Record On

Factual accounts of events and experiences

Unlike my other reports on Extinction Rebellion (XR) and related events, I can’t claim to have been around all through this epic. Our four days were only possible thanks to the generosity of South Lakes XR, whose members donated to a travel fund that paid for our train fares. The knock-on effect of us and our two children being able to go, was that it encouraged six other relatives to join us from other parts of the country.

A crackdown by the police after our expedition, including a supposed prohibition on all XR gatherings within the M25, I’m glad to say, was ignored. Spurring new protesters into action, the highly dubious ban, also drove many who’d come home, to return. No doubt the shadows above the police feel XR have been taking advantage, basking in the mild climate of police leniency, without realising that they are taking advantage of our non-violent stance. Whether the government, the Establishment, or the money-men like it or not, things must change. XR will not be put off by any undemocratic attempts at suppression.

During the concentrated days of especially Friday the 11th and Saturday the 12th of October, I must have talked to well over two hundred people never known before, and if there is an obvious predominance within XR, of the middle-class and white, it must have been somewhere I wasn’t. The list of strangers whose names I rarely discovered, who despite the negative implications of our predicament, contributed to the positive atmosphere, would go on for pages: the brilliant posters, placards, skeletons and coffins; the shifting drama of players; the disabled, the children and the old; the smiles and exclamations; the defiant energy of the samba bands and other lone musicians, singers and dancers. Extinction Rebellion is by far the most open and inclusive organisation I have ever come across, banishing ageism, class, racism and sexism at a stroke. Even a passing, self-confessed, multi-millionaire capitalist we were holding up, gave us a fuming endorsement. “It’s fantastic what you guys are doing. If you don’t force them into it, none of the fuckers in charge will do a thing!” Another black entrepreneur on an electric bike, who worked in one of the high office blocks in Bishopsgate, stopped out of curiosity and was soon enjoying himself – developing an on-going, satirical story with every character, positive or negative, who passed. Presently, he switched to exchanging cheerful mockery with members of the police force just across the banners and barricades of police tape, often centring on their lack of diversity – all of which the policemen and women took in good spirit. With one of them, stern in demeanour, he almost formed a double act. The atmosphere was priceless. An hour later another constable was swaying to the thundering drumming of our band. Dancing in public has always been an embarrassment to me – a confession comrades nearby treated with kindly amusement – but after hours of standing, I began (partially) to surrender to the necessity. As the police must know from experience, rigid immobility is more tiring than walking – though it’s probably preferable to sitting or lying on the road. Tirelessly the roving band enlivened the tarmac, boosting morale amongst the partially separated groups of protestors – two blocking Bishopsgate, one blocking Liverpool Street, two targeting the entrances to a hotel hosting the Government’s Oil and Gas Fiscal Summit.

Rewinding to Waterloo Bridge on the Thursday, walking from Euston to Waterloo East, with all our signs and badges – including my home-made and slightly absurd magenta hat band adorned with XR sand timer symbols – we inevitably attracted the police guarding the grand river crossing. But in friendly tones, they merely asked if we had enjoyed the day. Soon we were over the Thames, with its inspiring flood of silver light dividing the 360% panorama of iconic buildings. Parallel with the Hayward Gallery at the other end of the bridge, we stopped to clarify our direction with another assembly of sentries in fluorescent jackets – which caused a slight disagreement amongst them, until one produced his mobile phone to check. Although I’d already made a crude, biro-sketched map on a scrap of paper to correct my long dormant memories of Waterloo East, we thought the encounter beneficial to public relations.

Early next day, meeting family en-route at Woolwich, we headed to Trafalgar Square. As soon as we emerged from Charing Cross, we could hear the samba band drawing people under the grey skies toward the bustle of the tented encampment overwhelming the base of Nelson’s Column. The four lions looked proud to play host and glared above us like the final arbiters of democracy and determination. In due course, the children enjoyed the activities in the Family Hub and for a while we listened to various speakers addressing the crowd from the makeshift tower of pallets and other peculiar pieces of wood, some of which looked like empty speaker cabinets, others like sections of furniture. Little were we to know that one of these precarious-looking constructions would, the following morning, become humorously known as The Tower of Power. One speaker (only subsequently identified as Gail Bradbrook, one of XR’s co-founders), facing down Whitehall, punctuated her reading with chaotic ad-libs, and gave no sign whatsoever of the supposed “messiah complex” touted in right-wing newspapers and media . . . which means just about all of them. But we didn’t stay too long, as she also swore a lot and we were worried about the effect upon our poor innocent children – though I’m sure they get far worse in the playground.

During our windswept picnic on soggy benches up beyond the fountains, I was lucky to meet Rowena from York, an XR member who like me could not locate their home group. As the rest of my family had plans more suitable for children, Rowena and I decided to join forces and were soon recruited by a woman with a clipboard. Would we be interested in joining the protest against the fiscal conference about to start at Liverpool Street? We headed east-north-east, wondering if we’d be two of fifteen demonstrators. Fortunately, by the time we arrived, there must have been well over 500 of us. Soon the roadblock was underway.

Supporting the group of ‘arrestables’ – some of whom had glued themselves to the road, others to the doors of the hotel – Rowena and I stayed until dark, blocking the road for 5 or 6 hours. In all that time, those of us short of food were well supplied. Sandwiches, fruit, bags of apple rings, all were offered around, the York group Rowena had chanced upon at the site, even supplying me with coffee.

A bold XR man climbed on a lorry trapped inside the blockade, claiming the roof with a flag. Later, some duct tape, passed on from a Cornish woman unwilling to abandon her banner, was used to attach WESTMINSTER WAKE UP to the lorry’s side. Inside the cab the lorry driver himself stayed philosophical, even after a younger member (unlikely sobriquet: ‘Jelly Bean’), also conquered the roof – and it took hours to remove them, special climbing police with ropes and hard hats being required.

After a few hours, a huge influx of police began subtly to widen their barricade around the 'arrestables'. Rowena and I, sitting on the road were threatened with arrest, and chose to retreat the “five yards back” requested by the officer in charge. “What’s that in metres?” A policewoman asked aloud, “I’m no good with yards.” “More or less the same,” I answered in cavalier fashion, indicating a point on the road where we both stopped. She smiled her thanks. The blue and white POLICE DO NOT CROSS tapes – which for some reason faced the police rather than us, as if warning them not to fraternize with the populace – were moved slightly to the front of a police van trapped inside the blockade and everyone went on chatting. Periodically, loud chanting broke out, flowing quickly through the crowd as the samba band erupted volcanically again.

Briefly, to allow an NHS blood-supply lorry to pass through, we lifted the roadblock, remaining alert to quick closure. The driver, window lowered, raised his fist: "Power to the People", he shouted to a burst of applause, whistling, renewed chants, and a wave-crashing crescendo from the drummers.

Quite by chance, I caught sight of Gwen, a member of XR South Lakes and one of the ‘arrestables’, being escorted away. Only moments later, three of the young people who’d taken over on the banner to my left, introduced themselves and I shook hands with Eli. Amazingly, all of us it transpired, came from the Kendal area. Others I met were from Brighton, Liverpool, Truro, Birmingham, Langport, Christchurch and Sunderland.

In all the time at Bishopsgate, where quite a few demonstrators were arrested and carted off, I only encountered one slightly negative bit of policing and had some thoughtful conversations with officers on the other side of the barricades. Many implied without risking being obvious, that they felt their excessive presence was unnecessary. Such heavy deployment was causing a dire shortage in other, vulnerable and crime-ridden areas. At the time, unaware of the negative experiences of not least the disabled amongst us, who had special access toilets and battery packs for wheelchairs confiscated, it wasn’t hard to sympathise with some of the views of individual constables.

The night sky gave no warning of the sudden downpour that struck us all just after 7 o’clock. Events were winding down by then and at about 8 o’clock I left, walking south down Bishopsgate and Gracechurch to pass the Monument to the Great Fire of London off King William Street. Just before the road becomes London Bridge, St Magnus Martyr to the left – long since hemmed in by office blocks – naturally made me think of The Waste Land (1922) and I dreamed in my head, the inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. Almost a hundred years old, Eliot’s renowned poem is remarkably apposite for the times we are living in: its stony rubbish and dead trees; its fear in a handful of dust or death by water; its violet hours and falling towers.

Across London Bridge and along the South Bank – I had some interesting quips and occasional sallies with members of the public, plus some distant abuse from others. With an inherited XR flag at this point, I could hardly go incognito. Around Southwark Cathedral and Borough Market, a zone I loved in the 1980s, frequently staying at a friend’s squat in Elephant and Castle, I was again, in the rainy night, entranced. Having returned to this area many times, I was well aware of its subsequent gentrification, always preferring it as it was 35 years ago: more real, its wartime atmosphere unspoilt – a borderline slum, but one concealing hidden jewels. Now, the rainy night concealed its falsification.

Near Tate Modern, a French student, dancing to a homeless accordion player, was keen to know the latest events. It was a day of respite for her – but “everything had been so good! When, other-times, does you get the chance to camp outside Westminster Abbey?” she smiled at me intensely, her eyes shining. Impulsively embracing me, she held my hand before we parted.

Along the river past the National Theatre, the wide-flagged path beneath the trees spun with lights, was inundated with large puddles, pedestrians walking in loops. Beyond Waterloo Bridge, and past the NFT, the Southbank skatepark was busy, out of the rain. Hungerford Bridge reeled back the years, and for a while in front of County Hall I thought that I might meet the Saint out for a night stroll with his halo gleaming… but his stylish suits were never fond of rain. Next, I remembered Saint Ken Livingstone and his hoisted banners against arch, neo-liberal dalek, Thatcher, destructively ensconced across the river, a Moriarty at the centre of her web. What with the downpours, on these safe riverbank walks without traffic, I experimented, eyes shut, with sleeping whilst walking along. It wasn’t a great success.

Under Lambeth Bridge’s tunnelled footpath, stopping out of the rain to write down these notes, I ended up sharing the space with three policemen having a fag break from guarding the bridge above.

I don’t know whether Peninsula Heights, the tower-block at 93 Albert Embankment, Lambeth, has always been called that, but high in its square of rising windows seem to have worked or lived half the rich and successful film and TV characters of the later 60s and early 70s. What other block would give that superior penthouse view of Westminster from apparently mid-river? Back-projection of course, is the more likely explanation. One flat currently for sale (at a mere £4 950 000) even uses the line: So close to the river, that from the upper floors it seems like the building is hovering over the Thames. When the river rises, I suppose if you have a boat moored alongside your high windows, you’ll be alright for a while?

Unlike the area to the east of Waterloo, I haven’t walked the Vauxhall environs for maybe thirty years and barely recognised it. In those days other than four and six-storey council blocks, there were few things higher than the wooden awnings of the station, up on the railway arches. Now every other building scrapes the sky.

Although I left London before I was 4 years old, I remain absurdly proud of the common fact of being born there. Despite the surname, all my family were Londoners by birth or in one case, by adoption. London is still the place I feel I came from: a position that films of the past will always be able to reaffirm, however reckless the economic falsity of its endless building, for those who don’t really need it, becomes.

At about 10.30, I reached Vauxhall Gardens, but couldn't see anyone I knew in the extensive tented encampment, nor find a source of superglue to repair the sole now coming away from my left boot. Since it was a silent camp with lots of friendly police doing the rounds, wishing us cheery goodnights, I departed – initially in the Battersea direction. On my way out, I was whisperingly invited between patrols, to join the Animal Rebellion’s raid on Billingsgate, and thought back to London Bridge and the pleasant whining of a mandolin on Lower Thames Street. But Billingsgate fish market now, is way out east, near Blackwall, at the top of the Isle of Dogs. I didn’t think I could usefully contribute and get back in time for my daughter’s night bus from Manchester.

Crossing the river, I tried to find a quiet bench. There was a good one opposite Battersea power station, but the traffic was still running heavily at 1.30. Finding a quieter spot under trees on a green space between tower block flats in Pimlico, it began to rain again. Having full waterproofs in my bag, I put the trousers back on and tried to doze sitting up, but got pestered by a drunk woman, who talked and ranted for an hour without listening, verging all the while from suspicious to aggressive. Daughter of an ex-"proper villain" she glowed proudly, one she still "loved to bits" – “But why did the fuck did they take me as a babe in arms” (brief rocking motion of her arms) “to Stone fucking Henge?”

Tania, she said was her name, and she was a big woman – solid rather than fat, with a black puffer jacket and incongruous glittery shoes that looked like slippers or flip-flops. “Do you like rain?” she kept asking, sneering at my poverty for not having a hotel to go to, while deriding my “posh” accent or “fake-sounding” laugh. She didn’t believe I grew up on a council estate or that I wasn’t a CID man working undercover – though in the end she must have doubted the latter!

“This is a bad place to be,” she warned as if that hadn’t crossed my mind. There were “murderers and drug dealers.”

“I’m not stopping you from going home,” I replied, getting irritated by this point.

“Why aren’t you scared to stay where you stick out like a sore fumb?” she demanded to know. Perhaps I was a “serial killer – gettin ready to chop someone up and wrap’em in plastic”?

Whatever kind of weirdo I was, “I must like rain” . . . which thought unsettled her, or perhaps made her gentle and interested again, as if she liked me after all, or was puzzled by something that fascinated her.

As usual, I expected too much: for somebody self-admittedly out of control to have some predominant, connected personality . . . Drunks, drug addicts and the insane are rarely more than superficially interesting; their incarnations in literature and films largely the product of poetic license; their pyrotechnics, stage-managed. In truth, unless you know them well, the humorous ones are as tedious after five minutes as the aggressive ones are immediately. “This is my manor.” She claimed more than once, dangerously. Immediately evoking the bullying thugs that are only amusing in films. Or the kids bigger than you from years ago – all that pointless jostling which stems from insecurity, ignorance and often, child-abuse.

