Robins, Christmas, and longevity

It’s the time of year when we buy, and send, Christmas cards and there is a wide selection to choose from. A common subject is the European robin (Erithacus rubecula), that first appeared on cards in Victorian times and which achieved popularity by association, postmen of the time wearing red coats [1, 2]. Those of us with long memories remember the pleasure that letters from loved ones could provide, with the postman/postwoman as the agent of that pleasure. Their visit was sometimes keenly anticipated.

Robins have been named by UK residents as our favourite bird. They appear to be friendly, approaching close by when we are gardening, and we enjoy the idea that “our” robin comes back each year to maintain the friendship. However, their interest is opportunistic, as they are looking for food that gets turned up, rather than wishing to make contact with us, and the friendly bird we know year on year is not always the same one. Although a robin has been recorded to live for 11 years, most die within a “couple of years” [3], and, for some reason, cards with images of dead robins (and other small birds) were popular in Victorian times (see below for a well-known example).

Robins are unusual in holding of a territory throughout the year, with a male and female sharing a territory during the breeding season [4]. Territories are defended by singing and, if necessary, by fighting, and the scene shown on at least one design of Christmas card is very unlikely, as adult robins in such close proximity would certainly result in challenges that could lead to death of a participant in a fight.

The life of robins set me thinking about longevity in birds of various species and I found two interesting papers on the subject that use data from ringed wild bird populations. Placing rings on birds’ legs enables recorders to determine their range, and the distances that they fly, and, understandably, there are more records for common short-lived birds than for less common long-lived birds [5]. Nevertheless, Lindstedt and Calder showed a positive correlation between longevity and body mass of birds of a wide range of species in North America. They further showed that, on average, captive birds lived longer than wild birds, the latter facing greater challenges in finding food and coping with climatic conditions. The longest-lived wild bird (recorded at 37 years) is an albatross [6], with a captive cockatoo living for 80+ years, although the records for many large wild birds are likely to be eclipsed once we have more ringing returns.

A further study by Sæther [7] confirmed the positive relationship between survival rate and body mass in natural populations of European birds, so it is no surprise that the European robin, being a small bird, is short-lived and produces large numbers of offspring to compensate for this mortality rate: larger birds, on the whole, are likely to produce fewer offspring. Perhaps Victorian Christmas card designers knew more about the mortality of robins than most of us do today?

 

[1] https://leedsunilibrary.wordpress.com/2021/12/15/the-changing-styles-of-christmas-cards-from-the-victorian-age-to-the-early-20th-century/

[2] https://scottishwildlifetrust.org.uk/2019/12/why-do-we-associate-robins-with-christmas/

[3] https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/robin/threats/

[4] https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/robin/territory/

[5] Stan L. Lindstedt and William A. Calder (1976) Body size and longevity in birds. The Condor 78: 91-94.

[6] https://web.stanford.edu/group/stanfordbirds/text/essays/How_Long.html

[7] Bernt-Erik Sæther (1989) Survival rates in relation to body weight in European birds. Ornis Scandinavica 20: 13-21.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

A seaside hotel with literary and natural history links

I left Paignton, my home town, for university in 1965 and, more permanently, in 1968, after my father died and our house was sold. I made few return visits to Torbay until 2008, when I was gathering information for a book on the famous marine natural historian Philip Henry Gosse, and his son Edmund, who lived in St Marychurch, Torquay: I needed to make visits to his old home, to Torquay Museum, and to places along the coast where he had collected. 

Since then, nostalgia for my childhood haunts took hold and I try and make an annual visit, although COVID-19 put paid to that for a while. It means that I have sampled a number of hotels in Torquay: The Imperial (that was not particularly impressive); The Livermead Cliff (that has a wonderful location as its best feature); and the Premier Inn (that I knew from childhood as the Belgrave Hotel, and which I now prefer, as it offers a very good standard package, being part of a large group). Unfortunately, none compare with some of the hotels that I have stayed in elsewhere.

During the years I spent researching the book, I stayed at the Livermead House Hotel and enjoyed its retro style – what I have called 1950s seaside chic – complete with Mr Rew, and his deputy, appearing in full “white-tie and tails” evening dress. Breakfast was accompanied by a selection of Everly Brothers hits and dinner by a pianist who played various showtime hits, etc. During the times when I was there, most of my fellow residents were from coach parties and they were given a guard of honour by staff as they left the hotel to board their coach for the journey home. I also remember visiting the Livermead House Hotel at the time boisterous Young Farmers were holding their annual conference in Torquay, with some young farmers staying with us. All these memories were triggered as I was completing a jigsaw puzzle by Susan Holbeche, where the Livermead House Hotel is seen on the left [1].

It wasn’t the 1950s ambience that drew me to the hotel, it was its association with Charles Kingsley and Henry Gosse, and I have written about their friendship [2], and the connection of the former with the original Livermead House (a picture of which is given on the hotel website [3]). Although the hotel bears a blue plaque to celebrate Kingsley’s stay, few people probably know of how he came to be there and the significance of his friendship with Henry Gosse. It’s a story worth telling.

[1] https://www.jigsawplanet.com/?rc=play&pid=28acb15f861b

[2] http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com/2016/05/charles-kingsley-creation-and-evolution.html

[3] https://www.livermead.com/torbay-hotel/about-us

 

Six essays on angels

 

I have given a number of talks about angels (and putti, fairies and dragons) - all the result of an article I published in the journal Opticon26 [it can be accessed here: https://www.readcube.com/articles/10.5334%2Fopt.070906]. That piece was picked up by the international Press and this is one example of the stories that resulted: https://www.telegraph.co.uk/topics/christmas/6860351/Angels-cant-fly-scientist-says.html

Having written several subsequent essays on angels, I thought it might be of interest if I grouped their links into one place, so here they are, in chronological order:

Giotto, Angels, and Heaven http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com/2015/02/giotto-angels-and-heaven.html

Do souls have wings? http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com/2015/10/do-souls-have-wings.html

Angels, Nike, Superman and Darth Vader https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2016/05/angels-nike-superman-and-darth-vader.html

Angels, Billy Graham and me https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2017/04/angels-billy-graham-and-me.html

Why are there no bearded angels? https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2021/03/why-are-there-no-bearded-angels.html

Angels, dinosaurs and artists’ impressions https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2022/11/angels-dinosaurs-and-artists-impressions.html

 

 

Angels, dinosaurs and artists’ impressions

We have long used optical telescopes to view distant objects, both living and non-living, making them easier to identify. More recently, technology has provided us with telescopes that record information transmitted over vast distances, allowing us to see distant stars, and even to look back in time as we view the expanding universe.

