saturday is the new sunday

Brilliant, cold and windy weather, not a cloud in the sky. The laundry will smell of winter.

Catch the 214 to Fox House and walk down and along the river all the way to Curbar, and get a bus back. An added bonus: two albums of Calvin and Hobbes for £2, off a charity book sale. Yay!


A trout lazily floating in the crystal clear water of the stream which crosses a number of gardens in Calver.


A road-side apple tree at Calver scatters ripe fruit all over the green. Sadly most people seem uniterested. The deep red of the skin colours the white flesh nearly to the core, like in the apples I remember from when I was a child. Delicious.


At home, make a pre-requested cake, shortbred-like pastry with cherry jam and fresh blueberries filling. To be had with the debaucheries of Madame Bovary.

Bilbao photo essay

A mysterious multi style colonnade inside one of the many modern buildings

Warp

Himself

A taste of Dubai

The park

Pollution

Old Town

Along the river

Guggenheim, and the dog that lives within

Bilbao tripping

Acknowledgements:

Tee-hee, for indestructible racing suitcase

The company 'Stanmark' in Krakow for their Stopper® earplugs: “They help you stay sane!” (especially as Iberia airlines play muzak throughout the flight....!!!)

Aphex Twin, you know why

10:10 am

I love the run from Sheffield to Manchester on the train, the beautiful views and the experience of this complex Peak District landscape falling into place around me. Great start to a journey.

11:03 am

It's was a nice day for travelling, but since we've left Edale and emerged on the Manchester side of the tunnel the wind has picked up, and it's started to rain. By the time we leave Manchester Piccadilly it is raining so hard the window is one big sheet of water, and I can feel the carriage wobble in the gusty wind. This is not good.

12:15

Still not found my way to the departure gate at Manchester, and I think I'm running in circles. Terminal 3 is not only a maize, but a maize under construction, plywood tunnels and confusing information boards everywhere. If I hear one more 'please don't leave your luggage unattended' message I may just turn around and go home.

13:25

We board on time. It's an Airbus 320, and it's two-thirds full! Between Manchester and Heathrow! There must be 150 people on board who have decided that a flight makes more sense than 4 h on the train – can't be judgemental, being one of them.. The idiocy of the situation is that flying with 2 changes from Manchester was cheaper than taking the same flights, but starting from Heathrow. Huh.

A Japanese guy in the row in front of me is reading manga on a Kindle, the first one I've seen in use. It has stopped raining and the sky is freshly washed, but the wind is still there.

13:45

We're 'experiencing a bit of a delay' because of the winds, both here and at Heathrow. We've missed our take off opportunity and have to wait for the next one. The three cabin staff are all male and smiling reassuringly, and are much less formal than the terrorised budget airlines employees, joking over the speakers, announcements creative and personal. I really appreciate that, actually!

14:10

Still stuck. They are trying to arrange our departure with the landing spot in Heathrow so that we save fuel, are environmentally friendly and all that. All great news I'd be embracing wholeheartedly if I weren't busy worrying about losing my connection. The relaxed staff starts to serve drinks, and the plane smells of wine now. I'm resisting temptation for now.

14:30

Taxiyng out agonisingly slowly.

15:45

The small screens above our heads show our route, progress, distance from destination and all other fascinating information designed to make us feel in control of our destiny. With overwhelming frustration I see we are actually circling, and the distance from my connecting flight has just increased to 15 miles! Blast the information fix!

16:01

Heathrow, terminal five. It looked ok from the outside, but right now I am hating it with every fibre of my body, as I'm thundering through bloody long corridors with no automatic walkways! I have exactly 24 minutes to get to my gate – in terminal three. The suitcase performs amazingly on tight corners of the passenger slalom. We'll see how it handles the stairs.

