Skylarks and their inspirational song

One of my favourite local walks in summer is along a path below Ivinghoe Beacon, then climbing up to the ridge to look out over the extensive lowlands below. In the past, there was an added bonus, as there were several skylark nests in the fields that formed the first part of the walk and it was a joy to listen to their song and then try to spot them high up: very high up, for they take a bit of finding without binoculars. It is only the males that sing in this way and the flight is used to advertise their breeding territory. They may fly up several hundred metres before “hovering” for a minute or two, then descending rapidly. Singing is constant on the upward flight and when the skylark appears suspended at its zenith. 

Sadly, there are no longer skylarks in the fields next to Ivinghoe Beacon; at least, I haven’t heard them. Changes in farming practice and, especially, the time of year when grain is planted is one reason why these birds are now on the British conservation Red list [1]. Grain crops planted in early winter grow too tall for the larks in the breeding season, as they need easy access to the nest. 

Although they are rather dull in colour (see the image above) compared to some other birds, the effect of skylark song (heard in [1]) is far from dull and it has inspired many poets, for example, John Milton and George Meredith:

John Milton: L'Allegro (lines 40-44)

 

To hear the lark begin his flight

And singing startle the dull night

From his watch-tower in the skies

Till the dappled dawn doth rise

George Meredith: The Lark Ascending 

(lines 1-4; 65-70: and 121-122):

He rises and begins to round,

He drops the silver chain of sound,

Of many links without a break,

In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake.

 

For singing till his heaven fills,

‘Tis love of earth that he instils,

And ever winging up and up,

Our valley is his golden cup

And he the wine which overflows

to lift us with him as he goes.

 

Till lost on his aërial rings

In light, and then the fancy sings. 

The lines from Milton stimulated Samuel Palmer to paint The Rising of the Skylark (shown below). As Milton’s lines suggest, the lark is high in the sky at dawn, being visible only as a speck identified by following the gaze of the human observer by the gate. It is an idyllic scene and its atmosphere owes something to Turner, recognised at that time for his genius in painting light. Palmer created this Romantic view in 1839 while he was based in Shoreham in Kent, with a house close to the River Darent. 

The valley of the Darent had a special significance for Palmer and it does for me, too, in a lesser way. Not, I’m afraid, for any artistic endeavours, but it was where I conducted experiments on aquatic insect larvae and I collected material from the chalk stream to work on in the laboratory. Having been very keen on Art History since undergraduate years, I always nodded at Palmer’s house when I arrived in Shoreham and parked next to the bridge by his house before starting my collection in the river. 

The quoted lines from George Meredith were inscribed on the manuscript of Ralph Vaughan Williams' The Lark Ascending, that shared its title with that of the poem. It was written just before the outbreak of the First World War, but didn’t receive its first performance in orchestral form until 1921. It has been recorded by many artists and a link to a recent performance is given below [2].

Vaughan Williams’ work was voted to be the most popular of all pieces of music by listeners to Desert Island Discs [3] and also placed first in Classic FM’s Hall of Fame [4]. That is not a surprise, as it has lyrical beauty and feels connected to British, and, more specifically, English folk music; a genre from which Vaughan Williams gained inspiration. Hearing this music in his head must a have been a solace to the composer as he served in both the Medical Corps and the Royal Artillery during the First World War, just as George Butterworth must have found comfort in recalling his lovely The Banks of Green Willow. That piece was also inspired by English folk tunes and was composed just before the war broke out, but, sadly, Butterworth was killed in the trenches [5]. Vaughan Williams survived, but he did suffer deafness from the noise of gunfire.

I love the works by Palmer and Vaughan Williams and their Romanticism touches a nerve with me. Given their popularity, it seems that I am not alone. The drab, but beautifully singing, skylark has been an inspiration for many other poets, painters and composers and I hope that we can do something to keep their numbers up, and even restore them to their earlier abundance. Skylarks inspire us, but we should remember that their song did not evolve for our benefit, but for theirs.

[1] https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/skylark/

[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR2JlDnT2l8&ab_channel=RichardBrittain 

[3] https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p04qpmw9

[4] https://www.udiscovermusic.com/classical-features/vaughan-williams-lark-ascending/

[5] http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-banks-of-green-willow.html

My thanks to Alexander Wotton who was the (unknowing) catalyst for this article.

 

Palmer’s painting is held by the National Museum of Wales: https://museum.wales/art/online/?action=show_item&item=1436

The full poem L’Allegro by John Milton is available here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44731/lallegro

The full poem The Lark Ascending by George Meredith is available here: https://allpoetry.com/The-Lark-Ascending

 

School summer holidays in the early 1960s

I attended Torquay Boys’ Grammar School from 1958-1965 (now demolished to make way for housing – see the image below, taken by Tom Jolliffe, just before the end [1]). Weekdays for 36 weeks of the year were spent learning some interesting things, some that were needed to pass examinations, and other activities like Games and Gym that someone considered to be good for me. There were a few excellent masters, some that were good, and then the rest, but, fortunately, only one or two that were very unpleasant. Of these, some were bullies and some so struck the fear of God into us that it was a relief when their classes ended. 

It was not a disappointment when summer holidays came around and Assembly on the last day of term always featured “Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing”, sung with something of a sense of relief. One year, the piano in the Hall was modified by having drawing pins inserted in all the hammers and the student who played had a look of mock surprise at the resulting sound. Of course, we enjoyed this thoroughly, although we knew better than to laugh. Some masters smirked a little, but “Joe”, the Head Master, took it personally and looked like thunder. “Joe” was John Harmer MA (Cantab.) FRAS and he always appeared in an immaculate gown that somehow added to his sense of importance.

