rewilders and in the pub I only drink real ale (no added CO2). But I’m sure we can do better. Less travel, less meat, scrap the diesel motor caravan and buy an electric version, etc, etc. Then again perhaps I can offset my warming sins with our rewilding activities on the field? Is that permitted?

Wednesday, 16 October 2019

Being well-read

At least ten years ago, probably more, I went on a literary tour of Oxford, a tour I nowadays enjoy leading. It was organised by Writers in Oxford of which I was an active, now inactive, member, and conducted by Peter, an independent guide who worked, and still works, through Blackwell’s the famous bookshop in the centre of the city. That bookshop is claimed to have the largest underground display of books in the whole of Europe: so many words, so many sentences, paragraphs, chapters and of course trees. Our group were not very impressed by the tour and, after it had ended, we walked away chatting about this and that. It was then that one of the more pleasant lady members of what we then called WinO said pleasantly, “Rob is the least well-read person that I know”. I was taken aback rather than offended and responded by asking if she had read the books of Douglas Kennedy, whose novels I was reading at the time. She had not and had not heard of him. I could have gone on by mentioning a long string of science fiction authors who had fed my hungry mind through teenage and beyond, or asked whether she had read everything that George Orwell had written and so on and on.  But this would not have changed her mind. She assumed that I had not read the books that she had read, and also, probably correctly, that most members of WinO would share her canon.

Where do people get their reading material from? Many, I think, read the books recommended by newspapers or magazines and thus Guardian readers would be exposed to a different choice to, say, Telegraph readers. Some are inspired by radio or TV reviews programmes, others by the short lists for famous prizes such as the Booker, and yet others by the many books that describe the books you must read before you die. And, of course, for many there is the well-established practices of bookshop browsing, visiting the local library or simply following up recommendations from friends.
Nowadays my source (as exclusively a Kindle reader) is BookBub which suits me entirely. Everyday I receive an email listing books on special offer (mostly £0.99) with a short description and a link to the book via Amazon. Mostly I reject the lot at that stage, but every now and then a book attracts me so I examine the more detailed description on Amazon and then reject, sample or buy it – mostly the former. For me this is great. I do preselect which categories of books I want to be offered, and within my categories I get some wonderful reads. What especially attracts me is that it is all so random: no political, sexual, trendiness, geographical, or intellectual bias as far I can tell.

I read a lot when I’m in Spain, especially now that my main building project over here is complete. Currently I am reading a grand overview of human history, a book on factfulness and a fascinating autobiography by Frank Gardner of Middle East reporting fame.  I have recently finished the riveting account of Alfred Wallace’s nine year expedition to the Malay Archipelago and plan to follow in some of his footsteps next year. And whilst travelling I have also read a couple of good novels: one for the second time – a first for me.

So, am I well-read? Well, I certainly wish that I was as an author, but as a reader it all depends on who is asking the question. I certainly do read a lot, and widely - which is why if I suddenly lost all of my possessions one of the first things that I would miss would be my Kindle – followed by my smartphone, from which I can also access my Kindle store of books.

Monday, 30 September 2019

An everyday story of (Spanish) country folk


It’s so hot here in La Fresneda on the final Sunday of September that I am sitting in our old stone house as far from the windows as possible, writing. Actually I should be pursuing my latest project down at the huerto which involves digging a fairly deep hole in dried clay and rock, but at 30 degrees plus on this day of rest writing seems infinitely preferable. When I do complete my hole in the ground I plan to construct a large concrete settling pan in it that will hopefully precipitate out the sand and dust suspended in the water delivered by our irrigation channel. I will then connect up my network of tubes that drip feed our fruit and nut trees so that I can leave here confident that the pipes will not block while I’m away.

As the sun beats down on the golden limestone walls of our village, all is quiet at present. Though the two clocks compete in ringing the hour and half hour, the church bells have ceased their insistent ringing and believers have or have not answered the call. Most people are indoors for the afternoon preparing a heavy lunch to be followed by a soothing siesta. But the two bars will remain open as they compete for the odd tourist who might wander in. We love to sit outside one or other of the two bars of an evening. They are situated so conveniently on the village’s splendid plaza and there, as the locals ebb and flow, we can create our fictional version of La Fresneda.

This time we have been away for almost a year so some changes are inevitable. Vincente, who runs our favourite bar, has lost his wife. We are told that she went off with another man during the boat crossing from Barcelona to Mallorca, but I do not know if that is true – anyway her buxom presence is no more. And next door there has been an even bigger change: Ramon and Montse, whom I have written about in previous blogs, are no longer the proprietors! Oddly enough they are still hanging around as if no one has told them that their head waiter has usurped their position. He is the brother of the ex-shepherd and poet, Juli, and has a strong predilection towards moving the tables and chairs around in his section of the plaza. We knew the two brothers’ father and mother who lived nearly opposite the other bar, but they have both passed on.

When I write ‘knew’ I exaggerate. We ‘know’ lots of people in La Fresneda in a ‘hello, goodbye, how are you’ sort of way – but beyond that the language barrier drops and we have to rely on other sources of news. One of those sources should be the ‘pregon’ which I have written about a number of times in the past. Whilst we were sitting in the plaza observing and fictionalising the other night, the lanky town clerk came along on his, much too small for him, scooter. He whistled, waved and nodded to all and sundry then slipped into the town hall which impressively terminates the plaza. Within a few minutes passionate ‘jota’ music flooded the streets of La Fresneda carried by the network of speakers in each and every street and was accompanied by the usual howling of dogs who dislike the sound. The music stopped abruptly and was replaced by the clerk’s calm voice as he read out some item of news. Mostly these announcements tell us that the regular market is coming to the plaza and lists every item that will be offered for sale. On this occasion we believe the hot news concerned the closure of the plaza to traffic for the weekend, as happens every weekend.

Earlier in the week the loudspeakers crackled, then, instead of the expected jota music, we heard the plaintive chanting of monks. While this is playing the dogs do not howl and silence descends followed by the sad announcement of the death of someone in the village. These occur quite often, but on this occasion I though I picked up the name Antonio from the announcement and feared that the ex-mayors father who we ‘know’ very well had expired. However, the next day as I passed through the plaza on my motorbike, there he was, so some other Antonio has died. He will be buried within a day or so of his passing as is the custom here.

Shocks occur. Recently whilst walking down to the plaza we passed the door of the cellar of Manuel, a near neighbour. There was a loud shout and we turned to see him displaying the biggest pair of onions I have ever seen! They were the size of cannon balls, yet perfectly formed and trimmed. Meanwhile there is an almost complete lack of almonds this year: one of the area’s main crops. On the other hand we are dining regularly on our own fresh grapes and delicious figs. The mayor has been ousted! She has not been in place for very long, but was recently trounced in an alliance between two minority parties. This is a great pity, I liked her and she spoke perfect English. And to add to all of this the ruined houses that have gradually crumbled away for years at the top of the village have been demolished.

Life for us here can be compared to living in Ambridge, the fictional town in the radio soap the Archers, but with one major difference – everyone here speaks in a foreign language which we have not mastered.