Old Books

I am asked - never mind why - "What is the oldest book you own?". It's an imprecise question.

I'm tempted to say "The Hobbit" is the first book I bought still on my shelves, but I also see a copy of Wurzel Gummidge. Hmmm.

But "the oldest book" on my shelf? A prime candidate must be my great-grandmother's Geography school exercise book.

Maria Davey was 15 years old when she started this lovely thing: hard bound blank pages, on each of which she has drawn a map. It seems likely that these were copied from some printed source (otherwise it's just stunning) but the ink drawings and annotations are very good. On some pages the teacher "EB" has inscribed a comment ... "Fair", "Good", "Excellent" and so on.

Just about every map is of a piece of the then Empire. The map of Africa I especially like, as the interior was (to Maria) essentially unknown.

           
Malta (L) and Africa (R). Click to enlarge.

Maria was the daughter of Captain Charles Davey, who circumnavigated under sail. She married Sam Blackmore (surely Devon's most common surname) in 1883 and died sadly young on Christmas Day 1913. She's buried with Sam and my grandparents in Littleham churchyard. She had two sons, the second of which (Reg) married Flo Hayne, who produced my mother in 1924. She produced me.

Terminalia 2026 in Aberystwyth

"a market toun ons waullid" (Leland, 1540)

Terminalia was celebrated in Aberystwyth by a record attendance. Often interrupted in earlier years by weather or "other commitments", the local organ encouraged more than 15 people to tread the town walls anti-clockwise, just beating yet another deluge. With some effort, it was just possible to put yourself in the shoes of Edward I surveying a desolate marshy spot near the sea, and thinking "good place for a new town".

Having been defined in the 1270's, it is no surprise that there was little new to learn about the quondam walls, but many walkers were learning for the first time about some of the nooks and crannies that the town furnishes. The Cambrian Street kink is always popular:

And here preparing to walk down the significantly named "Dan Dre", Melin Y Santes Fair (Our Lady's Mill) which powered its wheel from a leat that cannibalised the wall ditch.

Mysteriously, the Hangman's Steps had been swept clean for the first time in living memory. Perhaps they will be used for their eponymous purpose when Mr Farage takes control.

A well equipped walker Strava'd our route, which pleasingly shows as best as possible the line of the Aberystwyth Walls, laid out by Edward I's engineers before the town even had a name or inhabitants.

The Cambrian Street kink is evident, where the party inspected putative evidence of the defensive ditch.

FFI: Aberystwyth Town Walls

[Thanks to Anita for the pictures]

A Borth Mariner

A rather Welsh story: the Siloh Chapel in Borth closed for business in 1994. Along with most chapels it had its own war memorial, and this was transplanted to the Gerlan Chapel; in due cousre, Gerlan also closed, to be converted into the successful Libanus 1877 cinema and restaurant and the memorial needed to move again. Along with those from three other closing Borth chapels it was courteously offered a home within the [conformist] St Matthew's. St Matthew's of course already had its own memorial.

The chapel memorials are poignant - no less sad for having relatively few names listed. The Siloh memorial is most unusual ... 6 victims of WW1, 7 of WW2, and 1 of the Spanish Civil War. I have not seen another Britsih memorial that lists a local man or woman lost in that terrible business.

The inscription reads "Hefyd Henry L Williams Yn Rhyfel Yspaen 1936-1939. Wedi Huno Ond Yn Fyw Yn Yr Yspryd" translating as "Also Henry L Williams, in the Spanish Civil War, 1936-1939. Fallen asleep, but alive in spirit.".

A lot of good work has been done on the history of Borth and its inhabitants, and we can learn that Heny Levi Williams was one of a large family with close ties to the sea. The family lived a crowded life in a cottage they owned that came to be called "Colliscott", and more recently "Mermaid's Rest". Henry, born in 1879, was known as a rascal and had a long and active career as a merchant seaman. In 1938 he was on the crew of the Stanhope which had been blockade running, and was berthed at Cartagena: this was a Republican stronghold. The crew was cautioned to stay aboard as life ashore was dangerous; on July 12th Henry chose to go ashore for a drink and was killed in a bombing raid.

