Hollar Hull

In the late fifteenth and into the early nineteenth-centuries, printed maps were created by taking impressions from etched or engraved metal plates, usually made of copper.

This was obviously a time consuming and labour intensive operation with the maps having to be inked and their impression made on paper or a suitable medium on an individual basis.

Copper was, and remains today, a valuable raw material and very few original copper-plates have survived on the basis that there were always more value added uses for the material. If you bear in mind that maps originating on copper masters in particular were evolving and changing in Great Britain as it emerged into the post Civil War and the later Industrial Revolution then it is no surprise that as the information became out date  they were melted down and re-used.

Some copper plates did have long lives, but once their commercial usefulness was over, or  if ‘antiquarian’ interest was exhausted, they went into the melting pot.

One superb example that has survived is a perfect imprint of my home city, Hull, copper etched and identified under it's full name of Kingston Upon Hull in 1640.

Bohemian artist Wenceslaus Hollar (1607-1677) was probably the greatest exponent of the craft of copper plate map making.

He was active in mid seventeenth-century England having arrived in London in 1636.

It was a momentous era in British history and he sided with the  Royalists during the Civil War. . Their ultimate defeat forced him to take refuge in Antwerp, until it was safe for him to return to London in 1650.

Following the Restoration he was appointed 'Scenographer' or designer of Prospects to the King’.

In spite of an illustrious career path which will have elevated him in social standing and wealth he actually died in penury, “owning little more than his bed and a few pots and pans” (Worms/Baynton-Williams Dictionary of Map Engravers, Rare Book Society 2011;

The importance of the Hull copper plate is that it is a unique record of my home City, particularly as the relentless progress of social and economic change over the proceeding 300 years, urbanisation, wartime bombing in both world conflicts and a later widespread Civic endorsed vandalism of monuments and heritage has meant that many of the depicted features have been lost.

In the upper part of the metal plate is a view of the city and its Port fortifications taken from the Humber.

Hull has the status of being the first point of conflict of the English Civil War when Charles 1st was denied access at the Beverley Gate entrance to the city in his bid to make use of a substantial arsenal of munitions there is an inset map of the general environs. Authentication is in the form of Hollar’s own signature which can be seen bottom centre, below the town plan itself.

Delicately etched, and as a testament to the skill of the engraver, everything is reversed.

The lines and detail were as a result of the application of acid. This must have been hazardous to health in the pre-safety conscious environment but obviously second nature to a  professional like Hollar.

It appears that mirror writing was something he could do naturally even though the workmanship of the Hull plate will have demanded great concentration and application.  

Not many of Hollar’s original plates are known to have survived. He produced numerous maps and a handful of topographical views including a famous vista of London before and after the Great Fire (1666) among the most impressive.

The future of the Hull plate was for some time in the balance.

It was offered for sale in the late eighteenth-century, appearing in printseller Robert Sayer’s catalogue of 1766 and in Laurie & Whittle’s of 1795. Also in the 1790’s an entirely new plate, following Hollar’s map, was engraved by Isaac Taylor (1759-1829 - being the second of the two Isaacs in Worms/Baynton-Williams) which was used to illustrate John Tickell’s The History of the town and country of Kingston-upon-Hull.

It is therefore remarkable that the original copperplate survived:

In 1933, it was in the possession of Hull printing firm Richard Johnson & Sons before, making its was into a Nationally important Archive in the map collection at the British Library.

Hollar’s  Hull plate  is now on public display in the Treasures gallery in the British Library at St Pancras, selected from 4.5 million other maps and atlases in the  National map collection.

It is truly a thing of beauty.

Green Party

Flesh-Eating Knotweed Discovered in UK Garden

A surveyor has been found negligent after failing to identify a new, deadly strain of Knotweed at a client’s property. This new strain, now known as Fallopia Carnicula, or Flesh-Eating Knotweed, was discovered at the property by the clients, Mr and Mrs Seymour, just months after moving into their new home in the welsh town of Fralipool.

“We thought it was just a common garden weed,” explains Mr Seymour, “but it quickly got out of control. In a couple of months it had doubled in size and was sprouting from the garden wall. When we found out it was Flesh-Eating Knotweed, we were obviously alarmed.”

Flesh-Eating Knotweed was named after its brutal defence mechanism, whereby it secretes a number of digestive enzymes from the edges (or margins) of its leaves which can slowly eat away at the flesh of any animal it comes into contact with, much like a Venus Fly Trap. The plant is particularly harmful to domestic pets, as Mr and Mrs Seymour found out.

Mrs Seymour comments, “Our daughter’s pet rabbit, Audrey, is the real victim here and somebody needed to be held accountable.”

The couple were forced to take action and make a claim against their surveyor after discovering the plant had developed a taste for rabbit tails.

“If our surveyor had spotted the Knotweed before we moved in, we could have negotiated on the price of the property to cover the cost of having it removed,” says Mrs Seymour, “and avoided some unnecessary veterinary bills.”

After a successful court battle, the Seymours were compensated, allowing them to arrange for the professional removal of the Flesh-Eating Knotweed by trained specialists.

Hilary Grayson, Director of Surveying Services at SAVA, comments, “The number of Knotweed claims made against surveyors is rising and, now, with this new strain of Flesh-Eating Knotweed cropping up around the UK, the identification of Knotweed, in all its forms, is even more vital.

“At SAVA we work hard to ensure our surveyors are confident when identifying potentially harmful and damaging plant species. In this case, the surveyor failed to report on the presence of Knotweed in any form, Flesh-Eating or otherwise, and so the case against him was infallible.”

So, what does Flesh-Eating Knotweed look like?Japanese Knotweed and Flesh-Eating Knotweed are both invasive, non-native plant species that can cause damage to property and, in the case of Flesh-Eating Knotweed, to animals. Both plants share similar identifying features such as:

• Bamboo-like canes
• Red-purple shoots
• Large green, heart-shaped leaves.

However, Flesh-Eating Knotweed does have a number of distinguishing features. For instance, unlike Japanese Knotweed, Flesh-Eating Knotweed has toothed leaves with serrated edges, similar to nettle leaves, increasing the surface area of their margins and allowing them a higher rate of secretion for their digestive enzymes.  

Property owners are advised to contact their local surveyor or Knotweed specialist if they are concerned about the presence of Japanese Knotweed or Flesh-Eating Knotweed on their property.

This was an April Fool article by the SAVA Organisation. 

Postcard from the Lege

It is nice to receive a postcard.

Amongst the usual daily doormat accumulation of plain white and manilla envelopes the mere sight of a brightly coloured landscape or picturesque buildings is enough to lift the spirits on the most dreary of mornings.

Such is the regularity and frequency of world travel nowadays that I sometimes lose track of which family member or friend has gone where and when. This can lead to a few moments of mystery and confusion over a depicted postcard scene until recognition of a familiar handwritten scrawl all makes sense as in "oh yes, they did say that they were going to Greece for a holiday but I had just forgotten about it" or "crikey, that vacation came and went very quickly" and "I thought they were giving the continental trip a miss this year and having a staycation".

Our own family holidays involve a ritual on, typically, the last full day, of seeking out and buying a selection of postcards to be sent to close family and work colleagues. We do have the best of intentions to buy cards in the early part of a week away particularly when passing the numerous display racks to be found at regular intervals along any street, promenade or boulevard but there are always a hundred and one other distractions, usually involving food, drink and indigenous entertainment.

Many of our relatives have taken delivery of their lovingly customised postcard well after our return home. We have been able to attribute this to the inefficiencies of a European or Global Postal Service although if the recipients happen to cast a close eye over the stamp and postmark they may well notice it is very local to where we live even if the trip involved a long haul or short haul flight. This is because that even after being under pressure to purchase the assembled bag of postcards is forgotten in the preparations to pack up and leave.

The last minute purchase of postcards can be impulsive .

There is an inevitable risk of some embarrassment when the card is produced by a relative and well intentioned questions are asked about what the scene or attraction was really like. There is a horrible realisation if the picture postcard is of somewhere not actually experienced on that trip.

I received an excellent postcard just yesterday.

The plain reverse has a beautiful postage stamp of a Red Rim Butterfly which is the $2.50 issue for the island paradise of Montserrat. This is located just above Guadeloupe, to the south west of Antigua and Barbuda and south east of St Kitts and St Nevis. These are amongst a chain of islands that run in a crescent shape in the Caribbean from Puerto Rico to mainland Venezuela.

