Showing posts with label Carnegie Medal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Carnegie Medal. Show all posts

Saturday, 24 September 2016

Where Did That Phobia Go?

So there I was, mug of coffee in hand, feet up on the coffee table, watching a documentary about life behind the scenes at the zoo. There was stuff about the tiger-keepers and the elephant-keepers and the gorilla-keepers, all very interesting, and then the scene switched to the spider-wrangler. He was trying to persuade two large tarantulas to mate without the female eating the male, always a ticklish situation.
Flanders and Swann, Wikimedia Commons
          I watched attentively as he let the spiders walk from one of his hands to the other, as they sized each other up. Then the thought crossed my mind: Aren't I supposed to have a phobia about spiders?
          I always did have, for as far back as I can remember. My mother hated them. My aunt loathed them even more. I have myself shuddered with loathing at the mere sight of them and, previously, had to look away if one came on a screen near me. I made diversions through pet-stores, to avoid the glass tanks of spiders. I quickly turned pages to avoid pictures of them. I dreaded, like Flanders and Swann, meeting one in the bath. (Warning for those following the link: the video with this song has pictures of several big spiders.)
          So it was quite a surprise to find myself watching these big hairy spiders cavorting about while feeling absolutely nothing except mild interest.
          My 'phobia' was pretty mild as phobias go. I've heard of people being trapped in their flat because of a spider on the wall above the door. They dared not pass under the beast and had to phone for help. I've never been that bad. I would not be dictated to by an invertebrate, not even by a spider the size of a dinner plate. I would get mad and have at it with the yard brush.
         Though an acquaintance who lived in Australia for a time once flipped down her sun-visor and deposited a huge spider, which had been hiding behind it, into her lap. She screamed and drove off the road, overturning her car. As she hung upside down in the seat-belts, thankfully unhurt, all she could think was: Where is it? If that happened to me, even now, I think the result would be exactly the same. Looking at an expected spider is one thing. Having a huge one unexpectedly dropped in your lap is quite another.
        Previously, I could have walked under a door with a spider above it, but not without a cold grue. And I had always thought, once you had those feelings about something, you were stuck with them for life unless you took active measures to overcome them. I had done nothing.
         There wasn't even any sense of this loathing for spiders fading away. One day I couldn't look at an image of one without hiding my eyes. The next, it seemed, I was happily watching them disport all their eight legs about the place.
          Perhaps this lessening of fear had something to do with all the little black spiders in my garden.
Spot the sparrowpa
I've been doing a lot of gardening work over the past year, and every square inch seems to have its own little black, square spider, which scuttles off for its life when my shadow falls on it. I say 'square' because they are quite compact little things which could easily be drawn inside a square. I've seen so many of them, so often, that I've grown quite fond of them. Perhaps they've been therapeutic.
          But I also find myself leaning close to examine the markings on much bigger, leggier specimens that, not long ago, would have horrified me. I now find their shape quite elegant and beautiful when previously I found it nothing but repulsive.
          I'm not saying that I'm keen to have a tarantula sitting in my hand or crawling up my arm, like the zoo's spider-wrangler, who was just showing off. I think that's taking things a bit far. But still... How or why do life-long feelings of loathing and repulsion simply pack up and leave one day, without their owner even noticing?

          I am curious about other's experience. Has anyone else suddenly found a fear - whether it's of heights, birds, open spaces or vegetables - suddenly almost vanish like this?
          And if so, what do you think lessened it?

Saturday, 10 September 2016

September Garden




All these photos were taken in my garden. I went up the path, a couple of days ago, to throw scraps on the compost, and this surprise was waiting for me.



Close up, I think they look like little toothed monsters.

A pot of cherry-pie by my kitchen door has been attracting bees as big as my thumb - but none stayed around to have their picture taken.


The scent is as warm and sweet as cherry-pie.


The bees on the climbing hydrangea were more obliging.


I never liked the blue and pink bush hydrangeas my mother grew, but this one is a beauty. And it smells of honey.


I love the way these leaves hold the raindrops, but the plant is a thug. It's due for a severe weeding.


No takers this year, though it has been investigated. Perhaps next, when the ivy's grown a little more.



The pond continues to be a joy. Waterboatmen scull across it, hoverflies touch down on the lily-pads, spiders trot over the surface. (They have hydrophobic feet, I have learned, much to my surprise.) A large family of sparrows visits daily, to take communual baths and to drink.

But this, my favourite flower in the whole garden, won't take a good picture.


It's a hawksbill geranium and I love its simple, clear shape. Even more, I love its colour which is a deep, rich, slightly purple blue. But in every photo I've taken, with three different cameras, it looks almost white. To get it to look blue, above, I've had to fiddle with colour balance and contrast, and it doesn't do this beautiful flower justice at all. I can only assure you that, in the petal, it's a very pure and beautiful blue, deeper than sky-blue but nowhere near plum. It delights me every time I see it and I'm sorry that I can't share it here.


Saturday, 25 June 2016

History Of The Naked Ape

Reviewed by Susan Price
Warning: This blog is much longer than usual, but it reviews a fascinating book.