16:08

The bus left immediately after I jumped on it, and I find myself staring at another 'helpful' information screen now. A purple strip at the bottom indicates our progress, and with horror I notice we're only one fifth of the way there! The bus takes us deep into the dark cluttered bowels of Heathrow, and we work our way between piles of discarded trolleys, constant roadworks, and hundreds of incomprehensible and moving machines. Great.

16:20

I've got five minutes before the gate closes, and I'm breaking the world record for 500 Metre Mad Dash With Pull-along. At least there are walkways, but I'm breathing hard and sweating like mad. I've pleaded my way to the front of the security check queue, but even though I had not even a pin on me the infernal door beeped – 'a random check', the officer informed me. Another minute wasted. I take off, through the – fortunately uncrowded – shopping area, and this is my last long stretch now, gates 25-40. People scatter as they hear the mad wheeezeee of the suitcase wheels as I approach. The corridor goes on forever, I'm at the end of the walkways and it's only gate 30, and mine is number 40! I try to convince myself this is just like jogging in the park – but it's not. Oh great, an uphill ramp.... oh thank goodness, gate 40. Collapse.

16:45

Well, that was close, and I am now both sweaty and tired, with two more flights to go. I only made it because this flight is late as well – so I'm mentally preparing for a repeat of the Mad Dash in Madrid. I'm quite a sight, panting and red amongst suited businessmen and smart tourists. Oh well. I made it. Wine time.

Wine time.

19:40

The planet has spun further into darkness, and the mountains are casting long shadows. I want to take a picture, but there is a dense, purplish haze hanging over the landscape, just like the one I remember from the Pianura Padana, North Italy. Could Spain be similarly polluted? Ironically, I was just trying to take a picture of a massive windmill farm.

20:40

Well, this time it took me ten minutes between emerging from one plane and being seated on another. I ran anyway, just in case, but all Iberia gates are grouped in one area, so my sprinting was rather unnecessary. It's a lovely airport, too, but I'll have more of a chance to explore it's architecture on the way back.

Madrid airport.

22:16

On the bus to town centre I overhear the boy sitting in front of me chat in Polish on the phone, and can't help myself. He's just starting his Erasmus year... ooh, lucky guy..! I give him some tips based on my Italian experience, and concentrate on being jealous. But then we cross the river and pass the Guggenheim museum, and I'm, happy to be where I am too.

I slowly walk down a pedestrianised street in search of my hotel. It seems a nice city, Bilbao. But all I can think of is food, shower and sleep. Preferably in this order.

Epilogue

The trip back was fortunately less eventful, although I did manage to break a bottle of wine just before boarding in Madrid, and then got assaulted at the baggage reclaim at Manchester. 53 hours later and I'm nearly home, the sun is setting over the Peak District, sheep are sheepish and I have multiple bottles of Rioja about my person. Life is good.

brains

This is the kind of news media story that really gets me excited. A girl with half a brain - literally - who is intelligent, charming and just the same as other children - unless you look into her scull, that is. I marvel at the unexplored capacities of neurons, on how our bodies do so well at adapting, and what gets me especially cheerful is how individuals like this girl disprove all the research into biological determinism. Are you a left-brainer or right-brainer? Which cells are YOU a slave to? Ultimate proof that we are not mapped out, not pre-determined, and that life has the capacity to respond in marvelous unexpected ways. Matter over mind!!!


I wonder how the scientists of the Brain Research Institute in Moscow would have reacted to this unusual case. I read about it recently in 'Making Things Public' (Latour et al 2005). The institute, working until 1936, was dedicated to the studies of unusual brains - geniuses like Lenin, but also dissidents. The institute searched (and, having set it as an objective, obviously found) material reson's for greatness as well as downfall. The Institute's main hall was the Pantheon of brains, described by a Dusseldorf Nachritchen correspondent in these terms: "Thirteen brains, each one in a glass case, are aligned along the wall of a large room that may have been the balroom when the palace was still owned by a rich merchant in Moscow. Above each case is the name of the man whose head the brain was extracted from, there are also some notes oh his career; in some cases, even photographs." These brains were copies of course, and the interesting question is how they got around displaying the copy of Lenin's brain, half of which was severely damaged due to numerous strokes he had.

