Fair Scarborough

Just last Bank Holiday Monday was a time travelling visit to the North Yorkshire seaside resort of Scarborough.

On reflection the day was wonderful.

I can honestly say that of my many and varied experiences at and around the coast of Britain it was right up there for surprise and entertainment value.

After an early start from home in Hull we stopped off for a coffee and a bit of breakfast at the cafe high up on the natural promontory of Olivers Mount. It was a balmy morning even by 10am but sitting at a table on the roadside terrace there was a faint and cooling breeze. That landmark on the south side of the town, with its monolithic war memorial,  gives a panoramic vantage point over the grey slate and red clay tiles roofscape.

Scarborough is a rare blend of historic castle, rolling topography, bustling harbour, notable buildings and the traditional trappings of a very well patronised resort that has welcomed and thrived from the seasonal influx of visitors from the industrial conurbations of Yorkshire and beyond.

There is no place like it anywhere else across the nation.

Descending from Olivers Mount along the course of the motorbike circuit which, even in the relative cocoon of a motor vehicle is still a frightening sensation, we made our way through a gap in the long line of stationary traffic on Filey Road and headed briefly out of town.

Our destination was a car park just above the natural amphitheatre of Holbeck Hill .

I say natural but qualify this description in that what now exists used to in fact be the site of a large and well regarded Hotel and grounds but following a rapid and media covered landslip were completely destroyed and subsequently cleared.

It is a steep and rough dressed track down to sea level but seeing the clear blue sea and clean sands makes any prospect of a slip or fall somehow worth the risk.

My wife and her family were regular holidaymakers in Scarborough in her younger years. There is a bit of a tear in her eye as she recalls the hours spent in the sea water lido but sadly this is long gone and replaced with a patch of ornamental turf and a circular paved feature.

A few beach huts stand in an abandoned state although others were being advertised for daily hire for £32 or on a heavily discounted equivalent for the season.

The area of the South Bay is a throwback to the halcyon days of the Edwardian and inter war eras.

At the concert hall of The Spa we intrude on a recital by a band dressed in peasant garb playing waltzes and classical folk tunes. By intruding I mean that we didn't pay but loitered around in defiance of the notices not to do so on the balcony walkway above the stage and public seating area. There was a reasonable attendance of Seniors in smart casual attire and straw boaters as though they had arrived in the 1930's and just stayed on for an everlasting matinee.

We left those genteel and civilised surroundings on the hydraulic lift, the oldest in Britain, which travels in a perpendicular action up to a walkway and bridge into the main part of Scarborough. It was cheating really as the alternative route by foot is lengthy and tiring.

The town was buzzing with Bank Holiday visitors.

The Grand Hotel, at one time reputed to be the biggest building in Europe and rumoured to have been selected by Hitler as a post invasion North of England Headquarters, was a hive of activity with coaches dropping off and picking up as though on a conveyor belt.

A snaking path took us back down to the shoreline where the beach was already crowded, similarly the amusement arcades and retail shops selling knick-knacks, buckets and spades, fudge and doughnuts.

It was a case of dodging the mass of pedestrians all of the way to the harbourside. Queues were waiting on the slipway for a seat on a powerboat, the noise of which was echoing across South Bay as it made frequent circuits of the Bay. Others dangled hand lines into the waters around the fishing and pleasure boats.

The funfair at the quay marked the farthest north of our walk and we struck along a path below the Castle and into the Old Town.

The narrow streets have some character Georgian and early Victorian town houses but remaining a well kept secret being just off the main footfall areas of the resort.

The winding lanes took us back to the hustle and bustle and we followed the signposts for the Italian Gardens.

Although I was aware of their existence I had never actually made it to this landscaped wonder. They are not to be missed if only for the peace and quiet and the view through the trees of a sparkling ocean.

By now we were hungry and last stop off was The Clock Cafe for a cold drink and homemade cakes. You could be mistaken for thinking you were on the Riviera in that spot such was the weather and outlook.

A bit hot and bothered but nevertheless happy we returned to the car park.

The interior of the car was sweltering and took a few minutes to cool down to a comfortable temperature.

It had been a truly remarkable day in Scarborough.

Of course, I would be back there within a couple of days in the course of my work but that glimpse of the good old days of an English coastal resort would still be fresh in my mind and for many years to come.

Face Time

Police officers with the ability to remember the faces of almost everyone they have ever seen are helping to crack down on crime. Meet the "super-recognisers", whose unusual abilities are being deployed in a bid to keep the streets of London safe.

They are the people  in possession of an extraordinary ability to recognise men, women and children they barely know. When put to the test "super-recognisers", as they are known in the Metropolitan Police, can recall up to 95% of the faces seen compared to the average person, who remembers just 20%.

For this reason New Scotland Yard deploys an elite team of 140 officers across London to try to capture the most wanted criminals.

The specialist team can recognise people from images just by seeing one or two features

PC Gary Collins is the Met's top super-recogniser and has identified more than 800 suspects from photographs, CCTV and his time policing the streets. His beat is Hackney, one of the capital's worst areas for crime. "Whenever an incident happens they'll call me in and show me the footage straight away. "I'll look [at it] and say, 'Yeah I know that person, I know him from this area or I stopped him on this occasion,' and it's just putting a name to the face."

Super-recognition is seen as one of the Met's most powerful tools

Their talent is thought to be a gift of nature, giving them the tools to identify someone they may have only once fleetingly glimpsed. Even more impressive is they do not need to see the whole face to make a positive identification.

"Quite a lot of people I have identified just from their various facial parts, some by their eyes, one guy I've identified by his nose," said PC Collins. "He had a scarf [covering] the bottom half of his face [and] a hood covering the top half, which was hanging over his eyes."He pleaded guilty in court, he said yes, that's me in the footage. [We] got it right, which was quite pleasing."

The features of people in crowds are quickly scanned by super-recognisers looking for criminals

Dr Josh Davis, a forensic facial identification expert from the University of Greenwich, is conducting a study into super-recognisers and their abilities.

He spoke to BBC Inside Out London about his research after putting officers to the test.

"We have tested them on passport images taken 10 years [ago] and they are still able to recognise where they've seen faces before," he said.

"We think super-recognition is nature, rather than nurture, but I can't say 100%. People tend to emerge in their 20s and 30s, we're not really finding any super-recognisers in their teens so far."