          Why does the human race - supposedly intelligent - keep fighting wars, despite all that has been said against the habit?
          Why do empires, such as the Roman and the British, periodically rise and then fall or fade away?
           Why do leaders such as Alexander, Napoleon and Hitler periodically arise to lead their people into war - and why do the people willingly, even eagerly, follow them?
          Why has Europe been, for centuries, a 'cockpit of war' and revolution? 
          Can the EU prevent such 'Wars of Civilisation' in the future?
          Why is the continent of Africa riven with war?
          Why are so many vicious, murderous political gangs - I could say 'IRA' or  'Baader Meinhof' or 'Daesh' - drawn from the nicely brought up and spoken boys and girls of the middle-classes, who, on the face of it, have comfortable lives and little need to fight for 'freedom'?
          And why, in every part of the world and at all times, have the poor always had many more children than the rich, despite being able to afford them less? Why does contraception and education make little difference to this trend?

          All these many questions, and more, can be answered very simply. Niche-Space and Breeding Strategy.
          This theory is argued by Paul Colinvaux in his 'The Fates of Nations.' He was an ecologist, and The Fates of Nations answers all these questions by applying the rules of ecology, not to salmon or brown bears or wildebeeste, but to that other animal, the Naked Ape.

          Colinvaux defines 'niche-space' as 'a specific set of capabilities for extracting resources, for surviving hazards and for competing; coupled with a corresponding set of needs.' It describes not only the amount of physical space an animal requires to live naturally and healthily, but also the animals' requirements in terms of climate, type and amount of food, type and size of home or lair and so on.
         Some niche-spaces are larger than others. An acre of land can support many hundreds of deer, if there is enough water and vegetation. It gives them all they need.
          However, that same lush, well-watered acre would not support a single tiger. As a dedicated carnivore, a tiger needs access to many, many deer to feed itself. Deer run away from tigers and many are too fast to be caught. Also, all deer become skittish when there's a predator about. In Yellowstone, after the reintroduction of wolves, deer stopped standing about, grazing like cows. Even when the wolf-pack was in an different, distant part of the park, the deer continued to move on frequently, snatching a few mouthfuls here and there, but never staying in one place for very long.
         So a tiger needs to be able to shift ground frequently, to find more unsuspecting prey. Every single tiger needs a large territory, which it will defend from others.
          As Colinvaux put in in the memorable title of another of his books, this is Why Big Fierce Animals Are Rare. Long before humans became a plague on the earth, before tigers' habitat was remotely threatened, long before they could be efficiently slaughtered for the supposed medicinal value of their bones, even then, tigers were still rare compared to deer or mice or strawberry plants. They were rare because they had a comparatively wide niche-space. Making a living as a tiger demands a lot of resources in terms of space and prey animals.
          Colinvaux calculates that when humans were living their natural, Ice-Age life, as hunter-gatherers, they were about as common as bears. That is, more common than tigers, because bears and humans are omnivorous and will stoop to eating fruit, vegetables and grubs, but a lot rarer than deer or mice.

That's Niche-Space. Then there's Breeding Strategy.
          Every species that has ever lived has always had the same breeding strategy: to have as many off-spring as it's possible to raise to adulthood.
          For most animals, this is more or less fixed, so much so that naturalists can write of the 'typical' litter or clutch size for a particular species. This is because an animal's niche-space is usually fixed. As Colinvaux puts it, a squirrel, or any other kind of animal, is 'highly tuned to a very specialized profession.' A squirrel cannot decide that, hey, it would rather be a tiger - any more than a tiger can decide that it would like to try out life as a dolphin.
          Evolution has therefore roughly fixed the optimum number of off-spring an animal can have. A very good year may result in birds producing a second clutch of eggs or other animals having a second litter, but that's an exception. In a bad year, when the land can't support the numbers, the animals starve and the population falls. The population of predators is linked to that of their prey. A good year for mice and deer means a good year for wolves and foxes - and vice versa.

Evolution has also fixed the approach most species take to child-rearing: low-investment or high-investment. Low investment species, such as salmon, spawn and fertilise hundreds of eggs at a time. Almost all of them will be eaten, either as eggs or fry. One or two might survive and that's all that matters. The salmon might have made an almighty effort to reach its spawning place but once the eggs are laid, it troubles itself no further about its off-spring.
          High-investment species, such as bears, cats and naked apes have one or two off-spring at a time, and they invest a lot of time and effort in feeding and training them. It's a high-risk strategy because, in a bad year, the off-spring might die - or be killed to ensure the survival of older off-spring or the parents. Some animals are known to kill and eat their young if faced with a threat to their own survival. Colinvaux argues that early humans almost certainly regulated their population not only by leaving granny on the ice-flow, but by leaving junior with her. Historically, we know that people frequently abandoned children they did not think they could afford to raise.

Changing Niche Space

Animals can't change their niche-space - not by themselves, anyway. Some have become domesticated, some, such as urban foxes, have adapted to living alongside humans, but that came about as a result of human actions
          The Naked Ape, however, learned to change its niche-space, and has done so repeatedly.

The Naked Ape, by Desmond Morris
          First, they were nomadic hunter-gatherers, as common as bears. But they learned to hunt and gather in almost every part of the world - in the Europe of the Ice Ages, in the rain forest and deserts of Australia, in Africa, on Siberian tundra, in the far North of Alaska. In doing so, they increased the niche-space of their species. Instead of being limited to a local population in the tropics, or the temperate regions, naked apes spread to every part of the world except the extreme poles.
          But this spreading population was still limited by the resources available to hunter-gatherers. They followed the high-investment breeding strategy of having one or two children at a time, and spending much time rearing them. As with all other animal species, their population increased during good times, when more children were born and survived - but might crash during bad times when fewer mothers were in condition to give birth and more children died. So the world-wide population increased somewhat, but remained relatively stable.