Similarly, optical microscopes reveal much more than we can see with the naked eye, and electron microscopes, of both scanning and transmission types, make very minute structures visible, although preparation methods require that care must be taken in interpreting what we see. Advances have also been made in the analysis of living and non-living materials that enable us to look at traces of organic chemicals from small samples and, using these approaches, we can analyse the composition of fragments and relate these to their origins. The commonplace use of an individual’s DNA in a blood stain is just one example.

Even armed with this information, we need expert analysis of what we see to make sense of it and this is aided by visual imagery, either generated by computer technologies, or by the hand of an artist. Artists’ impressions are invaluable in re-creating images of things that are no longer present and which we therefore have no chance of seeing. An example comes in the very numerous portrayals of religious scenes, where we are frequently shown images of Jesus, although we have no record of how He looked. The same goes for God, the disciples and all the other characters, as well as Heaven and Hell.

Other beings in religious paintings are given a physical presence that is unlikely or symbolic. The Holy Spirit is frequently depicted as a white dove, while angels have a characteristic appearance that we all recognise [1], with bird wings on a human body that also has arms (an example by Tiepolo is shown above). Taken as being real, these angels would not be able to fly, as the wings of birds have developed from the fore limbs of their reptile ancestors. With arms already present, the wings of angels, and the muscles to operate them, must be located quite differently on the body (I’m not suggesting here that angels do not exist, but that their physical form in paintings and sculpture means that they cannot fly using their wings). It’s an example of where artists’ impressions are very useful in creating images that subsequently have "reality".

Another world that fascinates us, and of which we have no direct knowledge, is that of dinosaurs. We’ve never seen a dinosaur (although there are some modern-day reptiles, like crocodiles, that give us some clues as to behaviour), so how do we know what they looked like and how they lived? We have evidence from which to work, unlike the images created of angels, where there is no fossil evidence. Bones, skin, muscle attachments, and feathers (where present) allow us to reconstruct dinosaurs and then put them into an imaginary landscape. We accept these images, and models based on them, because we believe what experts tell us (quite rightly?). The images are also informed by speculation. In Benton’s book on dinosaurs, with its catchy sub-title [2], we read that the discovery of pigment cells meant that “for the very first time, we knew the colour patterns of a dinosaur, and could use these insights to speculate about dinosaurian behaviour”. Can we really gain information about dinosaur behaviour from colour patterns? Perhaps we can. Later in the book, Benton describes the swimming of Stenopterygius, an ancient reptile from the Mesozoic: 

Stenopterygius swoops after a belemnite, an extinct relative of modern squid and octopus. The belemnite has a fleshy body and fins and swims backwards, just as modern cephalopods do. We know, too, that it has an ink sac, and so, like its modern relatives, likely squirts ink when alarmed, and zips off by blasting jets of water through its siphons. By the time the predator has recovered and snapped a few times at the ink cloud, the belemnite has long disappeared to safety. 

The Stenopterygius is not too fazed, as this is not an infrequent occurrence, and he lines up to chase another group of belemnites. 

Is the language a little flowery here? Admittedly, the book was written for a general audience, and books about dinosaurs sell well, but how critically do we, as members of the public, consider what is said by popularisers?

Further in Benton’s book [2], the dust cover of which shows Tupandactylus in flight (see above), we read this about head crests in bird-like dinosaurs: 

[It is] suggested that such prominent head crests and beaks sheathed in keratin as are seen in various dinosaurs and pterosaurs might have been photoluminescent.. ..[and] we can imagine the elaborate head crests of Tupandactylus flashing different colours at dusk, males and females perhaps showing different patterns, and putting on a spectacular in the crepuscular gloom. 

Please note the use of the words “suggested”, “imagine” and “perhaps” in this quote.

Moving images take artists’ impressions one step further and we are entertained not only by coloured images of landscapes, but also grunts and hisses from different dinosaurs. There is a good selection in the video linked in [3], (complete with an accompanying musical soundtrack to add tension to each scene). How much of this is supported by evidence? I accept that teeth marks on bones correspond to the dentition of certain dinosaurs, but the rest of it?

As we know, dinosaurs are not only important in palaeontology, but also in entertainment and in retailing. Go into any home with young children and you will find many dinosaur-related toys, pyjamas, t-shirts etc. and there is a popular fascination with mythological dinosaurs like the Loch Ness Monster and Sea Serpents. While there are artists’ impressions based on the sightings of the latter two, that is all we have to go on and the transformations of known dinosaur types that appear on clothing, or as toys, may be very far from the creatures that existed hundreds of millions of years ago. Steve Brusatte, reviewing Bentons’ book (see above) remarks that the images of dinosaurs it contains are real and can be used by media professionals, but is this so? Is there a point where palaeontologists can get a bit carried away with their liaison with the world of entertainment?

One important view of science is that it is based on falsifiable hypotheses and this is an approach that I have tried to follow in my research. However, falsifiable hypotheses are not possible with extinct animals (and plants) and, however ingenious our attempts, we are bound to make suppositions about the effects of time: we can design experiments that last hundreds of millions of years, but it is impossible to get the results. It means that palaeontology, including the study of dinosaur fossils, is a highly-informed guessing game, with some practitioners and artists going further into the world of imagination than others. Thus, the need for caution.

 

[1] Roger S. Wotton (in press) Birds and Christian Imagery. In Winged Worlds (eds. Olga Petri and Michael Guida). London, Routledge.

[2] Michael J. Benton (2021) Dinosaurs: New Visions of a Lost World. London, Thames & Hudson.

[3] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZzXGSFVbVvU&t=847s&ab_channel=BBCEarth

Jigsaws - and art appreciation

It is (Inter)National Jigsaw Day on 3rd November [1] and a time to celebrate these wonderful puzzles.