It was said that “Joe” was handy with a cane, a punishment that was confined to the privacy of his office. There was no chance of me finding out as I was always well-behaved, going through my school career with just a single detention and only one whacking. That came from “Hoppy” Hopwood when he discovered several of us in our form room when we should have been in the playground. “Hoppy” taught music and was very enthusiastic about his subject and also in giving taps with his black plimsoll. They were a feature of many music lessons.

 Anyway, at the end of the summer term there was six weeks break, but this coincided with the large influx of tourists to the holiday towns of Torbay. At the start of my career at TBGS that was good, as the increased number of trains meant some good trainspotting, but I tired of that in early adolescence as I wanted to get away from the crowds of holidaymakers. My interest then turned to walking around the coast and in the countryside, and I couldn’t resist looking in rock pools and streams, and being astonished by all the different animals and plants that I saw. 

The other passion was to buy Holiday Runabout Tickets, sometimes in pairs. These allowed unlimited travel over specified local railway lines and, as many small branch lines were still open, a chance to explore parts of Devon, Somerset and Dorset in a way that couldn’t be done on foot or by bus (no-one in our family had a car). Some of the branch line trains consisted of a single carriage pulled by a small steam engine and they wound their way through the countryside at a leisurely pace, stopping at small stations that were often far from the villages that they were built to serve. On one trip from Torrington to Halwill Junction, our train picked up a freight wagon en route and towed that down the line, a practice that I had never experienced before, but a regular feature of this form of rural transport at the time. 

There were few passengers on these trains and it was inevitable that the lines would be closed for economic reasons, but I was so pleased to have had the chance to ride over them (you can get some of the atmosphere by viewing a videoclip [2]). It’s no wonder that I became a fan of John Betjeman.

What a splendid contrast it all was to school life and I looked forward to these summer holiday journeys very much for a couple of years. After the branch lines closed, I developed other interests, while maintaining my passion for walking and natural history. The latter are constants that have been with me throughout the last sixty years; the Grammar School buildings and the branch lines disappearing into the world of nostalgia.

[1] Tom Jolliffe / Former Torquay Boys' Grammar School / CC BY-SA 2.0

[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ak9WgSYzQ50&ab_channel=ACEWEO-

 

Outsiders and the world of scientific publication

All areas of life are influenced by establishment views – where those in authority, or have expertise, influence the acceptance of new views or opinions. In an earlier post, I described why the conclusions drawn by John Vaughan Thompson were not readily accepted, and suggested that there were three factors why this was so [1]:

(i) His background as an independent, amateur researcher made him an “outsider”;

(ii) His work was published privately and was not widely available; and

(iii) His discoveries challenged the scientific establishment of the time.

Does this apply today?

In the nineteenth century, when Thompson was active, there was much still to be discovered about the life history and behaviour of organisms, and we now know so much more. Yet there continue to be many observers and amateur researchers who have a fund of knowledge that is not published in scientific journals and does not become part of the mainstream.

During the early 1970s, I was a PhD student working at the Moor House Field Station, high in the Pennines. It was a remote place that was once a hunting lodge, at least 5 miles from the nearest village [2], and needed a permanent caretaker to maintain the buildings, machinery, and land. At the time, it was someone called Jim and he had a passion for the natural world and, especially, for the biology of dippers (Cinclus cinclus) [3], that were relatively common in moorland streams like Moss Burn (see above) and other tributaries of the River Tees. As a result, Jim had a great insight into the breeding, distribution, and behaviour of these fascinating birds and it was always a pleasure to get him talking about them. I encouraged him to write about his observations, but he wouldn’t do so, and thus his knowledge was only known to those who engaged him in conversation.

How would someone like Jim share their knowledge in the 2020s? By conversation, certainly, but we now have the internet and all manner of sites on which observations can be posted. Of course, there are problems of accessing the information, and searches using keywords can come up with huge numbers of entries that must then be sifted through. Some sites allow labels that aid search engines but we all experience the difficulty of access, even though much information is readily accessible! This is the world of “grey literature” and would someone interested in publishing in an academic journal use Jim’s observations? Almost certainly not.

Some mainstream journals accept observations, but the majority require papers based on research and/or scholarship, to be submitted according to their house style and rules for submission. Many journals feature in abstracts and search engines like “Web of Knowledge”, but there are several hurdles to overcome before a paper is accepted. The most prestigious ones will not send all submitted papers out to referees, and rejection can also come after receipt of referees’ comments. In my (limited) experience it is uncommon for a paper to be accepted as submitted, and “minor revisions” or “major revisions” are usually required. To an author this can be a frustrating process, as referees may have agendas: most, however, take their role as referees seriously and want to help the author and the editor. Once accepted, there is then the wait for publication, but all this is for the academic community, not for someone with important observations that can add to the grey literature, much of which is not peer reviewed. If John Vaughan Thompson had attempted to publish in one of the leading journals, he would likely have seen his papers rejected, given the response he received. Such is the power of the establishment in any discipline.

[1] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2021/10/being-outsider-story-of-john-vaughan.html

[2] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2018/04/tempus-fugit.html 

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

 

  

Homage to Sir Alister Hardy – Natural Historian and Artist

In describing new discoveries, or when writing for a wider audience, natural historians in the past accompanied their observations with illustrations, some of which were made by others and some of which they made themselves. At the forefront of natural historian/illustrators is Philip Henry Gosse, whose father, a professional artist, taught his son to paint in watercolour, a medium that he used to great effect. He also made a large number of line drawings. 