But then, astonishingly, these animals learned to stop hunting and to herd the animals they needed - whether reindeer, or goats or cattle. They maintained the population of their prey-animals by protecting them from other predators and helping them to find food. This meant that the naked apes themselves could confidently expect to raise more children to adulthood because there was a more certain food supply. Their population increased - and increased again, because it was much less affected by bad years.
          Moving from hunter-gatherers to herders meant an increase in niche-space: more resources were available. But, as ever, the increase in resources was soon absorbed by the increased population brought about by the unchanged breeding strategy.

Not to worry, though, because herding led on to settled farming, another huge increase in niche-space. Now, not only were the prey animals kept in one place, protected and provided with food, but the neccessary plant foods were too. Food could be produced more efficiently, and also stored more efficiently when it didn't have to be carried with a nomadic group, or hidden in caches.
          These were huge changes in life-style for the naked ape - but the breeding strategy remained the same. A great many more naked apes were born to take advantage of the niche-space - but more niche-space was also being created by the emergence of city-states and a whole new way of life.
          For one, if you could produce more wealth than your neighbour, you could persuade your neighbour to do most of your work for you, in return for a share of your produce. So different classes came into existence.
          Why make your own clothes, shoes and pots when it was more efficient to pay someone else to do it, and pay them in money or kind? Some people found that they were good enough at singing or story-telling to make a living at it.
          New technologies - the smelting of metals, stone-masonry, ship-building - produced other niche-spaces, absorbing the growing population and allowing them to make a living. A governing class. A priest class. A warrior class. They were all sub-niche-spaces, all provided livings.

City State - wiki

Niche Space Runs Out

But eventually, as the population grows, there comes pressure on resources. So long as there's enough space in the world to enable more land to be cleared or mined, this isn't a problem. But if there's another growing city-state over there - and another one over there - then the solution is more difficult.
          One way of avoiding the problem of shrinking niche-space is to impose a very strict caste or class system. Most societies of Naked Ape have tried this, in some form, at many different times over the centuries. For instance, only males are allowed to do certain jobs, usually high-status jobs, while females have to find a male to support them. Or restrictions may be applied to certain ethnic or religious groups, or simply to 'a lower class' who are deemed 'untouchables' or 'serfs.' This tactic buys time, for a while, but the breeding strategy ensures that the population continues to grow - and, ironically, it's usually among the higher classes where the squeeze of narrowing niche-space is felt first and most painfully, by those children born to affluence who suddenly realise there is no space left for them in the wider, freer niche-space their parents enjoyed.

Another way out of the problem is to trade. You go to those states who are crowding your own, and you offer to exchange surplus goods with them. You can even build ships and cross the seas to trade with foreigners. This, for a while, solves the problem. It creates a source of fresh produce and creates prosperous jobs for many.
     But every increase in niche-space means an increase in population - because the breeding strategy rolls on unaltered. Every single person in these growing cities produces as many off-spring as they think they can raise. Up and up goes the population, particuarly among the poorest.

The Poor and Their Children

Why do the poor have more children, even when their more prosperous countrymen crush them into a smaller and smaller niche-space?
'Slum Tourism' - wikipedia
       Because if you live, say, on a sheet of cloth spread on a pavement, and your biggest aspiration for your children is that they eat once a day, then children are cheap. They aren't going to cost you much - indeed, it will possibly cost you more, in all sorts of ways, to prevent their birth. Children will also start earning for you in infancy, so where is the incentive to limit their number?
       If, however, you are rather better off - if your plans for your children include a nursery, then room of their own in a comfortable house, a crib, a nanny, a bed, good clothes and shoes, three or more meals a day, a good education, toys, books, music-lessons, dance-classes, training in a trade, a car (or horse) on their 18th, a good marriage (with a dowry or big wedding) a house of their own, prosperity and children of their own - well, then each child is going to cost you thousands, even tens of thousands. One way or another, you make sure you have fewer. (In ancient Greece and Rome, the well-off exposed children they didn't want to raise.) It's the well-off who sit down with pencil and paper (or Excel) and work out if they can afford a child. The poor, in this as in almost every other life-situation, just get on with it.
     Again, it's about niche-space. The niche inhabited by the poor is narrow. It affords them few choices and, as a result, they have few aspirations. But this narrow niche is cheap. It requires few resources. The people crammed into it are satisfied with little. My aunt, who grew up in a slum, has often told me that, until she won a scholarship to grammar-school and discovered that her classmates had electricity and fridges at home, she'd no idea her family were poor, since everyone else she'd known had been equally poor.

     The niche-space occupied by the better-off is wider, and increases with wealth. Indeed, Colinvaux remarks that the richer a naked ape is, the more their life includes aspects of the old hunter-gatherer life: - acres of beautiful countryside as their 'territory', travel, hunting as a pastime, dogs and horses. But although this niche is broad, offering many choices and freedoms, it is very expensive in terms of resources. It can, therefore, be occupied by far fewer than the narrow niches of the poor. The poor are like deer - hundreds to the acre. The rich become more tigerish as they grow richer. They defend their territory too.