Incredible as the skills of a super-recogniser are on the face of it, there are limitations. Research shows they struggle to identify people outside their own race.

Super-recognisers could recall 95% of the faces they saw when tested by Dr Josh Davis

Det Ch Insp Mick Neville, head of the Met's central forensic image team, said: "There is clear, quite politically incorrect scientific evidence that certain people do see their own race better.

"So the best person to identify a Chinese person, is somebody who's Chinese; the best person to identify a black person is a black person."

Though the "cross-race effect," as it is known, is not entirely clear-cut, said Dr Davis.

"There are definitely some white officers in the super-recognition team working in communities that have a large ethnic minority, who pretty much only identify people from that ethnic minority," he added.

The Met believes facial recognition will soon be as crucial as fingerprints and DNA

Mr Neville wants to more than triple the number of super-recognisers in his team and said there should be 500 working for the Met.

He believes facial recognition will soon be as crucial as fingerprints and DNA in creating a mosaic of a suspect's crime history. His team employs a technique called "face net", where super-recognisers identify the same person committing several offences, for which they can be charged and face heavier penalties.

"In the past you would've just been convicted for the one crime [based] on CCTV and probably get a suspended sentence.

"But if the judge sees 10 or more offences, people go to prison," he added.

Super-recognisers helped identify people involved in the London riots in August 2011

To date, the biggest test for the Met's super recognisers has been the summer riots in 2011.

PC Collins was able to identify heavily disguised rioter Stephen Prince, who was seen throwing petrol bombs at police officers.

As a result of his powers of recognition, Prince was caught, convicted and sent to prison.

"It was a good result," said PC Collins.

Super-recognisers were also instrumental in locating murdered teenager Alice Gross last year.

They viewed thousands of hours of grainy, low-quality CCTV and within days identified the schoolgirl and at-that-point unidentified suspect Arnis Zalkalns, allowing them to draw a timeline which eventually led the discovery of the schoolgirl's body in the River Brent.

More recently, super-recognisers helped make more than 200 arrests at the annual Notting Hill carnival, using their skills to scan the crowds for wanted criminals and troublemakers.

With successes such as these, it is clear why super-recognition is increasingly being seen as one of the most vital tools in the Met's fight against crime.

Can computers outperform people?

Super-recognisers are not the only tool open to the authorities when chasing a face.

The ever-expanding field of facial recognition software offers the mechanical alternative to human talent, the science against the art.

But which offers the best chance of catching the criminal, now and in the future?

The technology presents extraordinarily diverse options, from unlocking phones to feeding the right cat, but it is in the area of law-enforcement it provokes the strongest reactions.

Trialled by authorities across the globe, in the UK it is being put through its paces by Leicestershire Police, who recently defended its use at the Download music festival, saying it was an "efficient and effective" way of tracking known offenders.

While the principle is simple, taking measurements of prominent features and comparing it with a database of photos, the practice is fiendishly complex.

CCTV cannot always provide the best pictures

Prof Raouf Hamzaoui from the Faculty of Technology at De Montfort University, said: "In ideal conditions, computers can outperform people, going through millions of possibilities in seconds.

"But with low quality pictures, typical of CCTV, where there is darkness, facial coverings, blurring and so on, the software struggles and the human does better.

"And this is with average people, rather than super-recognisers."

On top of this concerns about computer processing power, the reliability of databases and ever-present fears over civil liberties, have dogged the concept.

However, as with much technology, the potential of the system is only starting to be realised.

Prof Hamzaoui said: "The algorithms will be refined but for the time being, it looks like the human element will continue to win - after all it took millions of years of evolution to develop.

(Article reproduced from various sources- National Press)

House rules

I can't believe that I wrote this eight years ago this month......time for the spellcheck then.

We had ample time to hide if we saw the smelly newspaper delivery lady before she got up the driveway to ring the doorbell .

It was a scary time for us as young children. The shuffling, bag carrying,waterproof coat clad figure took on a whole demoniac quality when in fact she was probably someone's beloved granny.

So why did they not tell her that she smelt like wee-wee? My mother had let her into the house on a single occasion to use the toilet which must have set us up as as a soft touch. It was not as if we saw her on a rare monthly magazine delivery but she was down our street and up our driveway every single weekday bringing the local evening paper.

One of us kids would be on watch. Not too difficult as 21 Westgarth Gardens was a modern house in the early 1970's and the lounge where we would watch TV after school had a large floor to ceiling height picture window as was the fashion of that time. This had an unrestricted view of the front approach.

The "duty child" would usually be parallel to the window rocking attentively on the vinyl footrest, called a pouffe in those days with no recriminations for frequent use of the word. A strict rota was intended to minimise the risk of the lookout losing concentration or being distracted by the usual tea time viewing of Blue Peter (We were never an ITV Magpie house), Top Cat cartoons and Hectors House.

However,a momentary lapse and it was invariably panic stations as we would dive for cover away from the window trying not to cause a wave of moving air to betray our presence by causing the curtains to flap and wave.

Our mother also participated. The door to the house was on the side from the driveway. It was mainly obscure glazed. We could not resist heightening our part terror, part excitement, part inquisitiveness by trying to get a glimpse of the squat and broad figure by peeking out of whatever hiding place we had taken towards the bright hallway.

Of course, detection and avoidance was easy in the longer afternoons of the summer. The late season and winter campaign was much more difficult. There were many very close calls in the murky autumnal and winter evenings as the newspaper lady assumed a cloak of invisibility which activated as soon as she turned from the public pavement into our gateway. If the doorbell rang without warning of her approach we would freeze, statue-like wherever we were at the time. Typically most of the house lights would be on so it was much less convincing to pretend that no-one was in.

If caught out in the open space of the hallway and with no prospect of reaching cover there was always the risk of casting a shadow across the door and undoing a long campaign of resistance.

The lady could be identified through the blurring effect of the glass by an awkward and obviously discomfort induced fidgeting from one leg to the other. This took on the appearance of a surreal jig and I am not entirely sure now if she also hummed or sang in order to take her mind off the desperate feeling of needing to go and very soon.

With no response from the house, even though she must have had suspicions about our tactics, she would let out a disgruntled sound as the newspaper came through the letterbox.

Our road was quite long and if all our neighbours had gone into hiding and silent mode like ourselves then I dread to think what action the lady had to take to relieve herself if the feeling got too excruciating to cope with.

