Leslie Jackman’s Marine Aquaria

 

Leslie Jackman was a man of many parts: teacher, broadcaster, museum officer, film-maker, and author [1]. He was a noted natural historian and an important influence on a generation of young people, of which I was one, and I had the added bonus of meeting him, as we both lived in Paignton in Torbay [2]. Although he wrote about terrestrial natural history and the life found in streams, rivers and lakes, Leslie seemed especially fascinated by the coast and by marine biology. He encouraged others to share his enthusiasm by “rock-pooling” and by looking at plants and animals in aquaria.

This is clear in the Preface of Marine Aquaria [3]:

The address given in the Preface is “The Seashore Aquarium, Paignton” and this was run by Leslie and, if my memory serves me correctly, was located adjacent to Paignton Harbour in the building shown in the image at the top of this blog post. This was a fitting site, as many specimens were brought to the aquarium by local fisherman [3].  

It is clear that Leslie pays homage to Gosse and later in the book we read:

The first great seashore observer was Gosse. He lived a hundred years ago, but his writings are classics of observational work. Gosse never lost the freshness of excitement that came from new discovery and his appetite for knowledge was insatiable. If you desire, as did Gosse’s friend Charles Kingsley in Glaucus, to walk on and in under the waves” you will have found a new and absorbing interest in your aquarium.

Gosse’s The Aquarium [4] and the handbook based on the final chapter of the earlier book and sold at a price that made it more available to a wide audience [5] contain all the information needed for aspiring aquarists.

Marine Aquaria, written more than 60 years ago, had much in common with the earlier works by Gosse and they cover the same ground. Of course, there are differences in that Leslie discusses the use of plastics and air pumps, neither being available in Gosse’s day. Intriguingly, we read in Marine Aquaria that good conditions for animals can be provided by an aeration system based on reservoirs (see below, upper) and this is almost identical to a system that Gosse rigged up in his home in Torquay [2]. Gosse’s observation tank was, however, less elaborate than that shown in The Aquarium, this being a top-of-the-range parlour model with all the plumbing hidden in the pedestal (see below, lower).

So, what was the audience for the books by Henry Gosse and Leslie Jackman? Judging by the Preface of Marine Aquaria, the audience was male, but this was, of course, just a form of expression of the times and Leslie promoted an interest in natural history in boys, girls, men and women. Interestingly, women played an important part in the development of collecting on the shore - Anna Atkins with her cyanotypes of algae [6], Anne Pratt with her seashore guide [7], and Margaret Gatty with her work on seaweeds [8]. Torbay, and the adjacent coastline, was something of a mecca for the popular appreciation of life on the shore for both men and women, the latter having to pay special attention to the clothes that they wore [9]. In addition to Gosse, Amelia Griffiths was resident in the town, making important contributions to the study of algae [8], and, as Leslie Jackman mentions, Charles Kingsley also visited Torbay in the 1850s and in Glaucus heaps praise on Henry Gosse. The two became close friends [2].

What has happened to our interest in life on the shore and in marine biology since the publication of Leslie Jackman’s book? There was clearly little difference between its content, and advice, to that which had been published a hundred years before. Many of us still enjoy looking in rock pools and there are many aquarists, although few collect animals from the shore for their aquaria. We can SCUBA dive, or snorkel, if we want to see marine organisms in their natural environment, and we can visit huge aquaria that are now part of the entertainment industry, with tanks so large that they approximate to natural habitat (although the animals and plants that they contain are selected by the aquarium managers). Both have an educational value, but there is no longer an appetite for making one’s own aquarium to allow close observation. We now have numerous videoclips for that and there are also wonderfully-shot TV programmes that we can enjoy in the comfort of our living rooms, but how real is it to us? 

Something is missing from the thrill that Henry Gosse and Leslie Jackman encouraged – something that is life-enhancing, as any first-hand study of the natural world will be. I collected plants and animals and had aquarium tanks at school [2] and even kept some animals in bowls at home. I am very grateful that I knew Leslie Jackman – and I feel that I know Henry Gosse – and I am also grateful to have been brought up in Torbay and collected on the shores that inspired them. They inspired me, too.

[1] http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com 21st January 2013

[2] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse. e-book, available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.. 

[3] L. A. J. Jackman (1957) Marine Aquaria. London, Cassell and Company

[4] P. H. Gosse (1854) The aquarium: an unveiling of the wonders of the deep sea. London, John Van Voorst. 

[5] P. H. Gosse (1855) A handbook to the marine aquarium: containing practical instructions for constructing, stocking, and maintaining a tank, and for collecting plants and animals. London, John Van Voorst.

[6] http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com 20th April 2016

[7] http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com 16th October 2017 

[8] http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com 30th December 2013 

[9] http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com 6th January 2014

 

 

The Lower Falls of the Labrofoss - and thoughts of Renforsen

Johan Christian Dahl’s The Lower Falls of the Labrofoss (1827) provides a striking image of the power of water. It is a painting of the sublime and there is much to see within the work [for a large-scale image click on the link in 1]. The waterfall (foss in Norwegian) charges towards us from between large rocks before the river bends away to our right and the mist that we see in the middle distance provides evidence of even greater turbulence upstream. We just make out a mountain in the far distance, so we know the landscape setting, but Dahl’s low-level view focusses our attention on the middle distance and foreground. 

