Marvin Gaye and the Plug Pixies meet AI

To quote Marvin Gaye, 

What's going on (What's going on)


Yeah, what's going on (What's going on)


Tell me what's going on (What's going on)


I'll tell you, what's going on (What's going on) 

Right on, baby, right on. 

Half way through May and we get three frosts that hammered my allotment. On the third Saturday of the month we had ice on the windscreen of the car, on the fourth Saturday of the month the Celsius hit thirty degrees. To say my tomatoes are confused would be an understatement, and as for the potatoes and beans? 

Among all this nonsense, our lemon tree has flowered and plays host to a baby lemon who we have christened “Keith” 

As Marvin said “Lets get it on” 

Apologies “What’s going on” 

I could go on (Not a Marvin Gaye song) but can we all agree that if some flatearther insists the climate is not changing, and I’m looking at you principle in chief DJT, we take appropriate action flick them on the nose, clap them around the ears and call them out for the dinosaur focused on personal interest that they are. 

In the river, weed growth could be described as very verdant. Last year I didn’t cut much during the June weed cut, this June my scythe will be a blur. The thick growth holding water up and disguising the fact that the overall discharge has fallen rapidly over the past two months. Water clarity is remarkably good. For many years we suffered at this time of the year when the sun comes out, with a brown algae that lifts off the bottom of the river and breaks up through bubbly water adding a tint/tinge to the river. No such problem this year. How much this has to do with the citizen led water monitoring and data gathering that is now undertaken in this valley is open to debate. But maybe, just maybe, the Weasels at the Water treatment works half a mile upstream from here have felt under increasing pressure to abide by the rules that bizarrely they used to compile, monitor and implement, 

marking your own homework for several decades doesn’t even come close. 

During the two weeks when we switched from Arctic climate to that of Sardinia, Radio 4 aired an excellent series in the 15 minute slot between Sarah Montague at One and The Archers.  Titled “Rinsed” it is an excellent account of the machinations of Thames Water and their propensity to trash the River Windrush for a lengthy period. It is still available on the equally excellent BBC Sounds, a service that currently provides a soundtrack to my day. 

The Archers by the way, 

I was raised on activities in and around Ambridge and the movements of Walter Gabriel, Jack Wooley, Peggy Archer et al. Religiously listening to the omnibus edition on a Sunday morning, I withdrew my support in the late 1980s after a hard week helping out with the harvest on Leckford Estate (all departments helped out with the grain harvest). In that Sunday’s edition Tony Archer downed tools on his own harvest to spend the afternoon washing his Landrover. Maybe the agricultural story editor was away that week, but the penny dropped that this everyday tale of country folk had maybe taken a turn for the worse. 

I have since spoken to several people on the subject who also stopped listening to the show through the 1990s and 2000’s many citing the moment when David Archer stepped out of the shower and his abduction by aliens during the previous six months had all been a dream. Not sure where they got that idea from. 

Mayfly fishing is all that it should be, if a little later than previous years. There have been some very well attended dances and so far three heavy falls of spent mayfly. No sign of fish becoming sated yet, but it won’t be long. I also witnessed a major minnow ambitiously rise to a mayfly, which triggered an ear worm of “High Hopes” for the following hour. 

Our Chooks have been joined by a junior Muntjac. 

Chooks seem to be in charge and ooze confidence when emboldened by numbers, although the Muntjac seems perfectly happy in its role as honorary junior chicken. 

Tonight we receive  news from our friends at South Today that water companies in the South are concerned about water levels in several of their reservoirs. 

I did say. 

Unfortunately aquifer levels are not obvious to most eyes, nothing beats the sight of a long forgotten village peeping out of a depleted reservoir to get the message across. At which point I’d like to turn the focus on another member of the officer elite, General Perception. Often working in cahoots with General Consensus (It’s on here somewhere) The South and South East of England is slowly drying out. The way that we currently use a precious water source is unsustainable. Unsustainable for the precious and rare environment that is a chalkstream habitat, but unsustainable for the many millions of people living in the region. Reports of loss of supply and water bottle distribution stations are increasingly reported on the local news. A finger is quickly pointed at Weasely water companies and yes, they must be called into account but a leaky pipe in a region supplied by groundwater, is not water lost. It returns to the aquifer from which it was abstracted. 