We did feel bad about our behaviour not at the time but only many years later when we came to realise that a small act of kindness can go a long way in someone's life not to mention in the avoidance of any bladder related complaints.

Blotting your copy book

Just a bit of an apology today. It must be something that the hot weather brings out in some of use- remorse.

To explain:

My day job involves taking detailed notes about the physical form and condition of, mostly, houses.

This means that I carry around a pen all of the time in readiness to record longhand my observations.

The pen actually spends very little time in the writing position as in the logistics in getting my equipment and ladders together from car to front door it can find itself behind my ear, gripped in my teeth, stuffed in a pocket or simply held in place under the strong spring of a clipboard.

I stopped, long ago,  putting a pen into my inside suit jacket pocket because of the inevitable seepage of ink following even minor squashing or compression.

In actually walking around a house I lose track of the position of the pen knib and that is where my need to apologise comes into play.

That inky pen end just ends up leaving a long straggly line across wallpaper, plaster, door fronts,
Kitchen units, staircase banisters and many more nicely presented finishes. One particular area of risk is the soft furnishings such as heavy curtains or other decorative hangings.

If this occurs out of sight of the homeowner or occupier I can try to remove the unsightly blemishes with a bit of spittle and the sleeve of my shirt but not always fully effectively. That darned biro ink just goes and smudges at will even under the best intentioned efforts of spit and polish.

I can be under constant scrutiny during an inspection which is understandable from an interested or distrustful host but I can deploy diversionary tactics and try to return to the crime scene a bit later on in the inspection. The offer of a cup of tea or sending my shadow to find some paperwork gives me a window of opportunity to cover my tracks.

Often as not my crude graffiti type tag is left in situ.

There is the rather nervy anticipation of an irate phone call or letter of complaint in the after inspection phase but amazingly this has never materialised.

I can only speculate that the discovery of and subsequent blame for the inky mess is directed at a member of the respective household, perhaps a small child, a stroppy teenager or careless spouse.

I am not proud of my clumsiness and uncoordinated pen skills and so offer an apology, a sort of blanket one as my customised efforts are likely to grace a good number of the 30,000 and more houses and homes that I have visited in the course of my work in the last three and a bit decades.

Dictionary definition of to blot your copy book- to do something that spoils the idea that people have of you

Tripping on "e"

The 1000 miles marker of electric car driving has been reached. 

This is down to the usual journey to work and to do chores in Hull plus a few wider ranging trips including, the subject of a previous blog, to Leeds which required the seeking out of a public charging point. 

Otherwise all of the power supply has been from the Home Charging Unit and until the smart connectivity broke down the statistics were, on a cost per mile basis, very impressive equating to around a quarter of the equivalent for our other diesel motor car. 

Of course a saving on an everyday budgetary expenditure is nice but more than that is that we have, after a lot of hesitation and trepidation, made the move over to an electric vehicle in the household. 

We are no different in this respect to many in the population who are seeking to make lifestyle adjustments in the interests of reducing their carbon footprint. The thought of change, any change from the normal does invoke a certain amount of fear and uncertainty and whatever decisions are made will without any doubt impact on every aspect of our lives. 

If the necessary changes, which are becoming more pressing with every news bulletin on the environment, can be implemented with the least amount of disturbance to our existing spending habits, diet and viable existence then all well and good but we have to be prepared to accept that this will not always be possible. 

The experience to date with the Nissan LEAF  has been a revelation. 

After working our how to switch it on and make it move in the first place it has been a matter of coming to terms with the automatic transmission. 

The use of the e-pedal was avoided for a couple of weeks out of pure fear but having mastered its operation there is nothing more natural. 

Yes, it is a bit like on a fairground dodgem but much cleverer in that the Leaf just knows when to stop, be it in a line of traffic or at a junction. I have panicked a little bit at the sudden sight of the cascade of brake lights up ahead and gone for the brake but I really had to need to do this given the technology and mechanics at my disposal. 

In looks and practicality the LEAF is just a normal family hatchback and that has been its main selling point for nearly a decade since its launch. 

Other makes and models of 100% electric cars are a bit wacky and this can serve to deter buyers not wanting to draw attention to themselves or indeed fork out a lot of money for them. 

In the LEAF I really like the automated noise at low speed which is from a speaker under the bonnet in order to give some presence to alert pedestrians and other road users. The faint whining brings back two distinct childhood memories for me. The first is a good old milk float in the days when these were the main delivery means for the daily pinta and the second might not actually be true but reminds me of Commander Straker's car on the TV show UFO from the 1970's. This low and sleek vehicle was designed to intercept alien spacecraft after they had made a landing on Earth. The LEAF is not quite up to this level of performance but does give some impression of a futuristic era of motoring. 

The new shape LEAF is not yet a commonplace sight on UK roads even though globally the model  is the highest selling electric car in history....so far. 

However, I have noticed, when in traffic, that other cars hang back and seem reticent to close up the gap in the line. 

I cannot account for this behaviour given that in my Passat Estate everyone seems intent on tailgating. 

It could be down to a lack of trust in the road-worthiness of a battery powered car or completely unfounded anxieties that sparks, lightning bolts, static shocks or electro-magnetic disturbances may occur without prior warning. 

I will admit that I did harbour the very same thoughts in the run-up to making the decision to go 100% electric but so far there have been no apparent side effects. 

Slow Down

It has been an extraordinarily busy few days which explains my lack of new writing for nearly a whole week.

That is my longest absence ever during my 8 years of blogging.

I thought that I would miss the experience but to be honest I have enjoyed the short break.

It tied in nicely although coincidentally with a radio feature on what is called "The Slow Movement".
This is where participants choose to ease back on their usage of social media and technology in their everyday lives.

The reasons for this are diverse from trying to relieve stress, wrestle free of the poisoning influence of the likes of Twitter and Facebook and just take a moment to rediscover a bit of peace, calm and self awareness away from such all pervading aspects of what we have readily accepted as important or indeed essential to our modern work/life/family balance or rather imbalance.

Granted, my slow phase was prompted by the almost simultaneous failure of my faithful laptop and then my smart phone. This initially invoked in me a feeling of helplessness and deep down panic.

I rely heavily on the two bits of tech in my day to day work and their sudden fatal malfunctions threw me right off my stride and concentration. Upon the demise of my phone and to the dismay of my family I simply went to bed. It was 9.30pm, just about dusk in mid August in this North of England city.