We note that many tree trunks are scattered around, having become snagged after they were heaved into the river to be carried to sawmills downstream, a practice that was common in Scandinavia before trucking. To the left, we see logging activity and two men are seen on rocks just to the left of the river and these loggers, together with the occupied wooden cottage, give scale to the picture. There are more cottages in the distance, one precariously close to the chasm through which the river flows, while the other has a meadow on which cattle are seen. The combination of dramatic landscape and rural activities is typical of Dahl, who followed the tradition established by the 17th century painters Jacob van Ruisdael and Allaert van Everdingen [2]. 

Johan Christian Dahl was brought up in Bergen, and the surrounding mountainous landscape, with its cascading rivers, formed an impression that stayed with him for the rest of his life. After being apprenticed to a painter in Bergen, he continued his studies in Copenhagen, where he saw Nordic landscapes by Dutch masters [3]. He began to be recognised for the paintings he exhibited there, and his success allowed him to become a professional artist. 

Dahl had an elevated view of landscape painting, his chosen genre, and, as Marie Bang states [2]: 

 …he claims that “landscape painting can have the same effect on the heart as history painting, when the painter presents the objects in an interesting way.” Here we see Dahl under the influence of academic coercion and the hierarchy of genres, where history painting with its moral message stood at the top of the ladder and landscape painting at the bottom; topographical prospectus painting being hardly regarded as art at all, but as a purely mechanical copying of nature without the artist’s creative influence. 

Dahl’s Romantic, emotional view of landscape permeates all his work and he was fortunate in having Prince Christian Frederik (later to become King Christian VIII of Denmark) as a patron and supporter. On travelling to Dresden in September 1818, Dahl gained further support from Caspar David Friedrich who was [2]: 

..fourteen years older and an established artist, but the two found in each other a common love of nature and a sincere depiction of nature based on self-study more than on the well-established academic clichés that they both deeply hated. 

The enclosed, melancholy Friedrich expressed his transcendental longing in distinctive mood landscapes, while the outgoing, lively Dahl tended towards more down-to-earth and dramatic motifs. Despite their close friendship and their deep love for nature, the two had no profound influence on each other; they were too different in temperament and artistic goals. 

As was mentioned earlier, Dahl retained a passion for Norway and its dramatic topography describing himself as [2]:

..a “more Nordic painter” with a “preference for sea shores, mountain nature, waterfalls, sailing ships and harbour pictures in daylight and moon light” 

He made a long-awaited trip back to his homeland in 1826, visiting the Labro falls, among other places - the inspiration for the 1827 painting. Sketches were made and these formed the basis of works to be completed in his studio [3]. In the Introduction to Forests, Rocks, Torrents, Christopher Riopelle [3] writes: 

A painting like The Lower Falls of the Labrofoss of 1827, executed for an English client, results directly from Dahl’s long study of the Norwegian landscape at its most tumultuous. At the same time, it is the product of slow and painstaking studio work.. 

..For Dahl, the aesthetic merit of the painting lay not in the motif but in the artist’s ability to ennoble it. It was this higher, more complete vision – the eternal Norway of the mind’s eye, fruit of long reflection – at which Dahl always aimed.. 

..it did not matter where Dahl was when he chose to paint Norway. The snowy peaks, the cascading torrents, the impenetrable forest of the true north did not need to be in his line of sight; rather, memories of Norway, contemplated in the tranquillity of the studio, could be prompted by oil sketches made on the spot.. 

I, too, love Nordic landscapes but by adoption, having been fortunate to make many visits to Sweden, Denmark, Finland and Norway. In the summer of 1975, I joined researchers from the University of Lund on a project on a tributary of the Vindel River in Swedish Lapland and I returned in 1976, not only to continue the project, but because I was captivated by the landscape and the beauty of the river. After a spell working on the biology of a lake outlet in Finland, I returned to the Vindel river and a project with my late, and much missed, colleague Björn Malmqvist from the University of Umeå. Renforsen on the Vindel was especially important to me, and, during ice-melt in the mountains, the rapids are indeed sublime. You will gain an impression of the majesty of Renforsen from the video clips cited below [4,5], where you will note the barriers to prevent the build-up of logs at the margins, for the river was used, like the river in Dahl’s painting, for the transport of tree trunks to mills downstream. 

The Vindel River is unregulated, but many other rivers have been dammed to provide a head of water to drive hydro-electric schemes. This fate also befell the Labro falls, as can be seen in an aerial view from Google Earth (see below, together with an image taken by Per Vestøl of the power station located close to the point shown in the painting). The natural falls are still in existence (see the Google Earth image), but their flow is controlled – quite different to the Labrofoss of the early Nineteenth Century. 