Henry Williams, Matthews, Leronia

Well, he was British and died aged 58 as a result of military action; just what his politics were is unrecorded. Anyway, they brought him back and he's in Llandre cemetery. The heavily weathered headstone reads "In loving memory of/MARGARET JANE WILLIAMS/Sandhurst Borth/ died July 22nd 1950 aged 68 years./ Also of her dear husband/HENRY LEVI WILLIAMS/who lost his life in Carthagena/during the Spanish Civil War/July 12th 1938 aged 58 years./ Until the day break/ and the shadows flee away./"

Plot K34, Llandre lower cemetery No military honours or decorations are recorded...

A good pub quiz question

This map locates the following towns:

• Bedchester, Binchester, Chesterblade, Chesterfield, Dorchester, Ilchester, Manchester, Porchester, Portchester, Silchester

Which is which?

The suffix -chester comes from the Latin castrum meaning encampment, and is the Anglo-Saxon version of the word. Old Norse, however, did not have an equivalent of ch, and so places might have suffixes suuch as -caster, -caister, -cester: see The History of Early English, K Johnson, Routledge, 2016. You can make questions harder by including a selection of these other versions. This map may help:

Click to explore map in a new tab

Just where the Romans pitched their tents is pretty clear, here, I think.

Geeks might like to note that Exeter is derived from the Old English Escanceaster and so arguably counts, although Wroxeter and Uttoxeter do not. This topic is considered elsewhere. There are no other -xeter's.

Nota bene: this post would have been very difficult without access to the Gazetteer of British Place Names

GYBE, Coventry, 3rd October

It being over 9 years since the last encounter I journeyed to Coventry to see Godspeed You! Black Emperor. A worthwhile trip all round.

To despatch the routine -

• The lights dim (I mean dim) and a drone grows in volume. After some time, Sophie Trudeau appears and begins to play, The noise is quite thrilling as the others appear one by one to play.
• As tradition begs, the set begins with "Hope Drone".
• The lights remain dim throughout. I chose to stand close enough to the stage to count them: 3 guitars, 2 bass, 1 violin, 2 percussion. That's eight.
• Passim, visuals from 4 oldschool projecters fill two screens behind the band. These are variously wildfires, scenes of riot and ruin, some vintage military hardware - all calculated to reassure you of how worthwhile the human race is.
• They play for 2 hours, uninterrupted by any vocal link. As they depart, a rather loud guitar loop plays as the visuals continue.
• No encore.

So far, so predictable. Some might say "Surely this is a group of semi-visible people making a loud discordant noise" - how wrong can you be? What more might one say?

• The mix was very well controlled. The violin was prominent throughout.
• The visuals were the best I had seen them use; I stood behind the fella swapping the loops for about 20 minutes and I can tell you he really earned his money.
• It was usually hard to applaud anything as there was only a nanosecond gap between pieces. Nevertheless, a splendid elongated version of Job's Lament drew a lot of applause and was the best appreciated piece on the night.
• Prevailing wisdom is that the dress code for these gigs is black, with an earnest facial expression. Bucking this trend, I wore my post-fashionable Montreal Canadiens t-shirt, which is usually only allowed out when I am performing on guitar. Most others there wore t-shirts/hoodies/whatever advertising their allegiance to a cult I had never heard of. But I saw no duplicates, posing the question of whether it's a cult before it has two or more adherents.

Beyond that, I can report that the Coventry HMV Empire is one of the most comfortless venues I've ever been in, but it didn't matter. I really hope they play Aberystwyth one day.

Xeter

Regular readers may have spotted that I am [sort of, nearly] a child of Exeter. It was with some glee that fate took me to Wroxeter, and I was keen to seek out the similarities.