If you think about it my reaction to being deprived of tech was perfectly natural.

Our ancestors in the past worked on the basis of getting up at dawn and toiling through to when it got dark when they retired to their beds.

I am now firmly of the opinion that all of the electronic stimulus from TV and the Internet just keeps us up and artificially active.

I was also quite exhausted from organising the appropriately skilled and savvy persons to revive my laptop and to work out what to do to procure a replacement phone. The former was quite straightforward as the company who look after our business computers were happy to investigate the problem and come up with a solution. The latter filled me with dread as it would anyone who has walked past a High Street or Shopping Centre Sales Outlet of the giant mobile phone companies and seen the brash layout, bright displays and keen staff. It is almost beyond human endurance to hope to avoid eye contact and being drawn into that world of strange terminology and contract confusion.

As it was it helped that I knew what I wanted at the EE Shop which was the exact same phone that had given up on functioning. I had allowed for at least an hour for the purposes of replacing my phone but as it was I was in and out in half of that time clutching a small and perfectly formed white box.

Without the means of checking my phone or accessing the internet through my laptop I rediscovered the joy of picking up and reading a good book. If I needed a fact checking I did it manually in an encyclopedia- the old school way. A drama or documentary feature on the radio re-awakened my imagination and minds-eye. Going to bed so unnaturally early gave me a good 9 hours sleep which I don't think I have achieved since childhood.

Thanks to my enforced slowdown I did get a tantalising glimpse of what it is to be back in control of my thoughts, timescale and life. It was pretty good.

Found Out

I had to revive this old blog upon hearing in the last few days about a small group, lost in the wilderness somewhere who were found and saved by Rescuers after using the locating system as described below. 


Based on our standard UK Postcode system , assuming that the item has been correctly addressed in the first place, we can expect to take delivery accurately and with no great delays arising from either package or human Postie getting lost.

On a global basis however it is estimated that 75% of the population, therefore currently around 4 billion people,  have no reliable, consistent or adequate address that 1) they can use and 2) by which they can be found.

This may be due to geographical factors such as difficult, remote and poorly accessible locations, having been forced to flee from a home territory or occupying the sprawling shanty towns and makeshift settlements that occupy large areas of cities in some parts of the world.

Those of us under a designated Postcode take for granted that if we make an emergency call, order something on-line or seek to exercise our Rights as Citizens then the simple combination of letters and numbers acts as an important identification tool.

We have at our disposal a vast array of mapping systems with these being based on latitude and longitude. I learnt to navigate through the use of paper maps and co-ordinates but that seems so antiquated and even obsolete in the Internet Age where a multitude of Apps are available at the touch of a keypad or under a voice command to a smartphone.

However not everyone has access to the internet or the technology required to make use of such innovations.

This thinking has led to the emergence of a company called What3Words (W3W) who have challenged traditional coordinates with the use of just three words to accurately pinpoint any position in the world.

W3W have divided the surface of Earth into a grid with each square having a dimension of 3 metres by 3 metres or in Imperial Terms, roughly 100 square feet . This makes for 57 trillion squares with each being alloted a unique three word sequence.

The source dictionary of 40,000 words allows for up to 60 trillion combinations of the three word sequences and so will not ever run out. English is adopted as it is the only language that has the 40,000 words in its vocabulary but of course principal world language versions are an integral part of the project.

 It has been proven that humans can easily remember and recall a short combination of words in this style so enabling easy adoption of such a system.

It can be used to identify a front door, a gate, a building or a way-point.

It is not intended to be a substitute for surveying using coordinates but can be used in circumstances where an address , a verbal or written description would normally be given.

Compared to normal conventions the W3W method gives for far more precise plotting.

There is no contextual meaning for the three words for any specific location nor is there any sequential reference, ie your neighbour does not have the same words with minor changes.

However, if you log on to the website mapping resource of W3W at https://map.what3words.com/daring.lion.race and put in some iconic postal addresses there are some interesting connotations which, even where relying on an impassive Algorithm, you might think that a mere mortal may have had an overriding or influencing final decision.

Home of the British Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street, London- slurs.this.shark

The White House, Washington DC -a choice here of with.harp.person or score.latter.loving or my favourite zeal.email.mirror. Randomly generated but so apt for the new President

The Kremlin, Moscow- in the interests of impartiality I chose three- trouser.expect.stitch or
mashing.moving.drips and logic.defended.project

Kim Jong Un Residence- ballparks.landlord.ruling or users.slime.author. These are quite innocuous but await.tacky.javelin is a bit more sobering.

Just out of interest here are a few random ones;

Heathrow Airport, London; - blast.insect.demand

Brighton Pier- riches.slap.spare

Madame Tussauds, London- ants.shaped.gladiators

Area 51- broads.wristwatch.mildly

The Deep Submarinium, Hull, Yorkshire- jolly.smug.riches

Oxford University- crab.game.jazz

The Angel of the North, Gateshead- trendy.awestruck.swooned

Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland- energetic.emotional.subway

Things that make me cross

Is it just me or has the balance of power when attempting to cross a main road on a pedestrian crossing transferred to the oncoming motorists?

I am sure, from my own recollections over the last 50 years that this was not the case.

In fact the overriding impression of crossing the road in my childhood is based on the traffic flow coming to an immediate and courteous halt at the first hint, indication or even tentative motion of a pedestrian on the pavement towards the kerbside.

This is a long way from the process today where it is more a case of making eye contact with the road users and pleading for their permission to step out.

Theirs is, by all accounts, a discretionary power dependant upon
a)whether they like the look of you,
b) based on their judgement of your ability to  speedily negotiate the manoeuvre so as not to hold them up on their journey or even
c) simply whether they think they can get away with not stopping at all.

I am beginning to hate having to wave by way of thanks for the privilege of crossing the road and so much so that I am more likely to find an alternative place to do so. I  am putting myself in some peril as a consequence.

There is no denying that there is a political and cultural background to this basic requirement.

It is a very good example of the historical pattern in British motoring law of seeking to reconcile the competing aims of different interest groups and working within the constraints of what is acceptable to public opinion.

The reliance by successive governments on good sense and civic duty amongst all parties involved, from drivers to pedestrians has become eroded, and we are now at the situation where crossing the road is now a problematic and potentially devisive issue.