Revolutions and the Middle-Class

Herein also lies the answer to the questions: Why are revolutions always led, not by the oppressed, but by the middle-classes? and Why are so many vicious, murderous political gangs drawn from the nicely brought up and spoken boys and girls of those middle-classes?

Delacroix - wikipedia
      The aspiring and prosperous - from the middle to the upper classes - have always had fewer children than the poor and higher aspirations for the few they have. But the more freedom and choice a niche offers, the more resources it uses and therefore, the fewer people it can support. One child will inherit, and you can give younger sons to the military and the church to find them livings. You can marry some daughters off - but still, if you want your children to remain in your social niche, there's a limit to how many you can find space for. So it's these affluent niches - wide in their choices and freedoms, but narrow in terms of numbers they can contain - which feel the pinch first and most keenly when the pressure on resources mounts.
      The very wealthy are insulated by their extreme wealth - and they also have the most resources to use, tigerishly, in defence of what they have. The Military, the Church, the Judiciary, Communications, the Means of Production - almost all of it is in their control. Threaten their position and they will close rank - hence the strong swing to the Right we are experiencing in politics now.
       The poorest are used to hardship and never expected much anyway. They're grateful to 'have a roof over their head and a loaf on the table.'
      But those caught in the middle, those who grew up expecting that their life would include a comfortable house with a big garden, an interesting, rewarding job, the wherewithal to travel and follow interests, whether it be rock-climbing or pottery - what happens when they find that they are going to have to settle for much less than their parents had? When they find that they can't get a job, can't afford a house, or a car or a holiday - or a child?
       It understandably comes as a humiliating, painful shock. And why shouldn't it? After all, nothing about the situation is their fault. They didn't choose the time they were born in, or the way they were raised. Most of them have never even heard of niche-space and breeding strategy and, even if they had, couldn't do anything about it.

When Trade Is Not Enough

So we've seen that you can increase niche-space by trade and by technological advance - because a new technology, whether it's ship-building or smelting metal, or programming computers, creates jobs.
          But, in some periods there comes a point when no new technology is coming to rescue the naked apes from their breeding strategy and trade is no longer supplying enough resources or enough profit to support the growing population. What then?
          Then it inevitably occurs to the naked ape that if, instead of trading with a particular country, if they just took the country instead, that would be more profitable.
          At any given time, there are always several ambitious apes seeking to be top ape, as apes will. If one of these ambitious apes happens to coincide with a squeeze on niche-space - well, then you have an Alexander, an Augustus, a Clive of India, a Napolean, a Hitler, all of them whole-heartedly supported by their tightly-squeezed countrymen, longing for more niche-space - which answers all those questions about war. Hitler even spoke about 'living-room.'
          Being a pacifist feels much more comfortable when your niche-space isn't too tight. (And is much more courageous when it is tight and all around you are in jingo-istic, empire-building mood.)
          These 'wars of civilisation,' Colinvaux points out, are always a stronger, more technologically advanced state grabbing a weaker (if not geographically smaller), less advanced, less organised country. Whatever high-flown reason is given, whatever excuse is put forward, it is always a straight-forward bullying snatch of land and resources by the stronger state. There has never been an example of, say, a tribe of Bushmen invading and conquering France or Britain. Barbarians took down Rome, yes - but they were, in fact, highly organised and well-equipped barbarians, quite wealthy in their own opinion - just as Genghis Khan's 'barbarians' were at a later period. In each case the 'barbarians' faced large states exhausted by their efforts to find new niche-space; states that had run out of options.

The option of war and colonisation creates niche-space not only by gaining access to resources such as food and materials at less cost - it also creates interesting and generally well-rewarded jobs for the young of the better-off. They become viceroys and governors of the colonies, merchant-traders, spice-growers, tea-planters, even missionaries. The armies needed to enforce colonisation also provide niche-space for 'the sweepings of the gutter.'
          But breeding strategy continues to do its stuff and the new niche-space gained at the cost of war is filled up by the increasing population.
         Sometimes, it takes a while. The colonisation of Australia and the Americas (and the genocide of the native civilisation,) siphoned off surplus population and relieved pressure for several centuries. 'Go West, young man.' There will never, Colinvaux remarks, be such a pressure-release valve again.

Why was Europe the 'cockpit of war?'

Because there were too many nations crammed into one land mass, their populations increasing and aspiring. Every time the pressure of falling resources was felt, another revolution or war was triggered as the prosperous classes felt the pinch and grew angry.

          To win big, final victories and establish an Empire lasting hundreds of years, as the Romans did, you have to go against less well-armed and organised opponents with a tactic they cannot withstand. Alexander won his victories with the phalanx. The Romans had the legion and the tortoise.
Wikipedia: printing press
          But in Europe was developed a piece of technology that not only created a lot of niche-space, but meant that no war-like state was going to be able to win crushing, final victories in Europe ever again:- the printing-press. Once the printing-press was invented, any new tactic was, within a few years, available to everyone else. Hence the endless round of revolutions and wars in Europe, which had no direction, not north, west, south or east, to send its restless and disappointed young and no way of winning new niche-space by winning a lasting victory over another European state.
         This is also why Africa is riven with so many wars now - and why Europe probably will be again.

