Stuck With It

          According to one expert, Artificial Intelligence is inappropriately named because the technology does not fully comply with the definition of intelligence. It would be more proper to call it Applied Statistics, since that more accurately describes what goes on within the programme. But AI was first named as such in 1954 and the name has stuck, as names do. Think of mobile phones – or cell phones in America, where the name acknowledges the technology behind the modern marvel. We Brits know that, but ‘mobile’ is so embedded that it’s too late for us to adopt the technically derived name.

          In Dorset, where we have just spent a few dozy summer days campervanning, something similar applies to a stretch of cliff-lined coast. Since the 1970s, it has been called the Jurassic Coast – which it is fair enough, since that is the era of its foundation. But they don’t call Dartmoor ‘Carboniferousmoor’, so I guess there is no magic in that name – nor association with popular culture or folklore. It isn’t even sonorous, like Jurassic. And, since we all know the film, it’s a happy coincidence for Dorset’s tourist industry that its coast wasn’t laid down in, say, the Ordovician period.

          We took a walk along the crumbling cliffs between Chesil Beach and Bridport but, after a while, found the path diverted inland and through a golf course, where I was instructed by my OH in the etiquette of standing still and silent whenever we were near a golfer preparing to whack a ball. If ever golf was described as a way of spoiling a good walk, this, to me, proved the point. We discovered later that the diversion was due to the falling away of a chunk of cliff – a not uncommon occurrence – which produces manna for fossil hunters and is a hot topic in the golf club bar, I imagine.

          We were staying nearby, at Bredy Farm, a prettily situated, adults-only camping site. Its attractions include locally made cider served up in a rustic barn converted into a bar and a decent restaurant that spills out onto what once was the farmyard. Funky music is played through a serious sound-system and DJs and live bands entertain the faithful at weekends (when pitches are more expensive). What with all this and warm, dry weather to top it off, the scene was set for a mini music festival but, unfortunately, expectations were not quite met. As the boss explained, he had been unable to book either bands or DJs, as everyone had gone to the Glastonbury Festival (Glasto, to its acolytes), which is not far away and presents serious competition. I consoled myself by spending the evening in the shady orchard by the stream, supping cider (scrumpy, in the colloquial), watching the sun go down and weighing the merits of a sparsely populated, peaceful campsite.

          A lesser known Dorset attraction is the residence there of someone dear to me, a significant ex-girlfriend. We got together in our college days and, though the romance didn’t survive the transition from education to work, our affection for each other remained and we kept in occasional contact. She and her husband invited us for tea one afternoon and, since it would have been inappropriate for the two of us to reminisce at length, we talked art and politics – subjects on which all four of us share common ground. I couldn’t help but think back to those long-ago days and the cast of characters that inhabited them, but given the situation, I could not ask after them. Perhaps another time. As we were saying our goodbyes, my ex called me by the nick-name I went by in those days. “I’m sorry, Oz, but I just can’t think of you as being called anything else”, she said. I never did know why I was given that name, but it certainly has sticking power.

Who's Who and to Whom?

I’d tried every way I could find to get access to one of my online accounts, but I was going round in a circle. Finally, having run out of options and patience, I had to concede that there was nothing for it but to make one of those phone calls that can take up an entire morning. So, I was surprised when it was answered after only three or four rings – and by a friendly-sounding young man who expressed some sympathy with my plight and vowed to help me. I’m not sure exactly how long it took me to realise I was talking to a robot, but it was time enough for me to feel bamboozled and a little peeved. I hung up and started again, this time responding to each of its questions with the monosyllable, “no”, until it had run the full gamut of its programme and transferred me to a human who was endowed with two superpowers: initiative and authority. I was in at last. AI is not yet in control of everything.

Otherwise, I’ve spent a good part of this week delving into my box of memories, following an invitation to attend a delayed memorial gathering for a friend who died a few years ago. We weren’t best mates, but our circles were so intertwined that a degree of intimacy grew, over time, from our various connections. The deceased had been a social linchpin. He was one of those gregarious people whose lust for life brings others together, creating opportunities for new friendships and acquaintances – or simply for useful contacts. As a result, the gathering in his honour comprised a mix of friends connected to him and by him – some more closely than others. We may have all partied together in the eighties, but most people I once ‘knew’ have since developed such diverse lives that I don’t see them from one decade to the next. In such cases, it’s not easy to resume conversations. There is always the chance that one’s early impressions of someone might turn out to have been ill-judged and revealed as such by an untimely faux pas – on either side.

