tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-241439042024-02-01T22:13:01.048-08:00WebcharmsPatrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-89081272077128167262021-02-14T08:18:00.006-08:002021-02-27T05:36:13.096-08:00Cold snap in February<p>We had a week of snow and frost between 7th and 12th of February. At night the temperature sunk to minus 2 or 3 degrees and on several days the thermometer scarcely rose above zero. From my window I could see snow slowly turning into patches, but the most distinctive feature was an icicle slowly growing from a black plastic drainpipe</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHp0-1dcFWRrWKOdNlUVe4rgiXkdbhWtmTfNyMIgRGe_h3YmmX8_LshQjSqcP56HkcIbISzEMLmBsvBWL-O9SxWvNw85oieN_ITU5-O8WVFYCfqGkwE_oOt3uZ602mNTmRhGu3w/s2048/DSCN1204.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1773" data-original-width="2048" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHp0-1dcFWRrWKOdNlUVe4rgiXkdbhWtmTfNyMIgRGe_h3YmmX8_LshQjSqcP56HkcIbISzEMLmBsvBWL-O9SxWvNw85oieN_ITU5-O8WVFYCfqGkwE_oOt3uZ602mNTmRhGu3w/w400-h346/DSCN1204.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This aggregation of things starts on the right hand side with the plank walls of a large shed in the garden. Moving leftwards, or northwards, is the black pipe with the icicle oozing from it. The wooden branches are part of a European fly honeysuckle bush I grew from seed I found in 1984 in the forest near Lac Johnson in Quebec. Behind this the snow lies thick on an old, recycled rubber dustbin lid used to cover the green plastic water butt (rather inefficiently). The icicled pipe, which drains water from the shed gutter, should have gone into this but its last section seems to have been lost.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Other vegetation in the picture includes ivy climbing the corner of the shed, an out of focus cotoneaster in the background between the shed and the fly honeysuckle and, in the top left hand corner, the southern end of a hedge of Wilson's honeysuckle, <i>Lonicera ligustrina yunnanensis</i> 'Baggesen's Gold'.</div><br /><p><br /></p>Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-87933794211332367852020-07-22T09:07:00.002-07:002020-07-22T09:12:25.259-07:00A K-pop pancake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhngige119KQmBQjY5P6gi48ETLGzIC75XOtGgre74GQMr2Pe91qTlxDTTVPblfjd624sSnGGNP8KRisKQyrYSL5FU0Vl9hloS7P-55uSI1u-gng8ECWXf7czwBExgEcs7rrVWg/s2048/DSCN1140+K-Pop+pancake.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1974" data-original-width="2048" height="481" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhngige119KQmBQjY5P6gi48ETLGzIC75XOtGgre74GQMr2Pe91qTlxDTTVPblfjd624sSnGGNP8KRisKQyrYSL5FU0Vl9hloS7P-55uSI1u-gng8ECWXf7czwBExgEcs7rrVWg/w500-h481/DSCN1140+K-Pop+pancake.JPG" width="500" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I have created this simple, but nourishing, K-pop pancake for those who like quick, but tasty, light meals.<div><br /></div><div>It uses simple ingredients: a Staffordshire oatcake, cheese and Korean kimchi, all available from our local Sainsburys and, I am sure, other supermarkets.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Staffordshire oatcakes I use come in packets of six and can be stored in the freezer. When the time comes to use them an individual oatcake can be separated from the rest with a knife (be careful though - you don't want to finish up in Accident & Emergency). The rest should go back in the freezer as they do not keep very well in the fridge.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the time comes to use it separate the oatcake and soak it in cold water for a couple of minutes to defrost it, then shake off the surplus water. Lay it flat on a microwaveable plate.</div><div><br /></div><div>Spread the kimchi (forked out of a jar) across the oatcake then add enough grated cheese to cover the oatcake and kimchi in a layer about 2 cm thick (less or more according to taste). Use your favourite variety of cheese - I use strong cheddar.</div><div><br /></div><div>Put the plate with its flat layer of ingredients in the microwave and cook on full power for about a minute and a half. This may need adjusting to suit your microwave, but you simply need to give it enough time to melt the cheese nicely.</div><div><br /></div><div>Take it out of the microwave - remembering it will be very hot - and roll it with a knife and fork into a fat Swiss roll shape. Then eat it.</div>Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-83343957657136727702019-04-29T11:28:00.001-07:002021-02-27T05:58:10.231-08:00A memory of CynthiaCynthia died on 22nd April 2019, an Easter Bank Holiday Monday. She passed away peacefully in bed at her home in South View with her poor arthritic hands rested gently on her diaphragm like a dormouse that had gone to sleep lying on its back. She was very white and still after all the previous days of pain and struggle.<br />
<br />
Outside her window the morello cherry flowers were at their snowy best and the camellias were thick with pink and red blossoms in the garden that she loved. In the wood beyond the bank where the soft shield-fern grows the bluebells had produced their annual magic under the great oak to which she had a swing fixed when she was a child. I once wrote to her from Alice Springs that one of the things I missed most was "the translucent green of the bluebell woods in spring". How often she quoted that phrase back to me. But now, after 62 years together, she is gone and will rest in the Precious Field part of Sedlescombe churchyard among the trees across the Killingan Stream valley. As Richard Jeffries might have written, maybe there never was any little house, any garden or any bluebell wood, nor any of those dear remembered years.<br />
<br />
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<br />Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-57612558985317329012018-09-09T11:08:00.001-07:002018-09-09T11:08:27.028-07:00Belgium<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Near Dronkaard
in the province of Vlaams-Brabant,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Flanders, four
business men in a Rover car<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">swept through
the border into Belgium.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The Flanders
Fields flashed by the autosnelweg to Ghent<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">and the language
of road signs was Flemish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But maybe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">there never was
a road to Ghent though the night train<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">could have sped
into Li</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">è</span><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">ge south west of Aachen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Brussels, the
Grand Place soot encrusted buildings<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">with pale boned
facades like well-drilled guillemots<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">on a cliff, a
chiaroscuro of filigreed stone seen through<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">the November
rain of an Émile Verhaeren poem<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">from the shop of
a celebrated chocolatier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">the grandeur a
small dark fondant is the heart’s desire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Such
overpowering experience make it hard to plan<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">an agenda for a
day when I can watch green fig leaves <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">trembling as the
raindrops fall on them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Moules aux
chicons at La Villette<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">red and white
checked tablecloths<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">someone said
Belgians were both apes and molluscs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">mussel shells
like seabirds’ beaks, blue black backed <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">with a nacreous
lining cradling wet pale caramel flesh<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">bounded by a
seaweed-coloured string<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">in round white
soup plates rimmed with crimson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Brown crimson
too was the local cherry beer, dark and bitter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Botanic Garden
Meise satanic bromeliads, sticky<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">purple-throated
in the glasshouse-trapped tropical mist<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">a woman in a