Oh, but the European Common Market was created, in part, to prevent war in Europe ever happening again. I had little faith in this argument before I read The Fates of Nations. I have none now. All over Europe are nations seething with people whose niche-space has just crashed in on them, crushing them into a place where they don't want to be. Revolution and war will follow.
          In the last couple of months, the IRA have started attacks again. Daesh commit atrocities while journalists confess themselves puzzled that the boys and girls who run away to join Daesh are not only 'middle-class' but appear to know little about Islam. Nor, often, it seems, do the people who recruit them.
          That's because it's not, at bottom, about religion or politics. It never was. It is, and always was, about niche-space made tight by breeding strategy.
          Left-wingers in the UK at the moment are puzzled and despairing at the political swing to the right - by the fact that the 'Nasty Party' keeps being re-elected, despite their proving, again and again, just how nasty they are. Good-hearted people are dismayed by the increasing xenophobia, the increasing tendency to stigmatise and isolate the poor. They are distressed by the push to turn schools into academies which can refuse admission to pupils who, to be blunt, they consider not good enough and by the push to privatise the NHS, which would take us back to my great-grandparents' age, when one of their children died because sending for a doctor would have cost twelve and a half pence. Which they didn't have to spare.
          Colinvaux isn't puzzled. The shift to the right, the hardening of class-barriers, is shrinking niche-space in action. As niche-space shrinks those with the widest niche-space move, like tigers, to protect their territory. They harden their attitude, become more callous, more prejudiced and xenophobic, less open to argument or new ideas. They vote to protect their niche-space.
          As the niche-space of others contracts, that of the very wealthy becomes ever wider and more comfortable. We'll soon be back to those good old Victorian Values so beloved of the Tories - when servants were plentiful and cheap, when the lower-classes knew their place and Labour was the lowest cost of production.


Humans have changed their niche-space again and again but, like all other animals, they have never changed their breeding strategy. They stubbornly continue - as they have throughout history - to have as many children as they think they can raise to adulthood within the niche-space they occupy at the time. It's ruinous, to human society and the planet.

We now not only have as many children as we think we can raise, massively increasing demand on resources year on year on year - but we are now occupied in trying to escape death for longer and longer, in trying to ensure that infertile couples can have children too, and in preserving the lives of those who would have naturally died young. The science that enables us to do these things is a niche-space: it provides an interesting living for many. Its researches enable us to increase the population even faster, and to produce more food to feed that growing population. Which ensures that the population will grow even faster still - because breeding-strategy always ensures that niche-space is filled.

I first read Colinvaux's The Fates of Nations over 20 years ago. It lit up my head then, and it does now. I look around, I watch the news, and see the theories of niche-space and breeding-strategy at work everywhere. Indeed, my family are becoming fed-up with hearing me mutter, "Niche-space," at regular intervals.

The book is fascinating. Not cheerful - in fact, rather depressing - but clarifying. Clarity is often depressing.

It's particuarly uncheering for a left-winger like me; but it's hard to deny the truth behind it. The theory doesn't justify war, cruelty, infanticide and so forth. It simply makes clear the pattern that is expressed through them.

In short, a great book if you want to think. But not if you want to sleep easy.

Find Colinvaux's books here. 

Postscript. I wrote and scheduled this post before Britain went to the polling-booths to vote on remaining in or leaving the EU. As I write, I don't know what the result will be. But an MP has already been murdered by a man shouting, 'Britons First!' (Niche-space.)

In  The Fates of Nations, Colinvaux tries to predict which nation will start the next big war. It won't be any of the usual suspects, he says. It will be a small, crowded island state which 'lives on other nations' territory.' In other words, imports most of its goods. It will happen because the people of this small island state, especially the 'middling-sort' feel thwarted and angry as their niche-space shrinks and as they grow more bitter and disappointed by the failure of their politicians' solutions. It will be begun, he predicts, either by Japan or Great Britain.

Cheers!

Saturday, 21 May 2016

"There's A High Over Scandinavia..."


That's me and Davy, leaning on the quayside at Oban as the sun sets over the bay and the mountains of Mull. It is, honest. Oh well, okay then, it isn't. It's a random young couple who happened to get between me and my camera.
     Davy, with his usual weather eye, announced that there was a high over Scandinavia and the weather was going to be unusually good in the Western Isles. So we hurriedly packed, dashed up the motorways early on Sunday morning and spent the evening in Oban.


         The next morning we took one of the good old Callie-Macs out to Craignure on Mull.

         The crossing only takes 45 minutes. As we neared Craignure, we passed Castle Duart.



          On previous visits to Mull we've investigated Grass Point, where the drovers used to bring their cattle, to ship them over to Kerrara and the mainland; and we've driven down the Ross of Mull to catch the ferry over to Iona. But, on this trip, Davy was interested in seeing the beaches on the Ross of Mull. He'd picked up, from somewhere, that they were reckoned to be 'the finest beaches in the UK.'
       I'll say this much: they're not at all bad.
      An equally fine beach is on the North of the island, at Calgary. It was all pure white sand, empty blue sky and a sea of a pale blue impossible to describe. Icy cold, though. The sea, that is. The beach was hot.
       This isn't Calgary - it's one of the Ross of Mull beaches, because my camera's battery had run out by the time we got to Calgary and I somehow managed to forget all electronics. I suspect it was a kind of accidentally-on-purpose sort of forgetfulness.
      Calgary in Canada, by the way, is named after Calgary on Mull. A chief of mounties, apparently, used to spend his holidays at Calgary on Mull, and when a name was needed for a new fort in Canada, he suggested 'Calgary.' The little village on Mull's name is really Gaelic: Cala ghearraidh, or beach of the meadow pasture.