The island is still recovering from a devastating volcanic eruption in the Soufriere Hills in the 1990's, made more difficult by challenging terrain and stresses on a resident population unlikely to be greater than the  4,900  recorded at the 2012 Census.

That might explain that the postage stamp dates from an issue in 2013 .

The delivery period , from the island postmark to dropping onto the doormat of my home in Hull, Yorkshire took just over three weeks.

I have a vision of a slow boat rather than a fast jet being being the main vehicle of Montserrat Postal Service.

There is a self adhesive label, pre-printed bearing my correctly spelled surname which suggests somewhat of a pre-planned and mass posting effort.

The glossy, full colour side of the postcard is of a palm tree in the foreground and a backdrop of thick and lush vegetation with a mountain peak either shrouded in mist or ominously a volcanic plume.

Just to the right of the picture is a familiar, grinning individual, slim and with a bald pate flanked by mad, unruly hair.

The latter could be down to the usual warm, breezy afternoon climate of Montserrat or just mad, unruly hair.

A scrawled message "Hi Peter, it's going well" is signed by John Otway,the self professed biggest failure in rock music.

The postcard is part of a reward package for my participation, with hundreds of fans, in a Kickstarter Crowdfunding Campaign to allow production of a new Otway Album in the famous recording studios on the island, not used since the 1990's eruption.

The arrival of the card brought a broad smile to my face, a lightness in my step and, to the horror of my family, a good few days of a hummed rendition of the Otway Classic, Really Free.

Bishop Kicking Windows

I have little experience and knowledge of the literary style and skills of the author Raymond Chandler on a first hand basis.

That is to say that I have never read any of his iconic and of-a-time novels but nevertheless his words and the invariably thick, menacing atmosphere that they project are very real to me through the dramatisation of his books on the big screen and through the medium of radio plays.

Just take any of Chandler's many one liners and even if just said to yourself silently you find the words issuing forth in the drawled, gravelly and bourbon infused tones of the great actors who have made a good living out of, in particular, his main character of the Private Detective Philip Marlowe.

The list is unparalleled I would say in quality and pedigree apart from perhaps Shakespearean thespians.

Amongst the Hollywood 'A' Listers  are Bogart and Mitchum, Gould, Powell, R Montgomery,Garner, Boothe, Gambon, Caan, Carey and G Montgomery not to mention those on the airwaves recruited no doubt willingly for the prestige of the role.

In the last couple of days, whilst driving about between work appointments I have been enthralled by a BBC production of Chandler's "Playback" with British Actor, Toby Stephens giving a passable rendition of Marlowe.

The classic one liners and put downs in the dialogue of Playback were cleverly put together and beautifully delivered.

"Her eyes went down to the paper very, very slowly. Her eyes held on to it. Her hand moved to take it, but his was quicker"

"Common sense says go home and forget it, no money coming in. Common sense always speaks too late. Common sense is the guy who tells you you ought to have your brakes relined last week before you smashed a front end this week. Common sense is the Monday morning quarterback who could have won the ball game if he had been on the team. But never is. He's high up in the stands with a hip flask. Common sense is the little man in a grey suit who never makes a mistake in addition. But it's always someone else's money he's adding up."

"There was something Mongolian about his face, something south-of-the-border, something Indian, and something darker than that"

"One of the women had enough ice on her to cool the Mojave desert and enough make-up to paint a steam yacht"

"The walls around here were as thin as a Hoofer's wallet"

"I recall when this town was so quiet dogs slept in the middle of the boulevard and you had to stop your car, if you had a car, and get out and push them out of the way. Sundays it was like you was already buried. Everything shut up as tight as a bank vault. You couldn't walk down Grand Street and have as much fun as a stiff in a morgue. You couldn't even buy a pack of cigarettes. It was so quiet you could of heard a mouse combin' his whiskers"

"She had a pair of legs - so far as I could determine - that were not painful to look at" (Playback)
"I moved to the door. I wouldn't say she looked exactly wistful, but neither did she look as hard to get as a controlling interest in General Motors"

"'This is a rich town, friend,' he said slowly. 'I've studied it. I've boned up on it. I've talked to guys about it'"

"Wherever I went, whatever I did, this was what I would come back to. A blank wall in a meaningless room in a meaningless house"

Having enjoyed these in the context of a really good detective story I found myself researching other similar witty and biting phrases within the wider body of work of Chandler.

"It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window." (Farewell My Lovely)

"I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun." (Farewell My Lovely)

"I was a blank man. I had no face, no meaning, no personality, hardly a name" (The Little Sister)

"Thirty feet away she looked like a lot of class.  From ten feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from thirty feet away" (The High Window)

"I'm an occasional drinker, the kind of guy who goes out for a beer and wakes up in Singapore with a full beard." (The King In Yellow)

"He snorted and hit me in the solar plexus. I bent over and took hold of the room with both hands and spun it. When I had it nicely spinning I gave it a full swing and hit myself on the back of the head with the floor" (Pearls Are A Nuisance)

"The big foreign car drove itself, but I held the wheel for the sake of appearances" (Farewell, My Lovely)

"She's a charming middle age lady with a face like a bucket of mud and if she's washed her hair since Coolidge's second term, I'll eat my spare tire, rim and all" (Farewell, My Lovely)

"It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills" (The Big Sleep)

"The house itself was not so much. It was smaller than Buckingham Palace, rather gray for California, and probably had fewer windows than the Chrysler Building." (Farewell My Lovely)

"He was a big man but not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck" (Farewell My Lovely)

"Across the street somebody had delirium tremens in the front yard and a mixed quartet tore what was left of the night into small strips and did what they could to make the strips miserable. While this was going on the exotic brunette didn't move more that one eyelash." (Red Wind)

"Ok, Marlowe," I said between my teeth. "You’re a tough guy. Six feet of iron man. One hundred and ninety pounds stripped and with your face washed. Hard muscles and no glass jaw. You can take it" (Farewell My Lovely)

"All right," I yelled. "I’ll go up with you. Just lay off carrying me. Let me walk. I’m fine. I’m all grown up. I go to the bathroom and everything. Just don’t carry me" (Farewell My Lovely)

"You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that, oil and water were the same as wind and air to you" (The Big Sleep)

"I. . . just sat, not smoking, not even thinking. I was a blank man. I had no face, no meaning, no personality, hardly a name. I didn't want to eat. I didn't even want a drink. I was the page from yesterday's calendar crumpled at the bottom of the waste basket " (The Little Sister)

"The General spoke again, slowly, using his strength as carefully as an out-of-work show-girl uses her last good pair of stockings." (The Big Sleep)

"His smile was as stiff as a frozen fish." (The Man Who Liked Dogs)

"There were two hundred and eighty steps up to Cabrillo Street.  They were drifted over with windblown sand and the handrail was as cold and wet as a toad's belly." (Farewell My Lovely)

"I called him from a phone booth. The voice that answered was fat. It wheezed softly, like the voice of a man who had just won a pie-eating contest." (Trouble Is My Business)

"I belonged in Idle Valley like a pearl onion on a banana split" (The Long Goodbye)

"Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel cake" (The Big Sleep)

"'Please don't get up,' she said in a voice like the stuff they use to line summer clouds with" (The Long Goodbye)

"It jarred me. It was like watching the veneer peel off and leave a tough kid in an alley. Or like hearing an apparently refined woman start expressing herself in four- letter words" (The Lady In The Lake)

"She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight" (Little Sister)

Droning On

Since the Roman Empire, through the Inquisition and the Renaissance, until today  humanity has long debated the morality of warfare.

While it is universally acknowledged that peace is a preferable condition than warfare, that has not deterred the persistent conduct of lethal conflict over millennia.

The passion for inflicting harm, the cruel thirst for vengeance, an unpacific and relentless spirit, the fever of revolt, the lust of power, and such like things, all these are rightly condemned in war

Fortunately, these potential failings of man need not be replicated in autonomous battlefield robots of which many are now deployed amongst conventional military forces.

The Laws of War (LOW), encoded in protocols such as the Geneva Conventions and Rules of Engagement (ROE), prescribe what is and what is not acceptable in the battlefield in both a global (standing ROE) and local (Supplemental ROE) context, The ROE are required to be fully compliant with the laws of war.

It is anticipated that teams of autonomous systems and human soldiers will work together on the battlefield, as opposed to the common science fiction vision of armies of unmanned systems operating by themselves.