I wonder what Dahl would have thought of the change? As a passionate supporter of Norwegian identity, maybe he would be proud to see that natural resources were being harnessed. But the sense of the sublime has been diminished. Instead of the power of Nature over humans, so evident in Dahl’s painting, we now have the opposite. Most of the magic has gone. 

[1] https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/johan-christian-dahl-the-lower-falls-of-the-labrofoss 

[2] Marie Lødrup Bang (2020) Johan Christian Dahl. Store Norske Leksikon [in Norwegian] https://nbl.snl.no/Johan_Christian_Dahl 

[3] Christopher Riopelle (2011) Forests, Rocks, Torrents: Norwegian and Swiss Landscape Paintings from the Lunde Collection. London, National Gallery Company.

[4] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=os6fCk2CTWk&ab_channel=johnjairo41 

[5] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qK4-5YOKcg

The walk to Elbury Cove

 

When I started blogging, I never imagined that I would achieve the milestone of 250 posts. What started as publicity for “Walking with Gosse” (the blog taking its title from the sub-title of the book [1]) has grown to encompass wider fields related to many aspects of Nature, Creation and Religious Conflicts. To celebrate the 250, I would like to describe a walk, part of the South West Coast Path, that has always meant a great deal to me and with which I associate many memories, both distant and recent. I was raised in Torbay and the coastal landscape of the bay inspired me in important ways. It was where I could escape from things that troubled me and it instilled in me a Romantic approach to life that replaced the religion of my upbringing.

The walk began at Paignton Harbour (above), where I loved to spend time watching the tide and the boats. and, from there, I followed the coast to the beaches at Goodrington, the location of the well-known Gosse family outing in 1887 [1]. The path then led uphill, past Saltern Cove (where I sometimes sat to ineffectually revise chemistry, among other subjects), and onwards to the next sandy beach at Broadsands (all shown in the sequence of images below).

 

My destination was Elbury Cove, but not as far as the shingle beach that seemed so different to the golden sands more typical of the bay. It was the limestone outcrops that I liked and I walked out to be close to the sea, listening to it lapping against the shore and looking down in the hope of seeing fish. In summer, I would stretch out on the smooth rocks and, in other seasons, become fascinated by the way waves crashed in. From the outcrops, I could look across to the cove and see Lord Churston’s bathhouse that allowed his lordship the chance to go sea bathing [2]. Set against the dark woods, and adjacent to the steep shingle beach, the bathhouse ruin would have appealed to landscape painters, especially those in the Romantic tradition and the view certainly appealed to me. All this is seen in the following images:

 

I must have made that walk scores of times when I was living in Paignton, and at school in Torquay, and it is always something I love to do on my rare visits back to Torbay. Nowadays, I stick to the path, but when I was younger, I also walked on the beaches and, at low tide, walked round headlands by jumping from boulder to boulder. I had no real sense of danger and it wasn’t just the physical exercise, excitement, and feeling of isolation that I enjoyed, as there was also much natural history to observe, both in rock pools and on the rocks themselves (see below). I became fascinated by creatures like limpets, mussels and barnacles that attached themselves, often in huge masses, and I wondered how they had arrived, and how they survived. I knew that barnacles and mussels lived by capturing particles from the sea, but had no idea at the time that my walks to Elbury Cove would provide inspiration for my career in biological research.

 

My interest was always in aquatic biology and my research work was mostly on suspension-feeding animals. Although I didn’t work directly on barnacles and mussels, I developed an appreciation of the types of particles that they captured and these were not just planktonic plants, but also dead organic matter. Some organic particles were from the breakdown of plants and animals, others were formed by aggregation processes at the micro-scale, often involving exudates from cells. I learned about the importance of waves and bubbles in particle formation and that, of course, took me right back to my walks. When I look out at the waves at Elbury Cove now, I not only see a Romantic vista, but also the source of my understanding of how aquatic systems work, something I was able to describe for others (see below). I guess that’s the result of being a Romantic, too. It's been quite an adventure

 

 

[1] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse: Natural History, Creation and Religious Conflicts. Available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other e-book sellers.

 

[2] https://davedoeshistory.com/2018/07/31/elberry-cove-bathhouse/

 

 

My secondary school education in Torbay

In “Walking with Gosse” [1], I describe how I became a professional biologist and natural historian, a path that was defined when I was young. It was my good fortune to be brought up in Torbay, and the coast (see above), and surrounding countryside, were my main sources of inspiration. That, and the freedom to learn provided by Oldway Primary School.

In an earlier post on nicknames for schoolmasters [2], I mentioned my time at Torquay Boys’ Grammar School and how serious my education then became. Syllabuses required certain things to be taught and, of course, I went along with it, never questioning the value of what I learned, and I did manage to pass most examinations (except in Biology [1]), if that was the point of syllabuses. Of course, I recognise that one has to have building blocks for understanding various subjects, but that need not make subjects dull.