 The amazing pink rock you find on Iona and Mull.
     We stayed at the Argyll Arms in the village of Bunessan. It could not have been better. The road ran right past the pub's door but was hardly busy. On the other end of the narrow road was a bay, with a view out to Staffa. The staff were friendly, the room comfortable and the food good.
      Almost all the roads on Mull are single-lane, with passing-places. Driving them is a strain. You have to be constantly watching for vehicles miles ahead and calculating whether or not to pull into the passing-place nearest to you. There are always plenty of drivers who seem incapable of grasping the idea of passing-places and drive right up to your car's nose and impatiently wave at you, to tell you to reverse. They do this, even when there is a passing-place directly behind them which they have driven right past. They think you should reverse around a blind bend with rocks to one side and a drop into a loch on the other rather than they reverse a couple of metres in a straight line.
      Amazingly, when a police-car is on the road, all the drivers suddenly seem to understand passing-places.
     But not the eagle-watchers who park their cars in passing-places and set up telescopes on tripods, to keep watch on some distant peak.
     Davy and I saw eagles. We had walked up one of the island's roads less travelled, and Davy pointed and said, "What's that?" I looked and, gentle readers, honestly thought I saw a glider heading towards us. (My eyesight is not the best.) "Eagles," Davy said. I suppose if we'd had binoculars, we could have told whether they were golden eagles or sea-eagles, but eagles they certainly were. Too ruddy big to be anything else.
      But the driving. To reach Oban, Davy drove 300 miles, with only a couple of short breaks. He said that was easier, and less strain, than driving the 50 miles from Bunnessan to Calgary.


          A man with sense enough to bring co-drivers.



  
        I loved our time getting sun-burned in the Hebrides but, for me, the highlight was a boat-trip to  island of Staffa.
        I shall save that for another blog.



 

Saturday, 16 April 2016

Word Obsessive

This is certainly a post for writers.
       Editing and rewriting puts you in a different mind-set to plain, straight-ahead writing.
 
       I'm editing and rewriting a lot lately. I've been rewriting the Sterkarm books, for republication this summer, and I've been rewriting a WIP progress with the working title of Bad Girl.

     Rewriting always seems to make me pernickety about words.

     While I'm bashing along on first drafts, thinking only of working out the plot and motivation, I don't bother much about the words. Just slam them down.

      But when I'm rewriting, it all slows down. I become a bit obsessive. I think: would that character use that word?
      Would this word even exist in English at this time?
      Would they use that form of the word? Is it in character: would they use a slangier term, something more official, something politer - or ruder?
      While rewriting, I seem to pick up the dictionary every ten minutes. I'm always worrying about exact meanings, origins, tone, colour...

       A couple of years ago, while in rewriting mode, I crossed the Forth Bridge into the Kingdom of Fife (with my laptop in my luggage.) The Forth Bridge crosses the Firth of Forth; and on the other side of Scotland, there's the Solway Firth. Further north are the Cromarty and Moray Firths. I started idly wondering about this word, 'Firth.' Why, I wondered, does Scotland have firths where England
Aerial view of Forth Bridge, courtesy of Google.
has channels and sounds?

         A firth is a long, narrow inlet of the sea. Which is exactly what a fjord is - hang on!
        Scots English is even more heavily influenced by Scandinavia, and has retained more of the Anglo-Saxon than 'Standard' English, or the English further south. Could there be a connection?

        In 'fjord,' the 'j' is sounded like a 'y' or 'i' while that final 'd' sounds more like 'th.'
        In other words - and say this with a Scots accent -  'F-yuh-rrrrr-th.'
        Firth and fjord, I thought: they're the same word! I think there are few people in the world who could be as excited as me by this. Some very junior lexicographers, perhaps. A few very naive linguists. And maybe some other writers (though, in their case, not necessarily about 'firth' and 'fjord.')
       I grabbed my OED as soon as I could:

                    FIRTH, n. a narrow inlet of the sea. ORIGIN ME (orig. Scots), from ON fjorthr (see FJORD)

          Oh, I was very happy. The identity of 'firth' and 'fjord' is obviously a well-known fact in the dictionary-compiling community, but it had never occurred to me before, and I doubt if I would have made the connection if I hadn't been obsessing about the sounds of words and their origins, in rewrite mode.

         The present bout of rewriting brought on another of these connections. I was reading something by an American, which spoke of mowing the grass in their yard.

        Now, to me, 'yard' has always meant an area of hard paving or concrete, usually quite small. So the area of hard paving just outside my back-door is my 'yard.' Some of my older relatives lived in yards. An alleyway led from the street into a small square surrounded by small houses. At the centre of the square were blocks of shared lavatories and wash-houses. All of the square was paved. It was a 'yard.' These placed were often named 'Something Yard.'
 
