Artificial Intelligence is a
wonderful thing and I am using it to learn tourist-level Greek. The computer
‘speaks’ to me and I repeat the words. If I get the pronunciation right, it
rewards me with a pleasing noise, rather like the cheerful ring of a till, but
if I get it wrong I must try again. I was doing quite well until we came to “beer”
which, unsurprisingly (even for Greek, where “yes” is “ne”), sounds like “beer”
but has an “a” on the end. The machine could not understand me, which was especially
worrying since it had the same issue with “krasi” (wine). It might be something
to do with my inability to roll an “r” in which case I may have to rely on my
hosts to speak English, something I am keen to avoid lest they mistake me for an
EU-hating Brexiter.
But the Athens excursion is some way
off and there is time yet to practise my pronunciation. Meanwhile, I have been
off in the campervan in search of “mists and mellow fruitfulness”, which
is to say cider and apples, in the unspoilt rural backwoods of South Shropshire.
If there is a Heart of Olde Englande, this region could lay claim to it. Ruined
castles and abbeys dot the landscape, their names preserved in the present-day
settlements. Towns and villages still have 16th century buildings in
their high streets, intact and inhabited. Quiet, single-track lanes wind
through a landscape shaped by centuries of farming. Driving them is a calming
therapy, since they roll along naturally and without the urgency of a Roman road
or the supercharged haste of a modern highway. I kept to them for preference
and, when obliged to make use of an ‘A’ road, winced at its brutal insensitivity
to nature.
I passed a signpost – “Wig Wig, 1
mile” – and, though it seemed to me an oddly antipodean-sounding name, I did
not go to investigate: I was on a mission to reach Mahorall cider farm before
closing time. I made it, but only just and, judging by the advanced age of the
farmer and the dilapidated state of his set-up, it may be that closing time will
soon be permanent. I made off with as much dry, still cider as I could sensibly
consume before its expiry date – though, I hope, not that of its producer – and
made my way to a campsite that is set in an old, unkempt orchard not far away. The
couple who run this farm don’t make cider but sell their apples to those who do.
They are also very old. I watched them as they went about their outdoor tasks –
two barrel-shaped figures, rolling along on worn-out hip-joints, seemingly oblivious
to the inevitability of retirement.
On my last morning, I stopped at Much
Wenlock to see the Abbey ruins. The site was closed, so I went in search of
coffee. I was already feeling comparatively youthful but that feeling was amplified
when I peered into the windows of the several Olde Tea Shoppes in the hope of
seeing an espresso machine somewhere among the clusters of retirees and other
antiques. Tearooms are among the relics of our rural heritage whose passing I
will not mourn.
Anyway, progress cannot be held at
bay, even in Shropshire, where municipal car parks have just been fitted with electronic
pay-stations that accept all kinds of payment (though not yet Bitcoin). I fed
my card to one of them on a Sunday, not noticing in the small print that Sundays
are free. It took my payment regardless. Where’s the fairness in that? My
computer can speak to me in Greek so, surely, meters can be programmed to behave
decently. Meet the new tech – just like the old tech – built to serve the
interests of those who own it. AI is clearly WIP.
No comments:
Post a Comment