laboratory coat tended her treasures<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">while in the
surrounding park the garden director<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">drove his car at
three white geese leaving them crushed <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">and dead - no
love lost between geese and directors <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">or between Fleming
and Walloon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Sometimes the
past peeps over the parapet of now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I found on my
tongue a fragment of yellow oat straw<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">from my morning
biscuit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are we going to
trade?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Bombs for
oranges?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tanks for redbush tea?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">such stray
thoughts slip into my mind tariff free,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">like polished
poison arrows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Glutinous nausea
after the Salon des Jardins<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">crouched in a
room gleaming with dark brown wood<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">and garden
writers, unable to eat duck with wild cherries<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">congealing in
its gravy on the plate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-19929270820129578792018-09-08T03:19:00.000-07:002018-09-08T03:23:06.007-07:00ThorntonesqueIn August 2018 I wrote this sonnet for my friend David Thornton who had been publishing his poems (which I described as 'Thorntonesque') on line. He asked me what Thorntonesque meant.<br />
<br />
That style of wordplay known as Thorntonesque <br />Is like a fresh caught smiling arabesque,<br />Neat verses wrote to catch the reader's eye <br />Lifting flagging souls from low to high<br /><br />With unexpected puns and metaphors <br />Laughing at all those tiresome literary laws<br />Displayed in style on blue computer screens <br />Where cyberspace transmits thorntonic scenes<br /><br />That sing the spirit of the Isle of Wight<br />From Bembridge to The Needles shining bright.<br />This bird of words will soon fly to a city,<br />Bold Sheffield craving its own pretty ditty<br /><br />What then? Maybe an opera of rhymes<br />With wicked thoughts for these distracted times.<br />Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-33006321052689331182018-08-28T06:46:00.001-07:002018-08-28T06:48:52.235-07:00Trade, 28 August 2018I found on my tongue a fragment of<br />
yellow oat straw from my morning biscuit.<br />
What are we going to trade? Bombs for oranges?<br />
Tanks for redbush tea?<br />
Such stray thoughts pierced my mind<br />
like tariff free polished poison arrows.Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-85624487369469017602016-03-09T04:55:00.000-08:002016-04-23T08:40:36.041-07:00Lines from SedlescombeTo the east a leafing oak glows pale yellow in the April sunshine,<br />
Caught in relief against a dark grey cloud<br />
With two windflung crows sailing above the tree.<br />
A week of frost has gone: a whirl of sleety rain keeps me indoors.<br />
Can I write backwards? Rewilding the present?<br />
I went to Columbine Path to photograph the fragility of <i>Prunus subhirtella autumnalis, </i>the 'autumn' flowering cherry, jugatsu-zakura, that has suckered out of a nearby garden. Unphased by frost and lovely with its long trails of branches blossomed with a dainty snow of flowers.<br />
On Tuesday the first wood anemones marked the ground with stray white buttons<br />
Great tits zipping in the trees defied one another and a buzzard complained high above Hurst House.<br />
Honeysuckle leaves mined to total whiteness, ash trees spotted like snakes with liverwort and lichen.<br />
Bluebells making green lawns of leaves under the hornbeams in Killingan Wood.<br />
Afterwards I fell over while washing mud off my boots.<br />
A slow totter backwards, a glide into a flower bed to lie on mud among hierba toperah,<br />
the plant of the molehills. I am Don Quixote, tilting wildly at these molehills.<br />
A grandson phoned, another called in and talked about saffron.<br />
Washing the mud off my hands in warm water I remembered how my father taught me to do this when I was ten. Plenty of lather, rinsing palm with palm guided by the thumb: today my hyponychia hurt, though numbed by cold and black new moons of dirt.<br />
Squalls today, wet great grandchildren playing Scrabble: "Is there such a word as 'wooded'?Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-47681015451685498402013-08-15T14:10:00.001-07:002016-04-23T08:41:05.758-07:00Mushrooms PhilippeOne of my favourite recipes is <strong>Mushrooms Philippe</strong> which I found many years ago in the book <em>Salads</em> (1972) from the Cordon Bleu Cookery Course.<br />
Unfortunately I mislaid the book and, having refound it, I have posted the recipe here because, unusually, I was unable to find it anywhere else on the Web, nor did appeals via Twitter etc. produce any results. There was a reference to the dish on a site about retro foods, but the link was decidedly dodgy and only directed me to a roulette site.<br />
So, lest it should get lost again, here it is:<br />
<h5>
Mushrooms Philippe</h5>
4-6 oz button mushrooms<br />
1 large tablespoon olive oil<br />
1 shallot (finely chopped)<br />
1 wineglass red wine<br />
1 teaspoon freshly chopped thyme<br />
1-2 tablespoons French dressing (preferably made with red wine vinegar)<br />
salt and pepper<br />
<br />
<strong>Method</strong><br />
Wash and trim mushrooms (cut off stalks level with caps, slice stalks lengthways and put with mushroom caps).<br />
Heat oil in a small frying pan. put in the mushrooms and the shallot. Fry briskly for about 3minutes, turning and stirring them all the time. [Note: I prefer to fry the shallots gently until soft before adding the mushrooms and frying 'briskly' for a further 3 minutes].<br />
Lift out mushroom mixture with a draining spoon into a bowl. Pour wine into the pan and boil until it is reduced by half. Add to the mushrooms with the herbs and French dressing. Season well, cover, and leave until cold.Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-47427329462742144312012-12-05T13:20:00.001-08:002012-12-05T13:20:04.377-08:00Smog<p>Today was the sixtieth anniversary of one of the defining smogs of London. It started on 5<sup>th</sup> December 1952 and continued for four days, bringing death it is said to some 4,000 people. A ‘smog’, for those unfamiliar with the word, is a combination of smoke and fog that, in urban areas, can reduce visibility almost to nothing while being very bad for the lungs due to the chemicals trapped in the water vapour. They were known in London as ‘pea soupers’, reflecting the vaguely greenish yellow colour of the smoke-filled vapour. <p>At the time of the ’52 smog we were living at Bush Barn Farm in Robertsbridge and, as I would have been 14, I must have been at Lancing College. However, I remembered earlier smogs when we were still at the Green Walk in Chingford, north London, particularly one occasion when I walked with my father into a murky, after dark Ridgeway as far as the bus stop, unable to see more than a few feet in front of us <p>Cities, of course, burnt a vast amount of coal. On journeys by train from Chingford to Liverpool Street we used to travel across an overhead section of the line through an area we called Chimney Pot Corner from the squadrons of the eponymous structures sticking up from the roofs of the tightly packed terraced houses. I think this must have been just west of St James Street station in Walthamstow (TQ362886) now, in part, a conservation area. <p>On 6<sup>th</sup> December 1962 there was another memorable smog in London that went on for several days. I was working at the Automobile Association’s Emergency Service in Leicester Square, but used to commute every day by train from Robertsbridge. On this occasion I was due to do a night shift and the train, which ran very late, could get no further that Waterloo (its normal terminus was Charing Cross over the Thames). It was only quite a short walk to Leicester Square so I set off over the river bridge, passing people in soot-blackened smog masks looking like ghostly surgeons. It was here, for the first time, that I realised that the sulphur dioxide in smog had a distinctive taste, an almost meaty flavour, though described by one commentator as “like licking rusty metal”. <p>On the northern side of the river the smog was so thick I had difficulty working out quite where I was, though I knew the area well, and eventually I ended up in the Aldwych, maybe half a mile east of where