The name Exeter is derived from Isca Dumnoniorum: "Isca" is a Latinisation of the Brythonic word "Uisc", which means "flowing water" - so, a river. The Dumnonii were the local tribe, and the suffix was important to the Civil Service of the day since there was a another Isca, properly Isca Silurum, whose local tribe were the Silures. The modern name for this place is Usk, so they were quite a way apart.

Wroxeter turns out to be small. Actually tiny. It has just a few hundred inhabitants, so drawing cultural, commercial or industrial comparisons with Exeter is a bit of a waste of time. But in Roman times, named Viroconium Cornovorium, it was a boss place - the fourth largest British town; when the legions left the whole area was deserted so the archeological remains are plentiful and largely unspoilt - you can see them today. Wroxeter church is small but handsome: it has a font made from a pillaged Roman column

and the churchyard gate makes use of two other columns.

A thieving lot, these Christians.

The name Wroxeter is obscure in origin; The original capital of the Cornovii tribe was the hillfort on the Wrekin, (also called Uiroconion). The name Wroxeter may also refer to the capital of the Wrocensaete, a sub-Roman kingdom that succeeded Cornovia. The name Wrocensaete literally means "those dwelling at Wrocen".

Then of course there is Uttoxeter, of racecourse fame. The name is post-Roman, and comes from the Anglo-Saxon term Wotocheshede, which appears in the Domesday Book and translates to "Wot's homestead on the Heath".

There are only the three Xeters in the UK.

23rd March things

March 23rd was unusually productive for Things.

VoR museum

Opening day for the VoR museum. I went down fully expecting large banners and welcoming volunteers - perhaps a brass band. I had obviously forgotten this is Abeystwyth. A nice man reminded me it was opeing day and sold me a ticket, after which I strolled alone among some shny exhibits, having passed through an archway recyled from London Bridge (seriously).

I'd seen many of them before, but the standard gauge Dukedog (on loan) was new, and it's never disappointing to see the Beyer Garratt. One of the highlights of the VoR is standing near a steep incline (there are many) and just listening to a loco labouring uphill - apparently the B-G is so powerful it barely makes a sound. When used in South Africa, two of these monsters were harnessed at the head of timber trains that were very very long indeed.

Other pictures exist.

Bryntail lead mines

There were mines just all over the place, but the Bryntail site is distinguished by having many remains of buildings, wheel pits etc, all in the shadow of the Clywedog dam. It is a short distance to the very productive Van site, so ironic that despite huge investment and innovation by a Cornish engineer, Bryntail never produced much and closed very shortly after the fellow's death.

Other pictures exist.

Llanidloes

A refreshment break in Llanidloes - didn't meet any Chartists.

Alison Cotton

Something drew my attention to A Cotton opening her tour at Gregynog. A cursory search suggested that if Godspeed You! Black Emperor operated in the folk music sphere, this is what they would sound like. A must-do. On arrival, the Gregynog organisation was just as expected (yeah), and the remainder of the audience looked as though they knew just why they were there, and might all be related to Vashti Bunyan.

The lady plays drone viola, but is actually a vocalist and her unaccompanied singing dominated (a pest, as she had a sore throat and had to abandon an attempt at one song. Never mind, we got lots of others). She played from her very recently released Engelchen, about two Tyneside sisters who rescued large number of Jewish children from the Nazis. She sported gold boots and eyelids, and from time to time was accompanied by Chloe Herington on percussion and harmonium. Both of them made interesting use of loops and other electronics. If there's one thing in the world I don't need it's another T-shirt, but I was easily persuaded to buy one in her support.

Support came from Elizabeth Still, who played a fabulous short set. She was a bit of a one-woman band with lots of instruments and electronics. Apparently the founder member of Haress, of whom I had never heard - there's always something new.