No photographs of this bizzare and fascinating place survive...

sheep dog trials at Longshaw Estate

I've always wanted to see a sheep dog trial, ever since I moved to the North, and ever more after having read 'Where Species Meet'. We set off with a bus from Hunters Bar on Saturday late morning, got out at Fox House and took the path to Longshaw Estate. It was busy with kids and adults, big four by fours parked on the grass, some perhaps working vehicles, but I suspect not all of them. A whiff of tea and fruitcake could be felt in the air, coming from the direction of the marquees. The sun was hazy but warm, and the atmosphere relaxed.

Turned out that before the dogs run in the national championship, people show off their cross country running. We got there in time to see the winner of the 5-mile fell race, across the moors, stony paths and boggy fields, come working hard up the hill, to gracefully collapse on the other side of the finishing line.

The winner at the finish line...

...and just after.

Recovering runners.

I was really impressed by how many 'mature adults' there were in this run - the overwhelming majority were over thirty, and around half was over forty, and the over-fifties, who had their own prize, were also very strongly present. One after another men and women were emerging from behind the crest of the hill, muddy up to the knees. I felt inspired to do this race next year - it looks like fun! We shall see if mind prevails over matter.

The sun-sedated public.

A happy and relaxed non-participant.





Dogs and shepards.

Before the sheep dog trials could start, in the good traditions of British socialising speeches had to be made, distinctions awarded, Most Distinguished Colleagues named etc. Men and women proudly displayed gold-lettered pieces of leather on their jackets. As Kate Fox notes in her infinite wisdom, 'sports and games do not only provide the props we [the English] need to initiate and sustain social contact, they also prescribe the nature of that contact. This is not 'random' sociability, but socialbility hedged about with a lot of rules and regulations, ritual and etiquette, both official and unofficial. The English are capable of interacting socially with each other, but we need clear and precise guidelines on what to do, what to say, and exactly when and how to say it. Games ritualise our social interactions, giving them a reassuring structure and sense of order. By focusing on the detail of the game's rules and rituals, we can pretend that the game itself is really the point, and the social contact a mere incidental side-effect.' (Fox 2004:241)

Important men.

The contestants pose for a picture.

Ready to go.

The trial is not easy. The shepard stands in the top section of a big field (400 m x 200 m I'd say), in the middle, and suggests movements to the dog by whistling. The first challenge is to collect two lots of four sheep, released in two opposite corners of the field. The dog is released and approaches the left-hand-side group first, running on a wide arch, hiding in the tall grass. The first contesting dog takes a long time to bring the sheep near the shepard; both the dog and the sheep have to make it to the upper part of the field. Once the sheep are there, the dog has to turn around, go back to the left bottom corner of the field, and collect another group of four. Again, with the first pair of contestants, it takes a very long time. The shepard(ess) is not allowed to move from her post, and she has to try and make the dog see the other group using whistled or shouted commands only. The frustration grows - the dog looks back, but does not see the sheep because of the high grass. After at least three minutes of desperate whistling, shouting and running around (on the dog's part), it finally notices the other group, and darts off. Uff, such relief!

The first trial, gathering the sheep from the back of the field.

After both groups have been gathered together, they have to be herded around the shepard, and then through two gates in the middle of the field, at a considerable distance from the shephard. Whistling pierces the air as the tells the dog (at least it seems to me that's what she is communicating): left! right! forward! lie down! slow! go! Each shepard-dog couple seem to have their own variation of the language, and each dog interprets the signals differently. Her dog, it seemed to me, needed the most controlling of all three we saw, as if it had little experience of handling the sheep itself.

A moment later they're in!