Here are some descriptions of my secondary education, given by subject:

English

In the first year, English centred on grammar and we were all issued with Ridout’s “English Today” (see above) – not new, but hand-me-downs from previous year groups. Mr Locker, a really pleasant master, took us through exercises and we learned about the structure of language as well as writing essays, learning about precis, and other skills. As we progressed through the school, there were more advanced editions of “English Today” and I can’t remember any of the masters who taught me, until Mr Kay in my fourth year (I had jumped a year earlier in my school career). He made a great impression on me, as he showed an interest in us; recommending novels that we might read and explaining a bit about them. I don’t know whether it was part of any syllabus, but Mr Kay also introduced us to the derivation of place names and that sent me scurrying to the Public Library to find out more. I was fascinated, probably because here was something in my formal education that I could relate to the world outside school, something that novels did too. It wasn’t just the derivation of place names either – we talked about many words and I remember well the following:

Mr Kay (to the class): “The name pancreas has its origin in Ancient Greek, while the insulin it produces is a word derived from Latin.”

“I bet that no-one knows where insulin is actually produced.”

RSW (raising his hand – the only response to the question in the class): “The Islets of Langerhans, Sir.”

 I should have taken him up on the bet.

 Latin

 

I only took one year of Latin – with Mr Allen, who had a habit of referring to each student as his “favourite pupil” (and there were many other eccentricities of behaviour, like shooting at us with an imaginary gun…). Our set book was Kennedy’s “Shorter Latin Primer” (see above) which was, like Ridout’s book, a hand-me-down. The cover of mine had been altered to read “The Shortbread Eating Primer” and there were numerous small drawings of male and female genitalia throughout its pages, contributed by previous generations of temporary owners.

There were many illustrations and exercises in the book and, after Mr Allen had the class reciting declensions (“mensa, mensa, mensam, mensae, mensae, mensas” etc.), we did translations of sentences like “the soldiers fought the sailors with arrows and spears, while wearing their best togas.” We were not introduced to classical literature, or the philosophy of the ancient world, something which I discovered at University. In the second year of secondary school we were maybe too young for that, but it does provide a valuable setting for learning the language. For us, Latin was significant as it was essential for Oxbridge entry at the time, and there was little that was more important than that.

French

Learning a language was new to me and the masters who attempted to get me fluent were Mr Haskins (formal and large), Mr Johnson (who was a lovely man), Mr Joslin (who was terrifying) and Mr Haskins again. I tried hard, and was able to master some translation work, but speaking the language was a challenge. Perhaps that is not surprising, as I rarely ventured outside Devonshire and didn’t make my first trip to continental Europe until I was 22-years old. Not atypical insularity for the early 1960s.

Art

Mr Roper taught us art and I remember that we were introduced to charcoal and had to draw various objects. It wasn’t for me and it is a mystery how I developed such a strong interest in Art History – again, it was something that started once I had escaped to University. If Mr Roper had been told that I was to end up giving lunchtime talks, and lectures, at the National Gallery in London, he may well have fainted.

History and Geography

History was taught by Mr Kneebone and I can remember very little about it as I elected to drop the subject in favour of Geography (something we were allowed to do, as our choices were dictated by what we were to take at O-level). The masters who taught me were Mr Dutton (who seemed very old and used to spend a lot of time stroking his shiny bald head), Mr Gillham (who was young and very enthusiastic) and Mr Coon (who was a bit intimidating). While I found learning about other countries very interesting, it all seemed remote, as I led such a South-Devon-based life [1]. It was physical geography that I loved and learning about maps. I spent many hours at home working out profiles from contours on Ordnance Survey maps, drawing cross-sections of several places I knew. Again, it was the relation of school learning to the outside world that fired my interest.

Mathematics

Mr Titchener taught us mathematics in the first year and we then had Mr Horrell, Mr Roberts and Mr Cowler in other years. I had always enjoyed arithmetic at Oldway Primary School and now I learned about algebra, trigonometry and geometry, all fascinating in their own right, and ideal for quizzes. We had to solve equations and provide proofs in geometry (always ending QED). There was little attempt to show the application of mathematics, or to explain how much of the way we view the world is dependent on mathematics. That was something that I discovered for myself later and, no doubt, that was not part of the O-level syllabus. Everything must be governed by a syllabus.

Physics and Chemistry

Physics was taught by Mr Thorpe (a genuinely nice man) and Mr Evans (who was less friendly, but who drove an MG Midget sports car, so claimed bonus points). I learned about electricity and magnetism, moments of inertia, Boyle’s law, Fleming’s left-hand rule, and all sorts of other things that a physicist should know. It was all learned but my problem was that I didn’t understand what it was all about.