I Want To Go To Togo, Ghana, Togo

We all know that a happy combination of luck, aggression, predestination and geography causes the base meridian of longitude to go through Greenwich. In earlier times there were several others: Paris, Copenhagen and Berlin all had "their" meridians but we won out (anyway, wouldn't it be stupid to call something the "Greenwich Meridian" if it went through Berlin or Copenhagen?). Incidentally, the French clung on to their Méridienne Parisienne well into the 20th century, silly lot. There is some interesting psychogeography to be done in following it.

Knowing that it goes through Greenwich is useful, but where else? France, plainly (but not through Paris 😀), but where else? Google to the fore, we can draw a circle that goes from pole to pole and back, following the 0° and 180° meridians (Click to enlarge, obvs.).

No surprises that the majority of this is sea (counting the arctic as sea, which it is). The 180 meridian intersects very little land (all Russia), and the 0 meridian is just wet in the southern hemisphere. There are, however, four countries which intersect twice.

The UK

Maybe it's cheating to consider the Humber Estuary as an interruption - make your own mind up. The meridian just misses Flamborough Head, but if were visible, you'd see it.

Russia

Given its size one cannot be surprised that Mother Russia figures in the list. Off the north coast of Siberia (north of the 70° parallel) lies Wrangel Island [О́стров Вра́нгеля]. The Island was named by a Briton after a Russian Admiral who was German, but it has a variety of other names derived from languages more appropriate. It is designated in its entirety as a "nature reserve", which might mean anything in modern Russia.

There is a great deal to be read about this place; it was home to the last surviving woolly mammoths on earth.

Spain

The shape of Spain's Mediterranean coast provides a 30Km (or so) land intersection just south of Valencia. Pleasingly, the Meridian exits toward Africa at Marina Greenwich.

Togo/Ghana

When those Imperialist bastards decided where to draw national boundaries in Africa, they plainly decided to have a laugh when it came to Togo. Leaving Burkina Faso, the Meridian enters Togo, leaves it, enters it again (from Ghana), then leaves it back to Ghana and onward to the seaside.

The first Togo stretch is about 2Km long (my estimate - it really isn't easy to get precise measurements from Google).

The second stretch is rather longer, at something like 30Km - again, rather approximate.

I have searched in vain for images of the Meridian meeting/leaving Togo, thus far with no joy. Any I receive will be posted here without delay.

Many inflatable unicorns

A twin-porpoise trip to Shrewsbury, both fulfilled.

Firstly, a trip to the world's first iron-framed building, and a trip up its smashing tower. Some pictures exist elsewhere.

Second, to attend the entertainment of Mr and Mrs Willcox (née Fripp) who are touring their Sunday lunch. One wasn't quite sure what to expect: queueing for a beer on arrival I texted the Frau "The regulation KC audience has brought its wife" - Mr Willcox will be surprised to see an audience that is 50% female. She was quick to point out that actually the regulation Toyah audience had brought its husband. The stage was scattered with inflatable unicorns, instead of the 3 massive drumkits KC fans might expect.

Fashionably punctual the band appeared. Mr Willcox in his customary funereal garb, and Mrs Willcox in an outfit that would have been awkward to wear on a bus. She provided lively banter throughout, reminding us early on that he is 77 and she 65. There were a few occasions where we got a monosyllabic comment from him, rather more than I have heard him say since I saw him in York in 1974. There was a solitary drummer who, despite coming from Leeds, did not fill the space that three do, two keyboard artistes (one accompanied by her teenage daughter), a bassist, two guitarists, and Mr Willcox. He sat still througout, as one might expect, although was downstage, which I had not see before, and was unaccompanied by the massive cabinet of electronics that is his customary security blanket.

The set list was straight from the Sunday Lunch, and Toyah was very happy for us to sing along with her, which I think we all did rather well. Interestingly, the guitarists were of such quality that Robert could be seen just strumming rhythm from time to time. But he also set himself free on a few occasions, notably playing a version of "Enter Sandman" that we certainly hadn't heard before. My neighbour enquired whether I expected them to perform any KC pieces - I thought not. I was correct, although they did do two Bowie pieces on which he has been an original musician (Fashion and, of course, Heroes).