Nonetheless, the trend is clear: warfare will continue and autonomous robots will ultimately be deployed in its conduct. Given this, questions then arise regarding how these systems can conform as well or better than our soldiers with respect to adherence to the existing Laws of War.

A discussion of the ethical behaviour of robots would be incomplete without some reference to Asimov ’s “Three Laws of Robotics” (there are actually four). While they are elegant in their simplicity and have served a useful fictional purpose by bringing to light a whole range of issues surrounding robot ethics and rights, they are at best a straw man to bootstrap the ethical debate and as such serve no useful practical purpose beyond their fictional roots.

The Laws of War, aggregate specific prohibitions, permissions, and obligations that the warfighter (and an ethical autonomous system) must abide by. It must be ensured that these constraints are effectively embedded within a robot potentially capable of lethal action for the specific battlefield situations it will encounter.

Specific examples of prohibited acts include.
1. It is especially forbidden
a. To declare that no quarter will be given the enemy.
b. To kill or wound an enemy who, having laid down his arms, or having no longer
means of defense, has surrendered at discretion.
c. To employ arms, projectile, or material calculated to cause unnecessary suffering.
2. The pillage of a town or place, even when taken by assault is prohibited.
3. The taking of hostages is prohibited (including civilians).
4. Devastation as an end in itself or as a separate measure of war is not sanctioned by the
law of war. There must be some reasonably close connection between the destruction of
property and the overcoming of the enemy’s army.

Regarding lawful targeting (who can and cannot be killed and what can be targeted in warfare):
1. Regarding combatants and military objectives:
a. Once war has begun, soldiers (combatants) are subject to attack at any time, unless
they are wounded or captured.
b. Targeting of enemy personnel and property is permitted unless otherwise prohibited
by international law.
c. Attacks on military objectives which may cause collateral damage to civilian objects
or collateral injury to civilians not taking a direct part in the hostilities are not
prohibited (Principle of Double Effect).
d. Collateral/Incidental damage is not a violation of international law in itself (subject to
the law of proportionality).
e. All reasonable precautions must be taken to ensure only military objectives are
targeted, so damage to civilian objects (collateral damage) or death and injury to
civilians (incidental injury) is avoided as much as possible.
f. The presence of civilians in a military objective does not alter its status as a military
objective.
g. In general, any place the enemy chooses to defend makes it subject to attack. This
includes forts or fortifications, places occupied by a combatant force or through
which they are passing, and city or town with indivisible defensive positions.
h. A belligerent attains combatant status by merely carrying his arms openly during each
military engagement, and visible to an adversary while deploying for an attack. (The
United States believes this is not an adequate test as it “diminishes the distinction
between combatants and civilians, thus undercutting the effectiveness of humanitarian
law”).
i. Retreating troops, even in disarray, are legitimate targets. They could only be
immunized from further attack by surrender, not retreat.
j. Destroy, take or damage property based only upon military necessity.
k. A fighter must wear “a fixed distinctive sign visible at a distance” and “carry arms
openly” to be eligible for the war rights of soldiers. Civilian clothes should not be
used as a ruse or disguise.

l. Legitimate military objectives are regarded as;
1) Fixed military fortifications, bases, barracks and installations, including training
and war-gaming facilities
2) Temporary military camps, entrenchments, staging areas, deployment positions,
and embarcation points
3) Military units and individual members of the armed forces, whether stationed or
mobile
4) Weapon systems, military equipment and ordnance, armor and artillery, and
military vehicles of all types
5) Military aircraft and missiles of all types
6) Military airfields and missile launching sites
7) Warships (whether surface vessels or submarines) of all types
8) Military ports and docks
9) Military depots, munitions dumps, warehouses or stockrooms for the storage of
weapons, ordnance, military equipment and supplies (including raw materials for
military use, such as petroleum)
10) Factories (even when privately owned) engaged in the manufacture of arms,
munitions and military supplies
11) Laboratories or other facilities for the research and development of new weapons
and military devices
12) Military repair facilities
13) Power plants (electric, hydroelectric, etc.) serving the military
14) Arteries of transportation of strategic importance, principally mainline railroads
and rail marshaling yards, major motorways, navigable rivers and canals
(including the tunnels and bridges of railways and trunk roads)
15) Ministries of Defense and any national, regional or local operational or
coordination center of command, control and communication relating to running
the war (including computer centers, as well as telephone and telegraph
exchanges, for military use)
16) Intelligence-gathering centers (even when not run by the military establishment)
17) All enemy warships
18) An enemy merchant vessel engaged directly in belligerent acts (e.g., laying mines
or minesweeping)
19) An enemy merchant vessel acting as an auxiliary to the enemy armed forces (e.g.,
carrying troops or replenishing warships)
20) An enemy merchant vessel engaging in reconnaissance or otherwise assisting in
intelligence gathering for the enemy armed forces
21) An enemy merchant vessel refusing an order to stop or actively resisting capture
22) An enemy merchant vessel armed to an extent that it can inflict damage on a
warship (especially a submarine)
23) An enemy merchant vessel traveling under a convoy escorted by warships,
thereby benefiting from the (more powerful) armament of the latter
24) An enemy merchant vessel making an effective contribution to military action
(e.g., by carrying military materials)
25) All enemy military aircraft
26) Enemy civilian aircraft when flying within the jurisdiction of their own State,
should enemy military aircraft approach and they do not make the nearest
available landing
27) Enemy civilian aircraft when flying (i) within the jurisdiction of the enemy; or (ii)
in the immediate vicinity thereof and outside the jurisdiction of their own State; or
(iii) in the immediate vicinity of the military operations of the enemy by land or
sea (the exceptional right of prompt landing is inapplicable)

2. Regarding noncombatant immunity:
a. Civilians:
1) Individual civilians, the civilian population as such and civilian objects are
protected from intentional attack.
2) Civilians are protected from being sole or intentional objects of a military attack,
from an indiscriminate attack, or attack without warning prior to a bombardment
unless and for such time as he or she takes a direct part in
hostilities.
3) Launching attacks against civilian populations is prohibited
Noncombatants cannot be attacked at any time or be the targets of military
activity (noncombatant immunity).
4) There exists an obligation to take feasible measures to remove civilians from
areas containing military objectives.
5) It is forbidden to force civilians to give information about the enemy.
6) It is forbidden to conduct reprisals against the civilian population “on account of
the acts of individuals for which they cannot be regarded as jointly and severally
responsible”.
7) Treatment of Civilians including those in conflict are:
a) No adverse distinction based upon race, religion, sex, etc.
b) No violence to life or person
c) No degrading treatment
d) No civilian may be the object of a reprisal
e) No measures of brutality
f) No coercion (physical or moral) to obtain information
g) No insults and exposure to public curiosity
h) No general punishment for the acts of an individual, subgroup, or group
i) Civilians may not be used as “human shields” in an attempt to immunize an
otherwise lawful military objective. However, violations of this rule by the
party to the conflict do not relieve the opponent of the obligation to do
everything feasible to implement the concept of distinction (discrimination)
j) Civilian wounded and sick must be cared for
k) Special need civilians are defined as: mothers of children under seven;
wounded, sick and infirm; aged; children under the age of 15; and expectant
Mothers; which results from the presumption that they can play no role in
support of the war effort. Special need civilians are to be respected and
protected by all parties to the conflict at all times. This immunity is further
extended to Ministers, medical personnel and transport, and civilian
hospitals.
8) In order to ensure respect and protection of the civilian population and civilian
objects, the Parties to the conflict shall at all times distinguish between the
civilian population and combatants and between civilian objects and military
objectives and accordingly direct their operations only against military objectives

This includes the following specific prohibitions:
a) Civilians may never be the object of attack.
b) Attacks intended to terrorize the civilian population are prohibited.
c) Indiscriminate attacks are prohibited. Indiscriminate is defined as:
(1) Attacks not directed at a specific military objective, or employing a
method or means of combat that cannot be so directed
(2) Attacks which employ a method or means of combat the effects of
which cannot be controlled
(3) Attacks treating dispersed military objectives, located in a
concentration of civilians, as one objective
(4) Attacks which may be expected to cause collateral damage excessive
in relation to the concrete and direct military advantage to be gained
(proportionality)

Reproduced from Governing Lethal Behavior: Embedding Ethics in a Hybrid Deliberative/Reactive Robot Architecture* Ronald C. Arkin Mobile Robot Laboratory College of Computing Georgia Institute of Technology

Tunnel Vision

Daniel Hooper is one of those individuals who did something quite remarkable.