I intended to be. I did, however, manage to find my way back to Leicester Square and it was quite important to keep the London Emergency Service of the AA going through such appalling conditions <p>One of the night shift jobs at the AA was to telephone a series of garages around the area as dawn broke before the morning rush hour and ask about the fog and local visibility. This was usually calculated by the overnight mechanic looking out of the window. A report was then put together which was passed on to radio stations and other media. On 6<sup>th</sup> December 1962 according to the BBC “one AA spokesman described the icy stretch of road on the A12 near Chelmsford as ‘a battlefield’ after a series of minor accidents.” I wonder if that might have been me. <p>After the 1952 and 1962 episodes clean air legislation saw an end to these unforgettable smogs. We did, however, see some very thick conditions in the industrial parts of northern England when we lived in Derbyshire. I remember, in the late 1960s, motoring home from Ramsbottom in Lancashire through towns like Oldham in thick fog when ground level paraffin flares had been set up at street corners. Nowadays in Sussex we just have mist, white and benign mist that fills the river valleys, and wanders in from the sea a few times a year. So far as fog is concerned, no one can beat that wonderful description of a pea souper in the opening paragraphs of Dickens’s <i>Bleak House</i>: “Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. ....”.</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-13320569583507979652012-09-07T15:26:00.001-07:002012-09-07T15:31:19.265-07:00Red currants<p>We had several large slices of cold roast lamb which I wanted to use for shepherd’s pie. Rather than the traditional sweet/sharp enhancements like tomato, wine or Worcestershire sauce I decided to add some red currant juice. <p>I found a plastic box of red currants on the fruit shelves of Sainsburys supermarket in St. Leonards. Round, red, translucent pearls with shining skins each with a small withered crown of calyx leaves at their south pole. Each fruit was attached by a short stalk to a central string that had once hung enticingly from a branch of a carefully tended bush. <p>One of my long-held ambitions has been to grow a plant as a cordon on a shady north wall where the fruit can ripen slowly protected by some sort of cover from marauding birds. <p>For my shepherd’s pie I took about one third of the currants and squashed the juice out into my meat and vegetable mix by squeezing and scraping them through a fine mesh steel sieve with a metal spoon. <p>The following day I used the rest of the fruit to make red currant jelly to a recipe of 19<sup>th</sup> C Eliza Acton found on the Internet. It was very simple. I mixed the currants, stalks included, with their own weight of sugar and put them in my small, expensive sauce saucepan with a little water to help the initial dissolving of the sugar. <p>I heated the pan while stirring the mixture, pressing the currants against the side with a wooden spoon until I had a quantity of wine-dark liquid bubbling vigorously in the vessel. The boil was allowed to continue for 8 minutes and the resulting hot mash was strained into a jug through the same steel sieve I had used for the shepherd’s pie. <p>The filtered liquid set to a firm jelly rapidly. When it was cold I lowered the sharp end of a teaspoon into the jug and scooped out a dollop. It had a clear, pure colour, a gemstone colour like a piece of medieval stained glass as though all the red in the universe was reflected from its soft walls, and transmitted through them. It tasted like it looked.</p> <p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC4XTOFsOPAcZBo1voET68Wb58FOjEx2Soyxt263ApC0LRcVmrtc2nX6DLNNKW3DuLt4L-ih_gZeq9X5PXuOsURLQEr2oYDkHIWZVem7rrQlsaBl4B8fpZsqQdTmgAI2LkEeAtHg/s1600-h/clip_image002%25255B9%25255D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" hspace="12" alt="clip_image002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5EKmI_7gPxgaeYN9zcNLhZTaTFm5fBKt_CW8DBH9m4CwurrRlxHAjCKlDpTyU5PF89M615cvgEZ1qUS0x9yEIbP6vjIJhgb_gXOyRm6QbtdhDZK-MGbCY-YhAa0Fb3oIsPHbGw/?imgmax=800" width="372" height="173"></a></p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-50998520184348881242012-08-29T06:19:00.001-07:002012-08-29T06:19:07.959-07:00Hastings (East Sussex) street art<p> I am finding an increasing number of art manifestations around Hastings, perhaps following the St. Leonards mural by Banksy on a wall below the promenade.</p> <p>First there was this little bird on a great splash of white paint looking as though it was leaping from a nest formed by an ivy-leaved toadflax plant in Waterworks Road.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHImeVLg5THytS5vveA8Yq7LSv42tBX0ZFi3uYzfdC6TJnDQTZWparBy1YZycyr7CHivZuvHz-YaCwBW7bjsI3Otlx_FB9bG_lqC_B4Tchq-haR3_qK2O0ggTu8qHNeheNzUYt-w/s1600-h/20120522%252520Cymbalaria%252520%252526%252520graffiti%252520Hastings%252520%25252844%252529%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20120522 Cymbalaria & graffiti Hastings (44)" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfa6g_qGbVEcbT9-NY8nlqpjuJfrSV0Rcdf-3RiVy8nFZ09Z5iS8rykT1Clz7pvA2zM0yGEXOkt9bB_tyo9MmdM-AHKIvmBDugApcRcueqQL6GIvav_JjYD0POIJCjlzUsGPulEQ/?imgmax=800" width="391" height="301"></a></p> <p>Then I found this strange creature chalked on the pavement in Mann Street. Is it a monster or a millipede or a fish bone? </p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VgCseJSYminDKx-bzUPpgTNGcKn27Z03exQ-52vdBsh9Es0A6kQguN85g1PTtr-LnBtv4HneQZ59_HbCiE1cpY_OPYdW0wQ6MUK6RrdcnBo2Z1uL_ako0EtYyj8k2tALVJUyZw/s1600-h/20120821%252520Mann%252520St%25252C%252520Hastings%252520%2525284%252529%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20120821 Mann St, Hastings (4)" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4hfOl2VBVfuPg8YPvKpKl_60E8NQn9JrSSzlSdZFPKxwsa0QYxTtc8OxUFQkanoprT0mWmOPjFbN7R8kCh-_WKk2ZqS5UxPV1CngVvUWaJ6rvQ4xUnrBhhcUiGaQyUec2lPnvg/?imgmax=800" width="398" height="239"></a> </p> <p>Thirdly I came across this cluster of pink blackberries just outside the pedestrian tunnel leading from Bethune Way to the Queens Road area. They have been carefully spray painted so that none of the colour appears on nearby stems and leaves - a charming and ephemeral manifestation. Googling 'pink blackberries' produces, of course, endless web sites on Blackberry smartphones and little else.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUBg353-GRvoBCtB5kKYtlOHJF91iKj-ASFzouKWumu56qzmb0tocpFNxWd7J8oZoOXY8UFo8HAsdI36WsSN-Aru4kVfodGO4Kp4whab5fMRxNVHPTQfSv7P3uOfglOkFkTXGtnw/s1600-h/20120828%252520Hastings%252520art%252520pink%252520blackberries%252520a%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20120828 Hastings art pink blackberries a" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC9VTDwhyphenhyphenmHteOcQTMZUayUbG7yy9vRvfegb6YtZ76Cc6Z73SMSmsGqTG3WKLGmFkcgMnxElvY8xQoiBBsk_BCjnW4xmNEvimWKw3IqZ_GGuW66An3aX_vJBDn1k22Y_pLwwCmBA/?imgmax=800" width="403" height="295"></a></p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-82588692976138176822012-06-17T12:48:00.001-07:002012-06-17T12:48:59.690-07:00A memoir for Alice Holroyd<p>On Friday, 15<sup>th</sup> June, our granddaughter Samantha was looking through some store boxes for documents my wife was after, when she came across and old photograph, loose, by itself. It was of Alice Holroyd, the unmarried sister of my maternal grandmother Emily Butler and therefore my great aunt and our children’s great great aunt. <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AF1HiiYX4In5UeObZZI6gZqRHY6SlS41uEEnR94y0esvNtY7N4ryM7_axx1kh_0v2VPFPAfkb8S5y7D_iBVELRvt8VtkOtLGjRkecafGyu9cC0Iz4-wbVJCPqrtBNaUjxJwVCg/s1600-h/clip_image002%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" hspace="12" alt="clip_image002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDzHqQNv_CnuwoosfWRlD-podTUJxk2smMGg1vHLsm9vD7Y01NxiiFmcHaD6Ar0FRDuMiv8qGsbG8vtF79GThKqJ8clmnbaC5PvS9TmTQey1JGdOMvZuQ1bReC3nbaeXdEFb57kA/?imgmax=800" width="383" height="515"></a> <p>She was born, I think, in the Bethnal Green area of London, though the surname has a Yorkshire origin and there was still some recollection of these northern roots when I was a child. One claim was that the family had a blood link to George Stephenson, the Northumbrian engineer who made the first public railway in the world to use steam locomotives, a line inaugurated in 1825. <p>Alice Holroyd, Auntie Alice as I knew her, spent her working life as a primary school teacher in West Ham, East London having trained at Goldsmiths College in Lewisham. <p>She often used to visit us at 5 The Green Walk in North Chingford on the north eastern outskirts of London. This was my grandparents’ house and we stayed with them during much of World War II and later after my grandmother died. Alice also used to come to Bush Barn Farm at Robertsbridge in East