“D’you know what? D’you know what?” she’d snarl accusingly before each challenge.

She flicked her hands around constantly and too close to my face. Eventually, I realised I’d have to go or be forced into violence. I think it was my resistance towards violence that irritated her more than anything, and she demanded to know why I'd always “let all the women in your life dominate you?”, a fact she claimed she could read in my eyes, as if what she most despised about me was that I didn’t tell her to “shut it” or “fuck off” or club her into submission as her dear old dad would have done. Climate change was all “Bollox!” What the government should really care about, was “all the paedophiles on the loose”. Who cares about climate change “when they could be up in space?” she added, looking around, momentarily blissful. Did such apparent mysticism stem merely from drugs?

“I may be forty-five and my brain's fucked” (her mobile hands making pointing signs to each temple) “but I'll still outlive you out of the grave!" she asserted, illustrating the strength of her hand grip, and showing me the tattoo up her arm: ONLY THE STRONG ONES WILL SURVIVE. "I'm my farver's dorter".

She had contempt for all activists, claiming she was a “revolutionist”. “Guy Fawkes had the right idea”. Naively interested again, I asked her what she did about it. But of doing anything, she was scornful, as if being a revolutionist could remain just a state of mind. It was her excuse both for approving of Brexit and for never voting. She was like some nightmarish, fascist, partial contradiction to Johnny (David Thewlis) in Mike Leigh’s unforgettable, Naked (1993). She kept insisting that she was a strong woman who could “see through people”, though it was clear that (like her father?) all her strength arose from a lack, and her insight was no more than paranoia or fantasy.

Though I struggled at the time not to make any judgements; to be fair and friendly; to follow her chain of barbed-wire thoughts, this became impossible. A sympathetic comment made her suspicious and belligerent; a disagreement, scornful; while an indulgent neutrality was liberal, pathetic and weak. “I’m no conformist.” She re-iterated, as if to do anything in conjunction with anyone else, was to conform.

I finally got away from her when she snapped the stick of my inherited XR flag and tore off my XR hatband. I think she wanted me to beat her up, like her darling dad used to, but it's hard to say.

Trailing Lupus Street and Turpentine Lane, at Victoria coach park, I was still hours early for my daughter’s bus. Diverting via the abandoned Parliament square, to approach Trafalgar from Whitehall it was almost 3 a.m. and a huge phalanx of police were seemingly blocking access to the tented encampment. Nonchalantly side-slipping, as if making for the Strand, it was possible to approach from St. Martin’s in the Fields. In the rain-slicked night silence, the camp looked vulnerable. I tried to sleep on a bench for a while but discovered the waterproof’s waterproofness was limited and certainly less than 100%. . .

Setting off at half-four, the walk to Victoria coach park via the Mall and Buckingham palace, was weirdly empty. No security, people or cars were visible . . .

My daughter's bus was early and sitting in St. James Park waiting for the sun to rise or break through the cloud, we had an odd breakfast of leftovers – mainly ginger biscuits dipped in houmous. Predictably mobbed by coots who were soon dispersed by geese, we knew they would not be interested in our food, and, in any case, we would have kept it too ourselves, determined to like the combination. Half a bag of dead salad was more suitable, yet they all turned their beaks up at that and left us in peace. Unhappily, the sun we were hoping for never arrived, and in an increasing drizzle we moved on to keep warm.

Back at Trafalgar Square, we took the precaution of approaching from Pall Mall, but the police presence had diminished. Climbing onto the plinth at the base of Nelson’s Column, we met two students from Birmingham emerging from their tent. The damp downbeat atmosphere persisted, until the ‘arrestable’ occupiers of two wooden towers also emerged from under their sheets of plastic and began to shout back and forth to each other above the cordon of police. Much later we all became engaged in a triangle of chants and communications, largely misheard but very funny nevertheless. Some musicians assembled outside the police barricades and began to sing, developing the People have the Power chant into a full-blown improvised song, during which the rickety wooden construction became the 'Tower of Power'.

By 11 o’clock, refreshed demonstrators and other sightseers were pouring into the square. A new banner co-opted John Lennon as Extinction Rebel Lennon – which had a grimly Orwellian ring, but never mind, we liked it. Other semi-compatible and sympathetic groups also arrived, including one handing out leaflets ‘Challenging Johnson, Trump and the Racist Right’ and advertising an International Conference against Racism, Fascism, Islamophobia & Antisemitism for the following Saturday.

Growing impatient with the festival relaxedness, we cast about for some action. A band was forming to lead an impromptu strike towards Marble Arch, there to rendezvous with the Strength in Grief parade, due to march east along Oxford Street to Russell Square. Fired up by their thundering rehearsals, people gathered in readiness. Led by a man of infectious enthusiasm and flexibility, combined with abrupt arm movements and signals reminiscent of J.K. Simmons in the 2014 film Whiplash, but totally opposite in his intentions, the beginning of the march was delayed by drunken person. Swaying and staggering to the rhythms, he slurred enthusiastically about how much he loved us, but carried on shouting when the music stopped. A volunteer, trying to explain that XR members didn’t drink while involved in actions, gently asked him to move back as he was drowning the decision-making process. Before long we were all “wankers” and climate change “crap” – which echoed Tania from the night before with her hand-megaphone raspberry. Certainly, the misguided actions of some XR members, actions which a large majority were against - for example targeting the Underground: transport which should be supported and could be run on renewable power – are a mistake. Actions, where the adrenalin gets the better of people or where the waste factor is too great. I understand the desperation, but, as with the police and their ridiculous attempted ban, some things are only bound to backfire.

Reaching Marble Arch, we finally located the rest of our family amongst the estimated 30,000 people beginning to form the eastward funeral procession to Russell Square.  Despite the drizzle this whole experience did feel historical – the main difference from all the major demos of the 70s and 80s, being that public support and interest appears magnified. Thousands of cameras were filming that memorial parade, which must have been a mile long or more – I don't know; we were right up at the front behind the skeletons, the coffins and the giant skull, in a rainy, Day of the Dead, phantasmagoria.

With a brass band playing funereal music in-between the shouts and respectful silence for the imminent extinctions due to climate change . . . I accidentally ended up carrying one of the small coffins. Due to erratic pacing, the teenage girl shouldering the corner ahead, her gothic make-up dissolving in the rain, turned to me excitedly as we failed to slow sufficiently for the gates into Russell Square Park: “We’ve headbutted the skull!"

In conclusion, I have to admit to being unconvinced by the much bandied-about figure of 3.5%. When the aim is to replace a clearly corrupt or evil regime with one which – at least at first – is less corrupt, then perhaps, because the background populous is largely in favour, 3.5% of people on the streets can bring about change. What XR is proposing however, is the replacement of a corrupt, destructive and universal way of life and aspiration – one that is deeply ingrained in almost all of us. The general population isn’t too frightened to rebel. It’s rather those that have even heard about it are hoping that climate change is a statistical mistake and will just go away. Head in sand, it’s clinging, fingers-crossed, to that hope, that stops them acting. What is needed, is the rapid adoption of a selfless and international austerity, but when is any political party going to risk suggesting such an idea? Meanwhile, no matter how supportive the population may become, many will trust that all they need do, is eat a little less meat, wear a jumper more often, and only fly abroad twice a year . . .  That a universal austerity (and worse, if we don’t act fast), will be forced upon us anyway, doesn’t help. As for the insulated rich at the top, they probably feel they can escape or pay for private armies and protection.

Personally, I have an inbuilt and sadly cynical, self-defence system: with regard to the environment especially, society has been going worse than nowhere for more than a century, so I’ll be very surprised – and happy – if this can be turned around.

By Lawrence Freiesleben

Lawrence, born in Hammersmith in 1962, is an author, poet and artist. Known for his ‘lyric essays’ for the International Times, he has a distinct and eccentric style. His art may be found in the Architect’s Gallery in Chulmleigh and his searching love story, Certainty Under the Rose, was longlisted for the 2017 Tibor Jones Pageturner Prize.

FABLE ON

Fictitious stories, poemes of comedic pieces

The goat in the china shop

Self-wounded

Cannot go home

Sees enemies everywhere

But mostly they’ve been dead for years

Limping ganglia, half-baked.

The laughter in the piazza

Fades or suffocates

Bubble and squeak in the cauldron’s simmer

The ways out are limited

The avenues of retreat

Blocked.

Nude by a Vespa, the lady Nostalgia

(Neo-classical garage calendar)

Pales beside a fire-extinguisher

Here at least the streets are half forgotten

Far from the museums of empty respect

Across the river.

Washing hangs over a flood of traffic

A chorus no-one wants in the crave for shelter

We cry out for time turned back

But it lags into the whining din

The haloed buildings avoided in every city

The decrepit family crockery handed down.

Onward among the windmills

No use to complain

Transformed into turbines they might do well

In a half-drowned world

Aeroplanes grounded, roads closed –

All’s well that ends bearably

Here in hope, the siren sounds

Calling the osprey down the estuary

Where quicksand swirls in the tide

By the door from the balcony, take flight

Leave it all behind

Time asleep is time wasted

There is a better world

All’s well that ends bravely.

By Lawrence Freiesleben

Lawrence, born in Hammersmith in 1962, is an author, poet and artist. Known for his ‘lyric essays’ for the International Times, he has a distinct and eccentric style. His art may be found in the Architect’s Gallery in Chulmleigh and his searching love story, Certainty Under the Rose, was longlisted for the 2017 Tibor Jones Pageturner Prize.

Fable On

Fictitious stories, poemes or comedic pieces

We went past a road sign the other day

‘Cats Eyes Removed’ it said

It really frightened my daughter

In anxiety she envisioned cruelty

Blind cats everywhere, bumping into things, the slaughter

We told her about Percy Shaw, that Halifax inventor

Who patented the idea in 1934

But I don’t suppose she’ll remember

Out of sight, out of mind.

In our synthetic world around, where thoughts and hopes must drag along

As animals, wounded or blinded

Where feelings easily turn to mush, repeated

I wish supposed facts would not so dominate,

Their graceless gravity crushes the soul

While certain things they force are poisonous.

The escape is there for all

But few are free enough to notice

Out of sight

Out of mind.

By Lawrence Freiesleben

Lawrence, born in Hammersmith in 1962, is an author, poet and artist. Known for his ‘lyric essays’ for the International Times, he has a distinct and eccentric style. His art may be found in the Architect’s Gallery in Chulmleigh and his searching love story, Certainty Under the Rose, was longlisted for the 2017 Tibor Jones Pageturner Prize.

IDEAS ON

Analytical writings which contain clear opinions

1 in 10 UK people are dyslexic

Greg Greenwood is the designer of Ideas On Info’s new logo and branding, which we’re really pleased with and which has been the culmination of several months of steady work. However, while working on the project, part of his background caught my attention. You see, both Greg and I are dyslexic and it has had a very interesting effect on our life paths.

Over the past decade that I’ve known Greg he seems to have gone from strength to strength and he is now well on his way to going to Central St Martins - University of the Arts after passing his college years with flying colours, (achieving A* in three highly intensive academic arts subjects: Graphic Design, 3D Design and Photography.) He’s changed a lot over the years and dyslexia played a major part in that. Particularly as it is very responsible for setting him on the path towards design; the area in which he is now seeking a career.

I find this particularly interesting because I have gone through the dyslexia screening process myself and been found to have a slow processing, reading and writing speed, all of which are symptomatic of dyslexia, but none of which majorly effect my every-day. If anything, I have found that they make me more methodical. However, for Greg who has “very, very heavy” dyslexia the story was quite different:

So I thought I was dumb. I thought I was really, really dumb. I never thought I was clever at all, not even slightly, and it didn’t bother me that I wasn’t clever, or that I didn’t think I was clever, I just never thought about it. And then obviously you go to secondary school and you start to get put in the lower levels because you don’t do as well in exams

For Greg “understanding the content was easy”, but it was when it came to written tests that things became difficult.

Due to dyslexia hindrances, in actual exams, I failed.

So because I was thinking so much about passing English [and] learning all these different things, I wasn’t thinking about design or anything along those lines, I was just thinking about how to spell things.

It’s a story that is common to people with dyslexia. Traditional education, all too frequently seems to educate in a particular style. One that is not suited to dyslexic people. Often this is simply to do with the way they explain things, but just as often it is that the very things the education system deems as important are not the things that dyslexic people are naturally good at. This might be reading, writing, spelling, writing speed, ordering thoughts for essays, processing information or working under stress in an exam-style time limit. All of which are essential parts of most subjects students are taught and how they are assessed, but only because they are the mediums of the currant main stream teaching style. It’s not so much that dyslexic people shouldn’t be taught these things. It’s just that by putting so much emphasis on them, dyslexic people are not exposed to, and allowed to explore the things they are good at. So they get put down and crushed by an unyielding system that categorises them as low achievers and the person ends up thinking that they are not good enough, when really their abilities just aren’t being nurtured. We’ll address this point properly in a minute.

An analogy Greg used was that of a computer program. The idea being that (in education particularly) we are all being made to ‘run’ on a generalised type of code specific for a certain type of person. Dyslexia is simply a person running “a different program” but being made to use the same code. Extending the analogy further, it is a bit like how a PC computers run Windows software, whereas Mac computers run OS software, but neither of them will run each other’s software. A majority of users might use one type, say Macs, but neither is necessarily better than the other. They are just different.

When it comes to dyslexia testing, a person is often assessed in four areas. These are: ‘Verbal Comprehension’, ‘Perceptual Reasoning’, ‘Working Memory’, and ‘Processing Speed’. (Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale – Fourth Edition (WAIS IV UK).) To understand the advantages and disadvantages of dyslexia and how to interpret the results from an assessment like this, I will pass on an example that I was given during my own screening test. Imagine if you were to plot people’s marks across those four areas (indices) on a graph and then connect the points with lines like a big dot-to-dot. Generally, most people get a straightish horizontal line going across the graph within normal margins (measured in percentiles). However, for Dyslexic people the line looks more like the horizon of the Alps. I.e. it goes up and down a lot showing that, in some areas, they are far weaker in their ability than most people, but in others, they can be far superior.