The failure to invest in new reservoirs is also cited as a reason for the failure in supply, but the amount of water supply from any new reservoir would be a drop in the ocean to the amount of water “consumed” in the region. 

At which point I’ll point the finger at the tin pot leader that is Generalissimo Perception. It rained from November to March therefore to General Consensus's eyes there is plenty of water, case closed, fill up the hot tub, give the car a wash (and I’m looking at you here Tony Archer) and green grass for all. We can always point the finger at the Water Company to detract from the fact that Joe Public is compounding the problem by the way it uses a precious and diminishing water supply. 

It has been a mantra of this house for some years that we all need to become more water wise. Generalissimo Perception needs to pull his finger out and get this message across to General Consensus. 

We worked out crossing the road, for which we give thanks to Tufty.  The recycling thing and a plethora of bins have been nearly mastered, the energy crisis when Mad Vlad went rogue and this house gave up ironing, and all those adjustments we had to make in the poxy pandemic. 

If it’s beyond the wit of man to promote more efficient water use, then in an attempt to appear “current” I would suggest that this could be a job for AI, 

but AI use those increasing number of data centres, that rely heavily on water for cooling, 

Doh! 

Maybe just promote the idea to think a bit more about water use beyond the brief period that it sits in the sink after falling magically from the tap and disappearing down to the plug pixies who will perform further magic and make it all come back again. 

And AI?

I'll stick with my Furby, it doesn't use water.

Generla Consensus and his work with Lemmings

To quote the great Dolly Parton, 

Here we go again. 

I think you mean “Here you come again” – ed 

No matter, I’m confident Dolly would have uttered the missive at some point in her long life. 

Anyway, coming or going again, the point I was trying to make is that the amount of water currently flowing down this valley is the same as this time last year. 

The general consensus among the proletariat, is that we have had a more than wet winter, a record breaker for some, there is plenty of the old eau for all and we’ll hold no truck with talk of water running short this summer. 

At this point I’d like to propose the court martial of General Consensus for his/her numerous mistakes in several quarters over the past decade or so. 

Yes the mushy banks in January and of course all of those puddles, but as we have established, for whatever reason this little river drops at a remarkable rate (it’s on here somewhere) following a few weeks without rain. We have verdant weed growth which is maintaining a good level of water, last year we had poor weed growth (It’s on here somewhere - It isn’t, you were on a sabbatical from guff – ed) and in low water the river assumed a sickly hue early in the season.

 

Fingers are firmly crossed, and we are where we are, but now that General Consensus has been debagged please could we all agree to remember the experience of how last summer went with regard to water. The cream of local town society with the Croydon facelift will once again demand on local TV her right to wash her car and fill her hot tub once a week, but if we all agree to think about our water use earlier in the piece, the drought orders and hosepipe bans may be kicked down the road a tad. 

One last point on General Consensus. 

If you are ever in the company of anyone who begins a sentence with “The general consensus seems to be ….” 

Flick them on the nose, waggle them about the ears and question the number of people they have vox popped or polled to form this opinion. And next time they invoke the “General Consensus” line maybe consult a lemming and get their take on his work. 

Looking up, and there is much to look up about, despite the doom laden opening stanza, which principally served as an attempted coup on General Consensus. We have swifts, swallows, a lunacy of cuckoos and a murder of crows who flicked out a row of my second wave of broad beans. Hawthorn fly is over, although the Hawthorn bushes are in full bloom 

I have trawled the internet for a clip of somebody singing the “The Hawthorn is Over” a celebratory ditty marking the end of Steeleye Span and their career closing recording of the folk dirge The Hawthorn Song. 

By the way, Steeleye Span and their hats tipped with willow?

Dreadful business, I’d have taken a chainsaw to all of their headgear and faux attempts at folksy rural earnestness.

 

Oh yes, the river. Fishing hasn’t been easy but then we are still early in the season. The odd mayfly has put in an appearance and the odd fish has shown interest. Each day sees a blizzard of willow blossom that catches up on both cast and fly and a trickle of olives. A couple of times when opening the fishing hut early in the morning I have come across a few little black sedges from the night before ligging about the place. Small and brown, klinkhammers and parachute patterns are catching most fish although it may be worth persevering with the black patterns. A few duck are on eggs on the flight pond and one afternoon I came across a tangle of slowworms when moving some sheets of tin. It goes without saying that at this time of the year this place really sparkles. New leaves have a lustre that is lost by the end of the month, cuckoo flowers dot the long grass and comfrey/knitbone is beginning to flower providing a stimulus to all things that buzz about for a living. The chainsaw must come out again as several of the bankside willows now laden with leaves have dropped a foot or so and must be trimmed. 