He has, to a certain extent been made to pay for his actions ever since.

His act of protest and defiance borne out of a real concern for environmental issues thrust him into the public perception and celebrity spotlight. That was back in 1996 when, at age 22 he entombed himself, with other activists in a woodland hole which at great additional cost briefly and temporarily thwarted the construction of the A34 bypass around his home town, Newbury in Berkshire.

The establishment and the contractors have however had the longest laugh with that stretch of road now carrying significantly higher volumes of traffic than it was ever anticipated to. It may even be a case of adding extra lanes to cope with the increasing demand.

After his defiant last man stand before being forcibly evicted from his burrow Daniel Hooper enjoyed a few moments as a darling of the media. His supporters on the front line may not have agreed with his new found role as reported by the Sunday Times as representing a "rediscovery of rebelliousness among Britain's Bourgeoisie" and many felt he sold himself out. 

A dip in his popularity was salvaged by the own goal remarks by a former Government Transport Minister that he would like to see the lad buried in concrete as punishment for embarrassing those in power. This comment helped restore Daniel Hooper's position in history, folklore and in the vanguard of environmentalism now very much a popular listing on a CV and in everyday conversation amongst the chattering classes in our society.

As recently as last week a mainstream TV News Programme sent off a reporter in search of Daniel Hooper.

A milestone has been reached, not so much on an arterial road this time, but down to the fact that the 22 year old is now a mature aged 42.

Rather than being a whimsical and retrospective piece along the well tried and trusted route of "Where are they now?", I found the tone of the news feature quite offensive, disparaging and disrespectful to someone who acted out of a real belief in an issue on his own doorstep. He was ahead of his peer group at the time who would otherwise be engrossed in video games or customising their hot hatchbacks and thumpy in car sound systems.

The angle of the feature was not so much to flush out Daniel Hooper implying that he was living off the back of society as a ne'er do well and a benefit parasite as to shame him by showing him as a quiet, unassuming family man with his kids attending a State School as though trying to firmly bury or deny his past. The worst insult in the opinion of the News programme would be to show him as normal.

The whole report backfired splendidly as, true, Danial Hooper is a fully grown adult with dependants and outgoings but critically he still has the brightest and best environmental credentials in that he lives under canvas under a wide open sky and leaves the barest of discernible carbon footprints that you could ever hope to attain.

The relentless pursuit of the man can be seen in the archives of the press and media. At his 30th birthday another intrepid team were despatched to dig up some dirt, perhaps hoping to find him driving a gas guzzler of a 4x4, voting for the Tories and buying shares in non-renewables.

They will have been disappointed in uncovering his lifestyle of dedicated self sustainability in a woodland commune with another negligible impact on the ozone layer and natural resources.

He has, even under tremendous pressure to conform, maintained his ethics and commitment as an Eco-Warrior and thereby been an inspiration to others, even if it only to make a gesture or to lend a signature to a petition against those entirely profit driven interests seeking to rape and pillage the planet of its treasures and in increasingly beautiful and vulnerable locations of forest, tundra and polar continents.

Ironically Daniel Hooper singularly failed to stop any of the schemes at which he protested but it must not be forgotten that he made a gallant effort and in a passive and peaceful manner.

Happy 42nd Birthday Swampy. You are a modern day hero.

Love Boat

I have previously written on the subject of the phenomena of low resonance noise which can intrude into our lives and cause annoyance, discomfort and even drive some particularly sensitised individuals to the brink of madness. My In-Laws have been so afflicted and with no resolution to their problem in the offing.

It may not be possible to trace the source of a particular mysterious noise because not everyone can actually hear it.

What can be done?

In most cases it is just a matter of becoming acclimatised to the sound and like those living next to a busy rail route or under a commercial jet flight path the regularity and familiarity of it may reduce its intrusion.

In many incidences of the noise it is not entirely clear if the resonance is generated by mechanical or human activities.

What about if the source is in nature?

Houseboat residents in California, United States first heard a mysterious noise some years ago .

The eerie humming "clicked on" in the early evening, peaked in volume around midnight, and finally went away in the morning--a pattern that would be repeated all through the summer months. Those in the Marina location did not at first think much about it. There were many competing natural sounds in the environment from crickets to birds, dogs to cats and so on.

However, the eerie sound persisted and those new to the intrusion, after comparing notes with longer serving moored residents some 500 in total , came to realise that others had been tormented in such a way for many years.

Some houseboat occupiers described the noise as similar to the buzzing of an electric razor--but magnified 10 times louder. Others said it sounded like an Air Force bomber or a neighbour using a powerful generator. One houseboat owner said the eerie humming was tuned to the middle C key on her piano.

These were specific descriptions of the the mysterious sound, but no had been able to uncover the hum's source or why it seemed to be heard only at night and during the summer.

Populist theories on the source of the hum included an obscure sewer pump or even a secret military device.

Marine Scientists from the Steinhart Aquarium in San Francisco suggested that the hum may be traced to the mating activities of fish in the waters beneath the houseboats.A particularly baffling aspect of the hum was the fact that the hulls and superstructures of some houseboats were able to conduct the noise, while others did not. In one instance it was only when a resident  added a bedroom to his houseboat and floated it on several large metal pontoon spheres that the hum became evident where before it had not been heard.

The more pleasant aspects of Marina living began to be affected by the persistent noise and residents had to resort to investing in a wide array of earplugs" or by using a white-noise machine that provided a more soothing sound to drown out the annoying buzz.

The level of the complaint became very real and County Health Officials enlisted the aid of sound engineers to investigate the hum. The research initially only added to the mystery.

The specialists  paddled around the bay in a small rowing boat several times, tracked the hum and recorded its frequency with special listening devices dropped into the water. Several "hot spots" where the sound appeared strongest were plotted but otherwise it proved transient and unpredictable in its intensity.

One important conclusion was that the frequency of the hum was not consistent with that of typical frequencies made by standard mechanical or electrical equipment.

By deduction there could only be one real source- that of "singing fish".

One suspect, a fist-sized fish, called the plainfin midshipman was common to the shallow waters and mud flat environment of California.

According to marine biologists, male plainfin collect in the bay during the summer, burrow into the mud and then vibrate their bladders in a seasonal mating call. This "sexed up" fish theory produced scepticism and humour amongst some houseboat residents, who continued to cast doubt that the hum could be produced by anything biological because it was so constant and still sounded more like the buzzing of machinery.

In a  bid to support their lovesick fish theory Marine Researchers resorted to trawling in the bay and collected several of the toad-like plainfin to bring back to tanks at the aquarium for study.

After the midshipman fish had settled into their new controlled environment, acoustic engineers were able to match up the sound of the fish to an archive recording of the same species from 1977 thereby proving beyond reasonable doubt that the source had been found.

This revelation, you may think, would give a degree of closure to the afflicted houseboat dwellers but there was little that could actually be done to attenuate the sound of the amorous fish.

It will certainly have crossed the minds of those hard pressed and exhausted residents to adopt the unthinkable, drastic and wholly unrealistic measure of eradicating the entire population of the midshipman from the local environment.

Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Revolution

There are many curious tales from the past.

One that recently came to my attention was that of a Mary Toft, who in 1726 Georgian England, gave birth to a succession of rabbits.

It was, at the time, a matter of great public interest making the pages of the equivalent for the period of a weekly tabloid newspaper and even involved the monarch, George 1st, whose personal physician examined and issued a medical pamphlet authenticating the phenomena.

At that time there was a very different perception of the pregnancy, gestation and birth cycle and many in an authoritative position believed that a woman could affect her unborn child with her very thoughts and experiences.

Mary Toft, from Godalming in Surrey was from poor stock and married to a cloth maker.

In the early stages of a pregnancy she claimed to have seen rabbits in the wild and for some 3 months thereafter had a strong compulsion to eat them but due to her impoverished state could not afford to.

Unfortunately the pregnancy miscarried and her husband had to take away the remains of the premature foetus.

Shortly after Mary attested to having felt a stirring in her womb and an Obstetrician from London confirmed that, indeed, he himself had seen a strange stirring from her belly as though something was cavorting about in there. The King's doctor is recorded as having been present to remove the third rabbit.