The English Music Hall is alive and well, and of great quality.

And I found this - isn't it lovely?

Not one, but two!

Montague Burton's retail acumen is well known: ideally chosen corner plots, a style recognisable from 100 yards, complete understanding of the psychology of the customer base, and teetotal dance halls or snooker halls above the showroom. Appealing to the less well moneyed gentleman, his shops were to be found in nearly all industrial or otherwise working-class conurbations. Lucky old Aberdeen: not only two Burton buildings, but separated by a distance of less than 100 yards.

Like so many others, these splendid edifices are in need of a little TLC. Number 1 on Union Street is currently vacant: the building is instantly recognisable, and has one surviving foundation stone - highly likely there were once 2 or more.

Number 2 is a very short step away on St Nicholas Street: also instantly recognisable, but no foundation stones remaining - the building has been reworked at street level at least once. No matter - the upper stories are easily viewed by a pedestrian walkway.

In spotting this frontage, it suddenly became clear that one could see both buildings at once.

I don't know if this can be done anywhere else in the world. When you consider the Keighley Dee-Fest, and meetings with Ben, Katie and Jenny, this seems to have got the Orkney holiday off to a very good start. (Ironically, we parked outside the latter-day incarnation of Burotns. So three, I suppose, on one day)

The game is up

The jury remains out on precisely which drugs W Shakespeare had been smoking when scribing Cymbeline, but we'd all like to know. It's not commonly staged: In 1970 (I think) I performed in a production of this play, directed by a far-sighted teacher of English; I saw it again on the West Yorkshire Playhouse stage the evening before one of my weddings in 2006, and then once more last Saturday, produced by the RSC in Stratford.

I managed to enter the auditorium with some very cocky foreknowledge of this madness, but had forgotten (before checking) that this is where the phrases Boldness be my friend (A1,s6), The game is up (A3,s3), and I have not sleep one wink (A3,s4) originate. Now you know.

It's fairly well known that he got a little wacky towards the end, but this play scales amazin' heights; the appearance of Jupiter at the end, descending from heaven amid thunder and lightning, was even better that that depicted by my late friend Peter Gleeson on the Hele's School stage half a century ago. The RSC could have taken advice from us on the length of the play, which kicked off at 7.15 and let us out at 11pm, with two very short intervals. During the second interval we got to look inside a props cupboard which included a dead chicken and a dead goat. How I wanted to nick one (or both) of these.

In preparation we viewed Anne Hathaway's cottage, which remained in Hathaway hands into the C20. There was, recently, a Hathaway gathering at the place, when those attending did not have to pay the £13 entrance fee. I told them I was a Hathaway and asked for a refund: while too courteous to tell me to bugger off, they weren't giving in.

The Crowne Plaza Hotel has corridors that make you feel you are in an Escher drawing

Interesting, but insufficient to make the shocking service bearable.

Anything else? The usual RM hotspots.

Rabelais

Having gone over 68 years knowing nothing about Rabelais, I fear I have come to him too late to take maximum advantage.

It surely suffices to draw attention to his list of candidates for toilet paper (appended here) - among my favourites are "Mother's gloves" and "A cormorant".

Of the goose, Rabelais notes But to conclude, I say and maintain that there is no arse-wiper like a well-downed goose, if you hold her neck between your legs. You must take my word for it, you really must. You get a miraculous sensation in your arse-hole, both from the softness of the down and from the temperate heat of the goose herself; and this is easily communicated to the bum-gut and the rest of the intestines, from which it reaches the heart and the brain.