Nowadays, there are many means of producing beautiful and informative illustrations using photography and digital methods and we see the beginning of the transition to these media in Alister Hardy’s “The Open Sea: The World of Plankton”. The book is illustrated by black-and-white photographs taken by Douglas P. Wilson and line drawings and paintings made by Hardy himself. Wilson encountered problems when taking photographs of deep-sea animals that had been brought to the surface as the accurate portrayal of their colours required long exposures that were not practical in the 1950s. This is what Hardy wrote [1]: 

It was my hope, and that of the editors, that in addition to his black-and-whites Dr Wilson would have been able to contribute a series of colour photographs of the living plankton and especially of the richly pigmented animals from the ocean depths. At that time the electronic flash was only just being developed and he felt unable to attempt them. 

It’s a reminder of how much we take beautiful images, films, videos, etc. for granted in the modern era.  In the Introduction to “The Open Sea: The World of Plankton” Hardy describes his technique for making illustrations and this is worth quoting in full [1]: 

All save seven of the 142 drawings in the plates were made from living examples or, in a few cases, from those taken freshly from the net when some deep-water fish and plankton animals were dead on reaching the surface.. .. It may be of interest to record how the drawings were made. All the animals, except the larger squids and jelly-fish, were drawn either swimming in flat-glass dishes placed on a background of millimetre squared paper where they were viewed with a simple dissecting lens, or on a slide under a compound microscope provided with a squared micrometer eyepiece; in either case the drawings were first made in outline on paper which had been ruled with faint pencil lines into squares which corresponded to those against which the specimen was viewed. In this way the shape and relative proportions of the parts could be drawn in pencil and checked and rechecked with the animal until it was quite certain they were correct. The outline was then gone over with the finest brush to replace the pencil by a permanent and more expressive water-colour line; were rubbed out and the full colouring of the drawing proceeded with. 

Here are some examples (more are given at the end):  

It is tempting to suggest that their style, especially the dark-field paintings, were influenced by the illustrations in Gosse’s “A Naturalist’s Rambles on the Devonshire Coast” [2]. Certainly, both natural historians appreciated that a lively text is boosted by quality images, but few have the talent, and patience, of Gosse and Hardy. 

“The Open Sea: The World of Plankton” was completed at a time when natural history was beginning to be overtaken by deterministic approaches for the study of living organisms. After the structure of DNA was elucidated by Crick and Watson [and others], many began to see the possibility of understanding living creatures by looking at their biochemistry linked to their genetics. This bottom-up approach now dominates academic Biology, and even ecologists, who look at very complex systems with many variables, are fond of reductionist modelling in an attempt to understand what they observe and measure. 

Alister Hardy (above) was appointed Linacre Professor of Zoology at Oxford University in 1945, one of the most prestigious appointments offered by any university. In the biography written to celebrate his life, published by the Royal Society [3], we read: 

In his inaugural address he looked forward to the encouragement of field studies in ecology and behaviour. In his teaching the direction was away from comparative anatomy and towards general zoology. His colleague, Dr Peter Brunet, saw him as foremost a naturalist who encouraged observation rather than analysis. Physicochemical explanations of life, which left no room for awe, did not attract him. There was still a nature mystic within him. 

It is an approach that is valuable, and natural history should be taught more extensively in our current age: a contrast to the mechanistic view that promotes the idea that answers will eventually be found for nearly everything about living creatures, communities and ecosystems. 

Gosse promoted the idea of a sense of wonder in many of his books, especially in “The Romance of Natural History” that was published in two series in 1860 and 1861 [4,5]. Gosse was driven by a profound belief in the literal truth of the Bible and saw everything in terms of God’s Creation. Hardy’s mysticism was less rigid and more wide-ranging and he went on to establish a foundation dedicated to “a future science of natural theology” [6], the papers of which are now held at the University of Wales Trinity Saint David at Lampeter [7]. Whether one uses theistic, or atheistic, explanations, a sense of awe at what one sees in the natural world is invaluable for interpreting our sense of being. 

Hardy and Gosse are fascinating natural historians from whom we can learn much. 

(Of course, I had no possibility of meeting Gosse in person and I never met Alister Hardy, who died as recently as 1985. However, I claim one small claim to contact with the latter, as one of my University Tutors was Michael Hardy, Sir Alister Hardy’s son).

[1] Alister C. Hardy (1956) The Open Sea. Its Natural History: The World of Plankton. London, Collins New Naturalist. 

[2] Philip Henry Gosse (1853) A Naturalist’s Rambles on the Devonshire Coast. London, John Van Voorst. 

[3] Norman Bertram Marshall (1986) Alister Clavering Hardy, 10th February 1896 – 22nd May 1985. https://doi.org/10.1098/rsbm.1986.0008 

[4] Philip Henry Gosse (1860) The Romance of Natural History [First Series]. London, J. Nisbet & Co. 

[5] Philip Henry Gosse (1861) The Romance of Natural History [Second Series]. London, James Nisbet & Co. 

[6] Cyril Lucas (2004) Hardy, Sir Alister Clavering. Oxford Dictionary of National Biography https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/31196 

[7] https://www.uwtsd.ac.uk/library/alister-hardy-religious-experience-research-centre/ 

My blog post for History Day 2021

 

This year, History Day is being held on 4th November, with the theme “Environmental History”. This was my contribution, published on their website:

https://historycollections.blogs.sas.ac.uk/2021/10/11/history-day-2021-explores-environmental-history-and-more/

 

I always enjoyed walking on my own in the countryside and along the coast of South Devon, where I lived. My love of natural history and, especially, of life in water stems from those walks, although there was always time for playing with friends or for making family outings. We never ventured far from home and our family visits were occasions for picnics rather than to visit interesting sites. We never went to museums or galleries and my shyness meant that I didn’t have the courage to visit them on my own. However, things were to change in my teenage years when I joined what was then the Torquay Natural History Society (TNHS).