The first jigsaw (more correctly, a dissected puzzle) was created in 1762 by the map engraver John Spilsbury, who attached one of his maps to a sheet of wood and then cut around various countries (see above). The resultant pieces could be put together to form the map by local schoolchildren and this aid to teaching geography was a big hit, and one that was much copied [2]. When the treadle-driven jig saw was invented in the 1880s (1850s according to [1]), there was a much easier method for producing puzzles for both children and adults, and they have remained popular ever since. In addition to the invention of the treadle saw, mass production has been aided by the development of lithographic printing and by the development of plywood [2], and, during the Depression of 1933 in the USA, millions of puzzles were produced [1], providing almost a never-ending supply that could be rented cheaply from local outlets. We still have wooden jigsaw puzzles, but most pictures are now backed by cardboard and come in a variety of cut-out shapes, from squares to intricate interlocking forms.

As a young child, I always enjoyed jigsaw puzzles although, regretfully, I can only recall one of the subjects – Anne Hathaway’s Cottage - and they usually involved houses, country scenes, and the occasional railway engine (much to my delight). I have no idea where our family obtained all the puzzles, but some of them were bought new and given to us as birthday, or Christmas, presents, and others must have been given to us by family members and friends (although that is guesswork). The puzzles were especially important on those few occasions when I was not able to attend Oldway Primary School because of illness and, in winter, I would then sit in the dining room next to the coal fire (our sole method of heating) and complete a jigsaw or two in the large tea tray that seemed to be reserved for this purpose. Occasionally, I was able to listen to the radio (that we called “the wireless”) at the same time, and this was before we had a television, so I was not distracted.

I retained my love of jigsaws as I grew up, and regularly received a “1000-Piece Puzzle” as a Christmas present. The procedure for completing them was the same as I had always used. Firstly, all the pieces were turned out into the box, keeping the upper lid, with the illustration of the completed puzzle, on one side (see above – one of these jigsaws is mine; one not…). Then came the laborious process of turning each piece right-side-up and placing it on a table (instead of the tea tray), moving all edge pieces to one side. Having completed the border, a decision was then made on which sections were to be filled in first and this proceeded until the jigsaw was complete, and the more pieces that had been put in situ, the easier it became. Each completed puzzle was then broken apart and returned to the box.

We now have electronic jigsaw puzzles [3] and these make everything easier, as all the pieces are right-side-up and they are even orientated correctly. When each is placed correctly, the computer gives a reassuring click and, of course, there are no missing pieces, so searching over and over for one that is missing (as can happen with physical jigsaws) is a thing of the past.The number of puzzles available on databases is huge and I have been selecting those showing paintings by various artists. It was a surprise to find that this aided my appreciation of the works, as I built up the image in the piecemeal fashion of jigsaw puzzling without looking at the whole, other than in the original thumbnail that I used for the initial selection. 

It is a quite different approach to the way we view paintings in a gallery, where we first see the whole and then look at details. Using the “jigsaw approach”, I have learned more about the power of perspective, as some foreground sections involve many pieces, while there is much detail on single pieces of the scene in the distance. I know about perspective, of course, but jigsaw construction certainly emphasises its importance. More of a surprise is the use of colour and, when working on an image of an Impressionist, or Post-Impressionist, painting, for example, one sees how colour is used in surprising ways. It fascinates me and adds to the enjoyment of puzzle solving – so much so that I can spend hours on the computer, just as younger people do with games and other forms of entertainment. It certainly shows the power of the “educational toy” that Spilsbury invented 260 years ago.

[1] https://www.lapl.org/collections-resources/blogs/lapl/puzzling-history-puzzles

[2] https://www.wentworthpuzzles.com/2019/05/07/history-of-jigsaw-puzzles

[3] https://www.jigsawplanet.com/

 

 

School sport – or how I failed to become an athlete

While watching the Commonwealth Games cycling from the velodrome in London, I noticed a sign that read “Sport is just the beginning”. For some reason, that set me thinking about my sporting career.

As I child, I enjoyed the freedom of living a few hundred yards from Victoria Park (see above), in the Polsham area of Paignton, where I could sail my yacht in the circular pond and play on swings and the slide in the children’s playground (located beyond the trees in the distance). There was also a large field in the park where friends and I played cricket in the summer and kickaround football (soccer) in the winter. Cricket was my favourite sport and I joined Paignton Cricket Club so that I could watch games and also operate the scoreboard (being reminded frequently by the official scorer that I had it wrong and therefore the players out on the pitch were being misinformed). Stan Cray (below) was the professional (succeeded by Jack Kelly and Harold “Dickie” Bird, of later umpiring fame) and they were early sporting heroes.

There was no coaching and I had no idea of the technique of the fast bowling I enjoyed, other than to run in off about 30 paces and try and launch the ball somewhere near the batsman. As for batting, all I knew was to hammer the ball as hard as possible: I had no defence and no shots on the off side. Although enthusiastic, I realised that I was never going to be a good player and there was no hope of getting any coaching at Oldway Primary School, as all the teachers, bar one, were women and they concentrated on netball with the girls: Mr Mitchell, the sole male teacher, didn’t seem interested in sport. We had games that involved running around the playground (coloured sashes and equipment like beanbags, and balls of various sizes, being kept in the shelter at the “Oldway Mansion end”) and we played in inter-school games [1]. There was also Music and Movement in the Hall, with all of us following the instructions from a radio, with its speaker contained in an enormous wooden box. The programme was from a different age, as you can hear in a clip [2].

It was left to Torquay Boys’ Grammar School to introduce me to other sports and to get me fit through gymnastics. In winter, it was cross-country running, football, rugby and swimming: in summer it was athletics, cricket, and swimming. Gymnastics was all year round and consisted of learning how to vault (both gate vaults and vaulting horses), walk on a balance beam, hang off wall bars, and do somersaults and stretches while on a mat. It was never explained that these were components of gymnastics competitions, they were just things we were made to do by Mr Stokes and Mr Morrall, the former being serious about getting things right and the latter just being deeply unpleasant. Both had a slightly disconcerting habit of sticking their chests out, but that might have been a requirement for gym teachers. Just as I left the school, another master came along (I think his name was Mr Goulder) and he was quite different, being encouraging rather than taking enjoyment from putting down the less able. I shall always remember Mr Morrall, though.