1. A lady's velvet mask
2. A lady's hood
3. A lady's neckerchief
4. Some earflaps of crimson satin
5. A page's bonnet, all feathered in the Swiss fashion
6. A March-born cat
7. His Mother's gloves, well scented with maljamin
8. Sage
9. Fennel
10. Anise
11. Marjoram
12. Roses
13. Gourd Leaves
14. Cabbage
15. Beets
16. Vineshoots
17. Marsh-mallow
18. Mullein, which is as red as your bum
19. Lettuces
20. Spinach-leaves
21. Dog's Mercury
22. Persicaria
23. Nettles
24. Comfrey
25. His Codpiece
26. The Sheets
27. The Coverlet
28. The Curtains
29. A Cushion
30. The Hangings
31. A Green Cloth
32. A Table-cloth
33. A Napkin
34. A Handkerchief
35. An Overall
36. Hay
37. Straw
38. Litter
39. Cow's Hair
40. Wool
41. Paper
42. A Kerchief (again)
43. A Pillow
44. A Slipper
45. A Game-bag
46. A Basket
47. A Hat... and some hats are
    • Smooth
    • Shaggy
    • Velvety
    • Of Taffeta
    • Of Satin
    ...though the best of all are the shaggy ones
48. A Hen
49. A Cock
50. A Chicken
51. A Calf's Skin
52. A Hare
53. A Pigeon
54. A Cormorant
55. A Lawyer's Bag
56. A Penitent's Hood
57. A Coif
58. An Otter
59. A Well-downed Goose

2023

To Llundain, to see in the new year, inter alia.

Thursday 29th was an outing to Fulham to play in the EBU Year End Open Pairs event. Partner was the ever understanding Jerry F, who tolerated a number of schoolgirl errors on my part to allow us 49% in the morning sesion and 47% in the afternoon. I count this as a triumph and know we'd beat 50 in another outing. Jerry, if he as as wise as I suspect, probably wouldn't permit another outing to occur: here is a picture of Jerry in motion, warming up for the day, and the record of how it went.

Friday 30th, to Holborn for the latest of a sequence of beery chats with P and J. Whether the world will actually improve as a result of our analyses of its problems is unlikely, and perhaps the world didn't even know we were there. We last attempted this in 2018, so perhaps of most interest is the before-Covid/after-Covid comparison. Can you tell which is which?

Saturday 31st, to Ashford and around for a Porkrun, and to make the Yuletide visit that was kiboshed by a mysterious esophegeal complaint. Urban highlights were an elegant OOU Post Office,and the partially restored Burton, now a splendid Polish cafe:

And a very jolly visit to the Enkelkinder

Blywyddyn Newydd Dda - let it be better than its predecessor. At the very least, let's not break any ribs.

Two things

Two things I have just learned:

1. A very rare instance of a Welsh word finding its way into English: penguin. originally, of course, pen-gwyn - white head. Except penguins have black heads.
2. A committee is sitting in the Vatican considering what to do if and when extra-terrestial intelligence makes itself known to us. Of course, there is but the one God for the entire unverse, but it's not clear whether JC is Saviour of the human race, or all intelligent races. Either way, there will be a need for some sort of evangelism, post discovery. Tricky.

These things wre discovered during the most recent Offa expedition, a worthy project interrupted for 2.5 years by, you guessed it, Covid-19. This leg was from Four Crosses to Trefonen, which - on paper - was "just another leg" but as ever in reality turned out to be stunning. Flat bits, up bits, down bits, view bits, golf courses ... I could go on.

Inter alia, we saw

• Evidence that Offa got the boundary between Wales and Lloegr in the right place.
• Views to left and right. Or right and left if you're going the other way.
• Many fungi. One of our number said he knew which were which, and he is still alive.
• The Montgomery Canal.
• Evidence that Oswestry was once railway central.

Culminating with a pretty VR wall box as we relocated our transport.

We are now more than 2/3 of the way up - here we come, Prestatyn.

Terminalia 2022

Is it just me, or does Terminalia seem to come round earlier each year?

Finding myself halfway between Peter Hammill and Henning Wehn, circumstance caused me to celebrate the festival in Scrobbesburh, which was especially exciting as the town was partly submerged as a result of storms Derek, Eric and Fuckwit arriving in a 6 day period. Rudimentary Internet research revealed the course of the largely pillaged town walls and so I advertised a circumnvagation, fully expecting a 25 minute solo perambulation. Imagine my surprise to find Andrew, Andy and Kate the Pipe ready to join me at the start.