Sussex to where we moved in 1952. My parents left the farm in 1962 and Alice died in 1967 and I reckon the photo above, showing Bush Barn Farmhouse and the front garden, was taken around 1960. The central windows just to the left of Alice’s head are those of the bedroom that I occupied on and off for 8 years during the 1950s. <p>As a schoolteacher Alice knew how to be strict and often told me off when I was a small boy. I was intrigued by the fact that she was a vegetarian, although when she came to stay with us for the Christmas festivities (as she usually did) she would indulge herself in a few slices of ham. <p>Alice had many stories of her years as a teacher in the East End of London. Sometimes if a West Ham United football match was on the television she would remark of one or another of the players “he was one of my pupils: a naughty little boy.” <p>Many of her stories referred to her wartime experiences. She told us once that she was leading a small crocodile of her infants along the street when a German flying bomb came over and the engine stopped, which meant it was going to fall somewhere nearby. Not being within easy reach of an air-raid shelter she made the children lie down on the pavement. The bomb landed a safe distance away and they all got up again and carried on. <p>In her retirement Alice lived in a small flat in Wembley Park, quite close to the now demolished national sports stadium, with a female companion who I think she had known most of her life. I went to stay with them once for a couple of days. <p>Because of her age Alice did not qualify for much, or maybe any, pension so my grandfather, who was reasonably well off, provided most of her income. <p>A kind and perhaps rather lonely woman, but one who did much good in her life in a modest way. I was fond of her and I think she was not only fond of, but interested, in me and the other members of the family. The nephews and nieces and great nieces and great nephews (aka niblings and great niblings) of childless adults obviously have a special significance.</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-67394809760615593932012-03-29T10:28:00.001-07:002012-03-29T10:28:50.989-07:00Gogoling<p>Reading Nikolai Gogol's novel <em>Dead Souls</em>, I came across this well-known passage: <em>Once, long ago, in the years of my youth, in those beautiful years that rolled so swiftly, I was full of joy, charmed when I arrived for the first time in an unknown place; it might be a farm, a poor little district town, a large village, a small settlement: my eager, childish eyes always found there many interesting objects. Every building, everything that showed an individual touch, enchanted my mind, and left a vivid impression.</em> The author then goes on to describe such a village in great detail.</p> <p>I had to take our daughter to the dentist in the nearby town of Battle today and, waiting for her return and inspired by Gogol I wrote the following:</p> <p><u>Battle. Mount Street car park</u>.</p> <p>The whole area was dry, in the depths of a March drought and the sunlight had a peculiar, unseasonal intensity. It made strong contrasts on the walls of the 1990s sheltered homes with their mixture of rufous and sardine-coloured bricks, their brown window frames and double glazed panes reflecting the light, white or dark, in angled patterns according to the degree to which they were open.</p> <p>Cars came and went, some crawling to a halt, others driving quickly to their destination then stopping suddenly.</p> <p>A woman acquaintance got out of one and we had a brief chat. It transpired that she had found herself with a spare hour or so and was going to the funeral director's to get her parents-laws-ashes for later scattering in the sea.</p> <p>To the right, across the minutely textured surface of the dry, grey asphalt access road and behind a low brick wall with similar particoloring as the houses and with a small yellow sign saying "NO PARKING AT ANY TIME" stood a large horse chestnut tree with its buds fanning into green, slightly brown-tinted, leaves.A young woman with a beige top, faded red skirt and black tights stopped with two children in a double baby buggy under the tree, made a call on her mobile phone, then chanced to encounter a woman friend of similar age in a grey top and bright red tights.</p> <p>They conversed animatedly for a couple of minutes then strolled off into the twitten leading to the High Street, passing en route a low, rectangular wooden planter strategically positioned by a sandstone wall on the twitten corner which contained primulas, tulips and hyacinths; white, orange and blue with their green leaves beneath trailing slightly over the lip of the planter.</p> <p>My acquaintance with whom I had chatted earlier strolled back down the grey asphalt holding a smart green carrier bag which held her parents-in-law's ashes.</p> <p>Immediately before me the scene was much more complex with another even lower brick wall stepped to maintain level topped sections all the way down to the public toilets which were built to look like a 1970s cottage with sloping tiled roofs and windows like unwrapped bars of white chocolate.</p> <p>Just in front of the stepped wall was an array of street furniture: a CCTV warning sign in waspish black and yellow; a 1066 Country information sign; the menu of charges and conditions for parking; a silver cuboid obelisk for taking one's money in exchange for a ticket for a stay of one, two, four hours of more. Next a planter made, perhaps, of a cement compound, dark brownish red with spots of white lichen. Its summit plateau like a bad green haircut with various garden plants and weeds including some white-flowered patches of candytuft.</p> <p>Next on the left a black rectangular litter bin of some indestructible modern material and lined with a flimsy blue plastic bag folded carefully over the four edges. Below this, in relief letters of gold, was the single word LITTER. Moving on down alongside the stepped wall the eye came to a shining, black-painted structure rather like and easel. There were tapering posts on either side, ringed in gold and terminating in pointed ornaments rather like two upside down golf tees jammed one on top of the other to give a mini-minaret effect. Subtended between these posts was a flat signboard saying <strong>Welcome to Battle<em> </em></strong>in gold and black (this combination seeming to be the corporate colours of the town) over various pictures, a map and a box dispensing guide leaflets. On the side of this receptacle, shaped rather like a large bird's nest box, was an inexplicably repetitive message: TOWN TOWN TOWN HERE. Perhaps foreign visitors would think this was some witty use of the language that would be lost on a non-English speaker.</p> <p>After a short uncharacteristically empty gap there was a small, leafless tree thrusting its branches skywards in front of the toilet wall. It was encircled by a stout iron cage rising some two metres in the air and built to discourage vandals from attacking the maiden. The iron cage, consisting of about a dozen thin upright black pillars, was held together by two metal bands and the uprights were crowned with round tops like giant squash balls.</p> <p>I was on the points of describing the tall silver pole carrying the CCTV cameras when our daughter arrived back from the dentist and we drove home.</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-54659338315700559502012-02-20T05:56:00.002-08:002012-02-20T06:02:42.836-08:00In the distance<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span >In the distance I can often see mountain ranges</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span >The landscape of the future</span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span >Unlike the now and the past it is not greenish brown</span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span >But pale, translucent mauves<span><span></span></span> and pinks</span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span >Like a shoal of frozen crystalline jellyfish</span></p>Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-53667894359656507112010-10-29T05:32:00.001-07:002010-10-29T05:32:47.525-07:00On open letters<p>I read books - lots of them. Often I think I should write to the authors about some of the things they say, or about areas of my own experience that seem to run parallel or counter to theirs. I normally don't do so because I think these authors will be far to busy to bother with my meanderings. Also I have twice written to authors only to be advised that they had recently died.</p> <p>So, my plan now is to put open letters, if I think I have something worth saying, into one another of my blogs rather than write to authors direct. If I include the name of the writer and the name of the book and its topic there may be some faint hope that they will pick up my comments and respond as might others who know them or have read their work. </p> <p>I don't like to flatter myself with the thought that my views will be available for anyone with access to the Internet to see, but they will.