Members of the TNHS had free access to Torquay Museum and its library. While the museum exhibits were of interest, it was the library that I enjoyed most. It was dark and dusty and had the characteristic smell of old books and old leather. Browsing through the collection took up many an afternoon and I was intrigued to discover that my interest in natural history followed from the passion of many earlier collectors and writers.

Having achieved A-level passes, it was then off to university. My first practical class at the University of Reading was held in the Cole Museum of Zoology and, while the class did not use the specimens in the collection, the choice of the Museum served to introduce us to this excellent resource and I enjoyed visiting it during my time at Reading. It was during my undergraduate years that I also developed my interest in paintings, and in the history of art, and I spent many Saturdays at the National and Tate Galleries in London. Just like my time in the Torquay Museum, the galleries encouraged me to connect with history and, with the help of reading and talks, I was able to understand more and begin to form my own opinions of what I saw.

After postgraduate studies at Durham and a demonstratorship at the University of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, I returned to London as a Lecturer at Goldsmiths’ College and then transferred to UCL, where I was fortunate to be made Professor of Biology. While continuing with visits to galleries, I now became acquainted with the Grant Museum of Zoology, originally located in cramped quarters in the Medawar Building, but later moved to a splendid large building on Gower Street, that allows much better access for members of the public. The museum is used by school classes, and by several Departments at UCL, and I was very pleased that Jack Ashby (the curator at the time) allowed me to use some of the specimens in the course that I taught in Animal Form and Function. This used an approach that Victorian natural historians would have found familiar and I deliberately wanted to make that connection at a time when Biology was becoming more mechanistic.

During my time at UCL, I learned more about Robert Grant and his successor Ray Lankester and, through them, about the great observers of nature from the nineteenth century that I had first discovered in Torquay Museum, one of whom was Philip Henry Gosse.

Gosse fascinated me as he spent many years exploring the coasts of Torbay, the very areas that I had collected over as a boy. He was not only a diligent researcher, but was able to write enthusiastically about his findings and he was also an accomplished artist, who was able to convey what he saw in numerous drawings and watercolours. I have been lucky enough to see some of his original work in the Royal Albert Memorial Museum in Exeter and in the Horniman Museum in London. The latter also provided the opportunity to look at the cyanotypes of marine algae made by Anna Atkins and the illustrations of a number of other natural historians.

So, museums and galleries have been important in providing material that has affected my own approach to natural history and the wonders of the natural world. Some of this appears in my blog posts, so please click on the links to see what I wrote and enjoy some of the excellent illustrations I discovered.

Two wonderful museums – and mention of another: http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com/2015/07/two-wonderful-museums-and-mention-of.html 

Brilliant illustrations of organisms: http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com/2015/01/brilliant-illustrations-of-organisms.html

A moving discovery at the Royal Albert Memorial Museum: http://www.rwotton.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-moving-discovery-in-royal-albert.html

Stunning biological illustrations: the connection between Gosse, Haddon and the Horniman Museum: https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2017/04/stunning-biological-illustrations.html

A mystery at the Horniman Museum: https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2017/04/a-mystery-at-horniman-museum.html

Wonderful first-hand observations of shore life: https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2017/04/a-mystery-at-horniman-museum.html

The awesome cyanotypes of Anna Atkins: https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2021/05/the-awesome-cyanotypes-of-anna-atkins.html

An artist who loved virgin nature: https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2017/01/an-artist-who-loved-virgin-nature.html

The zoology of Bruegel’s The Fall of the Rebel Angels: https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-zoology-of-bruegels-fall-of-rebel.html

How a great auk “flew” from Durham to Glasgow: https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2020/03/how-great-auk-flew-from-durham-to.html

 

 

 

 

Being an outsider – the story of John Vaughan Thompson

The study of marine organisms, by both professionals and amateurs, underwent an explosion in the 19th century. Although most interest was in animals and plants of the shore, there was also a developing fascination with plankton, studied by means of nets. Among the pioneers of this approach was John Vaughan Thompson (above), who is little known and doesn’t merit a mention in Lynn Barber’s “The Heyday of Natural History” [1], yet his contribution to our understanding of the life cycles of marine organisms was very important. This is what Sir Alister Hardy said in the Introduction to the New Naturalist book “The Open Sea: The World of Plankton” [2]. (The well-known cover of my worn copy is shown below the quote). 

In nearly all the text-books of oceanography it is stated that the tow-net was first used in 1844 by the German naturalist Johannes Müller, and I have myself been guilty of repeating this error. It is certain that Müller’s researches excited the scientific world and led many others to follow him; but our own great amateur naturalist J. Vaughan Thompson, when serving as an army surgeon in Ireland, was using a tow-net to collect plankton from the sea off Cork as early as 1828. It was there that he first described the zoëa, the young planktonic stage of the crab. A little later, 1833, he discovered the true nature of the barnacles and so solved an age-long puzzle. These enigmatic creatures, fixed to rocks or the bottom of ships, had been thought to be aberrant molluscs. Thompson caught little undoubted crustaceans in his tow-net and found that they settled down to be transformed into barnacles. His classical discoveries were described in privately printed memoirs which he published in Cork; they are among the rarest items of biological literature.

 

Adding to the important role that Hardy describes, we read [3] that: 

Thompson not only mastered the use of a fine-meshed net from a moving vessel, but also developed the ingenious method of fastening the net over the spout of the ship’s sea water pumps – arguably the first use of a continuous plankton sampler. 