There may be other contributing factors of a socio and economic bent such as the power complex of being behind the wheel but fettered by the frustrations of motorists where average uk road speed is only 23.6mph and the "us and them" stand-off between car drivers and those on foot.

It was in the 1930's that the first pedestrian crossings were introduced as a response to concern over rising road deaths, particularly of those on foot, an inevitability with the increase of vehicle numbers.

In the opening decades of the emergence of cars into daily life public opinion was firmly with pedestrians but in the inter war period middle class car ownership and all of the aspirational things that went with it saw a shift in its favour.

It was not long before pedestrians began to be criticised for erratic behaviour.

Motorists as a social class in themselves became a powerful lobbying group but could not prevent the imposition of insurance obligations and the likelihood of disqualification for careless or reckless driving.

The Highway Code published in 1931 was an attempt at creating some understanding of the mutual responsibilities of all road users but only as a code appealing for good manners.

Not surprisingly it did not really work and road fatalities remained shockingly high.

In the ten years up to 1937 some 14,000 children were killed on the roads.

Imposition of a 30mph speed limit in built up areas saw a slight fall in pedestrian deaths.

A more formal designation of crossing points was also introduced but local authorities were not consistent across the country. There were examples of illuminated signs, electric traffic lights, kerbside post markers and "checkon" crossings made up of black and white squares.

The Transport Minister in the 1930's Lord Hore-Belisha gave his name to the amber coloured but unlit globe beacons on seven foot high poles that marked crossing points . In the first four months of their appearance on British streets 3000 of the 15000 in London were vandalised being regarded as legitimate targets for stones and other projectiles.

The crossings themselves only reignited the public controversy about the relationship between pedestrians and motorists as issues of legal rights of way remained vague and unclear.

In a high profile legal case Lord Montagu had been fined only 30 guineas for killing a woman with a 35mph impact which led to a prominent newspaper claiming that punishment for homicide depended upon the rank and status of the person killed.

Other cases saw legal opinion penalising pedestrians for stepping out on a crossing without giving due notification to the motorist.

These judgements did nothing to reduce the considerable ambiguity about the point at which the motorist could reasonably be expected to slow down and stop.

And so we are at the present day. Nothing much has really changed.

Loitering at the Whitby Smoke House

I know, I know, another repeat but this is one of my favourites from a couple of years ago........

I might not ever say those same words in the same order ever again. 

It is a quite unique combination of words perhaps muttered by mere mortals on a very rare occasion. 

They were the most apt and explanatory words for what I had to do but nevertheless caused quite a stir amongst my co-workers upon announcing them as the reason for leaving the office this morning. 

“I have to go and deliver some Kippers”. 

I was not being euphemistic, ambiguous or double-entendering  (not sure if that is a real word).

My late Father had his own phrase about “going to see a man about a dog” which gradually sank in amongst the rest of the family as meaning that he had to leave and do some errand but with no predetermined timescale. 

I had no intention of developing my own euphemism but “I have to go and deliver some kippers” is as good as any and could cover all manner of trips, jaunts and absences from the office or home. 

In fact I was trying to help out my wife’s Australian cousin, who with his wife is on a visit to the UK after some seven or so years of last being here. 

On his wish list for the 3 week vacation was the purchase of some Kippers- surely everyone knows what these are- wood smoke cured herring. 

There is a good choice of these on any ice packed fish counter at a supermarket and even in the ordinary seafood display down the delicatessen aisle. It is even possible to buy a rather bland and unappetising boil in the bag version. 

However, the best ever kippers are from a specific source in a magical place. 

I am talking about Fortunes in the North Yorkshire coast town of Whitby. 

I had not actually heard of them before but as far away as Australia they were held with some reverence. They regularly featured on those regional food programmes on TV channels where celebrity chefs or just plain celebrities go in search of good, authentic, honest and artisan products. You know the sort of broadcasts where the presenter wears a safari suit, fancy hat and drives around in a classic motor vehicle decrying the globalisation and anonymity of food production. 

There has been a huge emphasis in the media on provenance of food especially after the controversy and public outcry about horse flesh in lasagne and the re-emergence in the food supply chain of previously condemned and supposedly confiscated meat, fruit and vegetables. 

You cannot get any more authentic and pure than a Fortunes Kipper- no, not a slick marketing slogan from a top-notch advertising agency but my own endorsement having been to the Whitby headquarters just yesterday. 

The use of the term HQ is as far from reality as you can get. 

Fortunes premises comprise of a shack of a shop about 5 metres by 3 metres and leaning against the back of it the smokehouse, another shack. 

We could smell the wonderful aroma of the curing smoke from the bottom of the steep 199 steps that snake up the cliffside from Whitby Town to the ruins of the Abbey. The odour reminds me always of the open log and coal fires of rented cottages during a winter weekend or early springbreak along that part of the Yorkshire coastline, Robin Hoods Bay and Staithes in particular which are not far off equidistant from Whitby to the south and north respectively. 

Yesterday was a beautiful late September one after some very mixed and unpredictable weather over the preceding summer months. The town, for a Tuesday and out of season was as busy as ever with the main pedestrian flow being along the narrow harbourside streets and up the ladder-like steps. 

We veered off from the pack following with our noses the smoky air, just visible as a light cloud between the parallel terraced houses of Henrietta Street perched high above the convergence of the River Esk and the North Sea. 

We could not yet see the source of the enticing sight and smell but were pretty close as successive cottages were named along a Kipper theme amongst the usual tributes to Captain Cook and nautical terms. 

A rather weatherbeaten sign on the side of a low single storey building could just be seen bearing the Fortunes name and pedigree of time served Kipper smoking. 

A hand written piece of paper in the squat window said that they were not open until 1.30pm that day, a tantalising 40 minutes ahead. We were not alone on that street. A few touristy types like ourselves were simply hanging around in anticipation of the start of business.

A white smoke, a sort of Papal vote hue, was wisping around the top of a hefty door on the outbuilding and was fine enough to squeeze its way seemingly through the roof and every knot hole, nook and cranny of the timber and brick walls. 

Time dragged by even with the purchase of an ice cream and a welcome sit down on a precariously angled timber bench in a warm sunny spot just around the corner. 

At last we retraced our steps along the well worn cobbles where you are never far away from the spirits and lost souls of the historic fishing and whaling community from centuries past. 