Going back to Greg, a year before his end of school exams he did work experience with two architecture firms, and loved it.

I thought ‘ok I really want to do something like this’

I really worked hard. I went up a class in English, I was doing the higher tier of maths… I really tried hard and I did quite well and, you know, I ended up with okay grades. I got, I think, 5 or so Bs, the rest Cs and that’s pretty standard, and for me I was quite happy. But I didn’t get the grades that I wanted to get.

Dyslexia is variably referred to as a disability, a difficulty, or as a learning disorder or learning difference by everyone from government authorities, to research institutes, to educational establishments. This is interesting as there is quite a lot of conational difference between the four words. It is very true that dyslexia can make things difficult and can be disabling in certain circumstances, but is it a disability or a disorder? We’ll look at this later on, but either way none of the terms suggests that dyslexia can also offer some very positive advantages. A ‘learning difference’, as used by the British Dyslexia Association, is probably the closest to striking neutral.

When asked whether dyslexia has effected the way he works Greg instantly replied:

Dyslexia made me more creative…

Reading is basically just recognising patterns and a formula that someone has created. The majority of people are quite good at recognising that formula. Dyslexic people just aren’t very good at recognising that particular formula, but it doesn’t mean they can’t recognise other formulas. Hence why I really like maths and I work within maths in everything that I do.

Greg’s design process is a highly intellectual and academic one, but it is also fundamentally creative and this is a key point as dyslexia often seems to go hand in hand with creativity. I know from my own conversations and research that a lot of dyslexic people are very good at spatial visualisation, mental manipulation of imaginary 3D objects and parallel thinking. But what’s fascinating is that no one person has the same sort of dyslexia and thus the areas of expertise that dyslexic people can excel in is incredibly wide, though still that common denominator tends to be an element that allows imagination, creativity and inventiveness. A dyslexic process often does not take the most logical or direct path to a solution. The path will be winding, but it will get to a solution (even if not the typical one) usually finding interesting thing along the way.

It’s very possible that many dyslexic people find the use of the two words ‘disability’ and ‘difficulty’ to describe their mental functioning process strangely negative considering that, going back to the idea about dyslexia ‘graphs’, we know that there are areas in which dyslexic people can excel if nurtured correctly.

Greg again, talking about his college tutors:

It’s the teachers that really helped me… he (the tutor) had this system where he would grade you on what you did and your effort. So when he put in the score it would come up with an equivalent. I got an A on my first one and looking back, my stuff was crap, it was absolute dog shite. But my effort was there and so that meant it was an A.

Because I got that, I was thinking ‘hmm I’ve never [done that well]. I mean I’ve got a Distinction in ICT (Information Computer Technology) and I got a Distinction for ‘making’ in RM (Resistant Materials), but then the exam brought the level down again.

So I did graphics and 3D [design] and I got As in my first year. But then I failed Environmental Science, because with environmental science it was really easy to understand the content, but you had to say specific things in specific ways to get the marks and so I just heavily struggled

As different brain types with dyslexia, dyspraxia, ADHA, OCD etc. are being recognised (or possibly over diagnosing - though this is an entirely different point and an article for another day) the government has responded in kind with legislation. The Equality Act of October 2010 legally protects people from disability discrimination in the workplace and in wider society, replacing the Disability Act 1995. Under this:

An employer has a legal duty… to make appropriate reasonable adjustments to reduce the impact that a disability has on a person's ability to perform effectively in their role

The act defines a disability as:

A physical or mental impairment which has a substantial and long-term adverse effect on their ability to carry out normal day-to-day activities. Substantial is defined as 'more than trivial

(Quoted British Dyslexia Association)

From an equal rights point of view it is great that dyslexia is covered, but an interesting note is that the NHS definition say that dyslexia is:

A common learning difficulty that can cause problems with reading, writing and spelling… Unlike a learning disability, intelligence isn't affected

This might seem a slightly controversial statement or an utterly factual one depending on your point of view, but what is undeniable is that the government definition and the NHS definition do not appear to be aligned. However though, the government definition can be interpreted as saying that dyslexia is not a disability until it effects a person’s ability to ‘carry out normal day-to-day activities’ and thus dyslexia in general is not classed as a disability. But this is not stipulated.

The brain is a complicated and arbitrary thing and it does make me wonder sometimes as to whether neurological ‘conditions’ analysed through psychological testing can actually be fitted into defined boxes, or whether we are all just on a spectrum (or maybe a multi-layered venn diagram would be a better description). Whatever the case, it’s all in the mind.

Though I could easily go on for longer I must bring this article to a close and to use Greg’s words:

The whole dyslexia topic could be talked about for hours so just to say, anything I have said in this whole interview is a very brief explanation of any of my thoughts.

I echo that statement, but I hope that this has been in some way useful or educational to you. It is not definitive, but hopefully it is informative. Do please leave a comment if there is anything I have missed out or if you have any feedback! It would be very interesting to hear your thoughts.

Find Greg on Instagram

Written by Silas Welsh

Editor & Co-Founder

Ideas On

Analytical writings which contain clear opinions

The Julian Assange affair marks an important climax between two competing philosophies. That of old-school journalism and its newer cousin ‘citizen journalism’—of which Ideas On Info is a member.

Before this dichotomy is discussed we must first understand who Julian Assange is and what exactly he has done that has lead to the current situation.

Julian Assange, March 2010 (Wikimedia Commons)

Who is Julian Assange?

Assange is an Australian citizen born on the 3rd of July 1971 in Queensland, Australia. He is quite secretive about his early life, but has been described as 'rootless' and his parent split even before he was born—Assange is the surname of his step-father. He himself became a father at the age of 18, and was forced to fight a series of custody battles.

Assange was also an early entrant into the hacking world and 'hacked' under the pseudonym of 'Mendax' (or the ‘untruthful’ in Latin). This was before the advent of Sir Tim Burners-Lee's World Wide Web, which would launch three years later in 1991. A successful computer programmer, his earliest claim to fame would have been his accusation and subsequent guilty plea for various hackings in 1995—including his hacking of Nortel's master terminal in 1991.

Released on the condition that he did not reoffend he was ordered to pay the sum of AUD2,100. He would later attend the University of Melbourne to read physics hoping that it would 'provide the intellectual stimulation and rush of hacking'.

Wikileaks

Wikileaks was founded in 2006 and Julian has described himself as the ‘heart and soul of this organization, its founder, philosopher, spokesperson, original coder, organizer, financier and all the rest’.

‘How to contact the guardian securely’

On their website they state that they are a ‘multi-national media organisation and associated library’. But in less jargon, one could best describe the organisation a ‘whistle-blowing website’. Wikileaks see themselves as the ideal place for whistle-blowers (such as Chelsea Manning) to securely dump data for them to review and subsequently publish. They are by no means the only publication that offers this service. The Guardian, like Wikileaks, provide a secure portal in which whistle blowers can upload their data without being identified.

The Leaks

Wikileaks was quick to publish some breaking sorties. In 2007 it published a US military operating manual that showed day-to-day operations in the Guantanamo Bay detention facility—which included layouts and checklists. Though the leak did not shed any meaningful light on the treatment of prisoners in ‘GTMO’, it proved to legitimise the website and saw it covered in major publications such as Wired. Four years later Wikileaks, the Guardian and the New York Times would be at the centre of new GTMO leaks. These would detail the mental state of many inmates, many of whom were suffering from ‘depressive or psychotic illnesses’, subjected to torture and attempting suicide. These files were leaked by Chelsea Manning, a US soldier.

An AH-64 Apache helicopter, the type used in the Baghdad attack. (Wikimedia Commons)

It was on the 5th of April 2010 when Wikileaks broke its first huge story. At a press conference for the National Press Club footage of a US Apache helicopter killing two Reuters journalists was released.

Wikileaks would go on to publish more breaking stories through whistle-blowers and other sources. Notable leaks include:

• The ‘Operating Thetan’ of the Church of Scientology

• Membership list of the BNP

• Sarah Palin’s emails

• US use of torture in Iraq

• ‘how to stop leaks’ document

• 2016 Democratic National Committee’s (DNC) emails

What makes Wikileaks different?

Wikileaks, on the surface at least, seems to operate much like the rest of the media. Ever since we, in the west, entered the era of democracy, leaks have been a fundamental safeguard against the worst abuses of the state. Media organisations are protected in most democratic countries for the publication of stolen data. Instead it is the leaker who is legally responsible for the leaking, not the news organisation. A good recent example would be Gavin Williamson's leaking of a National Security Council decision re: Huawei and the UK's 5G network. Here it is Williamson who was reprimanded and potentially faced a criminal conviction under the Official Secrets Act 1989. The Telegraph, which ran the original story, and the journalist with whom Williamson had an 11 minute phone call, did not face any legal backlash.

Journalists are also protected in the UK by the Contempt of Court Act 1981 which states that 'no court may require a person to disclose […] the source of information contained in a publication for which he is responsible'.

No court may require a person to disclose, nor is any person guilty of contempt of court for refusing to disclose, the source of information contained in a publication for which he is responsible, unless it be established to the satisfaction of the court that disclosure is necessary in the interests of justice or national security or for the prevention of disorder or crime.

– Contempt of Court Act 1981, Section 10, Sources of Information

This effectively means that, so long as a source is anonymous, a newspaper may publish information in the interest of the public. There are, in the UK, three main exceptions to this rule; where it is in the interest of justice, national security or for the prevention of disorder or crime. What is or isn’t in the interest of either of these three exceptions is defined in the courts, where they take all the possible outcomes of divulgence into account. The courts, for instance, would not force the Guardian to disclose the source(s) that told them that 'Paul Manafort held secret talks with Julian Assange' because public knowledge of this is essential for the correct functioning of a free and democratic society. However, a court would most definitely force the revelation of a source that had published the location of spies or detailed military plans because this threatens national security.

In the United States a publication may not be prosecuted for publishing information that has been illegally acquired so long as the publication did not participate in the collection of this information (Barnicki v. Vopper, Supreme Court of the United States, May 21st 2001).

What makes Wikileaks different to most traditional news organisation is their commitment to the publication of information in its totality. Wikileaks has on occasion published the Social Security Numbers (US equivalent of the UK's National Insurance Number), medical records, and credit card numbers of individuals. The Associated Press also found that Wikileaks even put peoples lives at risk, published content relating to rape victims in Saudi Arabia. What's more some of these rape victims were homosexual, and in a country where same-sex relationships are illegal, these revelations (according to Scott Long) 'only risked magnifying the harm caused'.

This less than strict commitment to redacting sensitive information portending to the innocent was not always Wikileaks modus operandi. In the early days Assange would work closely with journalists who helped them to properly redact the files for publication. Ensuring that only information relevant to the public was release, not the private data of individual–most of whom are not, usually, directly related to the leak. But Assange has described this process as 'time-consuming' and 'expensive'.

''We can’t sit on material like this for three years with one person to go through the whole lot, line-by-line, to redact.''

– Julian Assange, Aug 2010, at the Frontline Club in London

Edward Snowden criticises Wikileaks’ lack of curation.

Even Edward Snowden, a whistle-blower, has criticised Wikileaks 'hostility to even modest curation'. Snowden, like WikiLeaks in the past, worked closely with established news organisations like the Guardian and the Washington Post to publish properly redacted files to the public. This, by most accounts, did not amount to censorship. The NSA files were explosive and exposed the USA's extensive spying programme.

Wikileaks has also been accused of publishing conspiracy theories, politically timed leaks, and cooperation with the Russian Federation.

Democratisation and its consequences

Wikileaks was an inevitable creation. The internet has one very powerful property; it cannot be censored. This, combined with the ease of entry, means that anyone can publish leaked documents.

In the past, if a whistle-blower wanted to leak information to the press they would have to contact the media organisations. They couldn't just set up their own newspaper or broadcast their own TV show with the information. Both would be very expensive and the latter impossible without access to government controlled TV signals. This pre-internet media was also much more accountable, they could have their right to broadcast or publish revoked by the government for publishing private data. Yes, they may publish on the underground, but this would be expensive, risky and only reach a very small audience.

The internet circumvents all of these restriction and a website, set up with relatively low costs, is almost impossible to ban. If a government so chose to ban a website, any person with a VPN or the foresight to download the Tor web-browser would still be able to access the information. Even China, with its great firewall, can't prevent its citizens from accessing VPNs–but they are trying.

This is not to say that the internet is all bad, after all Ideas On Info is a direct beneficiary of the low cost of entry. The internet produces brilliant citizen journalism. Bellingcat, an investigative website, run by college drop-out Eliot Higgins, was responsible for discovering the identity of one of the Russian agents behind the Novichok attack in Salisbury.

However, change is needed. The law needs to be changed in such a way as to incentives the proper divulgence of information. Whistle-blowers are essential in keeping governments to account. This is why Assange is important. This marks the moment where western governments decide how to deal with sites that publish unredacted government secrets online without going through the regulated press.

The cards, at the moment, are in the hands of the British government who now have to choose who's extradition request(s) to honour.

Assange, after 7 years in the Ecuadorian embassy, is now in the hands of British law enforcement. He is currently serving a 50 week prison sentence for skipping bail. So far he has not been charged for any activities relating to Wikileaks. Should this change, or should he be extradited to the US (where he would be indicted), this is where a powerful precedent could be set and change the way people in the west get access to information.

But remember, Wikileaks cannot be removed. They have so far evaded the authorities by placing their servers and staff all across Europe, picking specific jurisdictions where certain elements of their activities are legally protected. To eliminate the website in absolute term would involve shutting the internet down itself. When judging the best course of action, the British government must consider this fact and try and make sure they continue to incentivise good journalistic practises for dealing with leaks.