I was kindly invited to fish an immaculately kept stretch of the Upper Test at Longparish this week. 

Wading water, it was quite a challenge, but I did catch two small brown trout during my brief visit. Brief because I’d had a chaotic morning prior to my late arrival, and then discovered that I’d left all my casts and nylon at home. 

Many of the fish demonstrated similar behaviour to our own on the Dever, hugging the bottom reluctant to look up until a decent hatch of fly begins and the water warms up a bit. 

An enjoyable trip, thanks very much to my hosts for the invite.

Stout Cortez and a Beard of Bees

HO! (After Plum) 

Back on the river and the trout fishing season is now begun. 

Nothing to do with me, but the river is in good shape. Pristine gravels, plenty of fish, a few good hatches of hawthorn and verdant weed growth in places that I shall attend to next week. The hat is on three hairs, plus the lark’s on the wing the snail upon the thorn and for those of a religious bent, whichever god you worship, is in his heaven and if only in this corner of Hampshire, all is right with the world. 

Which seems decidedly upbeat considering the current state of world affairs, and also the god that I have worshipped for much of my time still mooching about this planet – Kenny Dalglish, is still very much with us and despite his great age may be worth considering for a place on the bench at the very least, given recent performances emanating from Anfield. 

Ed - maybe drop the Robert Browning analogy, stick to Plum but don’t drop Kenny. 

First week of the season has gone well, with most who have attended catching fish. Not much going on in the evening with all fish caught late morning to early mid afternoon to hawthorn and olive patterns. Some fish still sulk and skulk which may be due to water temperature, as it is still only mid April. Over on the Itchen I blundered about with my mower one afternoon accompanied by a multitude of grannom, busily fluttering about in their upstream manner. 

No swafts or swillows yet, just a few house martins buzzing about the allotment up the road. Cuckoo flowers are out and Knitbone won’t be far behind it. 

Madam reports a plethora of coves with high end glass on Bransbury Common, as she undertakes her afternoon reintroduction to normal society after a day at the educational coal face that is the local primary school. 

Not sure Moss and Dougal always provide succour to her briefly troubled soul as they stretch out and flush whatever avian oddities the lens clad crowd have gathered to take in. Although they haven’t made any of the “Birding” sites yet, unlike the regular reports a few years ago of “Great Grey Shrike disturbed by lady with Labradors”

In apiculture news, I was disturbed from further blunderings with a mower by a swarm of bees entering stage left.

 

It’s not that unusual in these parts during the summer months. Last year Madam and myself were deep into post prandial pegs in the garden one Sunday afternoon when we heard a swarm approaching. A beard of bees, they hung about on the beech tree before moving on a few hours later. 

Today’s lot occupied a spikey bush in the Mill house garden for a few hours. Local bee keepers with a spare hive were summoned and the process of moving the swarm progressed.

 

The branch on which they were clinging was cut and the ten thousand or so bees dropped into a wicker waste paper bin. The cut branch was then shaken to remove bees from the cut branch and the bin inverted on a board placed in the middle of a bed sheet. 

The mass of bees trying to get into the waste paper bin confirmed that the Queen bee was inside, and so a small hole was made at the the base of the basket to allow all bees outside the basket bumbling about the garden to return to their queen by night fall. 

All bees tucked up in bed with their queen the basket is then scooped up in the bed sheet and transported in the boot of the car to their new lodgings. While attending to a dead ash in late summer last year, I’d come come across a bunch of bees kicking back in the hollowed out trunk. Once they run out of space due to an energetic breeding programme, they swarm and seek out new digs, my guess is that this was that bunch of bees looking to “upsize” from their dead tree trunk. 

Which serves as a reminder not to be too tidy when it comes to managing woodland. Dead wood is a viable habitat for all manner of flora and fauna. If you don’t need it for logs, leave it lying around, it has a part to play in increasing biodiversity. 