In any case, the event was a celebration and a chance for an awful lot of story-telling and reminiscence, though how much of it was exaggerated is a moot point. Memory is a slippery concept and not to be relied upon for objective historical evidence. As I rummaged about in my box of memories and offered them to fellow partygoers, I noticed a few raised eyebrows or other politely concealed expressions of surprise. Likewise, my own surprised reactions to some recounted events were doubtless visible. When it comes to remembering, individual perspective counts for more than we might care to admit and the passing of time may reinforce or dilute any impression that was formed in the mind’s eye. And all this before we factor in the flow of alcohol.

During the event, I tried fervently to connect some of the narrative fragments that I didn’t know about: who had been doing what, with whom, where and for how long. I had limited success, but it would be an impossible task, even if you were constantly present and on the job. Even then, there is the all-distorting human bias to take into account. Perhaps this is a task more suited to an AI programme? First, feed in a timeline of events based on the life of a key person; then, the accompanying cast of characters, complete with their CVs; follow this with their spoken reminiscences of a set of key incidents; and, finally, add a background of cultural, political and weather events. Press the button and listen up. I mean, If AI is ever going to take over the world, it will first have to make sense of human relationships.

Doubling Down on History

          Last week’s solo outing in the campervan fed my fantasy of being in a time-travel machine. It transported me to a corner of Devon that reeks so heavily of heritage that I began to feel as if I had arrived in the past – precise date uncertain, but location definitely in England. I suppose notions of what constitutes Englishness vary according to one’s experiences but, from my perspective, its quintessence is embedded in that place – and purposely, I’m sure: not just for its own sake, but also for the income that flows from the pockets of visitors. Time-warped places such as this are usually found on the road to nowhere or buried in deep countryside, accessible only via a cobweb of single-track lanes (which is where dinky-size campervans come into their own).

          I began with a tour of Castle Drogo, England’s newest castle, built in the 1930s and an acknowledged Lutyens masterpiece. No medieval fortress or faux Norman concoction, this, but a massive modernist chunk of dressed granite dominating a high bluff over the river Teign. For all its forbidding presence, however, the interior is liveable – cosy, even – and has all mod cons, including what must have been the world’s first electric candles. Set on the dining table, they were originally connected by spikes to a dodgy wire-mesh tablecloth. Spilling one’s drink was a cause for panic – and not for fear of nasty stains on the linen. The man who commissioned the building was Julius Drewe, who founded Home & Colonial Stores, a chain of emporiums that brought him so much wealth that he retired at the age of 33 and set about cobbling together a fake noble ancestry dating back to the Normans. Now, Drogo belongs to the National Trust, whose commitment to the past is unquestionable.

          The campsite I found in a valley nearby can only be described as perfect – if you like the unkempt, improvised, picture-book 1950s idyll. There was an abundance of mature trees, a stream at the bottom of the field, chickens and geese ranging freely and birdsong augmenting the joyful soundscape of children running around barefoot. And, as the evening came on, a group of young families, notable for the absence of women, gathered to prepare supper. The dads were in their element, fiddling with a fire pit, while the kids, blissfully unsupervised, appeared not to be missing their mums who, I imagined, were either enjoying a girls-only luxury spa hotel experience or revving up for a hen party somewhere less salubrious.

          On day two, I drove to Chagford, a small town, both picturesque and thriving: there are four functioning pubs (all serving food): although there used to be eleven, this is still a healthy survival rate. There is also a posh wine shop and a deli, clues to the presence of London money derived from holiday-makers and second-homers. In the ancient church, built when wealth was generated locally from tin-mining and wool, the only other person there, a woman arranging a flower display, disparaged the incomers, saying they contributed nothing to the upkeep of the church, were not friendly to the locals in the street and didn’t know a weed from a cultivated garden plant. Later, at the village hall, where a craft fair was in progress and amateur local musicians were informally assembled to serenade visitors, I bought a savoury dish of watermelon, spinach and chilli (there were no pasties) from a woman recently moved to the area, then sat awhile to listen to the musicians, none of whom had Devon accents. The repertoire comprised familiar old songs, sung with varying degrees of competence, though I particularly enjoyed one man’s rendition of Little Feat’s Roll Um Easy.

          That night, being Sunday, the campsite had emptied of children. I drank scrumpy in the company of an inquisitive goose and planned my reluctant return next day to the 21^st century. I would take the slow, rolling route over Dartmoor, where nothing has changed since sheep were first introduced.