UPDATE(S):

23 May 2019 — The United States have filed 17 more charges against Mr Assange

13 June 2019 — The Home Secretary of the United Kingdom signed the extradition request from the United States, thus allowing the case to now be considered by the British courts.

13 September 2019 — The United Kingdom announced that Mr Assange’s extradition hearing would commence on the 25th of February 2020.

19 November 2019 — Sweden have now dropped the rape allegations towards Julian Assange. This means there will no longer be two competing extradition requests.

By Leon Davies

Editor, Ideas On Info

Student studying History with Politics at the University of Buckingham.

Please comment & share below and make your opinions heard!

Record On

Factual accounts of events and experiences

The Time:  17.30 – or 5.30 p.m. if you prefer old time.
The Date:   Friday 26th April 2019
The Place:  Dalton Square, central point in the City of Lancaster.
The Aim:    To take temporary control of the City’s central one-way system.

At this point the Mass is not yet Critical. So far, all anyone might notice is a few eccentric cyclists and standers-about. For the present, sitting on the bench opposite a slight knot of people, knowing the plan and anxious to eat something long delayed from lunch, it’s inspiring to watch the numbers build.

Since getting off the train, exploring a city only partly familiar, I’d been hoping to find a good place to sit and reflect. Cycling south along the canal in rain showers of varying intensity – astonished at how fast the city fades into countryside in the Aldcliffe direction – the ideal place had evaded me. Now the weather is only overcast. In fact, the sky seems to be lightening for us.

By 17.45 a swelling crowd occupied much of the area around Queen Victoria’s Memorial and I don’t think that long-reigning monarch would have been amused – either by us or by where Empire inevitably leads.

It was time for me to change from observer to participant. Ditching a warm jacket (excellent North Shields charity purchase from some years back) for the home-sloganised, Extinction Rebellion T-Shirt, I joined the friendly throng and soon spotted a fellow member of the South Lakes XR Group, Liz Boothman.

Labour M.P. for Fleetwood Cat Smith speaks

Two other younger members, Bella Matarewicz and her sister Rosa, soon arrived to increase the enthusiastic assembly. Undaunted by being refused space for their bikes at Oxenholme railway station, they had come to join the equally important walking group, planning to march through the City’s pedestrianised areas. Meanwhile the cyclists would be orbiting the encircling one-way system as slowly as possible.

Organised by members of Morecambe and Lancaster XR groups in conjunction with the cyclist’s rights group Critical Mass, banners placards and signs were handed around – along with safety pins to attach them. After a general welcome, instructions about the routes, and a rousing send-off by Labour M.P. for Fleetwood and Lancaster, Cat Smith (image above and to the right) we were all ready. A call went out for any cyclists confident about breaking into the traffic to take the lead.

Neptune, God of fresh water and the sea

Unfortunately, the despairing Neptune (above) appropriately flanked on the corners of the monument, by Truth to his right and Freedom to his left, had to stay behind to hold the fort. I don’t know if that’s who he really was, I never got a chance to ask. He could have been a wiser Canute, urging us to heed his lesson; warning us of the rising sea and melting ice. The 2016 collapse of a shelf of ice in Antarctica, which drowned thousands of emperor penguin chicks, is now thought to have effectively wiped out their second largest breeding colony. Neptune – the Roman name appeared to suit him best – obviously remains in mourning.

Nero is another Roman celebrity who springs to mind with reference to governments around the globe – and judging by the recent talks Michael Gove had with Extinction Rebellion activists, the environment secretary still appears lost in his fiddling. Backed by various Victorian worthies – Ruskin, Millais, Turner and Tennyson among them – at least the god of the seas had more solid advisors. In our temporary absence, hopefully some of them leaned down to tender him encouragement. George Frederic Watts (holding the palette in the photo above), looks particularly concerned to offer consolation. Or is he cautiously marvelling at such a gift of a subject? The trouble is, all his paints have turned to bronze.

Halting the traffic and setting off, our clamouring company of cyclists were of all ages, from children to pensioners. A dedicated and enterprising boy of about thirteen scooted along and amongst us, zipping left and right to put flyers under the wipers of parked cars. Interested bystanders, and drinkers in wayside pubs, perhaps amused by our ragged procession, were keen to take leaflets, happy to investigate what we were about. What heartened me most about our repeated circumnavigation of the city’s centre was the amount of encouragement and support we received – even from drivers being held up. The fact of climate emergency is obviously getting through to everybody – with now the media joining in: “Climate Protesters are telling us the deadly Truth” ran the Financial Times last month. Only the government is still dragging its feet.

At points on our orbit there were several prolonged horn blasts which were not so friendly. These were soon counter-blasted by children and other riders with whistles and bicycle bells, as well as cyclists carrying those audible music devices on their bike racks... Sadly, it turns out (as anyone reading this probably knows) that these are just called ‘portable speakers’. I may be Luddite in my attitude to technology, but I still prefer gadgets to have an imaginative or catchy name.

None of my photos – many taken optimistically over my shoulder whilst cycling, turned out to be quite what I wanted. The images of a cheap camera are a poor substitute for memory and a sense of connection, but they serve well enough as record.

Dating back even to before my involvement with CND in the early 1980’s, I have long had a recurring dream about cloaked protestors on bicycles. The Climate Emergency behind this consciousness-raising demonstration may be just as dark as the threat of Thermonuclear War, but the event itself defied the black sense of despair or inevitability which the dream has always given – its sense of prophetic unease. This Critical Mass/XR event was contrastingly uplifting – and for a while on the southern section of our gyratory, the sun even briefly glimmered.

By Lawrence Freiesleben

Lawrence, born in Hammersmith in 1962, is an author, poet and artist. Known for his ‘lyric essays’ for the International Times, he has a distinct and eccentric style. His art may be found in the Architect’s Gallery in Chulmleigh and his searching love story, Certainty Under the Rose, was longlisted for the 2017 Tibor Jones Pageturner Prize.

Notes from the Author

Despite last night’s very welcome news that thanks to pressure from Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn – inspired no doubt by Extinction Rebellion, Greenpeace, David Attenborough, Greta Thunberg, petition organisations and other activists up and down the country – the U.K. government has declared a climate emergency, it remains to be seen if enough ACTION will be taken. With public support clearly increasing, Implementing Greenpeace’s 10-point plan would be a good start:

1. Ban all new oil and gas production in the UK, including fracking

2. Triple renewable energy by 2030

3. Plant 700 million trees

4. Introduce a Frequent Flyer Tax

5. End the sale of all new petrol and diesel cars by 2030

6. Roll out free bus travel for young people and those on lower incomes

7. End carbon emissions from heavy industry like steel and cement

8. Create millions of jobs in a new green economy

9. Retrofit our homes to go zero carbon

10. Radically change the farming and food system to encourage a less meat-based diet

INFO ON

An objective piece of writing that is designed to inform

What are coral reefs?

Figure 1: Major coral reef locations (Bryant et al. 1998).

A coral is a colony of tiny genetically identical polyps that function as a superorganism. The colony grows by polyps regularly cloning their organs and separating into two (known as “budding”). This process is slow, meaning most corals grow at around 11/2 centimetres per year (Lewis, 2018). The different types of corals are divided into “soft”, “hard”, “warm/shallow water” and “cold/deep water”. Most reef building corals are hard and warm water, but hard, cold/deep water reefs also exist (see figure 1).

In hard, cold water corals, the polyps collect calcium carbonate from ocean currents and secrete it as a skeleton underneath (NOAA, 2017). Warm water corals do the same but also have a mutual symbiotic relationship with algae which supply them with sugars from photosynthesis. In return, the algae are provided with nutrients, like nitrogen, that are usually scarce in coral waters. These algae (known as “Zooxanthellae”) are also what gives corals their colour (Carilli, 2013). During the night, when their algae are not active, polyps use a combination of stingers and tentacles to catch small fish, invertebrates, plankton or detritus for their nitrogen (Weis, 2008).

In order for a healthy reef to form, the environment has to meet certain conditions. Sunlight is an essential source of energy for photosynthesis and therefore warm water corals need to be in shallow, clear water where the sunlight can easily reach them. For this reason, they rarely develop in water deeper than 165 feet (50 metres). Deeper cold water corals have evolved to cope without the algae that need the sun, but as a result, grow much slower. However, warm water corals are much less adaptable to changes in temperature, confining them to more stable waters that stay within 20–32°C (Coral Reef Alliance, 2017). Temperatures outside this limit can send their Zooxanthellae into distress, causing them to release toxins as a defence mechanism and stop producing sugars. As a result, the polyps are forced to excrete the algae and usually starve within a couple of days (Weis, 2008).

On one night a year, the corals go through mass spawning. All the polyps release packets containing either egg or sperm cells which spill open after reaching the surface of the water. The sperm and egg cells then have to find each other, fuse together (to form “Planulae”) and then swim and attach themselves to a solid surface to begin growing(NOAA, 2017). Reproducing sexually in this way, increases the genetic diversity in the population, so that they are less susceptible to disease (Chornesky & Peters, 1987). However, reproducing this way can be problematic as a lot is up to chance. Planulae will often sit at the surface of the water for some time (up to a couple of weeks) until they find a suitable surface to attach themselves to, leaving them at risk of being eaten or swept away by currents and storm (NOAA, 2016). In addition, corals only spawn within a short time period and only when the conditions are right, making it hard to harvest eggs, sperm or Planulae and grow baby corals for conservation.

In terms of addressing the main question of this article, there are multiple factors that make corals (especially warm/shallow water corals) vulnerable to change. While there are examples of corals adapting to more extreme environments (such as inter-tidal pools that can rapidly fluctuate in temperature) the fact that coral waters have remained “unusually stable” for the past 300 million years (Lewis, 2018) means they will be unlikely to effectively cope with a fast rate of change.

Why are they important?

Economically, it is estimated that today’s coral reefs bring in a value of US$33 trillion per year due to their contributions towards food, tourism and medicine, and as a buffer against storm surge (Marhaver, 2015). Over 4000 species of fish and their food are reliant on coral reefs that, in turn, prop up 12% of the entire world’s fisheries. These fisheries provide income, jobs and nutrition for millions of people. This is especially the case in developing countries, where they provide one-quarter of the total fish catch (Cesar, H., Burke, L., & Pet-Soede, L. (2003), while covering “less than one tenth of one percent of the ocean floor” (Costanza et al.,1997). In terms of tourism, at least 94 countries benefit directly from reefs, with reef tourism contributing to more than 15% of GDP in 23 of these and at an estimated total tourism value of $9.6 billion (Burke et al., 2011). Coral reefs are also “considered the medicine cabinets of the 21st century”, with potential in multiple areas of human disease (NOAA, 2017). This stems from the sheer diversity of species (which exceeds that of rainforests (Ray, 1988)) and the numerous chemical pathways they use. For example, Secosteroids (a subclass of steroids used by corals to fight disease), have anti-inflammatory properties and are used to treat asthma and arthritis in humans. Similarly, other compounds found in reef organisms have shown potential in treating HIV, cardiovascular diseases, ulcers and cancer (Fenical, 1996).

Figure 2: Cleaning stations on reefs in Hawaii, used by multiple species (Seaturtle-World, 2014).

Ecologically, reefs provide a source of nutrition and shelter right up the food chain, and are hence estimated to support 25% of all marine life (Lewis, 2018). The nooks created by their 3D structures allow animals to hide themselves and their eggs from predators, making them ideal nurseries for young fish (Nagelkerkenab et al., 2000). The solid structure also acts as an anchor for other organisms requiring a fixed base (such as anemones) and as a buffer against storms (NOAA, 2017). It is for this reason that “the more complex the structure of the reef is... the more life it supports” (Lewis, 2018). The presence of reefs can also have knock on effects for species in neighbouring environments. For instance, larger, roaming predators (such as sharks and turtles) regularly benefit from native parasite eating fish (such as the Cleaner Wrasse). This attention helps control the spread of disease, reduces stress, and increases the lifespan of these larger animals (Grutter, Murphy & Choat, 2003). In addition, several organisms consume coral Planulae as a source of food and a few species (such as parrotfish, butterfly fish and crown-of-thorns sea stars) will eat adult coral (Miller & Hay, 1998). Because of the unique ecosystem they provide, coral reefs are also a rich source of endemic species (species that are not found anywhere else). For instance, out of the 43 species of Wrasse fish known to inhabit Hawaiian waters, 13 are only found on coral reefs in that area, and these would completely disappear if their reefs were to die (Vitousek, Loope & Stone, 1987).

For the main question of this article, it seems the loss of coral reefs would have much wider implications than their effect on just the immediate surroundings. The value gained by processes which degrade local reefs, such as dredging to prevent groundings of marine shipping traffic, is likely to be far outweighed by the consequences of losing them, in terms of jobs, GDP and coastal erosion. It is hard to predict how many other species will become critically endangered or extinct if coral reefs continue to die off, but it is considered by some to be the beginning of “an ecological collapse, that may not stop at just species, but entire classes [4 orders above species] of organisms as well” (Chasing Coral, 2017).

So far, my research has concluded that the disappearance of coral could have a devastating effect ecologically. This not only affects species endemic to coral reefs, but also any outsiders that interact with these organisms, either through the food chain, through symbiotic relationships (such as the cleaner fish) or species who are temporary visitors to the reefs and use them as a nursery or breeding ground. Economically, fishing, tourism, and coastal cities directly benefit from the presence of reefs and their products as mentioned before, but may also benefit indirectly from the beneficial effect reefs have on their neighbouring environments (through these temporary visitors), known as the “spill over effect” (Lewis, 2018).

Why are they at risk?

Coral bleaching

Figure 3: A coral before and after bleaching. The white colour comes from the calcium carbonate skeleton (Chasing Coral, 2017).