Andrew knew a lot already, and we had the most marvellous document prepared by the Archaeology Data Service. Coupled with Kate's enthusiasm to engage everybody in conversation ("We're doing a tour for Terminalia ...") this turned into a much longer and really fascinating trip. I think we fulfilled all the aims of the celebration, and I don't recall us mentioning Brexit, Covid, or Ukraine once.

There's no secret about the tour, so anyone could do it. Just the odd picture may communicate the enthusiasm of the day:

1. Fragments of the wall can be seen in many places, together with some intact sections. These were at their best when they were not really accessible and you had to take sneaky looks ... On the way (1), On the way (2); a secret bit; in a pub garden; a surviving, rather pretty, tower. God bless Kate Humphreys, although how did she come to own it in the first place?
2. We met a very nice chap who owned property on the course of the wall; he had been very badly flooded but took a long time to explain to us how the area had once been.
3. A collection of wall and other stones had been assembled near a very wet bridge. One was not of the local sandstone, but was very smooth volcanic rock. There is an unflattering picture of Kate smoothing it a little further.
4. Stopping for welcome refreshment, Kate showed us her current plan, which we followed as best we could.
5. Throughout, we were awestruck at the quantity of water flowing down the Severn (more properly Afon Hafren, since it rises in mid-Wales) in the wake of Storms D, E and F. This picture fails to capture the awe: on a normal day, this shot would have had no water visible at all

I wonder where Terminalia 2023 will be observed.

H to He

To Manchester, to experience a much postponed concert by Peter Hammill's Van der Graaf Generator. Given the fellow's age (and mine), this is one of those experiences to slot in as soon as you reasonably can. Fate, in the form of Storms Derek, Eric, and Fuckwit nearly intervened, but it was OK in the end.

The trip also took in the valedictory running of Blake's 52More Score #10, and a celebration of Terminalia 2022, both of which are detailed elsewhere.

This trio that has been playing together for ... err ... 54 years so we needn't be surprised at a very polished show. There's no doubt that the absence of a saxophone left a saxophone shaped hole where a saxophone ought to be, but they rang the changes rather well. Having been unfairly tarred with the "prog" label, they managed to dip toes in quite a range of genres, and the man's voice has lost none of its power and almost none of its range. A very few imprecisions, but hey - that's why you go to hear people live.

It tells you something that they didn't play any of Killer, Man Erg or A plague of lighthouse keepers - they have quite a songbook to choose from. For this reviewer, Scorched Earth was the standout. The setlist is at setlist.fm.

Hammill and Fripp are part of a generation - I believe they get on well together. In contrast to the lip-zipped Fripp, Hammill was happy to banter. Pausing for an interval he noted "It's quiet when it stops, isn't it?"

I think the jury is out on which of VdGG's albums is most memorable/influential/best but it's inquitous to compare stuff released in the 21st century with that from over 50 years ago. From early days, it's hard to better Pawn Hearts[1], but my introduction to all this was in Pat's back room and H to He, whereat I first met the proton-proton fusion reaction. In preparation for the gig, I chose to manufacture my own merchandise by customising a black hoodie thus

I think this all worked rather well, even if it does undermine the principle of bands selling massively overpriced garments at their pension fund boosting gigs.

[1] Pawn Hearts, wherefrom Man Erg. How well known is it that this synchronises wonderfully with Buñuel's Un Chien Andalou? Check it out.

Muad'Dib

Some years ago - more than 50 in fact - I read an SF book, probably on my friend Jonathan's recommendation, that I found to be rather good. Predictably, there were sequels of monotonically decreasing merit and I wisely stoppped after the first such.

Attempts to film this story have either foundered or been poorly received, and none of my shekels have been diverted to viewing any of them. This year, the most recent such attempt has been well received so we went to give it a spin this week. Yes, it was rather good.