For swimming, we walked through the town to the Marine Spa baths (see above in an image from the Devon Live web site) and my first lesson involved jumping in to the shallow end. As a non-swimmer who was terrified of putting my head under water, this was a challenge that I avoided by hiding in the showers and, fortunately, Mr Betteridge didn’t notice when a wet RSW climbed down the steps into the pool. All further lessons were with Mr Roberts and even his more encouraging approach did not succeed and I spent my time holding on to the side rail and thrashing about with my legs to give the impression that I was trying. I certainly was trying, but remained a non-swimmer until much later in life.

In cross-country (actually road running) we ran through country lanes, setting out from the sports hut that was located near to the Girls’ Grammar School (it would have been to the right of the far-right corner in the image above – this is a recent view of “our” playing field site, now laid out rather differently [3]). We would walk from the Barton Road TBGS site up to Shiphay, get changed, and then run on a specified route that had staff members located at intervals to see that we completed the course. Some masters, who had no involvement with sport, must have used this as a means of getting away from the staff room early and I remember Mr Evans (“Mole”) scowling at me as I went past in the last few “runners”, as I had delayed him from jumping into his blue MG Midget to get home early.

We were given some coaching in soccer, but knew the basics from the times when we played together with friends. Rugby was different, as many of us knew little about the game. We were taught to tackle, how to pass backwards not forwards, and how to form a scrum – not helped when Mr Stokes hollered “go hard” to encourage us… I had no idea about the rules of the game and this was apparent when I volunteered to play rugby for Dobson House against Clifford House. Our captain, Malcolm Baker, was a very good player who also captained the school side, so knew the game well. I played in the scrum and was so good at jumping for the ball in line-outs that Mr Gillham (“Fritz”), who was refereeing, commented on my prowess after the game. Malcolm was less impressed, as he felt I wasn’t getting the ball to the backs fast enough and, when he called for a short line-out, I felt him forcibly grabbing my collar and yanking me back, as I had no idea what he meant. During the same game, I remembered all that I had been taught about tackling and stood my ground when a large opponent raced toward me and then handed me off, the smack in my face nearly knocking me out. I had no idea that sort of thing was allowed.

In the summer term, I enjoyed it when cricket was the sport of the week, but athletics was more challenging, although it had a lot of variety: discus, shot putt, javelin, sprinting, long jump, and high jump. We knew about the position needed to throw the discus from the image of the statue of the Discobolus of Myron (see below) that was the subject of the badge on Mr Stokes’ CCPR blazer. The other athletic events were easy enough, but high jump was not. We had to jump into a sand pit, invariably damp, and there was a choice between straddle or western roll (this was before the “Fosbury Flop”, and that would have been dangerous, anyway). I used a kind of bunny hop and crashed through the bar, but it was the best I could do. It didn’t garner much praise.

So, my training in sports wasn’t the beginning mentioned in the opening paragraph, but the end. Much later, I took swimming lessons and became a reasonably good swimmer. Surprisingly, I also took up jogging and enjoyed running around set routes; usually not needing to stop for rests, as in my school cross-country days. 

My main “sporting” activity remains walking alone through country lanes and footpaths [4] and it has been since I was a teenager. Now, the distance covered by each walk is a bit shorter, but I can still do 15 miles without a break and at a reasonable pace of over 3 mph, too. I should be grateful that all the attempts of gymnastics, and sports, masters failed to make me an athlete, so that I haven’t needed to look back on past achievements that I know I could never repeat. Ironically, given that the sign mentioned in the opening paragraph was in the velodrome, I never learned to ride a bike. Who knows, I may have found that as pleasurable as walking.

[1] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse. e-book.

[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Ve-93G9h10&ab_channel=BenMorris

[3] https://www.kayelliott.co.uk/portfolio/project/torquay-girls-grammar-school/

[4] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2022/08/a-walk-in-countryside-is-not-always.html

 

 

Eating insects produced on an industrial scale

Eating insects is commonplace in many countries of the world, yet most of us find the idea of consuming this readily available source of proteins, and other dietary needs, to be repulsive. So much so, that eating large beetle larvae has been used as a Bushtucker Trial in the UK reality show I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here (see below, image from Wales Online website). The trial was designed to shock us, as well as the “victim”, but why are people repulsed by it? Firstly, it’s because the insects are alive, and wriggling, at the time they are eaten, yet we don’t hesitate to eat oysters that are alive, although they don’t wriggle, of course. Also, we are not repulsed by eating winkles, cockles and mussels, and don’t worry too much when the latter are boiled to death in wine when we make the delicious Moules Marinière.

I have eaten many insects – bee larvae, mealworms, caddisfly larvae – but they were all cooked. When I proffered them to colleagues, some tried the various delicacies, but a majority turned down the chance to try something new. We are much more squeamish than the residents of countries where insects are a regular part of the diet and the splendid little book Why Not Eat Insects? [1] describes examples, emphasising the many places where locusts and grasshoppers are eaten, usually after cooking in various ways. In the Introduction to the 1988 re-printing of the book, Dr Laurence Mound writes: 

Why Not Eat Insects? is not just a fascinating Victorian book, full of humour and ideas, it is also an interesting – indeed profound – question about human behaviour. In Europe we associate insect-eating arrogantly with lesser cultures. Australian aborigines are welcome to their Bogong Moth Balls – compressed handfuls of moths swept from their resting places beneath rocks and gently baked. People around the great lakes of eastern Africa can eat their Kungu Cake – myriads of midges pressed into a patty and cooked.. 

If we are put off by the appearance of insects, we must process them to make them more palatable: the Kungu Cake mentioned by Dr Mound is an example, being a yellow-brown mass that belies its origins.