In the past 100 years, average sea surface temperatures have already increased by almost 1°C and are on track for a 4°C increase by the end of the century (Lewis, 2018). Whilst corals/reefs are capable of recovering from bleaching events, a full recovery will usually take around 10 years. So ultimately, it’s the frequency of the bleaching events that matters. For a bleaching event to occur, the high water temperature has to be sustained over a series of days or weeks so that the polyps are not able take in new Zooxanthellae and recover. The leftover skeletons are usually overgrown by algae, which any new baby corals will have to fight off if the reef is to be re-colonised (Hoegh-Guldberg, 1999).

It is now recognised that this increase in sea temperature is due to human emissions. The combustion of fossil fuels releases greenhouse gases (including carbon dioxide: CO2) into the atmosphere which forms an insulating layer around the planet. Without some form of atmosphere, the world would be far too cold for any life to exist, but with too much it will heat up; this is known as the greenhouse effect (NOAA, 2017). Although CO2 is the most well-known, levels of all greenhouse gases have consistently risen over the past century, as shown below.

Figure 5: Global greenhouse gas emissions since 1750 (Pachauri & Meyer 2014).

Ocean acidification

In 2016, the Earth’s CO2 average passed 400 parts per million (ppm) for the first time in several million years (NOAA, 2017). It is believed that the ocean absorbs 30% of this carbon dioxide (Lewis, 2018) which can degrade a coral’s calcium carbonate skeleton in the following reaction:

CO2 + CaCO3 + H2O ⇒ Ca(HCO3)2 (aq)

Or in simple terms: carbon dioxide + calcium carbonate + water ⇒ calcium bicarbonate (‘aq’ means it is dissolved in water).

However, the larger problem is that it disrupts the natural pH (acidity or alkalinity) buffering system of the world’s oceans. This buffering system works by having a large amount of calcium carbonate naturally dissolved in seawater (from the erosion of limestone and other rocks over time) which will neutralise any acid added to the water, making seawater unusually stable in its acidity (Lewis, 2018). The reaction above removes this buffer. Unfortunately, carbon dioxide also reacts with water to form carbonic acid (represented as H2CO3) (Doney et al., 2009):

CO2 (aq) + H2O ⇒ H2CO3 (aq)

This Carbonic Acid decreases the overall pH of the ocean (makes it more acidic). All organisms evolve to function within a certain pH threshold (for instance, our own blood pH must remain within 7.35 to 7.45 for our bodies to function). Whilst animals on land are able to control their internal pH fairly easily, corals (and their Zooxanthellae) are reliant on the natural stability of the seawater surrounding them. If this passes a critical level, then their cellular structures may break down or be damaged and key enzymes that keep the organism alive will stop functioning (The Royal Society, 2005). In 2014, the pH of ocean surface water had already decreased by 0.1 (making it roughly 26% more acidic) and this is only likely to continue with our current rate of emissions (Pachauri & Meyer, 2014).

To date, mass bleaching events have occurred annually in Hawaii, Bermuda and the Great Barrier Reef (Chasing Corals, 2017). I would say that if we do not dramatically reduce our emissions, corals skeletons will begin to be dissolved faster than they can grow (due to the more acidic oceans) and will not have sufficient time to recover from the continuous bleaching. It is hard to see how they would survive the next 50 years if emissions continue as before, especially since over 50% of coral reefs have been lost already (Chasing Corals, 2017).

Rising sea levels

Increasing global temperatures add another challenge as they causes land-based glaciers near the poles to melt, and this displaces the surrounding water causing it to rise. As mentioned before, warm water corals rarely develop in water deeper than 50 metres (where the sunlight can reach) and are slow growing (especially with coral bleaching and ocean acidification stunting any growth even if they survive it), so areas in deeper water may become uninhabitable (Lewis, 2018).

Fertiliser runoff

Figure 6: Outbreak of crown of thorns starfish in the Indo-Pacific (Ocean Wide Images, 2017).

Fertiliser from farmland can also leak out into the oceans and cause algal blooms, which compete with corals for resources (Scannone, 2016). This fertiliser runoff also causes a spike in the number of ‘crown-of-thorns starfish’ larvae, potentially causing an outbreak. The starfish feed on coral and a spike in their numbers can be devastating to a reef (Cooper, 2017) as it has a compounding effect. Corals that have open wounds from the starfish are more exposed to infection and are also less resistant to bleaching events. On the other hand, when it has been possible to decrease local stresses like this, the change has been shown to increase reef resilience to bleaching and potentially buy the coral some time (Lewis, 2018).

Overfishing

The fish within and around coral reefs exist as part of a much larger food network and changes in their numbers can have wider, ripple effects. For instance, some fish clean algae off corals, keeping them healthy (BBC, 2017). While others, like the parrot fish, will eat small chunks of coral and recycle the nutrients as sand (Lewis, 2018). If (due to overfishing) one of these were to change in numbers, the internal balance within the food chain would be lost, causing a sudden rise or drop in the numbers of predators and prey, affecting their own predators and prey in turn. This process is known as a “trophic cascade” (Encyclopedia Britannica, 2010). Additionally, deep sea dredging for fish damages and kills deep sea corals, which take even longer to grow back due to their slow growth rate (Lewis, 2018).

Plastic pollution

So far, we have produced ‘9.1 billion tons’ of plastics (Scharping, 2017) with only 9% of that being recycled (Parker, 2017). Plastics are getting into our seas from illegal dumping into the ocean, from wind blowing plastics off beaches, from plastic dropped into rivers, from microplastics in our toothpaste and beauty products going down the sink, and from synthetic fibres being washed. Even plastic that makes it to landfill is still at risk of being blown away into the surrounding rivers and oceans (Casson, 2017). The problem with plastics for corals is that the microplastics in particular can create cuts in the coral’s polyps which can become infected. A study using 124,000 reef-building corals from 159 reefs in the Asia-Pacific region showed that “89% of those fouled by plastic were suffering disease. On plastic-free reefs, only 4% of the corals were diseased.” (Carrington, 2018). This is a shocking statistic, especially when you combine this issue with the others that corals face, it seems to become incredibly unlikely that any corals will remain in the seas naturally. Even if a coral survives a bleaching, survives ocean acidification, survives a crown-of-thorns starfish outbreak, they will still have to survive plastics causing disease; something that only 11% of corals in the Asia-Pacific region could avoid.

So how does this relate to the overall question of this project? There is research which suggest that reducing local stresses on corals, such as fertiliser, plastic and fishing does contribute to a reefs ability to survive mass bleaching events (Lewis, 2018). Ultimately, though, there needs to be a global effort to tackle climate change if reefs are to ever fully recover.

Will coral reefs recover and survive?

Protecting coral reefs can seem like a monumental task, because it requires every country to collaborate on combating climate change as well as each country’s lawmakers protecting reefs in their local area. During the 2015 Paris Climate conference, 175 out of 195 countries agreed to targets that would keep the average temperatures from rising above 2°C, marking a huge step forward in global collaboration on this issue (Pachauri & Meyer, 2014). But, will this be enough to save coral reefs?

In 2014, the International Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) used computer modelling to see what it would take to keep the earth below 2°C, up as far as 2100.

In simple terms, they created a series of best and worst-case possible scenarios that could happen in the next century (called “Representative Concentration Pathways” - or RCPs), these were:

• RCP 2.6 - Best case scenario (show in blue below), with strict laws on total emissions and aggressive scaling back of fossil fuels, so that CO2 levels would not pass 480 ppm
• RCP 8.5 - Worst case scenario (in red), no cap on emissions and business as usual, meaning CO2 levels would exceed 1000 ppm
• RCP 4.5 and 6.0 - (orange and light blue) intermediate scenarios capped at 580 and 720ppm.

ppm = parts per million

The results are shown below in figure 7

Figure 7: Graphs from the IPCC study (described above). “Mean over 2081-2100” shows the range of potential overlap for the four scenarios (Pachauri & Meyer, 2014).

From these graphs we can conclude that:

1. Only the scenario with significant scaling back of fossil fuels (RCP 2.6) guaranteed staying under 2°C of warming
2. Even in this best-case scenario there could still be extensive ice loss, sea level rise and a drop in pH.

In reality, due to the movement of water by currents and the weather, the effects of this will be worse in some locations than others, shown in figure 8 below.

Figure 8: The predicted temperature and pH distribution by the end of the century. (A) shows the temperature best and worst-case scenarios. (B) shows the pH worst case scenario and the positions of key fisheries/reefs (Pachauri & Meyer, 2014).

From these images models we can say:

1. That in a worst-case scenario, the sea surface temperature will be consistently too high for corals in a large portion of current reefs.
2. That the resulting change in pH will be at its worst closer to the North Pole (affecting cold water corals the most), but even near the equator a pH change of 0.35 should be expected.
3. This is likely to mean only the reefs most isolated from these factors (and human activity in general) will survive.

Conclusion

From my research, I believe that it is possible, but unlikely that the world’s major coral reefs will survive the next 50 years, especially if we continue at our current rate of emissions. Some smaller, more isolated reefs might survive and offer the potential for re-establishing larger reefs in the future. But the outlook for reefs in general is bleak. The effects of losing them will likely be severe, as we will lose an entire ecosystem that supports 25% of all marine life, 12% of the entire world's fisheries and a huge economic asset. If we want to avoid this, it will take a much more aggressive scaling back of fossil fuels as well as local law enforcement (to help the resilience of reefs to the changing climate).

By Elynor Todd-Jones

An A level student with a keen interest in Biology and the natural world. She is passionate about making science more accessible to readers of all backgrounds and unpacking global environmental issues.

INSTAGRAM

Author’s Notes

In answering my question, I have been surprised at the vastness and variety of areas that coral reefs impact and how important they are, not only to our ecosystems but to our economy. This project is nothing new to its field, but my findings are completely new to me and almost everyone I have spoken to, including friends and family. So perhaps this project could be used as a way of spreading the word and influencing people to help save coral reefs. Ultimately, conservationists can do their best to save individual coral reefs, but they cannot stop the underlying, global issues (like climate change) if the rest of the world does not get involved. Additionally, people will generally not rally behind a cause they do not understand. This project hopefully will help educate non-experts, who may feel put off by the jargon in scientific papers.

I have learnt a lot during this project and hope to continue to learn and educate people on this subject. Doing this project has allowed me to learn much more about a subject that I would have otherwise not had the chance to study in detail. While the answer to my question may seem slightly depressing, I do feel there is still a chance to save at least some of these reefs. Alternatives to fossil fuels and ideas for local and international law already exist, it’s just a case of implementing them. If we can do this, climate change, annual mass bleaching and ocean acidification can be stopped. Under this scenario, any corals that were left would be able recolonise old reefs and continue to support their local environment. We made this mess, and it is up to us to clean it up.

References

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• Carrington, D. (25 January 2018) Billions of pieces of plastic on coral reefs send disease soaring, research reveals. The Guardian. Available from: https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2018/jan/25/billions-of-pieces-of-plastic-on-coral-reefs-send-disease-soaring-research-reveals [Accessed 15th June 2015].
• Casson, L. (2017) How does plastic end up in the ocean? Available from: https://www.greenpeace.org.uk/plastic-end-ocean/ [Accessed 3rd December 2017].
• Cesar, H., Burke, L., & Pet-Soede, L. (2003). The economics of worldwide coral reef degradation. Cesar environmental economics consulting (CEEC).
• Chasing Coral (2017) [Film] Directed by: Jeff Orlowski. USA, Netflix.
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• Cooper, D (5th April, 2017) Crown-of-thorns starfish DNA reveals coral killer's weakness. ABC news. Available from: http://www.abc.net.au/news/science/2017-04-06/crown-of-thorns-starfish-dna-reveals-coral-killers-weakness/8415058 [Accessed 22nd January 2008].
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• Coral Reefs, (2017) Blue Planet II. BBC One. Sunday 12th November.
• Costanza, R., d'Arge, R., De Groot, R., Farber, S., Grasso, M., Hannon, B., Limburg, K., Naeem, S., O'Neill, R. V., Paruelo, J., Raskin, R. G., Sutton, P. & van den Belt, M. (1997). The value of the world's ecosystem services and natural capital. Nature, 387 (6630), 253.
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• Eni school (3 November 2016) What is eutrophication? Causes, effects and control. Available from: http://www.eniscuola.net/en/2016/11/03/what-is-eutrophication-causes-effects-and-control/ [Accessed 15th March 2018].
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• Marhaver, K. (2015) How we're growing baby corals to rebuild reefs. Available from: https://www.ted.com/talks/kristen_marhaver_how_we_re_growing_baby_corals_to_rebuild_reefs [Accessed 15th November 2017].
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• NOAA (2016) Coral spawning. Available from: https://oceantoday.noaa.gov/coralspawning/welcome.html [Accessed 10th November 2017].
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• Parker (19th may, 2017) A Whopping 91% of Plastic Isn't Recycled. National geographic Available from: https://news.nationalgeographic.com/2017/07/plastic-produced-recycling-waste-ocean-trash-debris-environment/ [Accessed 12th February 2018].
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INFO ON

An objective piece of writing that is designed to inform

What just happened?

The latest chapter in the drama that is Brexit was penned this week. Theresa May announced on Tuesday that she had finally managed to negotiate a Draft Withdrawal Agreement with the European Union. A cabinet meeting was thus held on Wednesday and later that day a press conference on the steps of Downing Street. There she claimed that the 'collective decision of the cabinet was that the government agreed on the draft agreement'. All seemed well for the Prime Minister. This deal has been a year and a half in the making and has not been short of controversy in that time. Unfortunately, all was not well and there were early signs of difficulty. Leaks showed that the cabinet meeting was heated and notable Tory backbenchers had already started to voice their dismay. The announcement also emerged in the light of Jo Johnson's resignation on the 9th from his position as Minister of State for Transport. Johnson, the MP for Orpington, called the direction in which Brexit was heading 'a failure of British statecraft on a scale unseen since the Suez Crisis'. In a longer lens, it also followed the departure of key Cabinet Brexiteers over Chequers in July. David Davis and Boris Johnson's resignations were an early sign of the same discontent felt by Jo Johnson. They cited concerns over the 'illusion' of parliamentary sovereignty and Britain's potential status as a 'colony' of the EU.