One of the absolute highlights has to be Leto being ceremonially led onto Arrakis by a bagpiper, but the quality of the thing actually pervades: the visualisation of the various worlds is good enough to make you think "yes, it was like this", and - modulo 50 year forgetting interval - I think it was remarably faithful to the text. There were too many details to capture, but I think I noticed them using both metric and Imperial distance measures (didn't the 'thopter have to rise more than 5000ft?), which is admirable. And the worms were pretty good, leaving a lot to look forward to in the [predictable] sequel.

Before I saw it I chatted with a 15yo friend who told me he had seen it, and that he had read the book. I told him I was his age when I read it, which I rather liked. In retrospect, perhaps I was spoiled because I came to expect that all SF was of the quality that Herbert, Brunner and Trout generated, but this is false.

Score #10

I subscribe to the Walking Artists' Network, which is ironic as I am not an artist and find much walking constrained by circumstances. Anyway, therein Blake Morris solicited participation in his 52 More project. Ever one to jump first and look second, I said "why not?".

Blake explains all this very well himself so I won't duplicate: suffice to say that I synthesised a score as

• Always move away from the restrictive
• the passage of time investigates — rather than celebrates
• find materials to make an old-fashioned archive and check the accuracy by touching something

or, if you prefer, here is the original in cut-ups:

Blake and I will perform this on the last Tuesday of every month until Terminalia (23rd February, as usual - the last outing will be 22nd February). He suggests an invitation be sent to anyone interested, and so over a period of months we cannot fail to collect an old fashioned archive of some interest.

So join in. Blake will be pleased to hear from you.

Building a coracle

We spent the last weekend building a coracle at Gorfanc. Haven't had so much fun in ages. Gorfanc is an idyllic spot near Carno with lots of lovely things to do, hosted by Pippa and Rob. If you enjoy sleepless uncomfortable nights, you can camp (some people like camping - not me guv'nor).

Here is how you make a coracle (the pictures which follow imply that H did all the work - not so. She will produce a much better blogpost that has pictures of me doing things):

1. Acquire lots of long thin bits of willow. If they are dry, soak them.
2. Rob will provide you with a seat plank. Put it on the ground and poke 4 willows into its prepared holes.
3. Poke 24 more willow sticks into the ground according the the Magic Measuring Sticks you will be gven.
4. Say hello to Pippa when she comes round (often) to check you haven't made a total pig's ear of anything.
5. Remove the seat. Start to weave between the poles, according to the instructions you have been given.
6. Pop the seat back in, and do lots more weaving according to instructions. When finished, take an arty shot of your workpersonship with 2 (two) shadows.
7. Listen carefully to Pippa's instructions to how to bend the poles over. Then do it. The resulting hoops have to be the same height and curvature. And the willow mustn't snap. Tricky!
8. Do more tricky bending.
9. Tie special string around the crissy-crossy bits.
10. Survey the field of inverted part-made coracles: easily mistaken for a neolithic cemetery.
11. Detach the coracle from the planet. Notice it looks like a boat when you invert it.
12. Over coffee, watch a demonstration of paddling technique. Then try it.
13. Find the immense roll of calico, and measure out a stretch big enough to shroud your colander.
14. Following instructions, spend a long time sewing the calico over the basket weaving (yeah, all the effort that went into beautiful weaving is now invisible). Unskilled sewers will leave traces of blood all over the calico, facilitating later DNA identification.
15. Put your coracle in the boot of your car (notice how easily it fits), and drive it home.
16. At a later date, when the weather is dry (yeah, right), apply bitumen paint to the underside to effect waterproofing of the calico.

Say farewell to a terrific bunch of people and hosts. Take a small detour to try out paddling someone else's coracle on real water. H will provide you with a video of this ... Take care to grab a picture of the super VR wall box near the old Carno post office.

Hope to met Pippa and Rob again. If there's a following wind, I may even buy some bees from them.