The final three tasks are: separating the sheep into two groups, herding one of the groups into the pen, and then shedding one sheep, ie separating it from the rest of the group, which is extremely tricky as the sheep gather together into one stubborn wooly mass. It seemed that being closer to the shepardess made things easier for the first dog, because, now working as a real group, with the shepardess free to move around, they went through the last three challenges very quickly and efficiently. It was impossible not to clap when the sheep where in the pen, even though a moment later we were all rebuked by the loudspeaker, and reminded that it is inappropriate to clap before the trial is officially over. Ups! Faux pas.

The second pair of contestants.

In the second trial, I start noticing the role of the sheep. They are not just a group of dumb animals to be moved about as the dog and shepard please. The first two groups of four had a leader - once you get the leader moving, the others follow. But the groups the second pair is struggling with are fragmented, and each sheep seems to have its own idea of where to go. This makes things very tricky, especially when it comes to penning - in the end, three go in, but one refuses to follow! Not a proverbial sheep, this one!

They had a bit of trouble getting them into the pen!

The stand off.

In the end, after some hard eye to eye staring, the sheep grow meek in the face of the wolf-like appearance of the dog, and allow themselves to be penned.

And off again!

The third pair; their sheep were quite defensive.

The third pair was very effective; the distance between the sheep and the dog was much bigger than with the first contestant. A wolf-like shadow, it would control the movements of the sheep with the simple suggestion of its canine presence, rather than getting up close and sopoking them constantly, and zig-zagging accross the field after a panicky group as a result.

Very effective shedding.

We left after the third show, although I could have stood there watching them all day. There is a book to be written here! If only studying sheep dogs did not involve studying their class-ridden owners too...

road to RGS

It is this time of the year again, Royal Geographers Society beacons, and so, following the siren call of academic brilliance, I follow to the depths of London from my green Northern sanctuary.

Somewhat romantically overexposed view from Sheffield train station.

An unusually empty carriage; just me, Callon and tea.

I have come to realise that my enjoyment of time spent in London is directly correlated with the amount of time I have to spend there - the clearer the deadline, the more I appreciate it, and the less I despise it. Knowing I was leaving after three days, it was with a veritable bounce that I exited the train to step into the sunny glory of St Pancras.

A waiting group.

The overall view.

Into the modern guts of the station.

Not only has St Pancras been recently renovated, it has also been recently expanded and now connects seemlessly with Kings Cross through a long series of well lit tunnels (have a look at a very funny description of the endless underground journey by Simon Hoggart here). It was very busy, I got there just for the rush hour. The instinct to kick shins of those bumping into me was hard to surpress.

By the time I have emerged at Victoria, which is amongst the most horrid places in London to navigate (second only to the Centrepoint area), my good will towards mankind had significantly eroded. While in the Tube I was looking around with interest and joy at the wonderful variety of faces and expressions around me (the white-haired woman in a purple jacket, the red-headed short-tempered one on the seat opposite, the Japanese teenager in skinny jeans), and as usual in these kinds of situations wished for a pair of powerful spy glasses to snap impromptu portraits of their amazing individuality; by the time I reached Victoria I had been treaded on so many times, treated to so many bland, expressionless looks of self-involved misery that it was all coming back to me - the point-to-point thinking, people as moving obstacles to be manouvered around, the necessary disengagement which makes it possible to survive the horror of a daily commute..

Typical student cell at a UCL halls of residence.

My room for the next three nights was a very agreeable student cell on the 7th floor, overlooking nothing in particular. I smiled at its sobriety, and even the all-plastic bathroom, with a crammed arrangement you'd find in a camper van, was not offensive (for the lack of space the whole room, including the toilet area, becoming a shower cabin). It reminded me of my uber-geeky days of incessant studying as an undergratuate - ah, what misery, and what delight at the same time!

Dumped the suitcase and headed out again, to pick up my pack and start planning attendance of the presentations over the next few days. It was great fun this year.