          So, for years, when I was younger, I imagined American streets and towns as places quite without flowerbeds or lawns - because they themselves always talked of their yards.

         My mother loved flowers. She had lots of roses, lilies, magnolia and anything else she could persuade to grow. The place where they grew was 'the garden.' The garden was on the other side of the small paved 'yard.' She was happy for us to play 'on the yard.' She was not happy when we gambolled in her garden and broke down favorite plants.
         At my own house, the 'garden' begins immediately on the other side of the 'yard.'

          As I grew older, it slowly dawned on me that when Americans said, 'yard,' they might, just might, be talking about a place where they grew flowers, bushes and trees.
          Because my brain's is rewrite mode, and is scrambling restively about among meanings and nuances of words, a casual reference started it off on: Why do Americans say 'yard' where we say 'garden'? And it suddenly dawned on me that, just like firth and fjord, they're the same word.

       I was rewriting the Sterkarms, which is set among the pele towers of the Scottish Borders during the 16th Century. A pele tower had a great thick wooden door. But wooden doors could be hacked or
A raid on Gilknockie Tower
burned down, so behind it there was a door-sized iron grille, hinged so it could be fastened across the doorway. Even if enemies succeeded in breaking through the door, they would still have to get past the iron grille, which wouldn't give way to axes or fire so easily.
        The technical name, among archaeologists and historians, for one of these grilles is 'a yett.' It's called that because, in the dialect of the Borders, the letter 'g' is often pronounced as 'y', as it often is in Scandinavian languages. 'Yett' is the same word as 'gate,' but with a different pronunciation.
       So, I thought, 'garden' may once have been pronounced as 'yarden.'

       And that 'd' in the middle of both words? Pronounce it as 'th', as in fjorth, and you have 'garth' or 'garthen.' Or even 'yarthen.' I supposed that the 'en' at the end either meant 'small' as in 'kitten' or, possibly, it was 'the'. In Scandinavian languages, the definite article is added to the end of a word. So, in Norwegian, 'book' is 'bok' - 'the book' is 'boken.'

         Then there's the word, 'garth.'

                   garth, n Brit. 1 an open space surrounded by cloisters. 2 a yard or garden.

       In Norse Myth, there is Midgarth(d) and Asgarth(d). Midgarth is often translated as 'earth' - Middle Earth, or here, this place where we all live. It's the open space, yard or garden where mankind lives. It's in the middle, because there are worlds above and beneath it.
       Asgarth is the open space, yard or garden where the Aesir or gods live.

       So 'garden' was once 'yarthen' or 'yarth' - which comes very close to 'earth.'  ('Earth' is derived from the name of the Norse mother goddess Jord or Yorth.)

       One more dive into the dictionary.

          yard, n 1 chiefly British a piece of uncultivated ground adjoining a building, typically enclosed by walls. 2 N. America the garden of a house.   ORIGIN OE geard 'building, home, region' from a Gmc base rel. to GARDEN and ORCHARD.

           There, at the end of 'orchard' is that 'yarth' again. (And 'orchard' proves to be one of those odd, doubled words. The first syllable comes from the Latin hortus, meaning 'garden.'  So orchard means 'garden-garden.' Or, I suppose, 'garden-area.')

           garden, n, chiefly British, a piece of ground adjoining a house used for growing fruit, flowers or vegetables. ORIGIN ME from Old North Fr. gardin, var. of OFr jardin, of Gmc origin, rel to yard.

          Don't let those Old North Fr. fool you - they were Vikings.

          So now I know why Americans say 'yard' while we Brits say 'garden.' As so often, the American are using a somewhat older version of the word or phrase.

          That's a relief. I can stop worrying about it now.

Saturday, 27 February 2016

February Snowdrops

February brings the rain,
Fills the flooded dyke again...
Well, it's tried...
          But we've had some sunny if cold days recently, and I got out from behind the desk...


This is Attingham Park, near Shrewsbury. It's owned by the National Trust. The manor was closed, which didn't trouble me - I was there to walk in the park. I  think the house is quite ugly. A big grey box and a bit of a blot on the landscape.

This is what I was there for - 



I have about three snowdrops in my garden. At Attingham, there's a few more.







 There's not just snowdrops and knife-like winds slicing across sunny glades, though. There are trees fit for Herne the Hunter to stalk around...


And a river...


There's a deer-park, where a notice asks you to keep your dogs on a lead and not to approach the deer. If I'd seen any, I'd have given them the widest possible berth, honest, but they'd all gone somewhere warm. The cafe, probably, which is why there was a long queue of cold, patient human beings at the door, giving each other resigned smiles. (I gave them a wide berth too, and went to a less crowded cafe a few miles away.)


I'd thought I'd have Attingham to myself but no, the place was heaving - at least, the snowdrop walk was. Once I was out in the woodlands and the deer park I was able to wander lonelier...

Looking ahead:
March winds do blow
And we shall have snow...

Well, this is Britain plus global warming. We could have anything from snow, to bright hot sunshine or torrential rain - or, all of the above. We will just have to wait and see.

 
 

Saturday, 13 February 2016

Review: The Stranger Beside Me by Ann Rule

I have a friend who I first bonded with over our shared interest in
The Stranger Beside Me by Ann Rule
psychopaths.