The story fascinated the Georgian population especially as it involved intimate details of medical probing of a woman, scandal and not a little bit of humour. The satirist, Hogarth produced a cartoon depicting such an investigation amongst a scene full of rabbits.

Mary and her entourage moved to London for close scrutiny of the strange situation.

In spite of the royal endorsement of Mary's condition there were many sceptics amongst the medical fraternity. One expert drafted in remarked that Mary always kept her knees and thighs together as though in fear of another rabbit emerging.

Suspicions arose in the urban surroundings of the Capital when Mary asked a reporter to get her a rabbit, the smallest he could find.

An autopsy of one of the rabbits revealed some startling facts, mainly that it been fed pellets containing straw and with signs of knife cuts in the flesh.

An elaborate hoax was now suspected and this led to a rapid retraction of the opinion of the King's Doctor.

Mary was urged to confess but three very different accounts in her statements only served to highlight a disturbed mental state. In her own words she described the original miscarriage and her feelings of guilt, inadequacy and desperation.

Others were implicated in the scam including  locals from Godalming and her mother in law.

The early 18th Century was an era of civil unrest and protest .

Many political activists were keen to mount campaigns against the ruling class and powerful landowners and Mary seems to have been unwittingly or otherwise drawn into the conspiracy as an apparent victim of poverty and food shortages.

It may not be possible to ever get to the true protagonists in the whole affair due to the murky circumstances and the passage of time.

Mary admitted to inserting disected rabbit parts into her body and keeping them there for some time before the fake births obviously at some personal risk and discomfort,

Some 15 rabbits were issued forth in this way.

Criminal proceedings resulted in imprisonment for Mary although there was no actual Statute in law by which to make a conviction hold and she was released from the notorious Bridewell Prison after just a few months.

She returned to Godalming and her death was recorded in 1763 under the description of the rabbit impostress.

A strange and fascinating tale indeed.

(Source. BBC World Service)

Perils of Childhood 1970's

I have some experience of the new global craze of Pokemon Go!.

This is not from the actual playing of the mobile/GPS based game but rather just avoiding crashing into a car on my bike that suddenly stooped in the middle of a busy main road whilst its occupants pursued a virtual Pokemon figure which must have simultaneously appeared on their screens.

Such is the danger when modern technology is marketed to the masses as a leisure pursuit.

This level of peril has in fact always been the case where toys and the latest crazes have been concerned.

My own childhood years in the late 1960's and 1970's were no different although perhaps just that little bit more hazardous given the toxic and carcinogenic composition of the early plastics and paints from which the toys of that era were fashioned.

Most bore the words "Made in Hong Kong" which should have caused parental alarm bells to ring about standards and safety of manufacture and materials but the dominance of that UK Colony in the toy sector placed it beyond reproach or criticism.

Looking back I am amazed that a good proportion of my generation survived the period of their childhood faced with exposure to such dangers in the toy box, notwithstanding what, with the luxury of hindsight, was also an bit of an iffy time for foodstuffs, medicines, aluminium cooking utensils and passive ingestion of cigarette smoke.

Oh, I forgot to mention the threat of nuclear war, smallpox and lead in the atmosphere from car exhaust fumes.

The intrusion of Health and Safety into everyday life, and in particular that of children was minimal in my formative years and yet we seem to have emerged into adulthood bearing little ill affects, perhaps with characteristics of resilience and acceptance over previous and indeed successive generations.

To illustrate what we were up against in those past decades and particularly to those now in their 20's, 30's and even into their 40's I provide a list, in no particular order, of the types and brands of toys, games and pastimes that could at anytime have cut short our promising youthful existence.

Sock Monkeys - promoting unrealistic and benign attitude to Primates
Fuzzy Felt- choking hazard from small parts
Easy Bake Oven- making a real cooking appliance seem harmless
Chemistry Set- unwitting bomb making
Frisbee- risk of falling out of a tree or being frazzled on electricity transformer when trying to retrieve
Gonks- fire hazard
Rubber Power Balls- likelihood of impact damage to soft tissue and eyes
Stylophone- making a celebrity endorsement fully acceptable
Cork Pop Guns- aid to developing poor attitude to targeting of pets
Wooden stilts- broken limbs
Shrinky Dinks- burn and scalding hazard
Cap Guns- unhealthy attitude to gun violence
Jelly Shoes- no arch support or protection from falling masonry
Weebles- they wobble and fall down
Pez Dispensers- high sugar and E-number exposure
Cabbage Patch Dolls- just plain creepy and nightmare inducing
Bionic Man Merchandise- promoting way too high expectations of physical ability
Rollerskates- responsible for many later in life limb and muscle ailments
Etch a Sketch- poor artistic appreciation
Top Trumps- encouraging unhealthy competition and one-up-manship
Robinsons Golly Figurines- introduction to racial stereotypes
Bullworker- contributing to arthritis 50 years after last used
Barrel of Monkeys- another example of disrespect for wildlife
Marbles- trip and choking risk
Jacks or Five-Stones - Rhuematics inducing from sitting on cold playground surface
Evel Knievel Stunt Bike- not representative of what can be done on a child'd pedal cycle
Silly String- just messy
Clackers- actually banned from my junior school
Conkers- knuckle bashing and contributing to eye injuries
Hula Hoops- hip displacement to be expected when reaching aged 60 plus
Gifts in cereal packets- risk of violence amongst siblings
Action Man- militaristic and violent
Plastic Meccano Set- Structures cannot be used to take the weight of a child
Electric Train Set- electrocution and fire hazard
Squelches- misleading information for children
Space Hopper- risk of being thrown into the path of moving traffic if out of control on Pez sweets
Raleigh Chopper- complete death trap and hard to ride anyway
Stickle Bricks- painful if stood on
Wade Miniatures- very uspetting if smashed by jealous sibling
Walkie Talkies- sanctions imposed for interrupting legitimate emergency services communications
String connected bean tins - strangulation and finger severance risk
Airfix models- small parts, addictive glue/cement, toxic gloss paints
Hot Wheels, Husky, Dinky, Corgi, Matchbox Cars- slippery under foot
Slinky- encouraging hazardous playing on staircase
3D Collectors Cards from petrol purchases- intense stress from incomplete set
Collectible Coinsets from petrol purchases- not to be put into vending machines in lieu of money
Football Cards- encourages compulsive disorders
Cards found in boxes of loose or tea bags- contamination from tea
Spirograp- sharp edges
Tonka Toys- road hazard from tendency to run away onto the highway
Magnetic Face Creation- exposure to iron filings
Assorted Magnets- taking risks to reach things to see if magnetic
Rubiks Cube- 50 years of misery to try to complete a second side
Pogo Stick- downright stupid, limb jarring, unpredictable
Stretch Armstrong- whiplash risk
Soda Stream- too much CO2
Hacky Sack- a bit sad anyway
Kaleidoscope- eye strain, conspiracy theorists blame early involvement of SpecSavers.
Pet Hamster- early experience of mortality or eyeballs falling out unnannounced

I am sure that there are many more. Please let me know if you feel that you have,like me, had a lucky escape from the perils of childhood in the 1970's

Ratatouille

For some reason the word "Ratatouille" was rattling around my head.

It is a strange and evocative word that to an everyday jobbing cook like myself is ripe for a bit of a joke on a rodent theme although, of course, all of the humour and puns were used up in the Disney animated movie of the same name.

It is still a word that sounds made up.

It could have been thought up by a celebrity Chef as one of those signature dishes or as an attempt to just invent a word to creep into the sub-concious of the nation, like conflab, staycation and twerking.

As with most culinary things Ratatouille originates from the French language and the Nice or Provencal Region from the verb touiller meaning to stir up.

The sudden arrival of the idea to try to cook this famous vegetable stew was no coincidence as at the time I was staring into the fridge trying to work out what, of the motley assortment of chilled foodstuffs, might go together to form a flavoursome and filling family meal.

Our household were not long returned from a self catering week in a cottage and a few vegetables had survived being pulped during the 400 mile road journey in the overloaded boot-space beneath biking gear and walking boots.

I had a faint recollection of what goes into a Ratatouille (although I have never even contemplated making it) from photographs in food magazines and coffee table cook books.

In one of my regular open fridge door commentaries on random ingredients the visual sequence of peppers, red onion, courgettes, aubergine-y things and a few mangey ripe tomatoes just shouted out Ratatouille and I could not resist.