</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-60078119973091613442010-09-10T14:42:00.001-07:002010-09-10T14:42:51.041-07:00The nightmare plant<p>For many years we have had a plant of <strong>sacred bamboo</strong> <em>Nandina domestica</em> growing by the wall outside our back door.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NgfcHAYFZFQmr1TEjEE_9pwy1T2RW8yDzBTnnrBtCeq-BHCGxavH-jHe3-7OS5MBcxrG4WbTmtJp5Lcpx888NZUEQcxzWCmCdZfT2wC5Mu6MI-hB7PpRPAl1T0ynYKRKpMqYEw/s1600-h/20100901%20Metre%20&%20South%20View%20001%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100901 Metre & South View 001" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiogLCfah96K6uQWfuSZ5hFT11JI_bi8-8hnn3E2CjIIQlq75psf-dH1__GUafj0nrC_qaTEJ4E7KSUKiPsqo9ySYOo2Lbgkl1AdA0oWpDvezd9fu4K0e891cuU3fS0t9B9QF5UzA/?imgmax=800" width="406" height="309"></a> </p> <p>In Japan, if you have a nightmare, the custom is to go and tell the sacred bamboo plant so that it will take away any residual difficulties from the dream. Perhaps that is why this plant has strangely anguished-looking foliage.</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-37251707912561315192010-08-26T14:09:00.001-07:002010-08-26T14:12:31.882-07:00Psychogeog round Bevendean,Brighton, UK<p>Yesterday in the August rain Jeremy Linden and I went to Meadowview in Bevendean on the eastern outskirts of the city of Brighton and, starting from map ref TQ33220608, we walked eastwards along a corridor of the Bevendean Down Local Nature Reserve (below) to the Race Hill footpath.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-iCkAyAo2gzRhr2PAjcqKwDSkIpnswFKFRKxZ_KvsDAs8NUtuPb3FvDbR4yGAIdQAca9rnD8hByek5WcvSfUBamoNoGPSZP0v7h-MJtFv9t9j9FdOGVDtbBbaQska2_2HfdeWA/s1600-h/20100825%20Meadowview%20&%20various%20014%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100825 Meadowview & various 014" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPyr6IGCjMy9jKb-PoqqSU581-l_4HcSbjLXAkUaZFaBd4hhGRL01actR6LPeC-XyDuqacb8U1Y81L-_CznPgbq1Hvejf-DQycO8tj88j8YzWfLrNPFee0EBh4IEI2bCdF6XRvA/?imgmax=800" width="447" height="342"></a> </p> <p>Here we turned south and then up the hill past the race horses to the summit with its magnificent views across Brighton and the racecourse to the sea. Close to the top of Race Hill on an unmade cul-de-sac is an isolated row of terrace houses called Bellevue Cottages built in the mid- to late 19th century.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknQyKOOcJS1BZCW5rLnZmyoPiGWP5qrwR0UsCwrIwNJqW6DME89_sPUWTBxiiSG9TYyjeWs0RwpmLyNqdonxEC5sNNy_IzOnLkFbS1ULt62jTVJ3ZHFRUdw1FlU3OwXNRrGZnEg/s1600-h/20100825%20Meadowview%20&%20various%20060%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100825 Meadowview & various 060" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFEjwadw2pr2EBrU6_lXXoldFmiMDiCQt_QhfGwpSDs0xfCS3oDXRS1FCLLmJ3M1kmVts09RVpIMPPsIg3lsf2kS8arL9HOqLJ7RNx45bV7qUPI59W9hAiV_Lk-Z2eDyF_6idE7g/?imgmax=800" width="446" height="334"></a></p> <p>On the side wall of the blue cottage the owner had painted some impressive zodiacal devices.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZahZXSPgSmYa9XNRpI27UmH1q-qQgidFtLdMJX5zXHQNPzy2IIjFX_x1Ga2A_CZwisE6phh9vzgjRR_mx0MfB4UBO8QtSrgb5h5F8xvUEW91aB64KnczLM9vdJ6Om-5ShNKoxdQ/s1600-h/20100825%20Meadowview%20&%20various%20062%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100825 Meadowview & various 062" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7S3gETvmegnbkm9NAsIKfiQaI6dzrmPMZaqLxl0f_9pd6S-dy-i-HT2QB-ektHeGtWdg4KrhjkhDkKYEli1rCvqvNswXehLsOFlyNowUHlxgeArWXaWaC9G_KzimY3xm6BBpVQQ/?imgmax=800" width="445" height="424"></a> </p> <p>After Bellevue we made the long trek down Bear Road with the cemetery wall on the right and open fields on the left, but much traffic in between. At Bevendean Road we turned north and explored the Tenantry Estate - all new houses and turfed grassland built on the former Bevendean Hospital and its grounds.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs74bzD1n1Vd2rsbNYbDDIZ3hyphenhyphen6Ulr9cD_Es2lET9QSoSMxPoDoA24X_Yn4Ag6wuxV5Kd08wdr-iGlg9T11-3pYhnKjPeHhhD0SiP7JgKu3_Nz7P6zWl1mpLkoO2QQtP-s73o1Sg/s1600-h/20100825%20Meadowview%20&%20various%20065%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100825 Meadowview & various 065" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9O-R5t4NdGmmmXpQLDIee5IkMgQBX53TWYmJr1zBc9NmdAlFjBUoWDwTNifUnrZn6QXFDxrZlmNVPS45CyQ52uGiZYYu9EwU-Bm2pNywWSEm1mhxolGRodqumeY7yTzSbQ_Y2Dg/?imgmax=800" width="449" height="341"></a> </p> <p>The name 'Tenantry' comes from Tenantry Down and the area is in one of the former land divisions of Brighton known as 'laines'. The people who named the new roads have established or invented a connection with Mrs Fitzherbert (Fitzherbert Road) who secretly married George IV when he was still Prince of Wales. Another road is named after Martha Gunn who was famed as mistress of the bathing machines and also acquainted with the Prince of Wales. However, I have failed to deconstruct the name Borrow King Close for one of the streets (below).</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpekv68rdhyu_LoJmlB38VWKEhIVwUaJhj84TDABAh4zGdfHJ6Yu7LcZGqrIFhx9VjPBzpZQBPaWfW-BW_JPpTkv_z7qLbS33el7SpO4dDuU-rdP6Ta3UkV_k7SA2auvYCYGBEg/s1600-h/20100825%20Meadowview%20&%20various%20067%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100825 Meadowview & various 067" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQtjfPtzoCj7Zt3Z_xtaVzEw5uRFREHqWLDSTbW1102f-vy-BifkIU3DpiVJqii8WzyQf45ZZNCChPb0IjtQjDxtIp5tDZq_rHEMtuA4PwSbWuc9atmE7LBG7ZLcmOVmKUII-NHA/?imgmax=800" width="444" height="265"></a> </p> <p>Beside Bevendean Road on the eastern side of the Tenantry estate the gates with their pillars of the old Bevendean Hospital have been left as a rather grand reminder of the history of the area.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxDg-bmy0BgkRJT2XyMKgrkBlIT4COKngBtd6HjeWd4w6W54lpoMAqAEmI_MZfPdtOBm_hgrq9S9Mnjy1OfQ3FuuJtpoIoFzx1wQ-gyi5s0eyxRmCbnvixZbzaVD11pCDxZSNWA/s1600-h/20100825%20Meadowview%20&%20various%20069%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100825 Meadowview & various 069" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMFo_0jZhkBcKoFPewwYbIzTPtO1FehLM2OgIrrGFuQctU42zLhyphenhyphenFNRu7Cm6LtuAidqGgqhEIK37-V5SjKmYe4ltj2xucdC-7e7mtwX7450e9Fpw8rXAWANVXOP2uF2ftXezftw/?imgmax=800" width="447" height="351"></a> </p> <p>The man and the dog above are Jeremy and Willow. And below is a picture of me, also with Willow and eating a cheese and onion roll. Delicious!</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxXbpzrBCIemwjWCBMimtcn_UYYiv51pLHmc8xp1GdzZAprX5PdYjFZBZbXiscTQu2qSZISqGrMEPGRhj348hjh93BfUMj8BnmPe4BMQf9F6-PZUJkKFnuz7F4rj1A2h_OdwKpA/s1600-h/20100825%20Patrick%20&%20Willow%20at%20Meadowview,%20Brighton%5B5%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100825 Patrick & Willow at Meadowview, Brighton" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1YXhKoLBgNeIbDz4OpLP6tU24xCjIMsK6tDKBDu9B2dKabDdqgDEYGE9w0m-pmb_Lu0nKu6Z0WqJWnDH0DHJfqrWUfQ7JZDh2yvrvN5F0z28u4Uo-WkxfDgPMaHy35NhiPVSAJg/?imgmax=800" width="447" height="608"></a></p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-79439625597719225682010-07-18T02:24:00.001-07:002010-07-18T02:24:21.965-07:00Stinging nettles through faded curtains<p>The strong July sun falls from the east on to our large room curtains silhouetting the nettles in the border outside. The curtains are faded now and torn or threadbare in places, but they do.</p> <p>The garden is unkempt but some like it that way, especially the stinging nettles. All I have time for now is to keep a path open to the far end and back by a different route.</p> <p>There are many compensations like this out-of-focus pattern on the old fabric which moves gently as the breeze catches the nettle plants.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii8WKgbq0In8B4slKscioFsVz5LYH6u8-kpuNNQFMWvp_sA2Chc1mTokhNW1dbAYVqIg8MfQGyknoPwJq7EiBY9Xs5h46-ZBSgNm61nSErpy0hs6zcRFPoB9UXhTxr0fk90vcpAQ/s1600-h/20100710%20SV%20nettle%20shadows%20on%20curtains%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100710 SV nettle shadows on curtains" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKJHjJw2nHii9RK1o3cdMWmHoW4txW5KjR4ZJKlmTtJulWF6_oZF2wMmvoghFAqjwMHlDjQXHtXqi3h6rfi-g8T6AHLEcs-xnmjlkP8xVbg1yA9bYrbITjP6c9Hls4cHPg1XoHA/?imgmax=800" width="425" height="401"></a></p> <p>Winter will take the plants away and leave just the worn material and the memory of sunshine.</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-37667634511748449702010-05-19T06:25:00.001-07:002010-05-19T06:25:15.912-07:00A trip to Derbyshire<p>On 17 May 2010 (our son's 35 birthday), I found myself at Chesterfield station in Derbyshire with a little time of my hands.