Davis [3] also wrote: 

Thompson’s studies in marine biology.. ..revolutionised some aspects of zoological thought. His name is unfamiliar however, even to marine zoologists, partly because of the general absorption of his discoveries and the waning of the controversies his research caused. He has not escaped recognition entirely, however, with distinguished naturalists including Charles Darwin, E.R.Lankester, T.R.R.Stebbing, C.M.Yonge, and Sir Sidney Harmer recognising and paying tribute to his genius. 

So why was Thompson questioned by established marine biologists and why were his publications difficult to find, as Hardy [2] has stated? Before answering those questions, we need to find out more about Thompson. 

During his motherless childhood in Berwick, Thompson had a love of natural history and recorded the distribution of plants in the area. He studied medicine at the University of Edinburgh in 1797 and 1798 and then joined the army as a surgeon, again studying natural history on all his postings. It was as a surgeon that Thompson was assigned to Cork in1816 “the location of his most famous discoveries and the wellspring of all his subsequent publications” [4]. 

In his biography, Damkaer writes further: 

Looking back on Thompson’s discoveries it is now more surprising to believe they were so surprising. The transition between his observations and their acceptance happened fairly quickly, but there was a reluctance to give Thompson much credit when his discoveries were seen to be so commonplace and so easily demonstrated. Perhaps some researchers were simply embarrassed to admit that they had missed such phenomena. 

Fortunately, Adam Nicolson has brought Thompson to a wider audience [5], describing him as “the great hidden hero” of studies on metamorphosis in crustaceans. As he says: 

No one believed him. The biological establishment in Britain and Europe poo-pooed the revelations from Cork.. ..Thompson was right and the grandees wrong but he was poor, publishing privately in Cork and they rich, with all the resources and influence behind them of the great scientific institutions in London, Berlin and Paris. 

There are thus three components to the lack of recognition of Thompson’s work: 

(i) His background as an independent, amateur researcher made him an “outsider”;

(ii) His discoveries challenged the scientific establishment of the time; and

(iii) His work was published privately and was not widely available. 

Have things changed markedly since Thompson’s time and are there lessons to be learned from Thompson’s story? 

 

[1] Lynn Barber (1980) The Heyday of Natural History. Jonathan Cape, London. 

[2] Alister Hardy (1956) The Open Sea: The World of Plankton. Collins New Naturalist, London. 

[3] Peter Davis (2004) Thompson, John Vaughan (1779-1847). Oxford Dictionary of National Biography https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/2723 

[4] David M. Damkaer (2016) John Vaughan Thompson (1779-1847), pioneer planktonologist: A life renewed. Journal of Crustacean Biology 36:256-262. 

[5] Adam Nicolson (2021) The Sea is not made of Water. William Collins, London. 

 

P.S. For those wishing to look at Thompson’s original work, his descriptions are now available on the Biodiversity Heritage Library website:  https://www.biodiversitylibrary.org/item/50371#page/5/mode/1up

 

 

 

“The Sea is not made of Water”

Adam Nicolson has a passion for the shore, especially that in the part of Scotland where he created rock pools to aid his observations. “The Sea is not made of Water: Life between the Tides” describes the natural history of these pools, and of the shore in general, and the book also gives colourful accounts of local legends about where sea meets land. A third strand (pun intended) is based on philosophy, both ancient and more recent, and the whole is an enjoyable, and stimulating, read.

Nicolson's three pools were constructed by “excavating”, damming a channel and by creating a barrier to prevent water escaping at low tide. Each was thus different in topography and in the plants and animals that colonised; some long-term, others as short-term visitors. After an Introduction on “The Marvellous” (a title borrowed from Gosse’s “The Romance of Natural History: Second Series”), the book has chapters on sandhoppers, prawns, winkles, crabs, and anemones. Each is thoroughly researched and invitingly written and we learn much of the habits of the featured animals and also about their habitat and mini-ecosystems. Throughout, Nicolson adopts a rather anthropomorphic approach illustrated by these examples:

Can invertebrates have emotions?

Klein and Barron are convinced that invertebrates such as these prawns ‘are aware of the world (including the state of the mobile body within the world), and that this aware-ness feels a certain way to the organism that has it.’

[Of sandhoppers] They feed, nibbling on the weeds, and from time to time they also start to look after themselves, their little hands and feet feeling over the surface of their own shell-coat for any grains or fragments that might be abrading it..

Sandhoppers’ genes have learned to overwhelm the processing capabilities of their predators.

These crabs approach life with impressive displays of delicacy and discrimination, clearly recognising that only by looking after themselves will they survive.

[Of sea anemones] The cut edges naturally push together and rejoin to form a smaller animal. Those cut surfaces know each other as part of one thing and are happy to fuse.

These are just a few examples of the tone set, sometimes quoting anthropomorphic comments by the authors of scientific papers, and, while it results in lively description, it grates with me. When looking at rock pools, I feel a sense of wonder, but it is not a sense that requires projections of human feelings and nor does it require access to philosophy that is anyway a human construct. Indeed, I find reading philosophy very difficult and I admit that I don’t understand much of it, despite reading and re-reading what various distinguished philosophers have written. This might be because I am not very intelligent, but I like to think it is down to an acceptance that we will never understand much about the world around us, despite the claims of scientists using mechanistic approaches. The feeling of the unbelievable complexity of the natural world produces a profound sense of awe and that is good enough for me. I feel the same way when trying to understand geological time scales and the extent of the Universe.