However, it was Thursday morning that events really started to unravel. By 12:30pm a total of five ministers and secretaries had resigned, including the Northern Ireland Minister (Shailesh Vara) and the Brexit Secretary (Dominic Raab). These were greatly embarrassing for the PM who had, only the day before, announced that she had the backing of the Cabinet. It also coincided with May's address of the House of Commons where she would argue in favour of her deal.

It was during this parliamentary sitting that Jacob Rees-Mogg alluded to a potential Vote of No Confidence in the PM.

What is the 1922 Committee?

The committee is formed of Tory backbench MPs and has the power to trigger a Vote of No Confidence in the leader of the Conservative Party. Formally, it is responsible for communicating the grievances of backbench MPs to the Cabinet and helping new Tory MPs when they arrive for the first Time in Parliament.

Mr Rees-Mogg later chaired a meeting with the European Research Group and addressed the media on the steps where May first spoke to the public as PM way back in July 2016. Here Rees-Mogg defended his letter to the Chair of the 1922 Committee calling for a Vote of No Confidence and he also took this time to make it clear that he himself would not stand for PM. It is, at the point of publishing, unclear whether enough signatures have been amassed to trigger a vote of no confidence in the Conservative Leader - at present the publicly known tally stands at 23 out of the 48 that would be needed to start the process.

Why the resignations? What does the Withdrawal Agreement say?

The Draft Withdrawal Agreement is a 585 page document that details how the UK is going to leave the EU in March 2019. Most of it concerns the establishment of a Transition Period whereby businesses can continue to operate as usual until the UK and EU have negotiated the final settlement - the EU refuses to discuss future trading arrangements until the UK has formally left. This 'transition period' will last for 21 months but can be extended by mutual consent in a Joint Committee. During this time the UK will have to be completely aligned to all EU legislation and will continue to be under the jurisdiction of the European Court of Justice. However, this is not considered to be the controversial part and most agree that it is a necessary step to a smooth exit.

The controversy mostly arises surrounding the 'Backstop'. This is an agreement that ensures there is no 'hard border' between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland. A hard border is accepted by all to be unacceptable as 'The Troubles' are still very much within living memory for most Irish people - see Why Northern Ireland is a Headache for Brexit. This 'Backstop' will come into force if no deal has been struck and there is not an extension of the 'Transition Period'. The 'Backstop' would create a nationwide customs union across the UK that largely aligns with the EU's tariffs allowing goods to pass smoothly between the EU and the UK without being checked and vice versa. However, Northern Ireland would have to be more closely alighted to the EU to facilitate a smooth border between it and the Republic of Ireland. This would mean that certain goods would have to be checked in Northern Ireland before entering the rest of the UK, effectively creating a border in the Irish Sea - 'The Backstop'. This is completely unacceptable to most of the strict Brexiteers and the DUP, both of whom claim that it could lead to the 'breakup of the United Kingdom' and that it violates Theresa May's promise to Northern Ireland. What is more, if the 'Backstop' comes into effect, it can only be withdrawn from if there is mutual consent from both the EU and the UK. Anger around these key point is starkly reflected in the resignation letters of important MPs:

Are Theresa May's days numbered?

As already mentioned our PM has now been subject to ten resignations over Brexit since July and faces the prospect of a leadership challenge. However, May has shown herself to be calm in the face of embarrassment and she firmly informed reporters that she will 'see it through'. May also took part in a Q&A session on LBC radio the next morning allowing anyone to ring in and ask questions about the Withdrawal Agreement. One must also note that she has quickly found MPs to fill the empty seats, with Amber Rudd returning to the cabinet as Work and Pensions Secretary and Stephen Barclay being promoted to Brexit Secretary, having previously been Minister of State at the Department of Health and Social Care.

The efforts to trigger a No Confidence Vote also seemed to have stumbled at the first hurdle, with only 23 confirmed to have written in. It seems that maybe Jacob Rees-Mogg has jumped the gun. We will only find out Monday or Tuesday. However, what is certain is that, if Mrs May losses a vote, there could be weeks, if not months of turmoil as the Conservative party selects a new leader. But should she survive, her political position will have been strengthened not weakened by the vote because a core of support for her will have been shown in Conservative Party. What's more, according to Conservative Party rules, she will be free from any further challenges for a whole year.

Theresa May has also managed to hold on to some powerful Brexiteers in her cabinet. Michael Gove and Liam Fox have both publicly endorsed the PM - though not the deal itself. Andrea Leadsom, Penny Mordaunt and Chris Grayling are also still present in cabinet. It is assumed that they have remained in order to haggle some concessions from May's deal - though quite how this can be achieved is unclear given that the EU has shown hostility to the idea of renegotiation.

The way in which the resignations happened is also under scrutiny. For the ministers to resign after the PM has publicly informed the media that she has the backing of the cabinet has been criticised, with some conservative MPs lauding the action as unprofessional and done only to maximise drama. Also, the irony of the minister in charge of Brexit resigning over a deal that he has ostensibly negotiated has not been missed.

Embarrassed to call myself a Conservative listening to mendacious nonsense from @DavidDavisMP a senior MP & ex DExEu SoS @BBCr4today He claims we can negotiate a FTA in under 3 months. He knows that’s not true. And a FTA would create a hard border & screw our economy

— Anna Soubry MP (@Anna_Soubry) November 16, 2018

When the Secretary of State in charge of Brexit resigns because he doesn’t agree with the result of his own negotiations it’s game up. Now let the people decide in a @peoplesvote_uk

— PhilWilsonMP (@MPphilwilson) November 15, 2018

Will the deal get through Parliament?

As it stands, most estimates see Parliament rejecting the current Withdrawal Agreement by a large majority. At this time it is assumed that those who have written in a letter of no confidence will not vote in favour - at least 23 to 48+ MPs against. It is also unlikely that Labour will endorse the deal and could impose a whip on the vote - 257 more MPs against. The Liberal Democrats will definitely oppose it given they support an 'Exit from Brexit' - 12 further MPs against. Equally, the SNP firmly oppose the deal and believe that if there can be a different deal for Northern Ireland then there can also be one for Scotland - 35 extra MPs against. This alone is enough to reach the 320 votes needed to reject the deal. Other estimates say the support for the deal in the commons is much lower.

In Conclusion

This particular chapter has been one of the more bloody so far and it is unclear whether the next chapter has begun. The weekend will be a period of consultation for most MPs who should now have a chance to fully read the agreement and speak to their constituents. As it stands however, the agreement does not look like it will pass through Parliament, the Vote of No Confidence is still possible, and who knows maybe a General Election by Christmas or a People's Vote by Easter. Or maybe, Theresa May will be able to pull it off and reveal a rabbit from her hat. We shall see. But if this week could be summed up in one word, it would be: uncertain.

Written by Leon Davies

Editor Ideas On Info and Student studying History with Politics at the University of Buckingham.

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What are your thoughts on the conservation of wildlife? Please tell us and leave a comment bellow. Let’s explore the debate.

22nd September 2018

Just to my right rose a massive puppet bat lifted high on rods, its wings rising and falling. Behind me two beautifully crafted cloth owls were suspended on rucksack frames up above the crowd. Up on the stage in front stood children, teenagers, scientists, conservationists, musicians, TV presenters and more. All of whom had come together for one purpose, to fight for the UK’s wildlife.

The lynch pin and instigator of it all was Chris Packham and it was he who trod the stage between speakers hosting and introducing the different people. The Springwatch presenter was joined by the likes of Billy Brag, George Monbiot and Dara McAnulty, a 14-year-old naturalist and conservationist from Northern Ireland who read his poem for the event to the crowds in front, along with 18 ‘ministers’, all of whom where there to put forward ‘A Peoples Manifesto for Wildlife’: A collection of essays, along with 200 ideas and solutions for the conservations and protection of wildlife in the UK. Each of the 18 ‘ministers’, all of whom are expert scientists and conservationists in their fields, had contributed, helping create a broad, researched and considered set of ideas designed to work for both UK wildlife and the majority of humanity that co-share the land with them.

This manifesto was to be taken in, at the end of the walk, to 10 Downing Street itself and submitted for consultation and implementation, offering the government some progressive policies for free.

In the words of the manifesto itself:

This manifesto has no party-political bias. It is critical of governance and its affiliation is to the wildlife and people of the UK.
This manifesto is controversial. It is informed by sound science and fact.
This manifesto is entirely financially independent. It has no economic dependence or influence.
This manifesto is immune from lobbying. It has not been influenced or funded by any vested interest groups.
This manifesto is political. It calls for change in the way we treat nature in the UK - this will require strong and swift government action.

It is presented as a first draft, in hope and expectation of response

It has ideas on everything from introducing nature and outdoor learning into the national education curriculum, to stopping wildlife crime, to protected coastal areas to help conserve and boost fish populations and the fishing industry, to pesticides and their effect on bees and the broader biodiversity, to fox hunting, to the reintroduction of extinct keystone species, to the rewilding of desolate areas and the creation of more national parks.

My family and I had driven up from Devon that morning and even though the weekend had become classically drizzly, we now stood in amongst the mass of waterproofed and painted people and I was amazed by the shear variety standing around me. Parents, grandparents, children. Families and their dogs. Farmers and fishermen. People from all four corners of the country. All waving banners and brandishing placards.

Marching down Piccadilly

The talks and music, the ‘infotainment’ ended and the walk began. There was a good 10,000 of us according to police estimates and for a long time, as we walked down Piccadilly, I could not see either the front nor the back of the march. It had a strange kind of energy and a more civilised march I have not seen. Everyone had downloaded a recording of bird song and were playing it on their phones, emulating the sounds of nature in the London streets. Though the air of calm remained remained throughout there was a distinct sense of determination and as the event concluded outside Downing Street cheers and chants swelled as the closing speeches were made and the manifesto was walked into the Prime Minister’s house by Chris Packham and some youthful representatives.

With that the March was over. However, the Manifesto had just started its journey and who knows where that will lead. What’s definite is that to create any positive change, continuous pressure and recognition is needed. Particularly when debate, attention and, to a large extent, news coverage is so consumed by topics such as Brexit and Trump. There are other things in the world that require our attention. It’s interesting to note that on the Manifesto’s Webpage the final points end with this:

This Manifesto is yours. It is freely open to future contributions – we urgently need more ideas, discussion and debate to move conservation in the UK forward and cease the war on wildlife. Please distribute and please contribute.

And the statistics:

Between 1970 and 2013, 56% of UK species declined… of the nearly 8,000 species assessed using modern criteria, 15% are threatened with extinction… this suggests that we are among the most nature-depleted countries in the world.
> The State of Nature Report 2016

Author’s note

Wildlife has always been very important to me.

Having been embroiled in building work our back garden had become quite overgrown over the summer. When we had bought the property, it had been a neatly trimmed basic lawn mix of mainly ryegrasses, Kentucky blue grass and fescue grasses, common to most homes in Britain. However, over the weeks of work a small variety of other plants had sprung up in amongst the piles of bricks and soil and it amazed me how quickly we started seeing a greater amount of wildlife visiting us. Everything from butterflies to woodpeckers, voles to bats and bees to rats. We even had a leveret (a juvenile hare) hopping around for a while.

Wanting to make our garden a bit neater, but still a space for wildlife we recently spread a mix of wild meadow grass and flower seed about. All these were plants that were missing in the monoculture that had been there before, but which would have been present in the past up until the point that the land had been ‘improved’. Of course, our garden will now acquire a different quality as we will leave sections of the grass long most of the year round, but these areas will always be much more colourful, with their larger variety of flowers, than what was there before. It also means it will take us considerably less work looking after it as we will only need to mow areas and paths around our garden.

Ideas On

Analytical pieces which contain clear opinions

On March 30th, the penultimate day before the closure of the Bike Shed Theatre in Exeter, Ideas On Info held a debate about where ‘The Future of Theatre and The Arts’ might take us now, and how education, providing development spaces and Brexit might effect it?

Joining us was a panel of industry experts and creative minds, including:

David Lockwood – Director of The Bike Shed Theatre.
Kira Lewis - Student Governor at Exeter College
William Todd Jones - Local Master Puppeteer and Movement Consultant
Mark Wallace - Director of Beaford Arts

Chair - Silas Welsh

Filming and editing - Harry Willmott

Sound assistance - Jasper Wiseman

Sounds mixer - Robin Alexander

With thanks to the Exeter Bike Shed Theatre and StS Ltd.

Panelists - Mark Wallace, William Todd-Jones, Kira Lewis & David Lockwood

Sound - Jasper Wiseman

Sound Mixer - Robin Alexander

Recorded at Exeter Bike Shed Theatre with thanks to everyone who attended

Ideas On

Analytical pieces which contain clear opinions.

Please follow james on Twitter: @JamesKCraig

In April last year, I was lucky enough to be invited to speak at the 2017 TEDxExeter conference. The event was an amazing opportunity to hear impassioned talks on subjects ranging from preventing radicalisation, protecting our oceans, and community energy companies. What I was there to speak on, however, was something very much closer to my own heart: Brexit. More specifically, youth involvement in politics and how the Brexit vote might change young people’s attitudes to voting in elections and referendums.

The last year has been somewhat of a political rollercoaster - both for me personally, and for the country and world as a whole. We’ve had Donald Trump as US President for over a year, Theresa May has been Prime Minister for nearly two. We’ve seen vote shares for political parties plummet at points, and soar at others. So what, if anything, has changed in the year since I gave that talk?