It was the same in Chemistry. Mr Roberts taught us in the first year and our first task was to learn the mantra “Acid + Base = Salt + Water”. There followed lots more rote learning, some interesting experiments with magnesium ribbon, and we progressed, under the teaching of Mr Crabtreee, to learn more about organic, inorganic, and physical chemistry. I took A-level Chemistry and I suffered. Mr Crabtree was one of only two masters at the school who bullied me and I remember one typical session of teaching when he hit me on the head (gently) saying “Valency, Wotton, Valency! It’s all in the text book (the latter word pronounced to rhyme with puke).” I just didn’t understand the dimensions of chemistry and what was happening to molecules, atoms, electrons and all the rest of it. I learned it, of course, but didn’t “get it”. I still don’t.

Biology

Biology was the subject that I really enjoyed and we were taught by Mr Clark (who was a lovely man) and by Mr Hood. I have given a full description elsewhere [1] of how we shared teaching in Biology with South Devon Technical College, with Mr Hood taking the Botany class and Mr Cosway (of the Tech.) taking Zoology. This was a very different world to that of TBGS and I enjoyed the freedom and the chance to play truant and collect from the shore and make observations on the animals and plants found there.

Music

Taught throughout by Mr John Burman Hopwood, who was a real enthusiast, music classes were not for examinations but for various performances. We were tested for membership of the school choir by each having to sing “Early one morning, just as the sun was rising, I heard a maiden singing in the valley below….” When it came to my turn ("W" being late in the alphabet), I was so nervous that I could only manage the first line before bursting into tears (the only boy to do so). Still, I showed enough promise in that brief showing to get into the choir and I really enjoyed being part of that; going to local festivals and taking part in concerts in the school hall. It was impossible not to like Mr Hopwood and he had the distinction of being the only master who gave me a whacking with a gym shoe, after a bunch of us were caught in a classroom instead of being in the playground.

PE and Games

We had a number of masters for these physical activities and I remarked on Games in my earlier post [2]. PE involved exercises like vaulting, walking on a balance beam, and climbing ropes and wall bars. There were also pull-ups and press-ups and all sorts of other things to try the patience. The senior PE master was Mr Stokes and he invariably wore a black blazer with the CCPE logo on it (the Discobolus of Myron – a missed chance to talk about classical sculpture). He liked to walk with his chest puffed out and he was not especially likeable, although he was much more human when teaching RE. He was kind enough to compliment me on a presentation that I gave on the Mennonites.

The worst PE master from my point of view was Mr Morrall, who enjoyed his role and liked to do a bit of humiliating. In one PE lesson we played a game where a pair of us had to chase around the gym (in the Tech. College) and tag as many of the others in the class as we could. For his amusement, Mr Morrall paired me with Neil Collings (who sadly died in 2010). Neil was known to us all as “The Bishop”, as he was a devout churchman and went on to have a distinguished career in the Church of England. Neil was not an athlete, but we did manage to catch a few of our fellow students. It was clearly all very entertaining to Mr Morrall.

 

All this happened many years ago and the school I knew is no longer there (an image of the old school main building is shown above). So, do I look back on my school years as being the best of my life? Decidedly not. While there were some inspirational masters, a lot of the subject material was dull and we would have been better served if there was no syllabus and no examinations. That’s never going to happen though, and I am so grateful that I had the natural world all around me to provide a source of meaning to it all. I believe in the Liberal Arts and Sciences approach and hope that secondary education heads in that direction one day – maybe at Torquay Boys’ Grammar School?

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

[2] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2020/10/nicknames-for-schoolmasters.html

 

Underwater sounds

We are all familiar with birdsong, the chirruping of cicadas and grasshoppers, and the high-pitched sonar of bats (at, least, we are when very young, before the need for bat detectors that allow us to hear them when our hearing is less acute). There are other noises we all recognise in our terrestrial world, too, like the sound of the wind blowing through trees, the buzzing of insect flight, or the calls of foxes and other mammals.

Much less familiar are sounds from under water, although there are many recordings of the calls of whales that allow communication over large distances. We find whale “songs” haunting and there are hours of these on the internet. But what of sounds from ponds and other small water bodies? There’s the croaking of frogs at some times of year, although that is really part of the terrestrial realm, since the sound is transmitted through the air. Unknown to most of us, ponds are quite noisy, as I discovered in a wonderful radio programme about “ghost ponds” broadcast on the BBC [1].

In Norfolk, pits were dug to extract marl that was applied to fields as a fertiliser and soil improver, being relatively rich in calcium. The excavated pits filled with water to form ponds and almost every field had one, although they became neglected, or filled in over time, as agricultural practices changed – thus the ghosts referred to in the programme. A project to rehabilitate and research marl ponds has been supervised by Professor Carl Sayer of UCL [2, and see above] and he explained in the BBC broadcast that cleaned-out marl ponds form wonderful habitats for freshwater and amphibious animals, and for aquatic plants. It was such a joy to listen to Carl as he explained the project with his expertise and characteristic enthusiasm.

I already knew about the project from an earlier visit to Norfolk [3], but was surprised that the BBC programme started with commentary from Jack Greenhalgh of Bristol University, who described the sounds made by organisms living in the marl ponds, with soundtracks made using hydrophones. Intrigued, I looked up one of Jack’s websites that has recordings from a wide range of marine and freshwater habitats [4]. It came as no surprise that water bugs make a lot of noise, as the adults are able to fly and calls in the terrestrial world work even better underwater. More of a surprise was the sound of a coral reef and that of plants respiring.