Recently, I was very impressed by an interview with Clément Ray (pictured above), the CEO of Innovafeed, that appeared in the magazine Sustainable Heroes [2], produced by Nomura Greentech, a company that is a worldwide leader in arranging finance for sustainable technologies (appropriate, as it is part of the Japanese-owned Nomura Bank and most of the insects that I have eaten have come from Japan, where the food culture is different to the one that I was brought up to enjoy). In a Q and A in the magazine, Clément had this to say when asked about human consumption of insect protein: 

The EU [has] extremely favorable regulations for insect protein. It authorized the use of insect protein in aquaculture in 2017, for monogastrics (poultry and swine) in 2019 and for humans last year [2021].. ..One of our big marketing challenges is to make people more aware of the amazing potential and nutritional value of insect-based proteins for humans. To that end, we are currently developing prototypes and working on the appropriate packaging. 

Present production by Innovafeed is used in animal feeds and this, of course, adds another step in the chain of human food supply. As Clément states, finding a way of marketing insect by-products to make them desirable directly to consumers is the key challenge. 

The scale of production by Innovafeed is impressive, as can be seen in the videoclip above. Until I viewed this, I had little appreciation of the industrial farming of the black soldier fly (Hermetia illucens) - details in [3] - and reared throughout the World as an animal food. The important step, however, is the development of a product for direct human consumption, as that is more energy efficient and thus sustainable. I am grateful to Nomura Greentech for introducing me to Innovafeed, a company that is on its way to do just that. 

[1] Vincent M Holt (1885) Why Not Eat Insects. Reprinted, with a new Introduction in 1988. London, British Museum (Natural History). 

[2] https://www.nomuragreentech.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/Sustainable-Heroes-VIII-Nomura-Greentech.pdf

[3] https://animaldiversity.org/accounts/Hermetia_illucens/

Trevor Grimshaw and Caspar David Friedrich

One of the last works of Trevor Grimshaw is a book of black-and-white photographs entitled Stilled Life [1], the subject being the redundant steam locomotives that were stored at Woodham’s Scrapyard in Barry, South Wales (an image in colour taken by Peter Brabham is shown below). For all of us that have happy memories of these splendid machines in action, the scrapyard is a place of melancholy, even though delays in cutting up meant that some locomotives were bought from Dai Woodham and several have subsequently been re-built and returned to working order.

Shortly after the photographs were taken, Trevor Grimshaw died, aged 54, following a fire at his home, something which adds poignancy to his story. In addition to his work as a photographer, Grimshaw was an accomplished artist, creating monochrome images of northern landscapes, two of which (from the Tate Gallery [3]) are illustrated below. Most viewers of these monochrome works associate them with the paintings of L.S.Lowry (who owned three of them [2]), but I think they consciously, or subconsciously, show the influence of Caspar David Friedrich. To emphasise this point, I have converted two of Friedrich’s paintings to greyscale to allow direct comparison.

The first is Abbey in the Oak Wood (below, upper) that was exhibited in the Berlin Academy of Art in 1810 (as one of a pair – the other was Monk by the Sea [4]) in which we see the ruins of an abbey surrounded by trees that may be dead, or maybe had lost all their leaves, as this is a winter scene. In the foreground are monks who are walking towards the ruin. The whole effect is arresting and gloomy, but what does it mean to the viewer? As with all pictures, we can know something of the artist’s intentions, but we also use our own projections. We know that Friedrich was a Protestant [4] and that this picture shows a Catholic ruin and desolation. He was also fascinated by nature and landscape and this is one of Friedrich’s paintings that, to use his phrase, “is to be seen and recognised only in belief” [4]. As Michael Prodger [5] writes in The Spectator: “His Christianity is not insistent but comes wrapped in another - more widely practiced - religion: Nature. He offers the consolations and beauties of both.”

The second painting of Friedrich that I have chosen - Cross by the Baltic Sea (1815) (above, lower) - uses a feature that occurred many times in his work – the appearance of a solitary cross in a landscape. This symbol of Christ, and the redemption of His crucifixion, is placed in locations quite unlike Calvary and, in this painting, is on an outcrop by the sea, with an anchor near its base. Just as in Abbey in the Oak Wood, there is a feeling of slightly threatening mystery and, at the same time, a sense of spiritual hope.

Now let’s look at the two monochrome works by Trevor Grimshaw. In Open Space (1974) (the upper of the Tate images above), a solitary, bare tree is in the foreground, while the foggy background features a church tower and factories, with one chimney belching out smoke that is being carried away on the wind. We recognise that the tree, like those painted by Friedrich, shows desolation and, perhaps, death by pollution from the industry that replaced the natural world. The presence of the church is more difficult to interpret – did it represent something from Grimshaw’s spiritual beliefs, or was it used to indicate something that was longer-lasting, and more valuable, than the factories?

In Northern Townscape (1974) (the lower of the Tate images above), we see another church tower, with factories and several chimneys, one of which is producing dark smoke that suffuses the upper part of the image, while steam is rising from elsewhere in the factory complex. The impression gained is very similar to that in Open Space, but the foreground is dominated by two poles, one of which is clearly a telegraph pole. Both stand isolated, and are connected to nothing – there are no wires – so we gain a sense of isolation and of disconnection to the rest of the scene. Unlike Friedrich’s crosses, however, there seems little hope here and my impression is that Grimshaw did not enjoy the industrial landscapes that he reproduced, despite their attractiveness as structures [5], just as he did not like the rusting steam locomotives he photographed in the scrapyard at Barry.

Of course, I could be very wrong in drawing parallels between Friedrich and Grimshaw, and in interpreting their images in the way that I have done. That I react strongly to their work is an indication of the power of both artists to stimulate both the imagination and the emotions of the viewer.

[1] https://trevorgrimshawphotography.art/about/

[2] https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/greater-manchester-news/tribute-to-artist-who-portrayed-bleak-1194546

[3] https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artists/trevor-grimshaw-1220

[4] Johannes Grave (2017) Caspar David Friedrich. Munich, Prestel Verlag.

[5] https://www.spectator.co.uk/article/an-artist-for-our-times

 

 

 

Red valerian and red sandstone

I was born, and brought up, in Paignton, one of the three towns that make up Torbay, and, despite leaving in 1968, I have a strong attachment to my roots in South Devon. Unfortunately, I get few opportunities to visit but, very close to where I live currently, in Berkhamsted, there is a patch of flowers (see below) that instantly brings back memories from over fifty years ago. 