In Sonde news, it’s on here somewhere and includes a link with space, which seems to be an increasing preoccupation with this house, and who knows there may be chalk streams in space that we don’t know about and hey AI! and apologies kids, we’ve been through this before with Deep Thought and the answer to everything being 42, so move on everyone. 

With a nod to further AI, has anyone picked up on the fact that Max Headroom (apologies again kids, look him up, he was very much the “Me Matt Baker “ of his day) and Kier Starmer are never seen in the same room? 

Oh yes the Sonde. Measuring a range of water quality parameters every ten minutes or so before sending results out into space 

Enough Intergalactical stuff! – Ed 

It is zapping out some eye opening data.  As previously stated, this river currently carries a particular sparkle. It is everything a chalk stream should be at this time of year. Past years have seen algal blooms and, on one occasion, the insidious blanket weed bursting forth in April. Maybe all the citizen action and plethora of data gathered to challenge the weasels at water companies and under funded environment agency is having an affect, - power to the people! 

In allotment news, the threat of frost remains a worry, although with circs in the Straits of Hormuz, which I have yet to fish, I am aware of the requirement to produce food. 

With a nod to renewables I have a dozen disco windmills to keep the pigeons off my peas and a solar powered door on the chicken house, which will please Ed Millibum. But we’ve an oil powered boiler and are lucky that we have a ready supply of logs that can feed the mother of wood burners that, at a push, heats the house and puts hot food on the table. 

I’ve not spoken to his Edness, but brief calculations, while in wine, confirm that I am somewhere near carbon neutral – provided I don’t eat too many pulses and the resultant gas, but weren’t pulses and seeds going to make me live forever? It’s all a bit of a worry, but science teaches us that dark chocolate and red wine will always carry the day, so I’ll stick to that. 

Apologies but I’ll break a previous promise in the piece and sign off with a paraphrase from Plum, or possibly Keats, and with regard to current affairs, invoke the spirit of Stout Cortez who once gazed with eagle eyes upon the cliffs of Darien with wild surmise. 

And hope that the grown ups/sensible people turn up at some point.

Not just to this house, but the world in general. 

Footnote: Fishing Helps.

Proper Space and the Farce of Artemis

Remember this?

  

Madam and myself back in the day, I’m the one on the left, sans instrument, the reason why will become clear later in the piece. 

The standard proclamation of this house to signify that we have been gadding about again in the name of living for pleasure alone since child A and Child B left home. 

Milan and Cremona this time. 

Milan because we’ve flown into it several times before heading off elsewhere and we were intrigued to see downtown. 

Cremona because a late life project was required and I’d an urge to buy a fiddle to learn a few tunes by way of preserving the grey matter. 

But first to the pods. 

We were departing from Heathrow T5 and for the first time had booked the “pod parking” An automated parking system that transfers you in space pods to the bowels of terminal Cinque. 

Along with Hover shoes, Blue Peter and possibly Tomorrow’s World predicted this kind of caper in the 1970’s. 

Well here we are. 

Ok’ we weren’t wearing the bacofoil silver onesie with calf length platform boots that Leslie Judd wore to explain the future, but we were in the future all the same. A driverless four seater pod taking us from our own outdated pod with an internal combustion engine, to space city T5. 

In your face Tim Peake and up your game Artemis II 

Pod parking at 4.30 am, you’ll never feel more alive! 

The flight went without real incident bar the burning of some solid gold aviation fuel. Landed in Linate, spent an hour passing over face and fingerprints to border control before catching the excellent Milano metro into town. 

Bags stored at a Newsagents near our AirBNB we headed off in search of sustenance and a table outside in the sunshine. Madam and myself are keen consumers of Italian food and wine so we began our quest for a table in the local environs, eschewing all the local Nona produce for a delicious chicken curry that on first sight we had down as a chicken and saffron risotto, which served as a reminder that our Italiano may be a little rusty. 

Replete with Risotto, which turned out to be a curry, it was down to the Duomo, which is massive. The largest gothic cathedral in the world according to the late Norris Mcwhirter, parts of it where unfortunately clad in scaffolding, which I’m not sure is what the Goths had in mind, but mightily impressive all the same. 

On to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuelle II next. The famous 19th century shopping mall stuffed with designer shops and high class restaurants with no sign of a Millets or Mountain Warehouse. There is however an ornate mosaic floor featuring a Bull whose gonads you are encouraged to stamp on if your shopping trip is to be successful.