It all added to the fascination of the story that Carl told and reminded me of why I can become so absorbed by natural history. So much of our lives is dedicated to anthropocentricity and it is humbling to discover new things about the natural world and realise how little we know. 

[1] https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m000nlzk

[2] https://ghostponds.wordpress.com/

[3] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2013/06/watching-azure-damsels.html

[4] https://soundcloud.com/wildaudiojack

 

Nicknames for schoolmasters

In Summoned by Bells, John Betjeman describes his time at the Dragon School in Oxford. Charles Cotterill Lynam was the Headmaster, known to the boys as “Skipper”, and this is what Betjeman wrote about another master, Gerald Haynes [1]:

Much do I owe this formidable man

(Harrow and Keble): from his shambling height

Over his spectacles he nodded down.

We called him “Tortoise”. From his lower lip

Invariably hung a cigarette.

A gym-shoe in his hand, he stood about

Waiting for misdemeanours – 

Nicknames for masters were common in Betjeman’s day - although just among the pupils one presumes - and it was the same in my secondary school. Coming through the State system, I moved from Oldway Primary to Torquay Boys’ Grammar, as I described in Walking with Gosse [2]:

The atmosphere at TBGS was formal and all the familiarity, inclusiveness and enjoyment of learning at Oldway Primary were behind me. Masters wore gowns, were mostly rather severe, and learning was now a serious matter. I had embarked on the grim business of growing up.

Each subject was taught by a different master and was governed by a syllabus, as we needed to know various facts and principles for national examinations. There was some rote learning, but also problem solving, and insights into topics about which I knew very little...

It was quite a change. Our teachers at Oldway Primary were all women, with the exception of Mr Mitchell who had a BSc degree, something that elevated him to a very high level in our minds, as none of the other teachers had a University qualification. At TBGS, there were no mistresses and all the masters had degrees, or their equivalent. As mentioned in the quote, they all wore gowns (except the PE staff), with some, including the Headmaster, taking great pride in keeping their gowns in immaculate order. Others appeared to take the opposite approach and preferred a ragged and faded version, often having streaks of chalk dust embedded into the stuff fabric.

In addition to learning all the master’s surnames, new boys also had to memorise their informal names and nicknames, passed down to each new year group. We felt they were our secret, although I’m sure they were known widely among the staff. Some masters were referred to by their first names (or what we thought were their first names), but there were many with nicknames. Some of these had obvious origins, others were more obscure. The following are some that I remember (surnames have been omitted out of courtesy), together with a list of the first names that we used among ourselves. In addressing masters, they were always “Sir”, of course:

First names:

Bill – mathematics master

Chas – mathematics master

Chris – physics master

Dave – chemistry master

Don – chemistry master

Fred [1] – English master

Fred [2] – geography master

Geoff – geography master

George – languages master

Graham – biology master

Harold – chemistry master

Ian – English master

Joe – actually John (headmaster)

Percy – deputy headmaster

Tony – biology master

 Nicknames: 

Bilko – mathematics master, whose surname unfortunately led to Sergeant  

        Bilko

Bum (or Jim) – PE master, but unknown origin

Charlie Drake – master who resembled the comedy hero of the time

Chick – languages master, but unknown origin

Growler – mathematics master with a bad case of “small man syndrome”

Hoppy – music master; abbreviation of surname

Mole – physics master who used this pronunciation when describing molecules

Moon (or Bert) – languages master with a round face

Neddy – history master, but unknown origin

Piggy – languages master of rather large dimensions

Ptolo – classics master; short for Ptolemy

Rip-Rap – history master, but unknown origin

Taff – PE master; from Wales

Zip – geography master, but unknown origin

So, using first names and nicknames was a way of softening the secondary school experience, as was the camaraderie of friends. There was bullying, but I was never bullied by other students, only by two masters. My policy was to keep out of trouble and I only had one whacking and one detention in my time at TBGS. As to learning, a lot was drummed into us and a few masters commanded respect for their wide knowledge and humanity.

As readers of Walking with Gosse [2] discover, mine was not a distinguished academic career and I was given no honours for achievement, no honours in sport and failed to become a prefect or sub-prefect (almost all my classmates managed to achieve this status). I went on to success, of course, and it was my love of natural history that sustained me though the secondary school years. I was much more in tune with the approach to learning we had at Oldway Primary and that is something that I maintained in my own teaching career (where I was awarded three teaching prizes and also acted as Director of Studies). I wonder if my students gave me a nickname, or if this was a practice confined to UK boys’ schools long ago?

[1] John Betjeman (1960) Summoned by Bells. London, John Murray.

[2] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse. e-book (available widely!).

Below are pictures of me at Oldway Primary and at Torquay Boys’ Grammar School

 

 

Which matters more to success - ambition or talent?