Hunting around in the kitchen cupboards secured further components of balsamic vinegar , olive oil, sugar and one further item which I will reveal later. It was just down to a final rummage around the contents of the kitchen window cill fruit bowl to retrieve a few past their sell by date garlic cloves. Instead of fresh basil and thyme I had to use dried herbs.

I was pleasantly surprised to have sourced everything "in house" as they say without having to dash down to the local shops.

I piled all of the ingredients on the big marble chopping board and began the preparation of the vegetables. There appears to be a matter of contention amongst Ratatouille gourmets whether to peel off the skin of the aubergines or leave it on. I actually hate the taste and texture of aubergines and could as easily leave them out of the recipe if they were not such an integral part of the whole dish. I peeled them in of a sort of vege-sadistic rage and chopped them into chunks. It felt good.

The courgettes were topped, tailed and sliced. After decapitating and de-seeding the peppers these were hacked into irregular strips. I could not be bothered to scald and peel the tomatoes as they were a bit too far gone to retain any outer firmness anyway.

Onions were cut into wedges and garlic thinly sliced.

First into the large thick bottomed pan were the more exotic of the vegetables to be slowly fried in the olive oil until, as they say,  golden and softened. Personally I couldn't really see much of a change apart from a degree of transparency. It is important not to overcook them so that they do not reduce to a mush.

Temporarily removed to a separate bowl I splashed into the pan some more oil and in went the onions, garlic and dried basil for frying before adding back the already semi-cooked veg.

At this stage the mixture was eye-catchingly colourful but bordering on the dry side. This was easily resolved by the addition of the well travelled but sad looking tomatoes, a tin of altogether happier tomatoes, some balsamic and seasoning to taste.

My secret ingredient was next, a glossy black, gloopy concentrate of pomegranate syrup which crawled off the wooden spoon like an oil slick on a mediterranean beach.  I didn't mind because licking off the last bits of sharp, citrusy residue is most pleasurable.

It was now just a case of being patient and leaving the pan to simmer on the lowest heat setting for about half an hour.

The aromatic smells invaded the kitchen. Standing quietly I could hear the faint bubbling sound which seemed to murmur the word Ratatouille. I was obviously missing my cooking companion- a nice glass of chilled Pinot.

Served up with some crusty french bread (brought in by one of the family after a bit of an afterthought of a mobile phone call) it made for a great evening meal. The liquid had reduced to an almost sticky consistency with an acidic yet sweet kick.

I was satisfied with my efforts and in big scrawling handwriting the word Ratatouille was marked up on the blackboard wall in the kitchen as a worthy addition to the weekly family meal rota, somewhere between the thursday takeaway and my wife's saturday lasgane. I love it when a plan comes together.

The War on Terraces

I started work in the city of Hull in the mid nineteen eighties.

At that time there was a curious atmospheric mix of fish smells and brick dust.

The former was to be expected from the quays and processing sheds of a longstanding although much declined deep sea trawler industry. The latter was a consequence of the large scale demolition and clearance of the old inner city Victorian terraced housing. The Council had decided that the mainly two-up, two-down dwellings had reached a stage of economic obsolescence although the locals often quipped that officialdom was just completing the thwarted efforts of the Luftwaffe who had started the decline by extensive bombing throughout much of the war years . The bombing death toll of 1200 citizens and a 95% damage rate to the housing stock ranked Hull as second only to London for devastation.

Many of the residents in the districts scheduled for destruction were not in agreement with the clearance policy.

For all of the drawbacks of a draughty, damp, expensive to heat and maintain home there was a strong community identity and spirit which would not and did not survive the enforced migration to the new estate layout social housing areas on the then very periphery of Hull.

There is a wonderful dramatisation in the Play for Today series called "Land of Green Ginger" available on You Tube showing this transition for a large part of the city in the 1970's.

There was not much that could be done in protest by the already hard pressed population apart from the very unique stand by Barry Nuttall.

I came across him in the early years of my employment in Hull or rather the regular convoys of second world war vehicles on manouvre through the city streets that characterised his self styled role as commander in chief of the Northern Allied Axis Society.

His local cult hero status had been firmly established in 1983 with his army forming an encampment amid the rubble of what had been his house before the bulldozers had flattened it along with the rest of Wyndham Street and the surrounding area.

The protest on that site would last for three years.

It was a great undertaking for Major General Nuttall, a married father of seven children but not a surprising one given his hard work ethic in timber yards, on the river, maintaining motor vehicles and even as a bouncer and DJ.

The urban demolition had relied upon offers of compensation to the owner occupiers and resettlement for tenants initially on a voluntary basis but restricted to a bricks and mortar valuation with additional payments for disturbance and towards relocation.

There was no quantum for the emotional value of a hearth and home, non-monetary personal investment in a property or for that familiar allusion to a man's castle. Barry Nuttall on this basis considered the Council's offer to be inadequate.

Together with his troops there was a showdown with bailiffs and the police in the streets just to the west of Hull City Centre and with a final resort to a Compulsory Purchase Order.

The Wyndham Street stand-off was in a makeshift fortress under canvas. There were no service connections and those venturing out of the camp would run a risk of being prevented from returning by a constant police presence.

Nuttall was only absent from the battlements for two events, one being the presentation of a petition to the House of Commons and the other, his wedding.

The massed ranks of American GI's that accompanied Barry Nuttall were quite incongruous for a north east Port Town but typified the depth of loyalty to be found in the old densely packed housing arranged with forecourt frontages or in off road courts.

To the residents it had been a great place to live although as early as 1979 the area had been put on notice of the intended clearance.

The houses were capable of being renovated and part of my early workload was involved in reporting to Building Societies on schemes to create new kitchen and bathroom extensions which were a major improvement from sculleries and outdoor loos.

The appetite of the Council was not however there for a cash injection for upgrading and the areas were condemned.

Barry Nuttall eventually withdrew in October 1986 after his sterling display of people power.

I am surprised that a statue has not been erected in the city to his memory, he died in 2011, aged 62, but then again he was pitted against the Council who would never allow for such a commemoration.

After all they had been the enemy and, arguably as victors, they would write the history.

Perks of the Job

There is a scene towards the end of the 1970 "Railway Children" film which I always get quite emotional about.

No, it is not the fact that the passenger carriages attached to the main locomotive are completely wrong for the fictional period nor that the crossing gates are a later version as another glaring anachronism. Trainspotters alert!

I am talking about the epic emergence ,on the big screen, out of the soot and steam of the previously falsely accused and incarcerated Mr Waterbury as seen by his loving and dutiful daughter, Roberta. She had been mysteriously drawn to the village station by her adolescent sensitivities which told her that something significant was going to happen.

It did.

Out of the many background sounds to be expected for the golden age of steam trains it is the cry of "Daddy, My Daddy" from Roberta that causes me to dissolve into a dribbling, emotional blob.

I cannot really explain why it does that to me every time.

I suppose that it is all tied up in the whole fatherhood thing which I have been privileged to take part in with the god given gifts of my three children.

They are all now in their twenties but the emotional depth of being their dad does not at all diminish, it just evolves in terms of what needs to be done as they get older.

There were the early years of their demands for constant attention and to be entertained.

This was followed by their unquenchable appetite for knowledge from books, audio tapes and television.

Outdoor activities were energetic and wide ranging.

A love of music was next and I hope that the introduction to the tracks and bands of my era was as much an influence on their ongoing listening as it was to me.

Dads can be a bit of an embarrassment to those in their mid to late teens and I have maintained that enviable role with very little effort.

We do come back into usefulness when it is time to do things such as driving lessons or to answer those tentative questions about savings, mortgages and other issues that will at some time be important but do not require any action for a few years.

I have treasured all of the above and more, in fact every single moment , of fatherhood to date.

I have been able to take my role for granted because I live in a stable society.

My political views, religion, upbringing and social standing have never been suppressed and I have not been persecuted or tortured.

My working hours have been those I have chosen and not those imposed on me in any regard. I did not work more than a few minutes from the family.

It is joyful to hear their excitement start of a new day and the tired happiness at it's conclusion.

I cannot recall being away from the children for longer than 24 hours at any one time.

I have been blessed in being able to provide for my family the fundamental things of a roof over their heads, food on the table, clothing and shoes for the different seasons of the year.

My home has always been intact and secure when I have returned from work and not exposed to bombing, the ravages of conflict or strife, invasion or intrusion.