We were billeted in an Air BNB a few minutes walk from the gargantuan Castello Storzesco. A leviathan of a fortress first chucked up in the 1400s and impregnable to all of Europe’s finest forces, until somebody forgot to lock the door one night. It is enormous and the local brick company must have done very well out of it’s construction. There is an impressive fountain out front that I imagine was a recent addition. 

We paused for a while to people watch, let another lunch go down and take in the swarms of swifts using the castle as a base. 

Up on to the ramparts next for some shady respite from bright sun that was pushing the temperature up to the mid twenties. The ramparts afford views across the city, with the gothic Duomo, Ziggurat like in the distance. 

Turning one hundred and eighty degrees, we took in the the modern city planner’s obsession with creating a “skyline”. With a nod to the 12th century Asinelli and Garisenda towers of Bologna (see previous guff) this one has been built on the wonk, who knows how the stairs work inside. 

The Florentines would never stand for this kind of modern skyline biznaz. 

Behind the castle, or North West if you’re of a navigational bent, is the magnificent Parco Sempione. Impeccably kept and well used by the Milanese, we visited over the Easter weekend which is a big time for family gatherings and, in fine weather, picnics were breaking out across the whole park. 

And then it was on to Navigli and the canal. 

Who knew? 

It’s a very old canal, and hey Tom Telford up your game. Leonardo Da Vinci was right across this kind of caper back in the day. First completed in the 12th century the canal linked Milan with the Italian lakes and Switzerland. Leonardo who invented most things in these parts, including a helicopter, last suppers, complicated staircases, spaghetti carbonara and the original C5, came up with an ingenious method in the 1400s of moving more boats up and down hills. 

After the glitz and glamour of downtown Milan it was an unexpected dose of “Boho” with an eclectic market and many book shops and well worth a ten minute ride on the excellent Milan Metro. 

At the head of the canal, which is full of fish, is a small dock. There is little boat traffic other than tourist trips and rowers/scullers, but parked up in the corner, was the mother of all weed cutting boats.

The biggest I have ever seen in freshwater. 

I immediately put in a call to my employer suggesting that this may be the way forward as opposed to my good self blundering about breathily with a blunt scythe. 

Milan done, on to the overground rails for an hour long ride to Cremona. 

A different vibe (I believe this is current parlance) to Milan. 

Very laid back with lots of old stuff having avoided the bombs of World War Two, unlike Milan. 

It’s got a very old Duomo, plus a three hundred foot tall clock tower with accompanying Baptistry. 

The town’s principle claim is violin production by some cove called Stradi Various.

 

During my recent bout of Pneumonia, high fever and sweats, a wizened musician appeared to me one afternoon and insisted that the fiddle was the way forward if redemption and possibly good health were to be restored. 

I’ve been down this road before with the guitar following a similar bout of the Screaming Oojahs when Bert Weedon came to me in a dream. 

I thought it went well and definitely had legs, but familial reviews were mixed, so after a decade the Gibson Epiphone Sheraton VSB, wah wah pedal and practise amp were traded in for items more sensible and less musical. 

Always a trier and vulnerable to visions I entered the Luthier’s den and swiftly exited stage left after being informed, following a brief try out, that I was completely unsuited to the instrument. 

Much to Madam’s relief. 

With Fiddling dreams dashed, it was in to the town. Somewhere between Winchester and Salisbury in size, it is a great place to spend a couple of days. 

Very laid back, like many Italian cities they like a tower. All of the Cremonese towers are “bob on” with no hint of a lean. Food and wine were more than fine, well it’s Italy. The weather fantastic and we met some nice fun people. 

Back on the train and metro to Linate before a flight back to our pod, where we donned our suits and helmets to re-enter the earth’s atmosphere. 

The pod’s heat shield performed as expected and we parachuted serenely down into the pod park and our rescue craft home. I didn’t expect the effects of zero gravity to have such an effect on my musculature, and it may be a while before I recover full strength and mobility. NASA reccomend a period of rest, a controlled resumption to normal duties and the purchase of a weed cutting boat, 

which I am more than happy to comply with. 

 Thanks as ever to everyone who held the fort at home with regard to The goons, the cat and the chickens.