What Nicolson shows is the delight that can be obtained from looking at Nature and, especially the nature of the aquatic world, something that is very different to the terrestrial world with which we are much more familiar. Shores represent a transition between the two and it is little wonder that they became so fascinating for nineteenth century observers, especially for those who could afford a microscope, in what was an explosion of interest, and discovery, at that time. The fascination continues today, as anyone who includes a visit to rock pools during a family holiday at the seaside will agree. Some of us keep that fascination for life.

My first experience of marine shores came as a child growing up in South Devon and, although I can only rarely re-visit the areas that meant so much to me when I was young, I am fortunate to have the “Shores of South Devon” website [1] and its associated Facebook page. There are regular entries, by enthusiastic experts, on what they have seen on their visits to favourite spots along the coast and there are also images, and videos, shot by SCUBA divers to show habitats and organisms that are less familiar to most of us. I am very grateful to the organisers and to all those who post their observations - Facebook has its good sides.

Having moved inland to go to university, my interests turned to a fascination with streams and rivers, firstly with the animals they contained and then with the processes, and transformations, that resulted from the animals’ activities. I then moved on to consider what happens at the microscopical scale and the part played by microorganisms, and their by-products, in the cycling or organic matter. In the end, I discovered that, much as I read and researched, I was getting further and further away from gaining an understanding of the aquatic world and, just as with geological time and the dimensions of the Universe, I became even more awestruck as a result.

In his review of Nicolson’s book in the Financial Times, Caspar Henderson posed the question “Where did life begin?”. Of course, we will never know and we have such a problem defining what we mean by life – do we mean self-replicating molecules, the first cell, cells that can split, or what? My own definition refers to the origins of the first cell and this was my response to the question that Henderson asked [2]. I think the first cell resulted from events on a very ancient shore, but a more popular view is that life began around some kind of hydrothermal vent. Was it a singular event and, if so, what were the chances of it occurring? Cue more awe. 

[1] https://shoresofsouthdevon.org.uk/

[2] Letter to the Editor, Financial Times 26th June 2021

Becoming interested in place names

COVID-19 isolation has meant that I have been unable to make my annual visit by train to South Devon and the coastal towns that meant so much to me as I was growing up [1]. It is always a journey of anticipation, that becomes heightened as the train passes along the sea wall between Dawlish and Teignmouth, giving views of the coast beyond. Although I have not lived in Torbay for over 55 years, it is where I feel my roots are, especially as many generations of my ancestors called the region home.

Perhaps the lack of direct contact is why I’ve been reflecting on my childhood in Polsham Park (the road off which our house stood, see above), before I left Torbay in 1965. In an earlier blog post [2], I described how I was influenced by Mr Ian Kay, one of my English teachers at Torquay Boys’ Grammar School, who ventured outside the formality of a syllabus and told us about books we might like to read, and interesting things like the origin of words. I was aware that I had a good vocabulary but, until his lessons, I had paid scant attention to the derivation of place names.

I had always had a strong sense of place and felt very at home in South Devon and I knew there were many old buildings - Oldway Mansion, Kirkham House, Coverdale Tower, Torre Abbey, etc. – that linked my time to some previous one. Becoming interested in local place names was an extension of that and I rushed to the Paignton Lending Library to get a copy of the Oxford Dictionary of English Place Names. I have the most recent addition of that fascinating book [3] and it gives brief definitions of the origin of names (I am aware there are other volumes containing much deeper scholarship). 

Some of the derivations of place names that I discovered are given below [from 3] as an alphabetical list and those wanting to know more about South Devon origins (both peoples and names) should consult the posts by the excellent local historian Dr Kevin Dixon [4]. As expected, almost all the origins are from Old English, but how interesting to see the three Celtic “intrusions” marking embarkation points:    

Ashburton (town near Torbay) – farmstead or village by the stream where ash trees grow [OE]

Babbacombe (part of Torquay) – valley of a man called Babba [OE]

Barton (part of Torquay) – barley farm or outlying grange where corn is stored [OE]

Blagdon (village near Torbay) – dark-coloured hill [OE]

Brixham (town in Torbay) – homestead or enclosure of a man called Brioc [OE, name of Celtic origin]

Buckfastleigh (town near Torbay) – wood or woodland clearing near a place of shelter for bucks (male deer or billy goats) [OE]

Chelston (part of Torquay)  – estate associated with a man called Cēol [OE]

Cockington (a village in Torbay) – estate associated with a man called Cocc(a) [OE]

Dawlish (a station on the local railway line) – named for its dark stream [Celtic origin]

Dittisham (a village near Torbay) – enclosure or promontory of a man called Dyddi [OE]

Galmpton (a village in Torbay) – farmstead of rent-paying peasants [OE]

Goodrington (a station on the local railway line) – estate associated with a man called Gōdhere [OE]

Kingskerswell (a station on the local railway line) – spring or stream where watercress grows [OE] (the manor belonged to the king in 1086)

Kingswear (a station on the local railway line) – the king’s weir [OE] (Kingeswere in 12th Century)

Kirkham (part of Paignton) – homestead with a church [OE + kirk derived from OScand]

Livermead (part of Torquay) – thick or muddy water + meadow [OE] – given by Torbay local historian Dr Kevin Dixon as lily meadow.

