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.