The Rivals

          There’s a certain rivalry between the Devonshire cities of Exeter and Plymouth, the nature of which might be akin to that of Edinburgh versus Glasgow, where the former is considered more genteel than the latter.

          Atop a hill, some seven miles southwest of the city, sits Exeter Racecourse, in the middle of which is a campsite, where I stayed one night last week, buffeted by the departing storm Austen – or Polystyrene, as it was named by us after it washed up loads of the stuff on our local beach in Plymouth. I was en route to poke around our rival city and see what it has to be snooty about.

          Well, a racecourse, for one – though such a facility seems, to me, superfluous, elitist and not without the taint of cruelty to animals. I know nothing about the lives of horse owners, breeders, trainers or jockeys but, on the face of it, not even the economics of a racecourse make much sense. It must be hard to make a profit with huge, fixed costs and a short season of races. I suppose the campsite is a clue to the possibility of ancillary activities that boost the revenue column.

          A few days previously, I had been to The Box, Plymouth’s award-winning municipal archive/gallery, for the opening of an exhibition, The Way We Live Now. It’s an exploration of ideas and attitudes relating to planning for community in the light of anticipated new investment to meet the challenges of housing shortage, High Street decay and other related issues.

          Plymouth has particular experience of urban reconstruction, as we are reminded by the showing of Jill Craigie’s 1946 film, The Way We Live*. The centre of the city was so badly damaged by the Luftwaffe that it was decided subsequently to raze what was left and build anew. A visionary scheme incorporating modern planning and architecture was developed and executed over the next few years. Jill Craigie’s film dramatizes the planning process with local people acting alongside professionals. Plymouth’s city centre is now a protected conservation area.

         Well, says the proud Exonian, most of our city centre is also protected by conservation orders – and so it is, though the criteria differ. Exeter is a not untypical mish mash of medieval and later historic buildings – including a cathedral – that elicit nostalgia and lend it the feel of a place with hidden depth and historic heft. Such centres, these days, are regarded as deserving protection, if only for the venal reason of being popular with tourists.

          The proud Plymothian (known locally as a ‘Janner’) may point to the distinction of being native of a city that also has medieval roots (the Barbican) but embraced modernity with its ambitious, post-war reconstruction and, whilst I cannot claim to be a Janner myself, I am uplifted daily by the optimistic, expansive architecture of their city centre.

          In Exeter, I sought out the municipal archive/gallery, the equivalent of Plymouth’s The Box (which was renovated, remodelled, retitled and reopened in 2022) and was unsurprised to find it housed in a Victorian structure named, prosaically, the Royal Albert Memorial Museum. There is a modern extension at the back, a glazed and elevated platform from which remnants of the city’s Roman wall may be observed, but it was closed for repairs. Otherwise, the displays within are top class and the contents reflect the city’s mercantile heritage.

          As to why John Lewis, Ikea and a host of posh retail outlets chose to do business in Exeter rather than more populous Plymouth: this can be explained, no doubt, by marketeers with demographic statistics to hand. An everyday clue might be found in the fact of Exeter University’s high status in the national rankings. But when it comes to native pride of place, ‘Janner’ says a lot. Why does Exeter have no equivalent demonym?

Face Time

          But for the smile, I would have walked past them without realising. Joy and Tony live nearby. They walk everywhere and always stop for a chat when we encounter each other in passing. This time, however, they were standing still and talking to someone, which is, perhaps, why I didn’t recognise them. Even when Joy turned and smiled as I approached, I saw only a friendly gesture, not a face I know. Not until Tony looked up and said hello did I twig our connection.

          I was embarrassed, of course, but also a bit concerned. It is far from the first time I’ve failed to recognise a face – and it’s not always feasible to claim the cause as contextual, as I did in this case. Nor can I be convinced that it’s due to ageing brain cells, since I can recall an example from thirty years ago, when I sat next to someone for hours at a dinner, then failed to recognise them a few weeks later at a party in the same house. Could it be that I have a mild form of prosopagnosia, or is that just reaching for a medical diagnosis as an excuse for what others might see as rude or insulting behaviour?

          In the local Scrapstore – a treasure trove of abandoned stuff that may find a second life and make some cash for charity – I bought an old LCD projector. I don’t actually have a use for it, but I do have a penchant for vintage, analogue tech and, since the price tag was £3 (made up, on the spot, by the friendly volunteer shop assistant), I stumped up.

           The power cable was missing, but I reckoned I might have one in my stash at home. I had forgotten that just a few weeks previously, in an attempt to cull my collection, I had taken a boxful of vintage analogue tech, along with a great tangle of leads and cables, to be recycled at the council’s specialist facility. In that box had been the cable I now required.

          The next day, I went back to the Scrapstore and rummaged through the tubs full of likely looking ‘electricals’, but to no avail. The volunteer who had served me the day before came by and, to my surprise, said, “I recognise you from yesterday” – I only wish I could have returned the compliment – and offered to go look “in the back” for a three-pin clover leaf connector.