          My interest is, thank god, an academic one, a writer's curiosity about the extremes of human behaviour. My friend, poor woman, married a psychopath and has first hand experience of the dedicated selfishness that a human being can be capable of, the blind inability to appreciate that anyone except them has any right to an opinion, a life or free will.
          But when it comes to psycho-spotting, author and journalist Ann Rule can perhaps claim the prize.
          As a journalist, she often handled crime reports, spent a lot of time in police stations talking to detectives and made several friends on the force.
Ann Rule, from her Amazon page
          In her 40s, she volunteered to man phones on a suicide help-line, and shared her regular night-shift with a psychology student named Ted. She thought him a lovely young man and they became good friends, despite the age-gap of ten years. He was so caring towards the callers and at the end of her shift, he always walked her to her car, to make sure she was safe - whereas her detective friends, when she left their offices late at night, would say, "We'll watch from the window and if anyone mugs you, we'll phone 911."

     This little anecdote perhaps highlights something about psychopaths (and human nature.) Rule's detective friends were showing genuine concern and covering it with a joke. They probably knew there was little risk to her and, as ordinary human beings with many other concerns, they said goodbye and got on with their lives and jobs.
          'Ted', on the other hand, was acting a role, performing the character of 'lovely young man and caring friend.' It was convincing so long as it was never tested. One difference between someone telling the truth and a liar is that the truth-teller has 'an expectation of belief' because they know that they're telling the truth and therefore don't think they need bother to be meticulously convincing. They give a rough account, forget details - or assume that their genuine affection is apparent and needs no display.
          Liars know themselves to be lying and therefore go several extra miles in order to convince. Their stories are neatly in order, with lots of irrelevant detail to 'hide the lie among truths.' When it comes to relationships, their false affection is constantly voiced,  rehearsed and displayed. And takes many in.  Alas, research has shown that, though most of us think we can tell when someone is lying, we're actually very bad at it.

          Rule was no longer working with Ted, but was still in touch
Seattle, wikimedia
with him, when young women started disappearing from the Greater Seattle area. Rule was soon aware, from her friends in the Police, that they feared they were dealing with a serial killer. When suspicion fell on Ann Rule's friend, Ted, she thought it was obviously a routine enquiry or a mistake...

          But it wasn't. Ann's friend was Ted Bundy, and she found herself in the middle of the crime story that would define her career. For ever after she would be, the woman who worked beside Ted Bundy.

          Bundy abducted, terrified, raped and murdered many women, possibly more than a hundred. Like most serial killers, he probably started much earlier than the crimes he was charged with. Rule's research turned up the fact that, when Bundy was 15, a young girl, a child, was abducted from her home and murdered. The killer was never found. Bundy lived a few doors away, and knew the child. He never admitted to that killing - but he never admitted to anything unless there was an advantage for him.
          He was eventually arrested in Seattle, but insisted on representing himself, which gave him the right to make trips to the library to look at law books. While swearing complete innocence and mistaken arrest, he used a library trip to escape.

          He ran to Florida, but couldn't give up his hobby. Or was killing his addiction, his crutch? Within a week of arriving in Florida, he attacked several women in one night, killing three and leaving others badly injured.
Florida Capitol, wikimedia
          Bundy found Florida less careless and forgiving than the North-West. They sentenced him to death and placed him in a far  more secure prison. Another escape attempt was thwarted and after that he was kept in chains. Yes, he could have his trips to the law library - in chains.
          Now you would think that, to him, life was cheap. He had, after all, killed an unknown number of women for fun. Their lives and everything and everyone their lives had encompassed, had been as disposable, to him, as a condom. So what was a little matter of a death sentence, when life is so unimportant?
          But only other people's lives were unimportant to Bundy. He tried every possible delaying tactic, trick and appeal to preserve his own life. He also attempted to use the names of the women he'd murdered, and the sites where he'd dumped their bodies, as bargaining tools. Grant him another appeal, let him live a little longer, and he might give up a few more identities and a few more remains for burial.

          Bundy was an exemplary serial killer in that he demonstrates just how loathsome a nasty piece of work a human being can be - and yet he had a little fan club of female fools who were besotted with him. One even married him and had his child.
          If the psychology of serial killers is strange, the psychology of their groupies defeats me.

         If you share my interest in the minds of psychopaths, then Rule's book is of great interest. It sprawls a little, because she has updated it regularly over more than twenty years.
          Besides knowing the loathsome Bundy personally, and having access to him in jail, she has also interviewed many of the people he bereaved, which throws up some intriguing stories.
          The husband of one murdered woman was away on business on the day she was abducted. He told Rule that, in his distant hotel room, late on that day, he clearly heard his wife's voice say, "Help."
          Bundy's final killing spree took place in a university dormitory. He broke in, and lay in wait in darkened corridors. Rule interviewed a couple of survivors who survived because, as they told Rule, they became seized by what seemed, at the time, an inexplicable fear. One girl was in a bathroom and only had to step across the dark corridor to her bedroom, but found herself completely unable, for fear, to open the door. She had no idea why. She had no idea, consciously at least,  that Bundy was murdering her fellow students a little way down the corridor. This almost psychic awareness of danger reminds me of another book I've reviewed - Gavin de Becker's Gift of Fear.
         The Stranger Beside Me is often a grim read, but it's an informative one.