</p> <p>To my surprise I discovered a statue of George Stephenson (supposedly one of our distant relatives) of Rocket fame outside the station entrance.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jW98i1T6NEKgEnsjNaqxQyGXX3U2fw0ipm_tajyYLfpo90fCb5k3Wct8KWl9NTzgQXocs99GaQsumqtZI-B_0hUW4SxMSAxQJfNOHEq3vzoQGS6Ji8p7AhTKYcV5GBCW1RcmNA/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20007%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 007" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1WDLUcBxSexHr1uHZpRRSl8cxKBOYgwCXMEGIdKDCT1c9HuwaRtZL3qaeoAJWlEx0E8Hh3mC87-_fWnLGVf0XAcr5W-m0j1sWAB0-gFeaDTd23J31ZaWvzVZ1zeljoF_N4QoZ-A/?imgmax=800" width="424" height="322"></a> </p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsOyrltGc-1Dv11KDRGK6C883LG0OOPZfDBA7SjEOy4lc6XIF4RDFXt_kv2lrtV7SNj7KcA5wqPjrrK3sXOt4gPjDj9QCwjl-9DwCB5AfzF8bexOQCP0-R8HVZyJNh2p170Xlqw/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20008%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 008" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjSkq4dCxpeKmYEvHn3zA_4GHJvO8CeRPIDMWFbxJDHdgUttbo4KUK9fRVge2X8H2t3oll7Qlngdn1JvV3wXycG8y8ORRIikBkZIcy_UG3PwS4ynz1L-pFt089IBJ571WTLK7ZA/?imgmax=800" width="427" height="325"></a> </p> <p>Stephenson died in Chesterfield and is buried in the nearby churchyard at the church with its famous crooked spire.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ6CX5_kmCn11dl_IPVlND-npP-sOWLzloxxcOTTTbfArViaIiOQOk9io9dqDz6ogl3i9epyJ9SZnL3Un-ml2jI5D5Fo4y1DTkM6DM5SixbL3cByiFwQzVYYajtdHSELeZ61ewbw/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20015%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 015" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirgLTdowQv8tdx-Zeouzb-dxhyphenhyphenlmrIQKuUb09blbiJrA21jmsX_mnq9PkyHVzSUR_MbUX5uKJNGabNIoioaVPswjv8GWSZ1VwMySRxQYXqtPar4srRXXCli5pmT8oA9C7c2VQ0Rg/?imgmax=800" width="429" height="321"></a> </p> <p>The bronze statue was erected in in 2005 to mark the opening of the new station entrance hall with a man who was so instrumental in the establishment of travel by train.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKHxv6PF5FxS_5yZZ7Uc58AHajVChiEoMtIWKEqOxn8ZbZBinB6W5BonoPYiKKIORgqkFS9e6UVY4Bt5P-sv-FsF9F8IDjFVOJpWFxZAJcU2gAWn-TVmGbThWLt-Pka8GhqkIWug/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20012%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 012" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5-OQSKYBr7QYpD2UfXQZ6U6uXo6z8BtDcJWq5MBjYBAJiWl3fzRBughD1tskMTGgr35EBonnDpHUzrDflVgg6Wh6JUXN7dLgr7kn4YCI9a1onxajSkB6yGZ7XPo7joauPnmx7Q/?imgmax=800" width="421" height="315"></a> </p> <p>I wandered psychogeographically round the precincts of the station entrance admiring the solid red brick architecture.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTL7R3wwq0qUcO6AC6Dh5_AuA7mnEgjw4YFh5MJ4S3sb1fRri8gvBIy1udLykg06fhFkoci1rSzdtIU7vqWBh-3Q9YaJI9gUklqgQt101eNwyDdsFM5aFug0UJLg7c-u-fTI4vKg/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20013%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 013" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp5DcKzPP4qk1m4UicLT7dx62YRDGHGjTRLRqFJLlyi9sYLxja8g_2Qo9JLPgOSy2dFs8P5KbmubAg8ESaK5rD1phzXW9xrOD910htB-Bk_TocFqt4aAVx9Tbs-GLzcrxtrE12HQ/?imgmax=800" width="425" height="272"></a> </p> <p>And the intricacy of the view up Corporation Street from Crow Lane.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RCWfZgR8-b4kF6GaHgYR7RiE1uXyFN8lj1kd8d02J6tT6IZ4ajGecntrD2BjBPbcZAhExxw8ZRxvFYGBCU980FLtW3xFoGpNnlZbLK4Pdz0kabMcU4BDo9NIxA1sIw5nkqxsMw/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20016%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 016" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpw3ucTgVLar4DmvIYrBtpY7gTLX96ezv5TqhyphenhyphenebONgARKKtIjcEs3Jx2k5mq_I2xGoTLKqi8SepZ9l-aIGsO7l6v3NuwiirmPa09YUxVssaVaOpBXC38HhvfeQDyWC4AItb9Fw/?imgmax=800" width="424" height="261"></a></p> <p>I also enjoyed the sight and sweetly pungent smell of a flowering dwarf broom hedge (possibly <em>Cytisus</em> x <em>praecox</em> 'Allgold').</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-2z8Qs-AySF3UsKXMKRHIeYb7vzp42xDZ_4_fWatSepwXPsrxf-zuiTvozf8odnPon2qHzVrO2z2H3hdkXHiPtByP911NrkqK2X-gUeFyny0pSxip633a6YZr32WYApHIgBMDw/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20017%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 017" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZAyws2_iyrwjglqKuK_YPAEuJeZzQknBnOYjHzh4NRRoJYLZGq0-Zb1nkiwDV-j8WnUFSfFKV1pnr6uiYqnR4WPywsrchy11XVMc69g_W1A-0hXgm5oruMzHsd89qo2H-qDyRw/?imgmax=800" width="432" height="328"></a> </p> <p>Soon though I was speeding through the Derbyshire Dales countryside at its late spring best en route to East Lodge Hotel, Rowsley (near Chatsworth).</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0y05aJ9mVRUrzCIj5U2PN-4VhUs7dhyrQFqWG9aInWQD1SxXhkC-0buBj4jzodRF6P3FKYS_B_6Ds4HuX1rAZ3PcLVQvDzuc0QLL8C4gYUVUmF36jz00aIi1ZLN9EuKn2qA2wg/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20019%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 019" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcP4Mvz2L3Ug_WT461QnobUDqVRvGGRlqAJ7GyYUKwLCzosSlPz_Hy3X8ZecYUlSbkRCsGyDI74Q1dolE15aVWbGyfOXzCYrVsOx7_djKbrNg7HCFElcaoI2H9B5Lm5nlX7m1I_g/?imgmax=800" width="431" height="262"></a> </p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JyZ3glZimHlI4oUlGKn5o6go39zRxatH78PEnAXl4bY83tkRhgFY9K3RWQw3erZV6u6N44FFntM83roULllwAXmGGBvD9t2CIo8AhodegyZSpffPq9laTa-3OORtpi5l4gbySg/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20034%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 034" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFyBQ4Con03nOPJ-6Txwv2I3ptXexIfkbfDkIZN4EOLzcsMk001WiGE17KTSjiqWdR70AeFdtiXmOnqQ8BypMa80NlDAr_BeQ6GUI6jN8TD_cfe16rdDEahBo425f74jHbLjSD8w/?imgmax=800" width="434" height="310"></a> </p> <p>The teddy bear isn't mine - just part of the hotel service.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijty2OBHV4rg6JsBhXGImUD8GKSWg6PH3yBMv8q_jHsITDzkV8Zdef_TunRYXHkMZrLzwny0JS1I1hIq38rra_nAWdWLC7-y1J7BeZ9oPBSm1EQ_ec_NT2PZNXUmmPyslOdDyuA/s1600-h/20100517%20Peak%20District%20033%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" border="0" alt="20100517 Peak District 033" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMB5fSHD6gSUpf8BTuqqdJoO1EOsb2k2__-bPmUCJBRPZXIc08aOpI9SSlMPLIcOHmJlDmw7GGsGg_PtEMYNIa42RfD-kkd8MyKFJkrHH5E6hczuDG9VBtCTk82bqtgOQ1ESqSxw/?imgmax=800" width="442" height="336"></a></p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-88075830626735847762010-05-02T14:18:00.001-07:002010-05-02T14:18:40.453-07:00On a Richard Dawkins review<p>In the Times Literary Supplement for 11 February 2009, Richard Dawkins reviews a book by Professor Jerry Coyne called <em>Why evolution is true</em> published by Oxford University Press. Dawkins is sufficiently persuasive to have induced me to order a copy, so I might dare to say a bit more after I have read it. <p>While I have been happy since childhood to believe, alongside Professor Coyne, that evolution is true, I often feel that the leaders in the field are suggesting that nothing about the mechanisms of evolution remain unresolved. It is encouraging therefore to read in a paper by Antónia Monteiro and Ondrej Podlaha (2010) from the Department of Ecology and Evolutionary Biology, Yale University "There is still much to do in order to fully understand how novel complex traits evolve. .... it is important to continue exploring the full complement of genes that are shared across multiple traits to identify gene clusters that may be behaving as an integrated and context-insensitive network of genes." <p>Another remark in Dawkins review also puzzles me, though I am sure there is an explanation out there somewhere. He wrote "One of Coyne’s graphs shows a genus of radiolarians (beautiful protozoans with minute, lantern-like shells) caught in the act, two million years ago, of “speciating” – splitting into two species." Apart from the fact that it seems a bit odd for a genus (presumably of many species) to split into two species, I cannot quite grasp the evolutionary processes involved in this double take. Did half the population of said radiolarian suddenly change into another species. If so, the factor that triggered this was presumably endogenous and must have been present before the radiolarians changed. And why didn't they all change? Can a trait-changer spread throughout many individuals of a species before it goes live? And if it can, would it be switched on simultaneously (like the flowering of the bamboo) across all individuals possessing it? Or did just one example of the newly evolved species appear and successfully spread its genes down the generations by hybridising with its unevolved congenerics? <p>I would also humbly point out that there are many groups of species apparently speciating, or evolving, right now - no need to go back 2 million years. Though why some groups are doing this, and others not needs some explaining. "Right chaps, its a nice day, let's do a bit of evolving." <p>Dawkins also debunks belief in a moon god by saying that "science predicts, with complete certainty unless the end of the world intervenes, that the city of Shanghai will experience a total eclipse of the sun on July 22, 2009." <p>Although it is implied in Dawkins's remark, I don't think science can yet predict where evolution will have taken life on earth (if it survives) in a few million years time, Predicting an eclipse involves a good data set, some geometry and arithmetic (plus faith in inductive reasoning). It seems to me to be impossible to account for all the significant variables in areas like ecology and evolution with sufficient confidence to be able to predict the future accurately over even very short time scales. </p> <p>REFERENCES</p> <p><strong>Coyne, J.