          She emerged empty handed but promised to keep an eye out for one, an unlikely eventuality and one that leaves me with the following dilemma: should I spend five quid on eBay for a power cable, only then to find that the projector lamp has expired and a new one – if available – must be sourced and at a likely cost of £60? While I make up my mind, should I start a new box for treasured vintage tech that has no practical use in my digitised life? Or maybe I should put it all on display in a glass-fronted cabinet – as if I had nothing more pressing to occupy my time.

          Despite my nostalgic fondness for the cassette recorders, radios and cameras of yesteryear, I do accept their obsolescence and have no expectation of their revival. Who nowadays could be bothered with a camera that requires expertise to get good results?

          Last week, I was at a block of flats where the entry system had been changed from analogue pushbuttons to facial recognition cameras. I know it’s a controversial form of technology, beloved of authoritarian governments and despised by freedom fighters, but it’s very convenient when you have your arms full of shopping and want to get into your apartment.

          The cameras are amazingly efficient at recognising faces. Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before people like me can have them implanted – on the NHS – as a treatment for prosopagnosia.

Finca Factors

         The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. It’s a memorable little phrase used, I believe, in the teaching of enunciation but, as it’s been lodged in my brain since childhood, I’ve always imagined it to be true of Spanish weather systems. This latest sojourn in Spain may have cured me of that misconception.

         After a few days in Valencia, we are spending some time with our friend who lives, off grid, on a finca halfway up the coast towards Barcelona. It’s situated a kilometre or two from the coast, in foothills, so it gets a cooling breeze in summer. But the night we arrived, all our phones lit up with alarms warning of imminent torrential rain. It was noon the next day before the downpour – dramatically accompanied by thunder and lightning – ceased as abruptly as it had started.

          Our first morning was spent bailing out a flooded room on the ground floor, carrying buckets across the yard to lower-lying ground. The biblical downpour made a mockery of waterproof clothing, so my swimming trunks, which I almost didn’t bother to pack, came in handy after all.

          The experience, however brief, of living on farmed land serves as a reminder that we are all at the mercy of the elements and that the food we consume does not originate in the supermarket. In this corner of the world, the combination of soil and climate, when in balance, is productive of olives, carobs and almonds.

          This finca and several others around it are no longer owned and operated by native farming families: they have been bought by foreigners whose living is not dependent on selling produce but whose interest in continuing some of the traditions is passionate, nevertheless. This seems to apply particularly to the production of olive oil. Specifically, to attaining the highest quality, organic, virgin, first-pressing, small batch variety that can’t be sold (unless certification is obtained) but can be consumed by themselves and appreciative friends, especially those who have reached aficionado level. We are here just as the olives are due to be harvested and have become involved in the process.

          Harvesting times are fraught with concern. The weather plays a crucial role in determining the outcome, so timing is critical. The process is also communal – neighbours help each other with the work – so we have observed the discussions and rising levels of anxiety among our friends here.

          In order to get their desired result, the olives must be picked and pressed without delay. Furthermore, the pressing has to be done at a certified organic mill, preferably before the equipment has been tainted by someone else’s batch, which means a timeslot must be booked in advance, which in turn puts pressure on ensuring an efficient (some would say frantic) harvesting session. In the days running up to this, we had three people frequently consulting several different weather forecasting apps, before agreement was finally reached on a schedule that could work – so long as the weather window held open.

          I lent a hand, stripping the olives from the branches with a stubby rake, but any notion I harboured of a romantic, bucolic peasant experience – cheerfully working together in the autumn sunshine, occasionally slaking one’s thirst with sangria and fuelling one’s belly with tasty tapas – was immediately quashed by the no-nonsense urgency of gathering and transporting the fruits of our labours. Yes, there was a good lunch at the end but, by then, arguments were simmering over whether the process might have been better planned and expedited.

          All that will be forgotten, I hope, when the golden oil finally flows at the dinner tables of friends and neighbours and the taste buds yield their verdict. Eventually, talk will turn to whether the weather will be kind to the crops next year. Another useful phrase for the perfection of enunciation is ‘the anticipation of undue precipitation causes much consternation in an Iberian nation’.

Euro Shame

          Here we are again, travelling by train in Europe and still feeling foolish about Brexit. We started with the Eurostar service from London to Paris, which seems unnecessarily expensive, but I guess this might be just another consequence of ‘regaining our sovereignty’: someone has to pay for all the customs and border personnel that weren’t there in the good old days.

          Earlier this year, we rode trains to Greece with American friends, whose strategy for coping with the embarrassment of sharing nationality with Donald Trump comprised keeping their voices down and hoping to be taken for Canadian. We Brits have no similar ploy available to us: one look at our clothes and general demeanour is enough for the official at a Spanish platform barrier to address us in English, knowing not to waste their time otherwise. And from there, it’s a small step to imagining them silently deriding our rude and disrespectful exit from the union that could have made a serious difference to the dynamics of global power-play, had we been onside. That said, they might just be a supporter of one of the far-right parties ambitious for their own exit from the EU.

