I’m in the process of putting my PhD thesis online, not as a pdf but as a series of web pages. For someone with a short attention-span it’s a slow, painful procedure, but I’m getting there. I curse all the hundreds of footnotes and cross references. I grit my teeth as I try to locate the originals of images I used. And then there are the mistakes and typos I’ve discovered. Most of them are minor, but I’ve come across a couple of instances of figures that I haven’t referred to in the text. I am minded of the advice given to me by my very first editor, many years ago, as I learned to proof read: every time, it doesn’t matter how many times, you go through a text you only catch 99 per cent of the errors. Of course, now I’ll begin to find new errors I’ve introduced as I produce the web copy…
My PhD research included the “excavation” of nineteenth-century paintings and illustrations. I looked hard into the backgrounds of subjects that artists recorded, to find details included perhaps by accident. They told me a lot about the interiors of the homes of working people. One was an 1850 painting by James Collinson in Manchester Art Gallery, showing a scene he entitled “Answering the Emigrant’s Letter”.
On the mantelpiece Collinson included a number of objects. The most significant for me were two ceramic figures. The one on the left is partly obscured, but the figure in the centre is clear enough to identify:
The ceramics could be called “Staffordshire flatbacks” though this term covers a wide range of objects. Anyway, I decided that I wanted the figure of the couple, perhaps meant to represent that favourite subject, a “swain” and the object of his affections! After several years of fruitless searching through all manner of antique shops and collectibles fairs, I today finally acquired one, some 170 years after Collinson recorded one in his painting, which presumably was based on an actual interior.
It’s a gloomy mid-winter mid afternoon at Stonehenge and a million tourists are jostling to take selfies against a background of a scatter of grey stones. OK, perhaps just a couple of hundred tourists, but still a significant number, given the time of year, the lack of sunlight and the afternoon chill. I’m here to share this wonder with a visitor from Canada. The stones stand mute, re-erected, solid in their modern concrete foundations, an incomplete cluster of weathered rocks of unknown purpose that will out-survive us all. There is nothing magical about this. Everything is grey, cold, emotionless, meaningless. An endless queue of traffic inches past on the A303, headlights creating a glittering ribbon in the gathering murk. The tourists, having snapped their photos, join the long queue for the shuttle buses back to the visitor centre, where they will return to warmth, food and many opportunities to spend money, avoiding a mere 20 minute walk. Is “heritage” just something we gaze at because everyone else does? Should we expect to be moved by the gaunt stones, or the mounds that once protected anonymous burials, or the sherds of chunky pottery and bleached bones in the visitor centre exhibition? It is difficult, having elbowed aside some smartphone wielding fellow visitors, to peer across the “do not enter” signs and the neatly mown grass and experience anything other than heritage-itis. My gloom matches the fading light…
I’m working on my online collection of photograph albums and will link to them, regularly, on my blog. Here’s a taster: in December 2018 we hiked to the Bridestones, a scatter of lumpy, eroded milestone grit outcrops north of Todmorden, Yorkshire. As we plodded up to the moorland we were enveloped in cloud, and didn’t see much. So, on a fine September day in 2019 we repeated the ramble, and enjoyed a much more visually interesting walk.
I’ve been rereading some short science fiction stories by Ray Bradbury, author of Faranheit 451. The collection, published in 1958, made me smile because of the future that Bradbury imagined but which didn’t happen, and in fact cannot happen. Perhaps the funniest example is the “space man” in the story Perchance to Dream smoking a cigarette through”a special helmet tube” after crashing on a planetoid. But elsewhere Bradbury writes of frequent breathable atmospheres (though this is a common phenomenon in lots of other Sci-Fi adventures, Star Trek being a major culprit), canned space flight food, a colonisable Mars and many other impossibilities or improbabilities. In Referent, Bradbury sets his story 40 years in his future, in 1997. Its characters whizzed from place to place in tubes, presumably powered by pressurised air, and small, spherical space ships plopped down in gardens willy-nilly (the main character carries out another Sci-Fi cliche by being able to commandeer and pilot a space ship without any training). Of course, the 1997 I remember clearly didn’t feature travel by cylindrical tubes or spherical space ships; that year I made a seven-month road trip across Canada in a battered Chevrolet panel van that would have been very familiar to Bradbury, and uploaded my first web site via an achingly slow dial-up connection.
But though I found the stories amusing, in the end I wondered what people in 60 years’ time reading (I assume they will still read) today’s science fiction will think of our predictions and the future we imagine. Will they laugh at our thoughts on artificial intelligence, space travel, aliens and the like. Bradbury assumed that changes happened quickly. But although he would be surprised perhaps by the roles in our lives of the Internet or the power squeezed into our smartphones, he would recognise our principal means of travel (metal boxes, four wheels, internal combustion engines; fixed wing aircraft; railway trains using infrastructure already 100 years old in his time), the food we eat, the places we live in, the diseases we die from and much besides . He would probably laugh at the crudity of what we call “robots,” space ships and space stations.
We reached the moon just over a decade after he published these stories. Space travel is still in its infancy 50 years later. He feared and wrote about atomic armageddon and totalitarianism; perhaps climate change and far-right nationalism will produce a similar end times. I wonder that it might be better to get the future wrong!
My favourite 10km training run takes me from Austhorpe, past the site of the WWI and WWII Barnbow munitions factories, along Bog Lane to Scholes and back. My latest run necessitated a diversion to avoid a newly-appeared and hopefully temporary lake! Ho hum!
So I have teetered around another cross country course, Dewsbury this time, a course that managed to include all the mud and every hill in Mirfield. Didn’t distinguish myself particularly, apart from staying upright and not coming last. I’m hoping for a drought between now and the next cross country run, Pudsey, on 5th January.
Not another hill!
No chance of a sprint finish!
I am not a natural cross country runner. I worry too much about staying upright and in one piece. My eyes water so I can’t see where I’m going. I fret about holding up those who are panting up behind me. Mud, stones, roots, vegetation all threaten to either trip or ensnare me. But for some mad reason I do it anyway. I guess I sort of enjoy the madness of it, and the feeling of achievement when/if I survive. This year I’m taking part in my second cross country season as a member of Crossgates Harriers, my second claim club. The first race was at Baildon, where we ran a hugely muddy, up and downhill course. I enjoyed everything except the downhill bits!