As a treat the doors to the smoke house were wide open having been emptied of the tarry racks of aromatic Kippers which now stood on a counter in the shack shop. The floor of the smoke house was strewn with part combusted woodchips and its walls caked in a treacle-like residue from over 140 years of production. 

We were first in a slowly forming queue, a bit like kiddies in a sweet shop and for £3.95 we could have a pair of mellow toned, fine boned Kippers of our very own. 

Six pairs were bought from a recited list of family members to whom had been promised a proper Kipper over the previous few days by our Australian guests.

I would be roped into the delivery service in due course.

Wrapped up by, I presume by the Mr Fortune, we whisked them away back down the narrow street and held them close as though freshly found treasure. 

Kev and Billy do Handbags

The English football season is starting to re-emerge from its summer break. The press agencies are spinning stories which have had difficulty in getting column inches and airtime in the close-season. The hype has begun again.

The realisation that a new season is upon us comes with the Charity Shield Match.

The curtain raiser to this season took place last weekend. This was always a bit of a non-event.

From memory during my childhood it was rarely televised and also poorly reported. Apart from the participation of the winners of the League and FA Cup from the previous season I am not sure what role, function or purpose it served. Even the Charitable aspect was never really explained at any time.

I was, in my 11th year, absolutely obsessed with football. It had really started as an all engrossing thing in 1970 with the World Cup and my quest to fill up the book of collectors cards for all of the main squad members. It was the Brazil team of that time that caught my imagination and fascination. An exotic mix of skillful, athletic and charismatic players which was so much in contrast to the dour, drab, characterless and, frankly, old looking contemporaries of the English teams.

I lived, breathed, talked and dreamed football.

I did follow Chelsea at that time but I think my main motivation was the playing kit, especially the white stripe flash on the side of the team issue shorts, again a burst of colour in a black and white world. My first ever kit was however Liverpool and I recall the oval profile cardboard container which my parents bought from the town sports shop containing the bright red Umbro made kit. It was very, very red with only the thinnest dog collar in white, a bit  like our vicar's. I lived in that strip for weeks and months. I could soon reel off the full Liverpool team from Clemence, Lawler, Lindsay, etc through to Smith, Lloyd, Heighway, Hall, Toshack and of course Kevin Keegan.

As a tenuous link with Kev we had moved, as a family to a town close to the Steel Manufacturing town of Scunthorpe. Kevin Keegan had been discovered as a talent on the playing field by Scunthorpe United and spared a working life down the coal mines of South Yorkshire around Doncaster.

Keegan was a mini-powerhouse. A bustling, frizzy permed haired striker of a style not really seen in British football. It was not surprising that a good part of his career was spent in the German Bundesliga where he fitted in well in all aspects of a fast paced game and fashions of the period. He was a prolific talent, play-maker and goalscorer.

Imagine my shock and horror when Keegan my hero was sent off for fighting in, of all things, the 1974 Charity Shield match.

The match was being broadcast on the radio as our family were driving down to Somerset for our summer holiday. It was a hot, sultry day. The whole family sweltered in the VW Estate Car.

Liverpool against Leeds United was always going to be a niggly, competitive game. It must have been difficult for the 22 players to get motivated for a Wembley game after a long, lazy summer break and the match was labouring on through the first half.

I could not believe my ears when the commentator described the boxing match, scuffle or hand-bagging between Keegan and the equally diminuitive Billy Bremner. Both of them were respected figures in the game but all was forgotten in the melee. The two players did not stop at the fisticuffs.

They both took off their shirts and threw them down on the pitch.

The double sending off was headline news at a quiet time in the sporting calendar but had significant after-tremors in football and through the media and public.

An 11 match ban and a fine was imposed on the miscreants.

It was a very ugly incident. Over the next decade there followed equally disgraceful behaviour by so called fans and followers in the English game as though the foundations holding up the beautiful game had been blown apart on that sunny afternoon in August.

Fly me to the Moon Civic Amenity Centre

It may sound like a science lesson but just remember the following equation.

I will return to it later as it has some relevance to my topic.

The letters "a" denote radius and "h" is height.

                                                    V-crater =  π h (3a2 + h2)
                                                                      6
In 1967 around 100 countries signed the Outer Space Treaty which contained protocols to protect the moon and wider galactic territories and make them available to all for the benefit of mankind.

This was considered important as it was clear that the earth's satellite was open and accessible to sovereignty claims by the Super Powers with the USA and USSR obsessed with the Space Race to land a man on its surface.

The likes of  China, India and Israel have attempted to join in with  hugely expensive yet nationally prestigious flights into space, other than with communications and science apparatus.

An interesting new development, just recently announced, is the approval by the US Federal Court for a private company "Moon Express" to land a robotic craft on the moon for commercial purposes.

This represents an ambitious new direction with possibilities for tourism, technological and scientific experimentation and mining of lunar resources.

Such entreprenurial exploitations  have been fettered by a number of factors in the past.

The only regular journeys of larger vessels beyond earth's atmosphere have been linked to the orbiting platforms of Skylab, Mir and the International Space Station and financed by Governments or Nation States. Private missions have not been possible because of  prohibitive costs and not a little danger of failure or other perils.

However, enterprising corporations have been excited by the prospect of opening up this new frontier.

This is now within reach with the facility to purchase from a company called Rocket Lab a suitably powerful projectile to escape earth's gravitational field and for the sum of five million pounds a pop.

There is every chance that as more organisations look to the moon as a new proposition that costs will reduce further.

What are the attractions of the mystical, magical moon?

Moon Express have been candid in their intentions to unlock the natural resources but have been careful to qualify this as being for the benefit of mankind.

Millions of years of assault by asteroids has enriched the dusty surface of the moon with platinum, gold, silver, iron and nickel all of which are in depleted supply on earth.

Decades of scientific exploration has produced a wealth of mapping detail relating to the lunar mineralogy and there are great expectations for an abundance of easily quarried or mined elements to make the investment worthwhile. Take the recent speculation from sensationalist media sources that the precious metals lode of a particular asteroid, if exploited could make a millionaire of every single person currently residing on planet earth.

An important recent discovery has been the existence of water on the moon and this is being regarded as a major incentive, the equivalent of earth oil. The composition of moon water makes it suitable to produce rocket fuel and if this could be manufactured in sufficient quantities then the moon would be able to take on the role of a gas station for interstellar travel rather than having to haul supplies from earth.