          But this is about my shame, not theirs. In Paris, we transferred to a TGV train bound for Barcelona and, for six hours or so, sat in a luxurious bubble of anonymity in comfortable, adjacent seats on the top deck, sipping wine as we watched the sun go down over the Camargue.

          Our stopover was for one night, so we had booked accommodation adjoining the station and walked seamlessly from the platform to the foyer of a space-age fantasy of an hotel. Our room, on the seventh floor, had a panoramic view and was fitted out with style, panache and careful regard to the needs and expectations of the contemporary urban traveller. (I imagine the same would have been said of many of the original railway hotels built at the end of the 19^th century.)

          Come the morning, we moved on to Valencia, where we spent a couple of days walking around the city – a scouting exercise that took in many of the ‘must-see’ sights, as well as the unremarkable bits in between. The Old City was where we stayed, quite near one of the two remaining one-thousand-year-old defensive gates and an Ecuadorian coffee shop, a reminder of Spain’s colonising past. Such features are commonplace in old Iberian cities, but Valencia has a couple of modern tricks up its sleeve.

          In the 1960s the flood-prone river Turia that ran through its centre was diverted elsewhere and its course converted into a public park that is supremely well located to provide a refuge for the apartment-bound population. In the 2000s the land at the mouth of the former river was devoted to the construction of a collection of striking contemporary buildings comprising the City of Arts and Sciences. The space age experience at Barca was a mere appetiser for this main course.

          Heading north next day, on a provincial train, we were back on planet Earth. A teenager across from us put his feet up on the seats and focussed his attention on his phone but the ticket lady, a small but fearsome-looking person came by and, without saying a word, casually swatted his knees. He caved without protest. Later, an older woman, a foreigner, had the temerity to put one of her feet up on a seat and, though she received a verbal warning, I did note that the ticket lady had serious backup if: she was accompanied by a burly young man in uniform equipped with an enormously long truncheon.

          I heard the BBC news this morning and there is much talk of Britain’s current leadership pining to re-join the EU. I can imagine a collective response of “you must be joking”, yet still, I hope.

 

 

 

 

 

Gobbledegook

          Of all the potential threats to humanity that AI presents, who would have imagined that autonomously creating its own language would be one of them? But there are signs* that this is happening, elevating the possibility of AI eluding the control of humans quite soon. Just one more thing to lose sleep over, eh?

          There is talk of slowing down the advance of computing power, but a cursory review of precedents shows just how unlikely it is that the genie of technology can be put back in its bottle. Those with vested interests will never willingly attempt it, while those few individuals who keep up a dogged resistance by refusing to adopt new formats or devices are swimming against a strong tide. I made the acquaintance of just such a person recently.

          We met at a social event and, since she works at the local boatyard and walks to and from work, we sometimes pass in the street. She told me that she was facing eviction from her flat because the managing agents would or could not cope with her refusal to have a mobile phone and bank online. She is not alone in taking this stance – I know a few other people who are similarly minded – but this person is employed as a bookkeeper and must surely be using a computer with software linked to the internet. I would ask her about that, but for the fact that she tends to rant and proselytise, one-way communication techniques that I have limited patience to endure, especially on the street.

          I get that she might object to the ways in which the internet intrudes into one’s personal life, but the real question I would like an answer to is this: where do people like her draw the line? At what point in their lives do they say, “That’s it! I adopted colour TV and email, but I’m not having any more mod cons!” The thing is, if you opt out, you are effectively condemned to live the rest of your life somewhere in the past. Not that the past is necessarily a bad place to be – some people were quite happy back then – but the future is where we’re all bound.

          Last week, I came across a scrap of history I wasn’t expecting. On a brief visit to North Devon, we wound up on the Taw estuary, between Barnstaple and Appledore, at Fremington Quay. Although I’m no stranger to the area, I had no idea of its industrial past. The quay, now defunct, was used for exporting clay and importing coal. There used to be a railway station and lines that connected this relatively obscure place to the rest of the country.

          The last ship docked there in 1964. The substantially built quay remains, as does the station, now a café, while the lines were ripped up about twenty-five years ago and replaced by a leisure path. Some say that reinstatement of a railway is under consideration. Meanwhile, walkers and cyclists make hay.

          The riverbank near Fremington was co-opted by the Industrial Revolution. I don’t suppose the local peasantry saw that coming. For the hundred years of its life as a commercial quay, I don’t suppose the workers envisaged an end to that operation. For the current generation of leisure users, it must be difficult to imagine it becoming anything other than what it is. But we are all stuck in the middle of transition, whether we know and acknowledge it or not.

          Some of our lives may span only one era, but there is no end point, no stage at which humanity can say, “Here we are and here we stay”. Change will come at any time. What’s more, it can happen a lot more quickly these days. Perhaps it’s better to adopt and adapt, try to stay abreast of developments, including AI gobbledegook.

*Research from ‘Emergence’, a New York-based research lab.