I have had it really easy.

The important and defining fact is I know and fully appreciate that to be the case.

Wet, Wet, Wet

The Slave Trade is still a very raw subject.

Talk of reparations and apologies are regularly on the agenda for high level talks between heads of state of those nations whose predecessors were party to the transportation and exploitation of vast numbers of peoples and the unwilling donor countries.

What is not so well known is the slave trade involving white Europeans between the 16th and 19th Centuries. Hundreds of thousands were captured by pirates originating from the North African coast, known as the Barbary Corsairs. These ruthless brigands ranged  far and wide and were known to have raided coastal villages in mainland England including Cornwall to make off with whole populations. Many of those seized spent the rest of their precarious lives enslaved on the African Continent.

Few survived to recount their stories.

A remarkable tale was able to be told by a Cornishman, Thomas Pellow.

In 1715, then an 11 year boy, Thomas Pellow persuaded his Uncle John, Captain of Valentine Enys’ ship Francis, to allow him to join him for a voyage shipping pilchard fish to Genoa.

Soon regretting his decision and wishing he was back home at school in his home town, young Thomas found himself homeward bound off Cape Finisterre when the ship was ambushed by 2 Sallateens, ships containing Moorish, Barbary Coast Corsairs, and the crew was taken prisoner.

Whilst waiting for a favourable tide off the pirate’s home port of Sallee, Morrocco, a 20 gun British frigate appeared forcing the pirate captain Ali Hacam to attempt crossing a sandbar under fire, where they ran aground and the ship broke up.  Thomas, who could barely swim made it safely to shore by clinging to the errant mast.

Rounded up after struggling to the mainland ,Thomas and 25 others were imprisoned at the town of Rabat whilst his uncle was taken elsewhere with another group including some French captives.

4 days later after being walked to Mequinez, the ruler of that part of modern Morocco , Sultan Moulay Ismail, bought the prisoners into slavery for 50 Ducats each, before claiming a third of the price back as tribute and ordering the beheading of Ali Hacam for failing to fight the man of war at Sallee.

The Sultan, dedicated to the suppression of infidel Christian Europeans acquired many captives as a workforce to build a palace and walled grounds that he intended to stretch for some 300 miles. The white slaves had a high mortality from starvation, disease and cruelty on the construction sites and in their deprived living conditions.

There was also considerable pressure to convert to Islam. The young Thomas was subjected to many beatings and torture by fire to relinquish his Christian faith and “turn Moor” and after several months of this he reluctantly conceded , although not in his heart. He had prayed hard to God to forgive him for what he had been coerced into doing to save his own life,

Thomas was then given lighter duties in the Sultan’s palace, which gave him access to better food. The sultan then married him off to one of the local women, with the hope that the marriage would result in more slaves being born.

For years, Thomas’s family in England had no information about his fate. Even if they had, they had no money to pay a ransom to buy him back. The owner of the Francis, Valentine Enys, was not worried about the fate of his former crew — he could always recruit others.

In 1719 the family received news that Thomas, now 15,  was alive but that he had converted to Islam. This meant that the English Government no longer listed him as a slave they would like to buy out of captivity.

Thomas had no choice but to try to escape. This would be a difficult undertaking because informers were scattered across the country and his palace was five days’ march from the Atlantic.

But Thomas had some advantages. His Palace job meant that he was in reasonable health. He was also now a fluent speaker of Arabic and had tanned skin, which meant he could pass himself off as a wandering merchant.

He made his first attempt in 1721 but was captured, and tried again in 1728 or 1729 during a time of civil unrest in Morocco but was caught once more.

In 1729, his wife and daughter both died of a disease. Although it had been a forced marriage, it had been a happy one and he loved his daughter. Indeed, he had often thought that once he had escaped back to England alone, he would send for his wife and daughter, although given they were both Muslims and England was anti-Islamic, it is not clear how realistic he was being.

It was in 1737 that Thomas Pellow made his last dash for freedom. He was aged 33 and had been a slave for more than two decades. He set out pretending to be a travelling doctor and eventually reached the Atlantic coast after six months. Those found assisting the escape of slaves were themselves at risk of death but Pellow was befriended by an Irish Sea Captain and on July 10, 1738, he was on board a vessel heading for London. His arrival there caused a great stir because so few slaves ever lived to tell their tale.

On October 15, 1738, he arrived back at Falmouth, Cornwall.

News of his escape had gone ahead of him thanks to the efficiency of the newspapers of his day. He was given a hero’s welcome in his village — including from his parents, who were now both in their 50s — and returned to being a Christian.

In 1740, he wrote the best-seller "The History of the Long Captivity and Adventures of Thomas Pellow", which gave a fascinating insight into the horrors of white slavery in north Africa. A copy is available for reference in Penryn Museum.

European governments continued to mount operations against the Barbary Corsair pirates, but they were not completely dealt with until the Ottoman Empire (present day Turkey) took over north Africa in the late 18th century.

King Arthur's Cakelot

I could feel a hard and disapproving stare from those passing by on the narrow pavement.

The picnic bench style seating along the forecourt of the Patisserie/café had intruded onto the pedestrian walkway but was evidently legal, no doubt positioned right up to the red line boundary depicted on a typical Title Deed Plan. In the days before adoption by the Local Council the frontages of High Street trading premises invariably ended (or started) at the road edge being suited to the display of goods spilling out in racks and wheeled barrows.

Those on foot, in the days before mass car ownership, just made their way along the street dodging water filled potholes, piles of horse manure and recumbent drunkards.

The Patisserie was what us Northern Folk just call a fancy bakery with a window full of iced buns, croissants, chocolate dipped flapjack, millionaire shortbread and the local variant passing for an Eccles Cake, Maid of Honour or ginger Parkin.

The place was, however, a bit more than that as we were in the tourist hotspot of Tintagel, Cornwall with intense competition from businesses in the town to attract the patronage and cash of the seasonal visitors.

Although busy all year round there was, as with most coastal resorts, the golden period of the peak weeks from Whit weekend to August Bank Holiday in which to earn, in the case of a bakery, the icing on the cake otherwise known as the profit to keep the wolfish bank manager happy in the downtime of the winter months of scant cash flow.

In this particular establishment there were multiple income generating activities under the one roof.

On one side of the double fronted shop unit stood long stainless steel work tables with apron clad employees in full public view. There was frantic activity involving the throwing up of clouds of flour as they prepared breads and pastries for the day. A few years ago this will have been quite a secretive process in a back room in the unsociable early hours but what with the fascination of, in particular, the British Public with all things baking this was now part of the pantomime of food production.

Being Cornwall a main item being home made was the Pasty.

They must have been very good or very cheap given the length of the queue waiting patiently at the serving counter.

The other side of the premises operated as a traditional café with gingham chequered table clothes, wheel backed chairs under authentic timber ceiling beams and framed sepia tinted photos of fishermen and cliff views.

The speciality on offer was, of course the Cornish Cream Tea.

As part of our week long vacation in the far south west of England the Cream Tea figured high on our wish list alongside, if not slightly above the procurement of a dressed crab, locally sourced fish and chips and an authentic pasty.

One of the chunky bench and tables fell vacant as we came out of a nearby shop clutching a handful of postcards.

It was a pleasant mid afternoon in late September sunshine, dry and with no perceptible breeze, all constituting the ideal conditions to partake of the county treat.

There was no debate from any of our party about the pavement outlook, close proximity of passers-by of which a high proportion had a curious dog in tow or even the extortionate price for what was, after all, a bit of a snack.

I went into the café to order and having parted with in excess of twenty English Pounds returned to take my place on the hard wooden perch facing the road.

Four tea plates arrived each with two scones, a ramekin of clotted cream and a miniature, ie scaled down jar of strawberry jam plus respective drinks orders including a latte, green teas and hot chocolate.

In bringing together the constituents of the Cornish Cream Tea I became aware of the hardening of attitude of the general public at large as they sidled by from both directions of the main or Fore Street as it was called.

I checked that my trouser flies were done up, that my lightweight jacket was not on inside out and even clocked my reflection in the plate glass window for any potentially major social or fashion transgression on my part.

Nothing seemed amiss.

I mentally backtracked on what I had done in the previous few minutes in case it could be misconstrued as inflammatory, rude or lewd.