Red valerian is a very common plant in the south west, being a widely-dispersed introduction from its native Mediterranean region – appropriate, given that Torbay prides itself on bring the English Riviera. It probably arrived as a garden plant and is described by Clapham Tutin and Warburg [1] as being ”abundantly naturalised on old walls, cliffs, etc. particularly in the south and west.” It certainly has the ability to thrive where conditions look unsuitable for plant life and its establishment can be a threat to the fabric of old buildings [2].

My recollection of red valerian is the strong colour combinations that its pink flowers and green leaves make with the red sandstone that is the underlying rock of the central part of Torbay and which was used extensively for building construction. Technically described as a sandstone breccia conglomerate, this rock, exposed at Roundham Head, for example (see below), has been used in building houses and walls in Paignton since mediaeval times [3]. I lived in Polsham Park (the cul-de-sac road), part of the Polsham Park Estate designed by W.G.Goudrey and George Soudron Bridgman, and constructed in the last decade of the Nineteenth Century [3]. This was 50 years after the building boom in Torquay, where many villas were in an Italianate style, to reflect houses of the Mediterranean Riviera. 

The buildings of the Polsham Park Estate were dressed in brick – ours were cream in colour – but the sandstone was unforuately suject to weathering, as anyone looking at Roundham Head, and other coastal promontories, readily appreciates. As our house had a verandah, one of the jobs that I helped with was the sweeping up of the red dust that accumulated on the tiles (red, of course) that were used as flooring. Nowadays, the appearance of many of the houses has been altered by the extensive use of PVC replacement windows, and roofing other than slate, the Conservation Report [3] stating that “almost overwhelmingly the workmanship is inferior in design and materials: artificial slate and PVC glazing are almost universal replacements.” Two recent images of houses on the Estate are shown below:

When I lived in this area of Paignton, it was little changed from its original condition, but that wasn’t important to me. What I enjoyed, was being able to run along Polsham Park (the road) to Victoria Park (the entrance to which is shown below) where I could play on the swings, slide and roundabouts, run around on the “pitches”, or go at top speed along the path by the railway line to exit within easy walking distance of the railway station, there to indulge in my favourite pastime of trainspotting. Much of the park was completed in 1894, with the boating pond (see below in a separate image), where I sailed my elderly, re-painted yacht, completed in 1895 [3]. The “pitches” next to the main road to the west were previously the Victoria Nurseries and were added to the Park in the first half of the twentieth Century.

None of this was known to me either, and which child would be interested in such things? Now that I am much older, and enjoy nostalgia, it is all fascinating to discover the history of what was so familiar in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Certainly, the combination of red valerian and red sandstone remain powerful triggers for memories of the joys of childhood and an appreciation of the “respectable” part of the town that was once my home.

[1] A.R.Clapham, T.G.Tutin and E.F.Warburg (1959) Excursion Flora of the British Isles. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

[2] R. Motti, G. Bonanomi and A. Stinca (2021) Biodeteriogens at a southern Italian Heritage site: Analysis and management of vascular flora on the walls of Villa Rufalo. International Biodeterioration & Biodegradation 162 https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ibiod.2021.105252

[3] https://www.torbay.gov.uk/media/7583/polsham-caa.pdf

 

A walk in the countryside is not always a positive experience

In his Introduction to the Oxford World’s Classics edition of Rousseau’s Reveries of the Solitary Walker [1], Russell Goulbourne writes:

For Rousseau, ..musings and movement go hand in hand. Walking is.. ..thought-inspiring: ‘Seated at my table, with my pen in my hand and my paper in front of me, I have never been able to achieve anything. It is when I am out walking among the rocks and the woods, it is at night, sleepless in my bed, that I write in my head’. This link between musings and movement.. ..is fundamental to the Reveries.. ..since Rousseau based his text on notes he had scribbled down on twenty-seven playing cards while out walking..

A similar approach to the creative impulse provided by solitary walking in the countryside was described by Edward Elgar, who also enjoyed riding a bicycle over the lanes and tracks of Worcestershire and, especially, the Malvern Hills (see above). In a letter from Malvern on 11th July 1900 to A.J.Jaeger (“Nimrod” of the Enigma Variations), Elgar writes, describing a musical phrase [2]:

This is what I hear all day – the trees are singing my music – or have I sung theirs? It’s too lovely here.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the genius of Rousseau or Elgar, but I understand their sentiments. For me, walking through the countryside has always been my favourite exercise (I never learned to ride a bicycle) and provides a source of freedom from day-to-day problems. It is more that that, though, in that it enables me to appreciate the natural world and to observe closely all the changes that occur through the year. Like Rousseau and Elgar, my walks are also a time when ideas come to the fore – perhaps for a different way of looking at something, or for generating ideas for a new talk, or blog post.

Early morning walks in summer are especially uplifting and I have recently discovered that short video clips act as aides-memoires. Being a technophobe, I have only recently started using the video recorder on my mobile telephone and the clip below shows a section of country lane that opens to reveal a pretty cottage with well-kept gardens on either side of the road. This has always seemed odd to me, as I am not a gardener and I prefer the wonderful complexity of natural world as it is – there’s no doubting that it is attractive, though.

Further in the dawn walk, I headed through a field and took a path into a wood. The transition appealed to me, so I took a video as I walked from the one to the other and the clip can be viewed below, complete with soundtrack:

My experience was very similar to that of Geoff Nicholson [3]:

Even as I was falling I thought, Oh crap, I’m not going all the way to the ground, am I? I’ll stop myself somehow. I’ll keep my footing. I’ll regain my balance. And then I knew I was mistaken about that. I was going all the way. I’d passed the tipping point. Oh crap indeed.

Then there was the impact, a much greater, more generalised blow than I’d been anticipating. I was on the ground, winded, hurting all over, feeling like a fool, trying to breathe deeply and regularly, and thinking.. ..’Oh man this really, really hurts, this is a bad one’.