Environmentalists have expressed unease at the prospect of moon exploitation.

It is not only the pollution from what would be regular Rocket Lab sourced flights but the thought of commercial exploitation of the moon itself.

That brings me back nicely to the mathematical equation at the head of the page.

This is the formula to calculate the  volume of a moon crater.

In fact one of the most well known craters on the surface, the Webb. This has a diameter of 21km and a depth of 0.8km.

By using the maths I have calculated that Webb Crater would be able to take, within its perfectly symmetrical and beautiful shape, the combined tonnage of biodegradable municipal waste from the world's great cities for a couple of centuries thereby solving that thorny 21st century issue of fly blown, methane emitting landfill.

Just let me work out how many bin bags it would take to fill up a rented space rocket.

The End of the Baked Potato

So, it looks as though the Love affair of the British for the baked potato is at an end.

I was the generation brought up on the humble spud cooked in its jacket not out of austerity but as a wholesome and natural meal which, with a liberal covering of baked beans or cheese (other toppings are available) covered most of the food groups necessary to nourish and sustain growing youngsters.

There was nothing more comforting than a crispy skinned potato straight from the oven.

First thing I used to do was to scrape out the filling in order to enjoy the unique texture and flavour of the slightly gritty and blemished skin before it turned soft and soggy. The white fleshy part could wait for its inevitable reduction to a buttery, beany or cheesy mass.

Although a go-to item on the menu of a cafe or tea shop in my later years I did feel that the home-cooked  experience was never replicated in commercial surroundings.

This was of course down to then need for a catering kitchen to pre-cook the spuds in the hours running up to the anticipated peak demand over a lunchtime or on the teatime sittings.

These would then, invariably, be micro-waved to arrive piping hot on the plate but by then all of the favourite attributes were spoiled and beyond real enjoyment.

You would expect the baked potato to be on message under the ever increasing demands of the public for provenance and authenticity of foodstuffs.

What is more natural than a pure and unadulterated vegetable dug out of the ground and ready to eat with just a bit of a wash and exposure to two hours in an oven?

This was the unique selling point behind the emergence in 1974 in a suburb of Edinburgh, Scotland of the first in what became a large nationwide chain of baked potato fast food outlets, undoubtedly the most iconic, Spud-U-Like.

To survive in any business for nearly half a century is an achievement in itself but even more worthy of praise and admiration in the food retailing sector where fads and fashions change quickly and what become the next best thing is soon toppled by the next.

Take the last 12 months, for example. We have seen the rise of Peri-Peri shops, Artisan Burgers, Bespoke Pies, Vegan and Vegetarian produce, Japanese Takeaways and many other ethnic and culturally influenced food sales outlets.

In contrast, the baked potato could be seen as a bit old fashioned. I expect that the key demographic likely to order this from a menu in a pub, cafe or restaurant would be my age and older.

To some the oven cooked spud in its jacket is a safe and reliable choice and purchasing it is an homage to our own upbringing.

Those with disposable income however are seeking an all round dining experience even if still termed fast food.

A date with a boy or girlfriend at Nando's or Wagamama says a lot about a relationship and personal aspirations  whereas sitting at a table in a Spud-U-Like may give an altogether different image and impression.

That is more of a social and economic comment than a true criticism of a baked potato meal.

The news this week that Spud-U-Like is to close all of its 37 food outlets is not perhaps that surprising given the changing trends and intense competition in the causal dining and fast food industry.

Yes, it is a tragedy that some 300 employees are to lose their jobs but surely a clever re-invention of the humble spud could have been possible to make it relevant and trendy for the 21st century.

Huge queues for a spud and a topping in the 1970's

Pumped up Kicks

The Petrol or Service Station of today promises and invariably is able to give us everything. Under the brightly lit canopy and in the welcoming and enticing sales shop you could easily lose yourself.

It is as though the fuel we put into our vehicles is a loss leader and the true profit is in the consumables and fripperies in the aisles that we pass on our way to make payment at the till.

There is the long running humour centred on the forecourt goodies when the errant man, out all hours with his mates, fills up a basket with newly baked croissants, fresh fruits, cut flowers and chilled orange juice so as to get home at dawn just minutes before his Partner returns from a long and arduous night shift.

At the same time there is nothing more annoying than waiting for a petrol pump to become vacant only to find that the driver of the vehicle taking up the bay is doing their weekly shop at their own pace and with no consideration for others.

If I think about the roadside petrol stations that were visited when I was a young passenger in the family car they were altogether more amiable, personal and quaint in character.

In the 1960's and 1970's there were multiple stations in every place, from a small hamlet to the larger towns and cities.

They were usually part of a small business involving, in addition to typically just two pumps, a vehicle workshop and perhaps a selection of affordable motor cars for sale on the forecourt.

I can recall the thrill of hearing a distant bell tone as the car wheels bumped over a wire cable which alerted the proprietor, mechanic or a small child to the fact that a customer had pulled in off the highway.

This was well before automated and self operated pumps. In those days it was a case of Attended Service by the aforementioned personnel and staff. It was a matter of delight amongst us kids squashed together on the sweaty vinyl of the back seat to see who was on duty at any particular time.

My favourite was always the man in the grease and oil stained overalls who had just emerged, at the call of the bell, from under the bonnet or out of the inspection pit. Even though his concentration on the engine repair or service had been broken he was always smiling and pleased to help. We were a bit envious if the pump attendant was not much older than ourselves. That job had a real image of glamour and excitement even though, in reality, it must have been tedious and boring.

I had a real treat today which was a bit of a throwback, in the best definition of that word in a frantic search for a petrol filling station way out in the rural hinterland of East Yorkshire.

With just a 20 mile range of diesel indicated on the dashboard and about 25 miles left to my destination I discovered that a regular fuel stop was out of action pending a refurbishment. I think that someone had mentioned that to me recently but I had conveniently forgotten about it. I could not however believe that the situation had been allowed to arise especially as that petrol station was the only one now left in that town.

Its population, including a few thousand seasonal holidaymakers at this time of the year would really feel the inconvenience and even a bit of a pang of anxiety at the prospect of being stranded by the roadside with a fuel gauge showing just fumes.

For once the Empire of Tesco, with a superstore in the town did not have a petrol station on site.

I had a dilemma.