Maidencombe (part of Torquay) – valley of the maidens i.e. where they gathered [OE]

Marldon (part of Paignton) – hill where gentian grows [OE]

Newton Abbot (a station on the local railway line) – the new farmstead, estate or village [OE] belonging to the Abbot of Torre Abbey

Paignton (a town in Torbay) – estate associated with a man called Pæga [OE]

Polsham (part of Paignton) – enclosure of a man called Paul [ME + OE] – perhaps – see https://www.torbay.gov.uk/media/7583/polsham-caa.pdf

Shiphay (part of Torquay) –  homestead (?) with a flock of sheep [OE] *

Stoke Gabriel (village near Torbay) – an outlying farmstead or hamlet [OE] - Gabriel from the saint [known from 1309] 

Teignmouth (a station on the local railway line) - the mouth [OE] of the river Teign [Celtic origin] 

Torre (a station on the local railway line) – the rocky hill [OE]

Totnes (town near Torbay) – promontory of a man called Totta [OE]

 

OE = Old English (the English language c.450 – c.1100) [3]

ME = Middle English (the English language c.1100 – c.1500) [3]

OScand = Old Scandinavian (the language of the Vikings, comprising Old Danish and Old Norse) [3]

 

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

[2] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2020/11/my-secondary-school-education-in-torbay.html 

[3] A. D. Mills (2011) A Dictionary of British Place Names (First Edition Revised). Oxford, Oxford University Press.

[4] https://wearesouthdevon.com/author/kevin-dixon/

 

Bullying an outsider

 

Recently, a number of countries have apologised publicly for actions committed in the past [1]. I have always found this odd, as there is no suggestion that the government of the contemporary country was about to repeat the evil of earlier generations, although there is always a risk. 

These acts made me think about whether I need to offer an apology for events in the past. Of course, I cannot do that on behalf of my country and, like all of us, there are a number of actions for which I should have apologised at, or near, the time. Not just on my own behalf, but also for others. One of these comes to mind over and over again. 

Richard Burton (not his real name) came to the Boys' Grammar School I attended during our second year. The school had an excellent academic record and behaviour, on the whole, was good. It was always presented as being a very desirable place to gain an education and this inevitably resulted in complacency. As always happens, there were hierarchies, and some boys were favoured both by masters and by their fellow students, but there was little nastiness. Richard was an outsider and had to find a way into the groups that had already formed and that is never easy. Perhaps he was ill-equipped to do so, for in a short period of time he was the victim of physical attacks and these escalated into what can only be described as violent assaults. If the masters knew about it, they did nothing to stop it, and those of us who spectated were swept up by the thrill of Richard getting another beating and, deep down, probably feeling grateful that it wasn't one of us that was being attacked. It lasted for years, on and off, and I don't know how he coped. 

We didn't know much about Richard’s background, but we did know that he was an outsider and that it was possible that he had moved to our town as a result of some adverse family circumstance. We didn't know, or care, about the reasons for the move, but the awful treatment meted out to him at school must have been misery enough, without any other problems that he had. I wonder what happened to Richard, and whether he was able to overcome the inevitable pain of it all? I still feel guilty for being an onlooker, carrying out my own little bit of taunting, and doing nothing to stop others. I knew the incessant bullying was very wrong and that’s what promotes my continuing sense of guilt. 

It all happened a long time ago (in the 1960s) and I’m sure that bullying is no longer a problem, as the complacency that resulted in such awful attacks must be a thing of the past. Perhaps the school, so proud of celebrating the achievements of its students, should join me in making a belated apology to Richard? But it's too late, isn't it – and, just as in apologies from national governments, what’s the point? 

[1] http://www.centrepeaceconflictstudies.org/wp-content/uploads/National_Apologies.pdf

P.S. The picture at the beginning of this post is of me, by the way, not Richard. It was taken from one of those school photographs that mean such a lot to some people. Fortunately, I was not bullied by my fellow students, only by some members of staff.

 

Memories of privet in Torbay

 

In an earlier blog post, I described the wonderful scent of honeysuckle and its reputation for inciting thoughts of love, especially in girls [1]. Another plant that flowers in July is privet, very common as a hedging plant and described by the Royal Horticultural Society as having “panicles of small, often unpleasantly scented white flowers” [2] (see above). This is a subjective judgement, of course, but most people would agree with the RHS, as they walk past flowering privet hedges. 

For me, the smell of privet flowers brings back a very strong childhood memory of trainspotting on summer Saturdays in Torbay. This is what I wrote in Walking with Gosse [3]:  

For me, the constant arrival of trains was exciting. Not because of the crowds of holidaymakers, that were just a blur, but for the chances of trainspotting and seeing locomotives from distant places far beyond Bristol. I don’t know why trainspotting was such a passion for me as a boy, but it was. Even today, the smell of privet flowers reminds me of happy walks through the local park to the railway station and the anticipation of gaining new entries in my Ian Allan Combined Volume. 

I was brought up in Paignton and, as a child, Bristol to me was in the far north. Large numbers of visitors swelled the local population during the summer months and an indication of the amount of holiday traffic is shown in the photograph below (taken from the excellent book Summer Saturdays in the West [4] and showing a typical scene at Torquay from August 1957, the time when I pressed up against the railings at Paignton railway station). On the left, we see a crowded platform of returning holidaymakers about to board their train home, while the opposite platform is empty and awaiting the next delivery of excited passengers coming to start their holiday by the sea. The small locomotive at the rear of the heavy train was needed to assist the train engine in tackling Torre bank and another of these “bankers”, having drifted back from Torre station, waits on the central line ready to buffer up to the rear of the next arrival from Paignton. Once past the bank, there was a clear passage to Newton Abbot, where the lines from Torquay joined those from Plymouth and Cornwall. Newton Abbot was a mecca for trainspotters in those days, as pilot engines were needed over the South Devon banks and the locomotive shed that provided them (code 83A) was adjacent to the station. There was always lots to see, and three years after the time mentioned in the quote above, I still made occasional trips up to Newton Abbot to spend a day trainspotting. They didn’t have the same spell as those of earlier days, perhaps because powerful diesels were starting to appear and, anyway, I was growing away from my childhood passion for collecting numbers. I think my Ian Allan Combined Volume was thrown away. 