Nicholson broke his arm, but I was luckier as I only had cuts on various parts of my face and arms and a badly swollen hand. Once I had recovered a little, I gingerly pushed myself up and then sat for a while on a tree stump before walking the 2 km to my home. A visit to the hospital later in the day revealed a dislocated, and broken, little finger that required surgery under general anaesthetic and, as I write, my hand and lower arm are in plaster and I await the verdict of the medical team as to the extent of healing.

I was a fool to concentrate on making the videoclip and not looking where I was putting my feet. A lesson learned, certainly, but I so look forward to going out on more solitary walks in the countryside. Despite recent evidence, thy are good for me…

[1] Russell Goulbourne (2011) Introduction. Reveries of the Solitary Walker by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Oxford, Oxford University Press.

[2] Percy M. Young (1956) Letters of Edward Elgar and Other Writings. London, Geoffrey Bles.

[3] Geoff Nicholson (2010) The Lost Art of Walking. Chelmsford, Harbour.

 

 

 

My thanks to Anna Easton for her advice on the use of videoclips.

Learning about Picasso

For the past six weeks, I’ve been taking a WEA course on Picasso. Caroline Levisse, our tutor, has the happy knack of being informal, and inviting questions of those attending, while also having an in-depth knowledge of art history. As a result, the group had its own dynamic and it was interesting to hear what members had to say about Picasso, his life, and the many varieties of his art – from paintings, through sculpture, to ceramics and much else [1].

Most were very enthusiastic about what they saw, and we were all happy to acknowledge that Picasso was an extraordinarily talented artist and, probably, a great one. Others, while admiring his virtuosity, were left to question why they didn’t “get” some of his art, even that which was based on artists whose work they did react to positively. I was one of the dissenters, and was relieved when one of the class members said he admired Guernica (see above), but was not especially moved by it. His comment came as a relief to me, as I found it difficult to engage with much of Picasso’s work and I started to wonder why.

Since I was young, I have loved looking at paintings and have tried to interpret what I see. As an undergraduate, I made many visits to the National and Tate Galleries in London and attempted to learn more by listening to talks and by reading. Some paintings made an instant impact on me, some took more time, and some left me baffled. Regrettably, much modern art fell into the latter category, but I was bowled over by the large-scale paintings by Turner: one of them, Sun Setting over a Lake, is shown below.

In contrast to Picasso, Turner’s work focussed on the “essence” of the world around us. He had the skill to paint portraits and, as James Hamilton writes [2]: 

Turner’s education as an artist was running on a number of fronts in the early 1790s [when in his teens]. He followed the standard Academy tuition of drawing from casts of antique sculpture, in preparation for the Life Class, which he entered on 25th June 1792.. .. Through the evidence of two self-portraits made at the beginning and end of the decade, Turner had more than a passing interest in becoming competent in portraiture, and must have taken lessons in it. All this was available to every other ambitious artist of his generation; but what stands out in Turner’s case is the breadth of his interest, and his dogged refusal to specialise. At all times he kept a weather eye open for opportunities to make money out of his art. 

From Hamilton’s description, we see parallels with Picasso: both had a rare talent for several categories of painting (and Picasso had many other creative outlets) and both had an interest in the monetary value of their work. To this can be added their enjoyment of a messy studio, and a powerful impulse to draw and paint at every opportunity. Both were strongly egocentric and driven men and there is an interesting “compare and contrast exercise" for someone interested in those aspects of their lives.

In Turner’s works, people play an ancillary role to the landscape in which they are portrayed: in his classical works in the style of Claude, the distant figures give scale and this is true also of other works, like Snow Storm: Hannibal and his Army Crossing the Alps (see above), where the many members of the army give the scene a strong sense of the sublime. Picasso, on the other hand, used a strongly anthropocentric approach and most of his works featured portraits of one kind or another and, while the contents of houses had a role in providing a setting, landscape did not.

Is this why I find it difficult to appreciate Picasso’s work, while being moved by that of Turner? Is it that I find Picasso’s use of strong lines challenging and find the more diffuse shapes in Turner’s work easier to relate to? What is certain is that I am a Romantic and I have also been shaped by my career in biology, with over forty years’ of research on animals, plants, microorganisms, and the environment in which they live. While recognising that humans are unique, and very highly evolved, I am aware that we are animals that are intimately linked to the natural world, even though we can isolate ourselves from it. That form of thinking must have come early in my life, for I always liked solitary walks along the coasts and lanes of Devonshire while growing up. Maybe that is the root of my Romanticism and why I can respect Picasso as a great artist, but find his work puzzling?

[1] James Voorhies (2004) Pablo Picasso (1881–1973). In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/pica/hd_pica.htm

[2] James Hamilton (1997) Turner, a Life. London, Hodder and Stoughton.

Seaside resorts: seasons, decades and geological time

We have all visited seaside resorts and some of us are fortunate enough to have been brought up in one: I lived in Paignton in South Devon and went to school in Torquay more than 50 years ago, so knew both towns well. I expect that they are rather different now to the way that I remember them, while both resorts have an interesting history. 

In his foreword to John Pike’s Iron Horse to the Sea, Crispin Gill writes [1]: 

The turnpike roads to Exmouth and Torquay first created the resorts of South Devon, but it was the coming of the railway.. ..that really saw these places grow. In the early days it was the aristocracy and the upper middle class who could afford holidays when these resorts were frequented mainly in the winter. Since the First World War, with the growth of holidays with pay, these resorts have become accessible to all and are now among the most popular in Britain. 

Initially, the railway terminated at Torquay (at what is now Torre) and Pike [1] describes the onward extension (including quotes from private papers supporting the proposal to build the railway): 

The route of the proposed railway was 11 miles in length and approached quite near to Brixham which was then becoming an important fishing port. Equally of interest is the prophecy of a future for Paignton ‘in climate of equal salubrity with Torquay, it possesses, in addition, a hard sandy beach nearly two miles in length, admirably adapted for bathing. Being in the centre of the Bay, it also embraces, within easy drives, all points of beauty … [it] annually draws to it numerous visitors for health as well as recreation.’ 