The FT Weekend Magazine has a regular feature called “Inventory”, in which questions are posed to a range of famous people from many walks of life. The questions are the same each week and one of them is:

                            Ambition or talent: which matters more to success?

When reading the responses, it is difficult not to be introspective and I have no idea how I would answer, should the question be put to me.

The starting point in providing an answer depends on the word “success”. As the people interviewed by the FT Weekend Magazine are well-known in their fields, they must have been successful. Many strive for success to make them famous, while others have little interest in fame. Of course, almost everyone likes recognition for their abilities and what they have achieved, whether in a career or on a personal level. So, is ambition or talent more important in achieving success?

For me, being an Emeritus Professor at UCL is a mark of success, but how was this achieved? It was certainly not a target and, indeed, my PhD research supervisor told me that he thought that I lacked ambition. He was right, in that I didn’t have goals, although I knew that I wanted to follow a career in natural history and the best way of doing so was to become a university teacher. That would allow me to carry out research on whatever fascinated me at the time and it would also enable me to pass on my enthusiasm for the natural world to students.

That’s where luck comes into it. Armed with good references about my work as a postgraduate demonstrator in practical classes and field courses, I was lucky enough to gain a 3-year teaching position at the University of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, followed by a permanent post at Goldsmiths’ College, and then a transfer to UCL. Research progressed from a continuation of my rather dull PhD studies, through the inspiration provided by wonderful colleagues in the UK, Sweden and the USA, to a fascination with how all aquatic ecosystems work. That led to questions that I was quite incapable of answering and, as a result, I stopped practical research and started to write reviews that crossed conventional boundaries. That was valuable for teaching, but I remained a child-like natural historian at heart and it was the wonder of Nature – from chemicals up to large organisms – that drove my approach.

Having established that I had little ambition, did I have talent? The origins of my fascination with natural history have been described in “Walking with Gosse” [1], but talents are difficult to define. That makes answering the question posed even more problematic.

Moving further down the questions in the FT Weekend magazine “Inventory” comes:

                   If your 20-year-old self could see you now, what would he/she think?

I can certainly say that I would have been amazed that I ended up in my present position. If you told the person in the photograph below that they would become a Professor at a World-renowned university, give talks in the National Gallery in London, write books and reviews, and be awarded a higher doctorate, they would certainly not have believed you. How did it all happen? It’s a question we all ask in advancing years. 

[1] Roger S. Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse, e-book. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Walking-Gosse-Roger-S-Wotton-ebook/dp/B08HMCJS9J

 

 

 

 

"Walking with Gosse" as an e-book

 

The COVID-19 pandemic influences everything at present. When the lockdown was announced in the UK, I decided that I needed something to occupy my time, so pressed ahead with a re-write of Walking with Gosse, first published as a paperback in 2012.

Since 2012, I have continued my interest in the story of Henry and Edmund Gosse, so there was a chance to make a revision, and update, of the book and, as the paperback was rather difficult to get hold of, I decided that an e-book was the best way forward. I knew nothing about e-book publishing before setting out, other than that it was a means of making books easily accessible on mobile telephones, tablets and desktop computers, so I needed advice. This came from Dr Bob Carling, who has wide experience in publishing, and he took me through the stages needed to transform my MSWord files into the form acceptable to Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other e-book publishers. As I am a technophobe, it would not have been possible to publish this new version of Walking with Gosse without Bob’s help and technical expertise, just as I could not have published the paperback without the help of Dr Susan England of Clio Publishing.

One of the advantages of an e-book is that it allows a “clickable” list of contents to allow readers to navigate through the text, although I very much hope that the book is read from cover to cover, as that was the way it was conceived. It is part autobiographical (Part 1), part biographical (Parts 2-5), and part commentary on our current approach to natural history, creation and religious conflicts (Part 6).

The list of contents of Walking with Gosse is given below (as an appetiser):

 

List of contents

 

Preface

Part 1

 Growing up at the seaside

 Being a Christian

Schools, parents, and an interest in natural history

 Leaving home for University

 

Part 2

 Henry Gosse, The Aquarium and looking through microscopes

Henry Gosse’s early life and the development of his interest in natural history

Henry Gosse becomes a professional natural historian and writer

The development of Henry Gosse’s religious beliefs

 

Henry Gosse’s own family

 

Henry Gosse as a teacher, lecturer and leader of field courses

 

Recognition as a scientist

 

Part 3

Omphalos

 Reactions to Omphalos and Henry’s need to incorporate his religious views into his writing

 

The Romance of Natural History

 Sea serpents

Extinction, animals that fall from the sky, and mermaids

 

Part 4

 

Father and Son

 

Early life in London

 

Moving to St Marychurch

 

Edmund becomes a Saint

 

Edmund’s baptism and the move to a new chapel

 

Tom Cringle’s Log, meeting Eliza, and the beginnings of independence

Edmund’s Epilogue in Father and Son

 

Part 5

 

Learning more about Edmund

 