I should probably start by clarifying that at the time of the referendum, I was PASSIONATELY a remainer. I’d done my research, read the papers, heard the politicians - and decided that remaining in the EU was the best decision (mostly economically) for the UK. As most people did, I expected remain to win. I thought it would be closer than some people were expecting (perhaps 55% - 45%) but I was confident in my belief that the issue of EU membership would soon be put to bed for a few years.

As you might imagine, I was surprised and upset on the morning after the vote to realise that this wasn’t the case. I remember vividly my abstract horror at the (seemingly) irresponsible and stupid decisions that had been taken by my countrymen and women. Being a young liberal, I was wrapped up in the short-term economic consequences. The initial plummeting of the pound had seemed to confirm my beliefs at the time, though we have of course seen fantastic growth since that point. Now, while certain elements of society are calling for a second referendum, I happen to think that we are set on a certain path now. Despite this, I’m certainly a lot more optimistic about post-Brexit Britain than I was at this point a year ago.

‘Why is that?’, you might quite justifiably ask me. Well, since my talk, I have begun my studies at the University of Liverpool. In my time here, I have met a lot of people with massively varying political beliefs. And, taking inspiration from my talk, I have tried to communicate with and understand the arguments of these people far more than I ever have in the past. People who I have talked with include several radical centrists, a self described ‘unrepentant fenian’, one-nation tories and more Marxists than you’d expect. The common theme with these young people? A desire to achieve real change. Whereas one or two years ago these people seemed almost ambivalent in their approach to politics, now I found there was a real desire to get involved (or at least stay informed). Whether they want to ‘kick the tories out’, develop ‘evidence-based policy’ or work towards ‘liberal reform’ - they are almost all becoming politically active. While some go out and campaign for the local associations, even many of those who are only passively interested do end up voting.

In the three general elections 2001, 2005 and 2010, people between the ages of 18 and 25 had an average turnout of about 40%. Last year, that figure was up to about 60%. That is a leap in turn out that we haven’t seen in years. Why did this happen? The Labour Party and Jeremy Corbyn managed to actually CONNECT with us. They offered us something tangible that significantly appealed to a lot of young voters and those young voters went out and, well, voted.

This fills me with a level of optimism - a level of optimism I admit I didn’t have even a year ago. If we, as young people, can go out and (to borrow a quote from my talk) set the world on fire, the politicians can actually take us seriously. The first consequences of our increased political attention spans have already appeared - whether it be railcards for under 30’s, or free bus transport for that same demographic - the people in Westminster are starting to realise that we are a group of individuals who they simply can’t afford to ignore. While the first offerings appear to be little more than attempts to buy us off, I feel confident that in time we will see more important strides to create policy that will be beneficial to us.

Being the first generation of people who have been exposed to internet and advanced forms of media through our formative primary and secondary school years - we are more switched on to the world than any generation before. With a wealth of information at our fingertips and the ability to observe our representatives from the comfort of our university dorm rooms, I hope that we can continue to harness our power to affect change by taking part in democracy and proving that we are worthy of attention.

Written by James Craig

James Craig is finishing his first year at the University of Liverpool studying History with Irish Studies. He did a talk at TEDxExeter 2017 whilst studying A-levels at Exeter College, and has remained active in politics ever since - standing as a city council candidate in the May 2018 Local Elections (however unsuccessfully!).

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 12

Day 33

Saturday

A small hut that we spotted on our journey to Siligury

Again, the bus stopped at a canteen. It was about 9 am but the sun was already shining down with considerable heat. The chairs and café area was inside a wattle and daub hut with thin mud walls and a tin roof. Its windows looked out onto an endless flat line of fields and wetlands as far as the eye could see. Indeed, the land around us had been totally flat for the last 3 hours or so of travel. We had come down off the mountains and were now on the plains bellow.

The windows of the bus were eternally open and the pollution and dirt entering through them stuck to our sweaty bodies so much that we could practically rub it off in roles of dark grime.

At 12 mid-day we got to the Nepalese – Indian boarder. We spent the last of our Nepalese rupees then found the Nepalese boarder office to get our stamp out in our passports. We had almost been in the country the full three weeks that our visas allowed.

The boarder consisted of a bridge and a river. On Nepal's side, water buffalo and farmers but not much more. On India's side, there were cows and farmers with the addition of armed guards. We wondered across in the baking sun. The border guards then directed us further and further down a road to immigration office. This was fine except that there were about 5 buildings that all looked vaguely official and had something to do with immigration written on the side of them.

Finally, we found the building. Inside were three men watching TV who in gruff, pissed off tones told us we needed to get printed copies of our passports and visas to give to them so we could re-entre. The print shop they directed us to was in a hut with a couple of ancient yellow stained printers. They probably got quite a lot of silly tourists like us who didn’t know that every document and to be copied at every place we went, including hotels.

Finally, all was sorted, they had cleared us to go through. We checked our passports and they had stamped the entrance stamp above the Nepalese Visa. It doesn’t matter where they go but even so.

From the boarder we got a cramped bus for ₹30 to Siliguri and then from there we tried to find a hotel. We had looked up hostels, but for some reason there was none. There were, however, a plethora of hotels and guest houses which varied massively in quality. Several of the ones we tried didn’t seem to have working lights, toilets or air conditioning, let alone clean rooms. They would have been about alright if we couldn’t find anything better (they were certainly cheap), but in the end we found a rather snazzy hotel of reasonable price and after the long journey this was great by us.

It was already late so we sat and rested, had much needed showers, then went down to the hotel restaurant that overlooked the road bellow. It was over staffed. We were the only people in there and each of the 6 or 7 waiters seemed to come up in turn and ask if we needed anything. Upon the foods arrival they then had to serve in onto our plates for us. No matter what we said they wouldn’t stop doing it. It was rather interesting because they all seemed rather underconfident and they would hang around at our shoulders and then retreat to watch us eat from a corner. We felt a little uncomfortable. The food was good though.

I went for an evening walk. The Streets were alive with people, car lights and shop fronts illuminating the road. There was amazing street food being sold on every corner. I went into an Indian sweet and cake shop and got chatting to the guy behind the counter who gave me a couple of cakes to try for experience. They were very sweet and extraordinarily different to what you would expect in a western sweet and cake shop. While walking back a man tried to teach me some Hindi and another man gave me some roasted peanuts from a wok full of them on his street stall. Everyone was very friendly.

Day 34

Sunday

Turned out breakfast was a self-service, Indian Style, set up with curry and japatis etc... or you could have a micro bowl of cornflakes and some sweet toast and jam, depending on how you felt. The waiters either stood around watching or did everything for us, which slightly undermined the point of the self-service. We didn’t want to offend their kindness though, and so only made a few muted attempts at saying we would rather do it ourselves before shutting up and allowing them to work the cornflake dispenser for us.

We got a tuk tuk to the train station with a speedy driver. Whatever he was doing it was definitely classed as dangerous driving but was also very good fun.

Small gauge train track form Siliguri to Darjeeling

Our proceeding search for the ticket reservation office took us on a walk all the way around the station. We saw the narrow gage Darjeeling hill train line which starts in Siliguri and works its way up into the hills and finally to Darjeeling, a place famous for its tea. Unfortunately, none of its iconic steam engines where about, as Darjeeling was taking strike action in protest to try and become their own independent state, instead of being part of West Bengal.

We found the reservation office in an unmarked corner away from the main station, filled out or reservation forms for which you always needed your passport (bum bag. Always carrying money and passports) and phone number. Neither of us had a phone that had any network coverage, but we would write down the number from the redundant Indian sim cards we had both bought all the same. 2AC tickets were about £20 each to get us from here to Kolkata (Calcutta) about 350 miles away.

We came across a tourist information centre, found out the only attractions in Siliguri were a safari, an ISKCON temple and three shopping malls. Apparently, it was more of a business city.

We decided to go to the ‘City Centre’ and got into a set-route communal tuk tuk which, to our surprise, drove us out of town and away from the centre of the city. It turned out ‘City Centre’ was actually one of the shopping malls on the outskirts of the city. 4 young lads who had jumped into the tuk tuk and started bantering at us offered to show as around. They were set up to play on a stage in the centre of the mall for ‘Friendship day’. What ‘Friendship day’ was and what you were supposed to do for it we weren’t sure, but then I guess the clue is in the name.

The mall mainly consisted of branded clothes shops with the occasional restaurant, momo stall or ice cream stand thrown in to mix things up. Between these there were the advertising boards with schools, medical practices and smart phones all displayed and vying for our attention. Indeed, the new Oppo ‘selfie expert’ phone was everywhere and seemed to be branded purely on its ability to take good pictures of oneself… but then looking around it was apparent that this was superbly targeted advertising. Couples and groups all stood about snapping away, capturing every moment of their experience in the mall for ever.

On the top floor was a cinema which had a total of three films showing on repeat until the end of the month. One of these was a Bollywood film called ‘How thingy met thingy’ or ‘When who-what met him-what’ or something else to do with the boy and girl meet up theme. Anyway, what ever it was titled, it was popular and was being shown every hour throughout the day for the month. There was only one film showing in English (Dunkirk) and this was on once at 9.50 in the morning. Despite the earliness, we were again seeking a little escapism and we booked tickets for the next day.

Searching for further amusement we decided to go to the only historic touristy building we had heard about: the ISKCON temple.

ISKON Temple Gardens

The temple and gardens were crowded. To enter the building, you had to deposit your shoes at a counter and go in bare foot (or with soaks of you had any). The inside was bright and highly decorated with casts and pictures of gods looking over the world and the people. There were charity stands and a lot of people praying and giving offerings. There was also a devoted music session taking place in the middle of the floor.

In the top of the temple was an incredibly kitsch sound and light show filled with all the essential fiberglass sculptures, wacky lighting and crackling speakers needed to make a haunted house. The place explained the creation story and the hellish consequences of sin. It was basically a fear-based morality warning, but it definitely seemed to be more like what you would find on a ghost train at a fair ground. The child in the guy’s arms next to us was certainly terrified.

We went back to our hotel on an electric tuk tuk. They are apparently being fazed in as they are cheaper, quieter and produce much less pollution. However, many drivers still seem to prefer the faster, easier-to-mend petrol gulping ones.

Day 35

Monday

The plan – to checkout, watch movie, go to the Bengali safari and then find somewhere nice to eat before getting our overnight train to Kolkata.

We left our rucksacks at the hotel and arrived at ‘City Centre’ to find an abandoned building. Gone were the hoards and masses of the day before, replaced with echoes and hollowness. The same went for the cinema. There was a total of about 6 people in there including us.

Upon emerging back into the real world, we tried to hail a taxi to take us to the safari only to be told it was closed on a Monday. For some reason, in most places we had been to, it seemed to be the policy that half the city would close down on a Sunday and then the other half on a Monday. We had fallen foul to this several times, and again now. Whether it’s organised which establishments close on which days or whether it’s up to each business I’ve no idea. It certainly seemed pretty random to us.

We decided after a lengthy discussion that walking the streets was not what we wanted to do. Instead we ended up working our way to another mall to see if the cinema there was showing a different film. There really was nothing else locally to do.

Again, we went via the Hong Kong Bazaar which, now it was a Monday, was open. It turned out to be less of a china town and more of a three-story block with numerous shops selling the exact same women’s clothing, very cheaply. We walked on through the busy, thriving streets.

He mall had the exact same clothing shops with a few changes and additions here and there as ‘City Centre’. The cinema had nothing we would be able to understand on. We did nothing. Then getting bored of doing nothing we sat and debated why there were so many malls, coming to the conclusion that it was something to do with a growing middle class who, for the first time, really had proper expendable wealth and nowhere they particularly wanted to spend it, other than while out on a shopping trip for the essential fashions of the modern age. It has to be said the malls were pretty amazing places and I could see the attraction; 4 or 5 stories of sparkling clean flours and shiny glass shop fronts displaying clothes of all colours, phones of the newest design and foods from clean cafes. Everywhere there were dapper people walking around the airconditioned building, going up and down the escalators and lifts and keeping out of the sweaty heat outside. To us the whole place felt out of place amongst and the other dusty shops and street stalls along the main roads, but then perhaps it is a foreshadow of what India may look like more and more in the future.

On the top floor we found the best smoothie place in the world, and sat happily slurping away while watching people go about their shopping trips.

Finally, the time came to find a place to eat supper. We went for food at a restaurant with waiters who would just walk off if they got board or distracted. This was vaguely amusing, bordering on irritating. Then we went and picked up our bags and, with the same speed crazy tuk tuk guy, disappeared off to the station to get our train.

On board we were top bunks, again allowing us to disappear into our isolated bubbles for the night, cut off from the world whizzing by just outside the carriage a few inches beyond our heads.

Ideas On

Analytical pieces that contain clear opinions.

It was announced on Friday, after lobbying for the Queen, that Prince Charles would indeed succeed in his mother’s role as the symbolic head of the Commonwealth of Nations. This may have seemed like quite obvious news, and in many ways, it was. But the position of head of the Commonwealth is not a hereditary one, and some were hoping that, given the many changes that the Commonwealth has seen, a different type of head might be sought.

Here is perhaps why:

The precursor to today’s Commonwealth of Nations was originally established in 1926 through the Balfour Declaration. This declaration established the British Commonwealth whose member nations were 'united by a common allegiance to the crown' – it also emphasised the equal status of the member nations to each other. Originally, the British Commonwealth of Nations (as it was then known) was mostly a tool used to preserve British influence in the increasingly independent Dominions of Canada, Newfoundland, South Africa, Ireland, New Zealand and Australia. It preserved this influence by putting the crown at the centre of the organisation so that Britain and its Dominions would stand together due to the sense of unity and duty that the crown demanded. The idea was that the monarchy’s image, symbolism and a sense of duty (remember that the monarch is supposed to be put here by god) would be a more powerful force than the rising nationalism that sought to divide the nations. Much like the thirteen colonies of America, the Dominions were looking for increased autonomy and were slowly but surely forming their own traditions and customs that were distinct from Britain. The success of this mission is debatable. Though dominions have long since disappeared, and though the crown retains a ceremonial role in four of the old dominions it conveys no tangible meaning to their citizens nor to their governments.