In Bradshaw’s Descriptive Railway Handbook [2], originally published in 1863 shortly after the extension had been completed, we have a fulsome account of the pleasures of Torquay, while Paignton is described thus: 

The situation of this place is really beautiful, commanding a central aspect of Torbay. Its picturesque church and the sand rounding from it to the fine woods of Tor Abbey, and the town and pier below it, form a pleasing coup d’œil. 

No mention of the swampy land between the railway and the sea and, by the relative size of the two entries, readers of Bradshaw’s will gain the impression that Paignton was regarded as a poor neighbour of Torquay, although there were wealthy residents. This may well have been the attitude of many outsiders, and some Paignton residents would not disagree with that perception, despite our pride in the town. 

The importance of winter visitors has been emphasised by StJohn Thomas and Smith [3]: 

As late as the 1890s, when following the abandonment of Brunel’s broad gauge, the first through trains ran from the North to Torbay, the resorts were still busier in winter than in summer, when many of their facilities closed down. Sea bathing (of course dependent on the bathing machine) was however growing rapidly in popularity and certainly local traffic was heavier in summer; Exeter in particular has a strong tradition of sending its people to the sea on day trips.. ..and by 1914 the upper middle class family by the sea was more usually a summer affair. 

By my time, in the 1950s, Paignton was a popular family resort and any wealthy visitors coming down in winter for their health were not apparent to us residents. In the opening of Walking with Gosse, I describe what I remembered [4]: 

After the summer holiday season, Paignton in the 1950s was typical of many seaside towns in the UK, being quiet and left to its residents. A small theatre put on rather good amateur pantomimes at Christmas and, at other times, hosted school music festivals, elocution contests, and the occasional Billy Graham-style Christian “Crusade”. Bakers, butchers, grocers, newsagents, chemists, banks and other high street shops supported the local community; while pubs, churches and clubs, associated with organisations like the British Legion, provided social life. In almost all homes, meals were prepared from basic ingredients and, as a treat, fish and chip shops dotted through the town were a source of takeaway meals: the fish being cod, plaice, haddock, bream or rock salmon (dogfish), all caught locally. 

Nothing much seemed to change in the pattern of life during the week, with Saturdays a time for relaxation and, perhaps, watching, or playing, sport. Sundays were for dressing in one’s “best” clothes, with very few shops, or places of entertainment, open. It was a day for gentle walks, going to church or Sunday School, and having a roast lunch (called dinner), followed by tea with tinned fruit and fancy cakes. If the routine of the week was broken by illness, support came from General Practitioners and a small hospital; while several dentists looked after teeth and dentures (that were much commoner then than now). 

That is one person’s view of winter in a summer-resort where all the shops selling rock, “kiss-me-quick hats”, saucy postcards, etc.. were boarded up, as were the stalls selling candyfloss, seafood, chips and the like. Some cafes remained open, but winter provided a bleaker outlook that was such a contrast to the summer, when train after train brought holidaymakers on Saturdays (changeover day), with similar numbers of trains taking them home after a week. I have tried to capture Paignton in winter in photographs (see below), as, to quote a 1918 advertisement, “one picture is worth a thousand words”.

 

Clearly, I have little skill as a photographer, but Rob Ball is highly skilled and also has the eye of an artist. He produced a wonderful photograph in his recent collection entitled Silent Coast [5] that was referenced by the Financial Times Magazine of 4th June 2022 (see below – the associated text is worth reading).

 

This image is not from Paignton, of course, but Rob’s photograph conjures up the ghostly feeling that seaside resorts can create out of season. There is no-one to be seen, yet everything that provides entertainment is still there, but locked up. In looking at the image, one remembers the noise of excited children running around in bathing costumes, the warmth of the balmy air, the thrill of slides (especially water slides), etc.. 

There are not only changes in types of visitors and their means of getting to the resorts of Torbay at different times of the year as there are also changes in topography. For example, the magnificent view of the coast from Babbacombe has been altered by the cliff fall at Oddicombe (see images below), where saturated sandstones fractured at weak points and then slid down. A different form of erosion comes in the effect of tides and waves that attack coastal defences and have severed some coastal paths that linked adjacent coves. Storms and tidal surges have also affected the railway lines that run to Torquay and Paignton through Dawlish, where landslips and breaches are familiar to both contemporary residents and those that are interests in transport history. These are decadal, rather than seasonal, changes, but what of Paignton in earlier times?

 

Before it became a resort, the town was renowned for its production of vegetables and it was a centre for cider making. There were also “Paignton cockles” and other shellfish, and fish, to collect and that reminds us of the other, non-human, residents of the shores of Torbay, well-known to those residents and holidaymakers that enjoy rock pooling and similar activities. There are many types of seaweeds, snails and barnacles and these show different levels of tolerance to drying, with some found higher up the shore than others and some never uncovered by the sea, even at low spring tides that occur every two weeks or so. Of course, tides are familiar to holidaymakers, as the sea creeps up the beach as the tide comes in twice each day, reducing the available space on the sand and creating a Canute-style adventure for children who have defences around their sand castles. Very few visitors and residents think of the effect of tides on other shore life. 

The presence of the beach for sunbathing and swimming is something we take for granted and, apart from the various erosional events, is little changed within our lifetime. However, if we go back tens of thousands of years to the time of the last Ice Age, the coast was way to the east of where it is now and Torbay was part of a lowland forest. We would recognise some features, like headlands and hilly peaks, but we would certainly not recognise the coast as it was then; increase in sea level at the time of the melting of the northern ice cap giving us the outline of the shore that we have today. If we look into the future, it seems certain that sea level rise resulting from global warming will cause local inundations and, without increased sea defences, the coastline will be inland of its current position. I wonder what it will be like and what kinds of visitors it will attract? 

 

[1] John Pike (1987) Iron Horse to the Sea: Railways in South Devon. Bradford on Aven. Ex-Libris Press. 

[2] Anon (1863) Bradshaw’s Descriptive Railway Hand-book of Great Britain and Ireland. London, W.J.Adams. 

[3] David StJohn Thomas and Simon Rocksborough Smith (1973) Summer Saturdays in the West. Newton Abbot, David & Charles. 

[4] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse: Natural History, Creation and Religious Conflicts. e-book. 

[5] https://www.robball.co.uk/