</strong> (2009) <em>Why Evolution is True.</em> Oxford University Press. <p><strong>Dawkins, R.</strong> (2009) Dawkins on Darwin. <em>Times Literary Supplement</em> 11 February 2009.</p> <p><strong>Monteiro, A. & Podlaha, O.</strong> (2009) Wings, Horns, and Butterfly Eyespots: How do Complex Traits Evolve? <em>PLoS Biol</em> <strong>7</strong>(2): e1000037. doi:10.1371/journal.pbio.1000037</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-30210566359477967102010-04-15T08:59:00.001-07:002010-04-15T08:59:05.989-07:00Rural psychogeography<p>I was recently introduced, by my son Charles, to the realm of psychogeography, something I really should have known about as it has been going on for years and, according to some, has almost exhausted its possibilities. Usually though it is to do with urban wandering, so the rural dimension is, perhaps, a rare variant.</p> <p>However, urban or rural, it is new and interesting to me. I won't try and define what it is because it is easy to look up on the Internet, but I have appended below one of many examples of the genre penned by myself without knowing what I was doing.</p> <p><em>Solvitur ambulando</em>, it is solved by walking, a Latin phrase normally attributed to St Augustine of Hippo. But quite what is solved by walking I am not sure, though it sounds good.</p> <p>Anyway, here is my rural psychogeographic text (from 2001):</p> <p>8 July 2001 <i>(A walk from Coleford in the Forest of Dean where I was staying for a couple of days with David and Vicki Thornton. I got up early one Sunday morning and, since everyone else was asleep, wandered off with an Ordnance Survey map then wrote the results down when I returned. I had it in mind that these little voyages of exploration might become a travel book called ‘Walker’.)</i> <p>1. The beginning of Walker <p>A hot and humid July morning with heavy banks of dark grey cloud mottled with lighter areas and pale golden hollows and valleys. Walker set off westward past the purplish stone non-conformist chapels with their high geometric facades saying “this is the face of God.” From some the sound of muffled hymns escaped into churchyards, car-parks and gardens as though it was not to be confined by walls, however high. <p>The road ran under the tall brick arch of a long-disused railway bridge and wound past stone houses and cottages deeper into the limestone valley of Whitecliff, with its quarry hidden among the trees heavy in their high summer green. Meadow brown butterflies flopped among the grasses and brambles that scrambled over the ancient field walls. Many of the pastures were horizontally ribbed with sheep walks but, apart from a shorn flock on the hillside near Millend Farm, no sheep were seen due to their all having recently been slaughtered in the foot & mouth epidemic – a disaster that had hit the Forest of Dean particularly hard. <p>At the junction of the lanes near Whitecliff Farm, opposite the quarry-workers’ cottages with their lovingly tended gardens, great rope-like vines of traveller’s joy climbed high into the pine trees and were being used as supports for the hop-plants now getting towards the limit of their summer growth. These hops had once, no doubt, been used for some long-extinct local beer made, perhaps, by the quarry workers themselves for the heroic thirsts their labours must have generated. <p>The valley deepened along Millend Lane with meadowsweet and hogweed indicating the line of a brook and, at one place, there was a view towards Newland church that would have made homesick expatriates fall to their knees and weep so perfect was the undulating harmony of grass, tree, stone and sky. <p>At Scatterford Farm, Walker turned south east up the hill towards Clearwell looking back from time to time into the small valley to the north. Clearwell appeared as a row of white council houses overlooking the same valley and a fine prospect of rolling, wooded Dean hills. At Lower Cross it was north into Pingry Lane, climbing the steep hill that heads over the ridge towards the ancient moat and fishponds. The heat of the day had now increased substantially and bounced from the road and from the high banks with their chocolate-coloured earth. Walker’s forehead was wet with sweat and a squadron of dark flies gathered above, darting and whining through the shimmering air. <p>At length the main Bream to Coleford road appeared with its wide, grassy verge and hurrying traffic that drove the flies away to search for cattle and horses in more tranquil pastures. Beside the road 100 metres south of the traffic lights a dark square in the tarmac showed where a heavy iron drain cover had been removed, presumably by vandals as there was no sign of it in the vicinity. Walker, like any other thinking person, saw the potentially lethal danger of this gaping black hole. The cars approached the lights at some speed, many no doubt hoping to cross the junction before they changed to red and, if a wheel had gone into the drain’s gape, the car could have turned over and slewed across the road into oncoming traffic. Walker reached for the mobile phone on his belt and, after a moment or two’s reflection in case he was over-reacting, dialled 999. <p>As the phone was ringing he turned to look at the oncoming traffic and saw the second car, exactly on cue, was a police car. There was a moment’s confusion as he flagged the police down with his folded Ordnance Survey map and informed the emergency services (who had answered the phone) that help had arrived and his call to them was therefore redundant. The two constables, a dour pair of youngsters who both seemed to be suffering from severe hangovers, after some initial suspicious hesitation (“Is this a madman? Is he dangerous and likely to pull a gun?” etc.) grasped the matter in hand, switched on their flashing blue light and surrounded the offending cavity with white and orange cones, one of which they later attached to a projection within the hole with a piece of blue string. <p>Situations like this seem to generate indecision and for a short while Walker was uncertain whether to go, or hang about as though he could possibly be of some use, or at least had an interest in the covering of the hole and ensuring it was no longer a danger. Since the two policemen showed no sign of wanting to engage in general conversation, Walker said “Well, I think I’ll continue with my Sunday constitutional” and proceeded along the grass verge to the traffic lights where he turned from the main road into the Coleford council estate. <p>More people were about here. A woman in a mauve jumper with a golden retriever on a lead walked across a wide and weedy open space, too big to be called a verge. Sunday morning men came from their front doors, talking to their companions of plans for the day, the people to be met and the cars to be sold. The road ran straight down the hill into Coleford and looked like a roll of white fly-paper covered in confetti. The houses and roadway itself provided the white but doors and windows, cars, gardens, washing, adults and children with their bikes and other toys created an untidy aniline kaleidoscope, a random architecture of folk, unplanned and unthought about, but with its own logic. <p>On arriving back in the centre of Coleford, Walker made his way to a supermarket, one of the cash-and-carry “we are cheaper than anyone else” variety. After a slalom of exploration up and down the tall rows of goods, Walker arrived at the cold drinks section which contained little but plastic, one and a half litre, screw-top containers of Sunny Delight. This drink, in its various manifestations, had become popular during the last several years because it was bright and well-marketed and had a taste of orange juice plus. It was much-condemned by the healthy eating lobby because it had no connection with oranges, or any other fruit, and was a remarkable cocktail of organic and inorganic chemicals. Vicki Thornton later told Walker that she thought it was made out of vegetable oil, but it was difficult to see how such a substance could be