The scent of privet doesn’t only evoke memories for people, it also attracts pollinating insects that allow fertilisation of the plant in return for the “gift” of nectar. This association evolved way before humans came on the scene, and privet is also used as a food plant by insects, including the privet hawk moth caterpillar (see below), with the dark berries produced in autumn providing food for birds. It is a successful hedging plant because of its vigorous growth and its ability to tolerate some loss of leaves; strategies that evolved to cope with attacks by insects and other animals. But back to privet flowers: “unpleasantly scented” they may be, but they are special for me. Isn’t it strange how smells, transient as they are, can have such a strong effect on the memory? 

(As an aside, it is also of note that privet has been used in folk medicine for centuries, as a means of reducing inflammation [5]. Studies continue to examine some of the component chemicals in leaves and this may lead to the development of new medicines [5,6].)

 

[1] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2021/06/the-beauty-of-honeysuckle.html 

[2] https://www.rhs.org.uk/plants/10108/i-Ligustrum-vulgare-i/Details 

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

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

[5] Anna Macková, Pavel Mučaji, Ute Widowitz and Rudolf Bauer (2013) In vitro anti-inflammatory activity of Ligustrum vulgare extracts and their analytical characterization. Natural Products Communications 8: 1509-1512. 

[6] A. Pieroni, P. Pachaly, Y. Huang, B. Van Poel and A. J. Vlietinck (2000) Studies on anti-complementary activity of extracts and isolated flavones from Ligustrum vulgare and Phillyrea latifolia leaves (Oleaceae). Journal of Ethnopharmacology 70: 213-217.

 

The beauty of honeysuckle

It’s the time of year when wild honeysuckle is in bloom and walks along country lanes in the UK, especially if taken in the evening, are accompanied by the sweet perfume released by the flowers. I’m not a believer in aromatherapy, but that scent always makes me feel good and the abundant flowers (see below) are also so attractive to the eye. 

If I was a creationist, I would think honeysuckle was designed by God for my enjoyment, but that wonderful scent is to attract pollinating insects – perhaps why it is stronger in the evening, when more pollinators are on the wing. The production of attractants by plants has evolved on many occasions and it is not just the volatile chemicals that we can also smell, flowers often contain markings that guide the pollinating insects, with their UV-sensitive eyesight, to the nectaries where they can feed on sugary secretions. These are another adaptation of the plant to ensure fertilisation, since the insects pick up pollen when feeding and this is transmitted to other flowers. 

The scent of honeysuckle has associations in folklore and there is a tradition that growing the plant around a porch prevents evil spirits from entering a house or cottage. Another old belief is that it is unlucky to bring honeysuckle indoors as the scent of flowers results in erotic dreams, something not favoured by the parents of girls [1]. This association of honeysuckle and love has been celebrated in paintings, whether in the delicate approaches shown by Devis (below, top) and Bristow (below, second) the overt intent shown by Rubens (below, third), or in the wistful sense of longing portrayed by Chowne (below, bottom). It is a sad irony that Chowne died from wounds during the First World War, having joined The Artists’ Rifles. 

Our love of wild honeysuckle has resulted in the cultivation of many different species, the commonest being three varieties of wild woodbine (Lonicera periclymenum), named “Belgica”, “Serotina” and “Graham Thomas”. It is not known whether the honeysuckle shown in the flower paintings of the Dutch Golden Age was wild or cultivated, but it is given status alongside prized garden plants, including some very valuable tulips. Examples of flower paintings by Ruysch (below, upper) and de Heem (below, lower) show honeysuckle sharing a vase with several other flowers, including the very expensive tulips that resulted in Tulipomania [2]. 

In addition to the power of honeysuckle in giving pleasure and in folklore, the plant is used by humans and other animals. Infusions can be made from honeysuckle flowers and the berries contain chemicals that reduce inflammation after topical application [3], providing an explanation for their use in folk remedies. In addition to these anthropocentric uses, the nectar provides a source of energy for many insects, as described above, and the leaves are the sole diet of the white admiral butterfly [4] that can be seen occasionally in woodland clearings where honeysuckle abounds. 

Such lovely plants – such a beautiful scent! 

 

[1] Steve Roud (2006) The Penguin Guide to the Superstitions of Britain and Ireland. London, Penguin Books. 

[2] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2020/05/monkeys-and-tulipomania.html  

[3] Marco Rafael, Lillian Barros, Ana Maria Carvalho, Isabel C. F. R. Ferreira (2011) Topical anti-inflammatory plant species: Bioactivity of Bryonia dioica, Tamus communis and Lonicera periclymenum fruits. Industrial Crops and Products 34: 1447-1454. 

[4] https://butterfly-conservation.org/butterflies/white-admiral

  

 

Sources of the illustrations of paintings (in the order shown): 

Devis - http://www.nationaltrustcollections.org.uk/object/207802 

Bristowe - https://wikioo.org/paintings.php?refarticle=AQUHJS&titlepainting=Lady%20with%20Honeysuckle&artistname=Ethel%20Susan%20Graham%20Bristowe  

Rubens - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Peter_Paul_Rubens_-_Rubens_en_Isabella_Brant_in_de_Kamperfoelie_Bower.jpg  

Chowne - https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/honeysuckle-46448  

Ruysch - https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/rachel-ruysch-flowers-in-a-glass-vase-with-a-tulip  

De Heem -  https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/jan-davidsz-de-heem-flowers-in-a-glass-bottle-on-a-marble-plinth