Eliza Gosse’s view of Henry

 

William Pengelly – a deeply religious man who believed in “creation by evolution”

Henry Gosse and Charles Kingsley

 

A feeling of connection to Henry and Edmund

 

Part 6

 Henry Gosse and or contemporary world

 Henry Gosse and the negativity of religious faith

 Creation, evolution and the origin of life

 When believing in creation seems like an easy option 

Tackling the supernatural 

Dr Dryasdust and contemporary trends in Biology

 Being interested in teaching and lecturing

 Natural history and the media

 Epilogue

 

References

Acknowledgements

 

Appendix 1

 Henry’s scientific publications

 

Appendix 2

 Henry’s solely religious writing

 

A series of posts about Walking with Gosse will appear on my blog over the next few months. They will highlight some of the sections of the book and give what scriptwriters might call the backstory. In the meantime, I hope that you enjoy the book.

 

The white dapperling – a mushroom that isn’t poisonous…

Fungi are remarkable organisms, essential for the recycling of nutrients by breaking down detritus. Most of us recognise mushrooms and toadstools – the fruiting bodies of many fungi – but we are less familiar with the huge numbers of wind-borne spores that they produce. Should the spores land in a suitable location, a complex mat of hyphae (threads that form the mycelium) then spreads underground, or through other substrata, using enzymes to digest organic matter and promote further growth. Mostly, the mycelium is also a mystery to us, but we know that the fruiting bodies must have grown from something because they don’t have roots. We can only speculate on how the fascinating life cycle of fungi evolved [1] and how the hyphae became organised for their various functions, including the rapid growth of fruiting bodies.

Last week, two unusual mushrooms appeared overnight on our lawn. They were white, with white spore-bearing gills and each appeared to grow from a bag-like structure around the base of the stem. They intrigued me sufficiently to pick one and take photographs of it (see below). Like many of us, I am aware that some mushrooms are highly toxic [1], so I treated the specimen I picked with caution. Fortunately, our local garage has a free supply of plastic gloves to prevent contact between hands and petrol, and I donned some of these (previously purloined for use in the age of COVID-19) to avoid direct contact. Even so, I washed my hands several times when I came back into the house (also a COVID-19 habit) as I was sure there was a possibility it was one of the deadly forms [1].

I needed help with identification and put the images on the Facebook page of the British Mycological Society. Fortunately, one of the members, Geoffrey Kibby, a well-known expert, suggested that my mushroom might be a specimen of Leucoagaricus leucothites that is common in lawns and which may cause gastrointestinal upsets in some humans, but is considered edible by others [2]. It seems I was being over-cautious.

Being a romantic, I was fascinated by the common name of “our” mushroom - the white dapperling – and that started me thinking once again about the common names that we give organisms [3]. Fungi are a rich source of such names and some are wonderfully descriptive, as a scan of any field guide will show. Some common names are connected to folklore, as mushrooms and toadstools have always fascinated us, and we have projected all manner of attributes to different types. As a result, common names are easy to remember and are used when we chat about mushrooms and toadstools, although many species are known only by their official name. Here is an abbreviated list taken from two of the best guides [4,5] together with the Latin binomial for each (some of which change from time to time) [3]:

Old Man of the Woods – Strobilomyces floccopus

Slippery Jack – Suillus luteus

Penny Bun – Boletus edulis

Slimy Spike Cap – Gomphidius glutinosus

Caesar’s Mushroom – Amanita caesarea

Death Cap – Amanita phalloides

Destroying Angel – Amanita virosa

The Blusher – Amanita rubescens

Stinking Parasol – Lepiota cristata

Amethyst Deceiver – Laccaria amethystea

Tawny Funnel Cap – Clitocybe flaccida

Clustered Tough Shank - Collibia confluens

Poached Egg Fungus – Oudemansiella mucida

Herald of the Winter – Hygrophorus hypothejus

Curry-scented Milk Cap – Lactarius camphoratus

The Charcoal Burner – Russula cyanoxantha

The Sickener – Russula emetica

Poison Pie – Hebeloma crustuliniforme

Lawyer’s Wig – Coprinus comatus

Fairies’ Bonnets – Coprinus disseminatus

Weeping Widow – Lacrymaria velutina

Chicken of the Woods – Laetiporus sulphureus

Witches’ Butter – Exidia plana

Jelly Babies – Leotia lubrica

Great names for fascinating organisms, aren’t they?

P.S. I wonder where the fruiting body that produced the spores that resulted in "our" white dapperlings was located?

[1] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2014/02/mushrooms-tasty-hallucinogenic-and.html

[2] https://www.zoology.ubc.ca/~biodiv/mushroom/L_leucothites.html

[3]

https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2017/05/latin-binomials-and-beauty-of-common.html

[4] Stefan Buczacki (1992) Mushrooms and Toadstools of Britain and Europe. London, HarperCollins.

[5] Roger Phillips (1994) Mushrooms and other fungi of Great Britain and Europe. London, Macmillan.