transmuted into a semblance of fruit juice – a genuine alchemy of the modern gastronomic world. <p>In the supermarket four varieties were offered: orange, tropical fruits and the low sugar version of each of these. Walker selected a low-sugar orange, partly because he had been reflecting during the morning’s perambulation that it was time he shed some weight. <p>Getting into the store had been easy: getting out was less so. The one proper till had just been occupied by a middle-aged man with a trolley piled high with loaves of bread and other staples, suggesting he must run either an hotel or an institution. Maybe he had slipped out for the week’s shopping while all his charges were at church. In the far corner there was a female shop assistant perched in front of a stacked army of cigarettes and beside a Lottery ticket dispenser. It was not clear whether she also dealt with trolleys and, in any case, was deep in what sounded like social chit chat with a shabby-looking middle-aged woman with greying hair, a brown, wrinkled face and glasses. Walker decided to get behind the man with the loaves, but immediately another customer with a small basket of groceries went over to the cigarette counter. Since the transactions of the loaf man looked likely to take some considerable time, or at least far longer than one would want to spend standing in a supermarket queue, Walker moved over to the cigarette counter. <p>It quickly became evident that the middle-aged lady was not only an acquaintance of the shop assistant, but a customer. In between the tortuous ramifications of the social life of Coleford on which she was expatiating, she was trying to work out how best her pursefull of coinage could be divided between Lottery tickets and cigarettes. The two women spread the money out on the counter and inspected it while discussing the most cost-effective strategy for procuring one of the white, black, gold, blue or otherwise-coloured packets that could satisfy the craving that had been worsening since the last nicotine-containing tube had burnt to its end the previous night. The available resources were small and eventually the Lottery ticket, with its promise of a £17 million win, had to be abandoned in favour of the cigarettes. Although this seemed to presage the end of the dialogue and offer the promise of more rapid movement of the queue, the shop assistant tackled her tasks of money counting, cigarette selecting and till ringing as though she had been trained to star in slow-motion films. This began to raise the irritating possibility that the person behind the man with the loaves who was occupying the place abandoned by Walker would get out of the store ahead. <p>However, this was not to be. Suddenly the middle-aged woman was off with the cigarettes and the man with the small basket had his newspaper and milk processed at half-speed, but without any other hitch, and Walker presented his pound coin for 99 pence-worth of Sunny Delight and exited into the sunlit Coleford with map in one hand and plastic flagon in the other. <p>He walked into the town centre and passed the clock tower with the cold plastic, now prickled with condensation, pressed against his arm and slowly ascended the winding hill where fading aubrietia still adorned some of the walls of Boxbush Road.</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-82639490483063659312010-04-01T16:02:00.001-07:002010-04-01T16:02:20.120-07:00How have I got into evolution anyway?<p>How have I got into evolution anyway? It goes a long way back. From early childhood I was deeply interested in wildlife and when I was 8 or 9, towards the end of World War II, my mother bought me a book called <em>The Story of Living Things and their Evolution</em>, written and illustrated by Eileen Mayo (1944) who was not a professional biologist.</p> <p>I was enthralled by this book and, turning the pages today, I can remember the pleasure each picture and the accompanying text gave me.</p> <p>The book was scientifically blessed with an introduction by Julian Huxley. This contains some astonishing remarks. For example, Huxley writes that Darwin and others "finally dethroned man from his claim to a unique position of Lord of Creation." (I though that was God!). Then Huxley rather contradicts himself in the next paragraph by saying that "as a result of studying evolution, we now know not merely that man has evolved from lower animals, but that he is now the sole trustee of life for further evolutionary progress in the future." (So we still are Lord of Creation!). In the case of the second observation, <em>Homo sapiens</em> does not seem to be making a very good job of it.</p> <p>In the main body of the book I was very struck by the pages on the evolution of the horse which presented the reader with four animals increasing in size as the smallest, <em>Eohippus</em>,upgraded through <em>Mesohippus</em> and <em>Merychippus</em> to the modern horse. Why did they get bigger I wonder. Why don't we have mice the size of horses? Is bigness an advantage in the case of equines but less so with rodents?</p> <p>A glance at Wiki shows that illustration of the rise of the horse was, to say the least, a crude view. But I'll bet our current view will seem crude in another 66 years time.</p> <p>Mayo also says that <em>Eohippus</em> (now known as <em>Hyracotherium</em>) was the size of a fox, a remark congruent with Stephen Jay Gould's observation that the idea that this extinct creature was of fox, or fox terrier, size was apparently put about in a pamphlet by a celebrated foxhunting paleontologist called Henry Fairfield Osborn. Maybe he thought all wild animals were fox sized. Anyway <em>Eohippus</em>/<em>Hyracotherium</em> was, at 60 cm long, only about half the size of a fox (or fox terrier).</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-91279662157189390502010-03-28T13:20:00.001-07:002010-03-28T13:20:52.053-07:00My almost successful arrival<p>My almost successful arrival in the land of evolution makes me feel a bit like Uncle Toby on <em>Tristram Shandy</em> and his fascination with fortifications and their technicalities.</p> <p>By following my nose on this I discovered that Michael Nyman, one of the modern composers I like most, had written something called <em>The Nose-List Song</em> as part of a Tristram Shandy opera (still under construction). This shed no light on evolution, but was good to listen to.</p> <p>Suzan Mazur talks with Vincent Fleury of the differences between French and American (Anglo-Saxon) thinking, particularly as it relates to evolution and morphogenesis/self-organisation. But what is Chinese, or Indian, or Australian aboriginal thinking going to contribute towards the debate? In the latter case both animate and inanimate objects are said to have been brought into being by song. This somehow chimes with the <em>Music of the Spheres,</em> the <em>Musica Universalis</em> of celestial motions, an idea dating back at least to the time of Pythagoras, Why did music evolve? Why is it so central to the human project?</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-60996537914714978722010-02-12T03:31:00.001-08:002010-02-12T03:31:16.329-08:00A papaya smoothie<p>There are many recipes for papaya smoothies on the Web, but most call for the seeds to be removed and discarded. Papaya seeds are edible and add an interesting spicy flavour if used in the smoothie.</p> <p>I made mine by putting the flesh and seeds of one papaya in the tumbler and topping up with white grape juice to the level of the fruit. Vigorous blending crushed the seeds in this mixture and I passed the smoothie through a fine mesh sieve to get the black seed bits out. It did not take long, or too much elbow grease to do this, but the result was excellent and unusual.</p> Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24143904.post-67135192702333918962007-06-11T13:18:00.000-07:002008-12-09T11:49:07.601-08:00Pigeon on the Roof<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsUt-tSDb7uS0j7pf9SOypca33WFC4-66MHdtM8rWeXvcTlAmgoyo7V_SvUPQ3KOfHiUuQ8_6WqxN-AGiLEOkLq9Ln2j110QbGDaGOIX248onDqhdwKRGREuzIEMPDJJLyQr9pQ/s1600-h/20070611+Collared+dove,+South+View+042.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074904553567416898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsUt-tSDb7uS0j7pf9SOypca33WFC4-66MHdtM8rWeXvcTlAmgoyo7V_SvUPQ3KOfHiUuQ8_6WqxN-AGiLEOkLq9Ln2j110QbGDaGOIX248onDqhdwKRGREuzIEMPDJJLyQr9pQ/s400/20070611+Collared+dove,+South+View+042.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>One of the wilder shores of music is represented by this original composition, or improvisation, <em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ma_4rQmKz8c">Pigeon on the Roof</a></em>.</div><div></div><br /><div>The bird in the picture above is a collared dove on our roof.</div>Patrick Roperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656486045726647263noreply@blogger.com0