Upon arrival of the plate and its contents I had carefully cut open the still warm from the oven scones and applied a thin veneer of Cornwall produced butter. They were just moist enough not to break up under the pressure of the knife. Next was an unhealthily thick layer of the local dairy clotted cream and topped with a dollop of the jam (branded in the name of the tea shop but made on an industrial estate in a Leicester, East Midlands postcode).

My structuring of the cream and jam appeared to be the reason for the silent but very visual disapproval of the wider population.

I glanced at surrounding occupied tables.

Open air Pasty eaters dominated having spent a good period of their day stood in line in the posh baking part of the shop but a few of those seated were, like us, tucking into the ultimate in a civilised afternoon tea.

I felt a chill to my very core at the realisation of having committed a major blunder.

Without exception all of the others had the order of scone, butter, blob of jam and lashings of the dense, lush cream.

Was it that obvious that I was a seasonal visitor.

You could say that I felt a bit of a clot.

Insects, flies and videotape-worms

It was the accidental ingestion of a fly whilst cycling that got me thinking about whether I would knowingly and willingly eat insects as part of my normal diet.

After all, around 80% of the global population already do so and have done for centuries.

However, in the so called developed countries of the world there is still very much an aversion or indeed a downright repulsion associated with the very idea.

There are very sound reasons for upscaling (reptile term) the production and consumption of insects.

The exoskeletons of insect consist of chitin, a prebiotic. The bones and wings have as much calcium and iron as spinach. There is a concentration of amino acids, a high protein content and low fat.

These are just the core benefits of an insect based diet.

In environmental and economic terms there are many more advantages.

It takes 1000 times less water to produce an equivalent weight of insects to beef. One pound of beef requires the input of ten pounds of feedstuff whereas insects require just two by comparison. Considerably less land and resources are required for insect cultivation and fewer greenhouse gases are thought to be produced. This may have to be reviewed if an industrial scale of production is attained.

The world is currently facing significant issues on a number of fronts  climate, population growth, drought and loss of agricultural land.

The problems of how to feed a hungry world on the basis of growth predictions over the next half a century and beyond are paramount and the adoption of a insect based food on a global scale is seen to be one potential opportunity to try to alleviate the threats that are anticipated.

It is certainly not a new innovation although it is being touted in the western economies as the next best direction for entrepreneurs and business start-ups.

We can certainly learn from other cultures about the versatility of edible insects. In Ghana termites are a common meal. China and Japan consume bee and fly larvae. Bordering on the exotic is the eating of dragonflies in Bali, roasted tarantula in Latin America and crickets as an expensive delicacy in Uganda.

There are around 1900 edible insects in existence and perhaps the squeamish and over-sensitive amongst us should reconsider as the final product on the plate has been proven to be tasty and eminently suitable as a main meal or to compliment existing "normal" menus.

The wider introduction of insects to the western world  in the 21st century is seen to be as revolutionary as the pioneering of sushi in the mid to late 20th century.

Around 30 companies now in the US sell insect based foods and their products are to some extent sanitised for a western palate. How about chocolate covered crickets, roasted mealworms, fried silk worm chrysalis, bamboo worms, black ants and Emperor Scorpion.

These items may retain the shape and texture of their constituents but many producers are processing insects as additives to take advantage of their protein and calcium content.

Cricket flour for example can be used in conjunction with general baking, similarly grasshopper salt.

We can expect to see many inventive uses of insects in our restaurants and eateries and it may just take the championing of this foodstuff by a celebrity chef, a prominent personality or a global fast food chain to break into popular culture in those parts of the world not yet in on the benefits.

My involuntary swallowing of that fly on my bike ride did not perceptibly improve my efforts or performance but I would not be shy in coming forward to do a taste test.

Creepy crawlies are the future.

Humping in clotted cream country

A classically corny joke to start off this bit of writing.

A camel with one hump is called a Dromedary, the breed with two is a Bactrian so what do you call a camel with three humps......why, Humphrey of course.

The oldies are still the best!

On the subject of Camels the latter part of our holiday week in Cornwall in the South West of England was a rude introduction to the inhospitable cycling terrain of that county. A ray of hope for a relatively horizontal cycle route was The Camel Trail, which in its out and back format provides a 40 mile ride from Padstow inland via Wadebridge and Bodmin to Wenford Bridge.

The naming of the trail, on the course of two long since discontinued railway lines, is not as exotic or animalistic as first suggested. There is no history of the use of the ships of the desert to carry sand, stone or tin nor any enterprising venture to offer trekking on the rather unique creatures but rather Camel refers to the river which provides the fishing port of Padstow with its outlet to the might Atlantic.

The Trail hugs very closely the course of the river from its wide sandbank estuary for some 18 miles by which time it takes the form of a shallow and tranquil stream with lazy blackwater pools interspersed with faster flowing occasional white water activity.

In some places the track, either hard surfaced or loose cinder or gravelled takes on the role of the flood bank or is steeply elevated with thickly wooded slopes in ancient oak or non descript pines in a carpet of ferns and vegetation.

The railway line origins ensure a very gentle and almost non-existent gradient although try telling that to fatiqued legs and saddle sore bums after nearly four hours of constant low gear pedalling.

The start from a surface car park in Padstow on the quayside just near the Lobster Hatchery was busy. Half of those alighting from vehicles headed towards the Harbour and niche shops with the remainder mounting their own bikes or those sourced from a number of hire shops and taking the signposted route to the opening to the Camel Trail.

It appears that, like to us, the attraction of a flat ride in Cornwall is very popular and some 400,000 pass every year along at least one section of the route generating around £10 million pounds to the local economy.

Leaving the bustling port town the route runs over a box girder metal bridge intended to carry freight locomotives at the inception of the North Cornwall Railway Line from 1834. A minimum of maintenance ensures safe passage for those light of foot and on two wheels but with an ominous warning of weakness.

There are two small stagnant creeks at low tide on the inside of the raised embankment and  rather unstable looking stacks of slates and debris from a long abandoned quarry site.

The trail on its initial five miles is of good surface and encouraging for not only pedestrians and cyclists but also dog walkers, roller skaters, skate boarders and joggers.

The Padstow to Wadebridge stretch is by far the most frequented and is quite manageable for a couple of hours of casual but physical activity.

Wadebridge, which went under the uncomfortably damp name of Wade until construction of a stone bridge is a picturesque town on the basis of our short traverse to pick up the Trail on the far side of the main built up area.

Flood water covered meadows dotted with grazing cattle mark the end of the good surface reverting to the loose stuff which throws up dirt and gravel giving a speckled hue to our clothing and exposed skin.

The old station platforms are just visible under thick wild foliage with quaint descriptive signage including Shooting Range, Grogley Halt, Nanstallion Halt and Boscarne Junction. The latter is still an active station on the seasonal Bodmin and Wenford steam railway and we could hear the distinctive whistle and rattle from the rolling stock from some distance.

The route is quite busy by mid morning with slow moving and meandering bike groups and we cruise past nervously as any gap either side constricts with lack of concentration or panic at the fast approaching sound of our crunchy tyres.

There are a few stopping off points along the way to appreciate the scenery as well as a cafe, vineyard and even a bike mounted coffee and sandwich vendor.

We miss the sharp left branch to Wenford Bridge and find ourselves outside the imposing Bodmin Jail before realising our error of navigation costing an extra 4 miles. Backtracking brings us to a dark tree formed tunnel through the upper Camel Valley and this continues for a further 5 miles. The river bubbles along never more than a few metres away.

A few light headed moments indicate that bonking stage of a strenuous ride but we are only carrying water. There is the promise of an eco cafe some 5 miles farther on and we persevere over what seems more like twice the actual distance. A pot of coffee and thick slab of carrot cake at a sunlit picnic table in a disused rail marshalling yard momentarily allows us to put aside the thought that we are only at the half way point of the journey.

There must be a named physical law that dictates that a return cycle seems shorter and faster.

Perhaps caffeine and sugar rich treats act as a catalyst but the law was proven correct and we were soon back in Wadebridge.

It looked different in a sudden stormy squall. The rain had evidently been persistent for some time but the shelter of the wooded canopy had hidden its ferocity.

Typically English summer weather prevailed and within  a few minutes of the eye of the storm passing it was again baking sunshine and calm. We simultaneously sweated and steamed in our hastily adorned rainwear whilst passing tourists in shorts and T shirts. The other cyclists were bright and clean whereas we were mud splattered and bedraggled in the extreme as we returned to the Padstow car park.

That is always the sign of a good day out.