I could gamble by setting off on the next leg of my journey and with careful and economic driving hope to make the distance to where I knew there was a filling station.

I am naturally cautious but in a sudden show of bravado I took the coast road with a close eye on the trip computer where the miles to go had already exceeded the range in the tank.

Remembering my unadventurous character trait I made a quick U-Turn in a farm gateway and backtracked to a nearby village where the local shop had a diesel pump.

I had expected a bit of a queue given the strategic fuel supply shortcomings in that area but was able to pull up straight away.

Having flipped open the fuel cap I had to stand back with a tear in my eye.

The pump had a prominent label attached to it with those wonderful words;

"Do not operate - Attended Service".

The Shallows

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 where the aural phenomena was present 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.

A typical good looking Plainfin Midshipman

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.

(first published in 2016)

Out of the Mud

Early start in the morning as we plan to go down to the River Hull to see the release of the side trawler, Arctic Corsair after 20 years in its mud berth in the next stage of its life with the ultimate intention for it to be an important part of a new Maritime Centre. 

It was brought up the river in 1999 to be an exhibit in the Museum Quarter of the city. Built in Beverley and launched in 1960 it had an eventful and active life in the fishing grounds of the Arctic. In 1973 it was the world record holder for a catch of Cod and Haddock. It will also be a poignant and sober event because of the great loss of life of the Trawler Crews over the decades. 

I wrote this a couple of years ago.

As a result of the tragic loss of deep sea trawlers and their crews, brought into sharp focus by the loss of three Hull based trawlers, St Romanus, Kingston Peridot and Ross Cleveland all within just 36 days with the loss of 58 Lives in 1968,  the President of the Board of Trade appointed a Committee to examine the major factors affecting their safety and to make recommendations.

The inquiry revealed that the standardised mortality ratio of fishermen for accidents at work for the years 1959-63 was 1726, seventeen times that for the male population as a whole.

In the age-group 15-44 a fisherman is twenty times more likely to die as a result of an accident at work than all men in other occupations.

The most common cause of death was by losses overboard and deckmen were specially at risk. Deaths were more common on distant water trawlers than others, probably because they operated in more dangerous waters.

Accidents and fatalities on stern trawlers were less common than on side trawlers.

It was not just the perils of the occupation in distant waters that exposed fishermen to such life threatening and life changing risks.

Fishermen had a high mortality from cancer of the lung and stomach, hypertension and bronchitis, and suffered unduly from peptic ulcer and other gastrointestinal illnesses.

Skin disease was about twice as common among fishermen as among all men in the general population and included especially sea water boils and folliculitis, the latter from exposure to chemicals, oils and such things as coal tar.

The Committee recommend the continued operation of a support ship including medical staff off the main fishing grounds of Iceland and it would be an advantage if support ships could be organised on an international basis. 

The Committee noted the poor recording of accidents and recommended that comprehensive and detailed statistics should be sought if accidents were to be prevented and progress in improving standards was to be measured.

With regard to measures to improve the personal safety of deckmen, the main risk occupation on board a trawling operation ,the Committee suggest an investigation of "the ergonomics of human locomotion in an oscillatory and slippery environment". Research should be undertaken with the object of designing a safer layout for the cables that ran out the nets on deck and on the guarding of warps running near working areas. The layout should ensure that men and warps were kept apart. Also recommended were a safer design of towing block, preferably an automatic one, and improvements to the operation and guarding of otter boards (used to spread out the net) and the winch. 

The Board of Trade was to seek powers to lay down statutory requirements on the design, testing and periodic inspection of trawler equipment and gear. 

Research should continue in the effort to produce new and improved working clothing and the Committee recommended that owners should meet the cost and ensure that it was worn. Survival clothing should be supplied in life rafts and crew members should have warm clothing available at all times. 

The Committee were convinced by their own observations, supported by medical experts, and by what was heard from ordinary crew members, that fatigue was a major factor affecting the accident rate on deep sea trawlers. It was recommended, therefore, that the Government should seek powers to lay down statutory requirements that the crew of distant water trawlers receive minimum continuous rest periods on the fishing grounds of at least 6 hours, followed by periods of duty of not more than twice the rest period, and, except in emergency, of not more than 16 hours.

For the crews of near and middle water trawlers there should be at least 6 hours' continuous rest every 24 hours on the fishing grounds. For boys under the age of 17 years, referred to as Deckie-Learners , minimum rest periods of 12 hours per day were recommended.

A minimum of 84 hours' shore leave between voyages was recommended for distant water trawlers and 60 hours for near and middle water trawlers who spent 10 days or more at sea. This gave rise to the name given to trawler crews on their days back on shore as the “Three Day Millionnaires”.

Although the Committee doubted that the common method of payment based on volumes of catch had a major direct effect on fatigue and accident rates at sea, it was suggested that it may have had undesirable effects. It was recommended, therefore, that the present importance of poundage payments was progressively reduced, particularly in the distant water fleet.  Many groups of ship owners ran annual competitions for best performing trawler Skipper such as the Silver Cod amongst the Hull fleet which was prestigious in reputation and cash reward. Many rules and practices designed to safeguard crews would be overlooked in the pursuit for the ultimate accolade of best trawler.

Other recommendations on safety include advice on radio-communications, search and rescue, the design and construction of trawlers, training, management and industrial relations. 

An occupational health service for fishermen would reduce the number of men who were taken ill at sea and have to be landed at ports abroad for medical treatment. There would also be savings in the costs of medical treatment of trawlermen landed abroad. It was recommended that medical services to trawlermen should be extended to all ports and should be increased in scope. 

New entrants to the industry and all men who had been off work owing to sickness or injury should be examined before they were allowed to go to sea. There should be regular examination of older men. The examinations should be thorough and should at least include chest X-ray and an electrocardiograph examination.

There should be full-time medical officers at the larger ports. 

Finally, the Committee recommend the representation of both sides of the industry on joint safety committees in the main ports, and the setting up of a National Trawler Health and Safety Committee was suggested to advise Government departments and the industry on the major factors affecting health and safety in the deep sea fishing fleet. 

The implementation of these measures will have saved countless fishermen from an unnecessary death or injury and ensured that for the few remaining years of deep sea trawling as a viable industry the hard working crews would be able to return to Port and their loved ones.

(Source; HM Government.1968 Enquiry. Record Number : 19702700905 Publisher : London: H.M. Stationery Office)