1958 Poster Soviet Propaganda postcard. Translation: "Returning from Egypt. The Anglo-French military intervention to Egypt ended up with a total fiasco. As a result, prestige and political position of the UK and France were weakened, economic difficulties intensified."

The Commonwealth has changed much since 1926. WWII brought the slow end of Empire and with it a slew of new countries to join the commonwealth. A distinction is sometimes made between the two waves of entry into the Commonwealth; the New Commonwealth and the Old Commonwealth. The Old Commonwealth can be referred to as the White Commonwealth, which was contrasted by the more diverse New Commonwealth countries of Africa and India, where white settlers were in the minority—contrarily to what was the case in Oceania and North America. The 50s, 60s and 70s saw the Indian Sub-Continent, Africa and the Caribbean decolonised. This new commonwealth was suddenly diversified, and its mission statement forced to evolve. Not many of these new Commonwealth Nations chose to keep the British monarch, feeling a much weaker cultural connection to Britain, its institutions and its Monarchy. Their heads of state and their people instead preferred to go down the route of republicanism – a path laid down by India. In fact, the 50s and 60s were rather muddy years for the Commonwealth. It saw the humiliation of the British during the Suez Crisis and the decline of the British economy – relative to Western Europe. Thus, some of the key benefits of being a member of the commonwealth, such as defence and economic ties, were dampened.

The Singapore Declaration of 1971 was key in the redefinition of the Commonwealth. I was issued at the very first Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) and established its new fundamental goals:

‘The Commonwealth of Nations is a voluntary association of independent sovereign states, each responsible for its own policies, consulting and co-operating in the common interests of their peoples and in the promotion of international understanding and world peace.’

It further added that:

‘These relationships we intend to foster and extend, for we believe that our multi-national association can expand human understanding and understanding among nations, assist in the elimination of discrimination based on differences of race, colour or creed, maintain and strengthen personal liberty, contribute to the enrichment of life for all, and provide a powerful influence for peace among nations.’

On that day the commonwealth was turned into an institution, at least on paper, akin to Amnesty International and the UN. Here after its raison d’être was the promotion of Human Rights, World Peace, the Rule of Law, Democracy, and Freedom of Speech. These values were further solidified by the Harare Declaration of 1991.

It is important to mention, that throughout this period, the Queen has remained the head of the commonwealth – a position that was created as India decided to become a republic but still wanted to remain a commonwealth member. But there is an important caveat to this role; it is not hereditary. Prince Charles, therefore, does not automatically assume the role of head of the Commonwealth. This has not been an issue as Elizabeth has reigned since long before the New Commonwealth properly came into existence. But with time moving on, the question of succession has started brewing, particularly leading up to the 2018 CHOGM.

King Tupou VI exits the church after his coronation ceremony in Nuku'alofa, Tonga, July 4, 2015.

For many, it may seem obvious that Prince Charles should succeed the Queen as head of the commonwealth. But today's commonwealth actually contains 6 monarchies (therefore maybe six different potential heads), those of; Britain, Brunei Darussalam, Lesotho, Malaysia, Swaziland and Tonga—as well as many other republican heads of sates. Only 16 out of the 53 (including the UK) share Elizabeth as their monarch – some of whom are very likely to drop the British monarchy upon Charles succession. The majority (32/53) of the commonwealth are republics. A change of head of state would reflect the changing nature of the Commonwealth. A big criticism of the Commonwealth is its imperial and colonial connotations and that the monarch reflects the past not the future. It has also been seen as just another way for the British to exploit her old Empire, by using her influence to gain favourable trade agreements. A point that is more relevant now given Brexit and politicians’ claims that we should look to the Commonwealth for good trade – though good for whom is the question?

A change in head of state could have proven that the British are committed to the Commonwealth’s mission statement – set out in the London and Harare Declarations.

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 11

Day 30

Wednesday

Leon had ordered a personalised pattern to be stitched on a shirt of his choice from one of the shirt shops. We were supposed to have picked it up the day before but after our walking round the city in search of temples we had just felt too tired. So, this morning we disappeared off into the thrall of Thamel to pick it up. This involved identifying which shop it was that we had actually ordered it from out of the many lining the streets with their lavishly displayed fronts.

From there we walked to the Palace Museum. This was quite literally the original palace of King before Nepal decided to abolish the Monarchy and become a Federal Democratic Republic in May 2008 after a way to help bring to an end their 10 year long civil war.

The museum was closed, so with google maps in hand we dawdled along to a park to sit for a while. You had to pay entry. Other than it being a clean space with lots of seats and Wi-Fi, there wasn’t really anything there. Most people just seemed to be sitting in the shade on their phones or taking selfies.

An increadibly detailed figure

After the ensuing boredom and lack of enthusiasm reading our bought books, Leon’s phone, being a font of knowledge, told us that the National Museum was a short taxi ride away. The place was made up of three buildings, the main one of which was built by Nepal’s first prime minister. They were each designed in their own style; one looking like some French stately home, the other two looking a little temple like with multiple roof layers and elaborate carvings. The first two were art galleries and were mostly filled with wood, stone and metal carvings and casts of various Hindu gods of Buddhist figures. Though these were all intricately designed and utterly incredible, each one probably taking hours and hours of work, they were also all pretty much the same. The curation and documentation was generally rather poor, or in fact often it was non-existent and so we did not learn much. The whole place felt slightly run down, though it was out of season and maybe we were just being particularly unreceptive that day. I was definitely feeling a little flat. Our favourite bit was a fantastically bad taxidermy section filled up with many native animals and a funny mirrors section.

We spent most of our amble around following a couple who were far more interested in taking selfies and pictures of each other than actually looking at the artefacts. Sadly, the four of us seemed to be the only visitors in the place.

After a dodgy light lunch, we visited the Nepal Military Museum which was literally opposite the National. For anyone who likes guns and machinery this is an interesting place to go. It had a lot of info and walked us through a strange, but fascinating non-linear time line of Nepalese military history with everything from victory paintings to the evolution of uniforms.

By the time we got back to our hostel it was already early evening. I decided to go present shopping and spend a while trying my hand at haggling as, up to this point, there genuinely had not been the time available to experiment. It turned out that taking the time to stand and chat to shop owners, while studying their wears and looking doubtful was a good way of working down to a decent price. I was on a low budget after spending so much the previous day and I let them know it. It’s not so much that you want to rip them off or anything. It’s more they are just very good at selling things and keeping a person in their shop until you have bought something. Part of their brilliance is that they are just so genuinely nice and relaxed to chat to that, by the end of a conversation, you want to buy something purely as a sign of thanks for their friendliness. If you don’t keep your thoughts straight you can end up spending a lot of money.

I bought a few things and then got chatting to a guy walking down the street about good presents for family. He knew a sari fitters and we ended up on a twenty-minute stroll through the streets, chatting about life and the local area while we went to find it. It was an iridescent, brightly coloured stall, throwing shafts of warm light out into the shadowy street. I went in and feeling rather embarrassed realised there was nothing I could afford. I so wanted to buy something, but both my finances and the space in my bag had substantially diminished since our arrival in Kathmandu. I took their card and tried to extricate myself from the shop. My new friend didn’t seem to mind and we walked all the way back to the exact place he had met me, chatting all the while. Apparently, he worked in the massage parlour just down the street.

The variety of places to eat was immense, each of them offering different cultural dishes from different countries around the world. I met up with Leon and we went out for some Mexican food at a place with a fantastic live band playing traditional Nepalese music on tabula, bansuri and sarangi. Coincidentally two Dutch people from our hostel walked in and we invited them to join us to eat. It is great being able to sit at a table with people you barely know and have the most fascinating conversations purely because you can and because you are both having the same new experiences. Being mutually unsure (or scared or happy) with other people is a fantastic way to bond.

Day 31

Thursday

Breakfast has always been my favourite meal of the day. This probably isn’t true, as lunch and supper, followed closely by any other time we eat, are also fantastic times to be alive. However, it is the shear simplicity of breakfast that has always attracted me to it; the fact that it basically only ever includes three key components: the receptacle (plate or bowl), the main thing (toast or cereal) and the complimentary addition (the spread or the milk etc). There are so many variations on those simple morning items that it is almost silly. Breakfast is the food that can be made so fast and enjoyed so much whether you are eating it in the morning or at night after getting back late. I had almost been craving it over our trip. Anyway, I divulge. All the above is probably bollocks.

We got up and had some fantastic muesli with yoghurt and fresh fruit. It was mind-blowingly good after mainly eating quite bready, heavy foods for the past weeks.

Again, we tried the palace museum and again it was closed, but only until 11. This gave us some time to kill and we skittered around the block ridding some silly unexpected energy burst we had gained to find a cinema. The sudden urge to watch a film overcame us and we went to see if they did anything in English. They didn’t, but there was one across town that did, right next to the city zoo. We decided to head towards both, after going around the palace.

The ‘Narayanhity’ palace, as it was called, was built in 1963 by the then king after he ordered the demolition of the original one on the same site. The estate consisted of a complex of gardens, outhouses and the main building. Though it was incredible on the whole, it had a slightly kitsch 1960’s feel about it. The concrete building was filled with mirrors and endless numbers of stately rooms for different occasions, painted in overly bright and lurid colours and filled with amusing sculptures and plaster work.

In 2001 the Nepalese royal family, including the king and queen, were shot dead in one of the outhouses at the palace by the crown prince and hair to the throne. He then turned the gun on himself and spent the next three days in a coma, during which time he was crowned king before being announced brain dead. We had never heard about any of this and we walked through the site of the royal massacres reading the noticeboards in a subdued state of shock. The buildings had been demolished.

Our fantastic lunch of fried momo and veg

We got a taxi to the cinema which turned out to be in a shopping mall full of branded shops. ‘War of the Planet of the Apes’ was on later in the afternoon and so we booked tickets, happy to go and see anything that was available, and then headed off to the zoo. Entrance was incredibly expensive, but after going all the way there we decided to lump it and go in anyway. There were some incredible animals (particularly the collection of pheasants), but on the whole they were often in small cages and many of these appeared to be empty (though we were also, slightly stupidly) short of time and so didn’t spend long enough looking in most.

Stuck in the rain

Typically, half way round and as far from the exit as was possible to be, it started raining. The steady droplets evolved into a torrential downpour and we were forced to shelter. Every now and then the falling flood would lessen and we would make a dash for it, now very aware that we might be late to get back to see the film. What should all have been a relaxing experience was becoming a piss-taking game played with some omnipotent dice. We decided we weren’t going to play and ran through the rain back to a taxi. We bartered harshly, failed, payed up and then rushed back to the mall now totally soaked.

The cinema was pretty swanky. The security guards on the entrance gave everyone entering a search and they removed our water bottles and food from our bag. This was irritating as the food and drinks counter was massively expensive. I ended up buying some sickly-sweet toffee popcorn stuff that I could barely eat.

Upon emerging back out into the world we felt strangely relaxed. The cinema exit opened onto the roof and we spent 10 minutes stood there looking out over the city in a quite zen link state before descending back down into the hustle and bustle of the mall.

As we worked our way out we walked past a guy with a go pro on a selfie stick filming his walk round the shopping centre. This struck us as slightly humorous, but then most people continuously had their phones in their hands snapping away.

Got a taxi home, went to a rooftop restaurant and then spent the rest of the evening at Zostel drinking beer with and Aussie woman, two Scots men (one of whom was celebrating his 23rd birthday), a German man, and Spaniard, and a Hungarian woman. It was a rather entertaining evening. I even managed to give away my sleeping bag liner which I was going to have to get rid of now I had gone and bought so much stuff.

Most hostels have a travellers’ swap box or similar that you can leave stuff in if you can’t find anyone to pass useful items onto.

Looking out across the city

Day 32

Friday

Our bus to the Napalese boarder at kakarbhitta was going to take about 20 hours and we were set to leave around 3.30pm.

I woke up early desperately needing the loo. Normally this is a natural problem with an easy solution, but this morning every single bathroom in the building was missing toilet roll. We had used all of ours over our trek and hadn’t thought to replenish supplies so now I was left helplessly running around a building full of sleeping people trying not to shit myself. All the staff seemed to have disappeared.

I hopelessly walked outside and found a Canadian guy had appeared from somewhere. The ensuing conversation went something along the lines of. “Up early?” I asked.

“Yeah I’ve just been out to get a coffee. This place is fucking crap. I’m up this early every morning and they never fucking have anything to serve drinks. It’s the only hostel I’ve been to where they don’t have a fucking kitchen or a hot flask or something. And now I want to pick up my washing before I head out and, I mean, where the fuck is everyone? It’s just fucking awful. I was here three times yesterday and there was no one at the fucking desk. I mean for fuck sake! It’s just crap. What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to find a loo with toilet roll.”

“Ah fuck yeah. I have that problem every morning. They never put any spare in. It’s like they don’t want you to fucking use it. No worries man, I’ve got a roll.”

“Thanks.”

“No worries. There’s never anyone around this fucking place."

I’ve got to admit I had no idea whether I should offer him back what was left of the role of toilet paper afterwards. It’s just one of those conversations I have never had with a stranger.

After having breakfast and packing, Leon and I sat in the common room and relaxed. I played guitar, we read stuff and snoozed on the mats laying around the space. At some point I went for a walk, then we had some lunch and got a taxi to the bus station ready to head back towards India.

Naturally upon arrival there was a hoard of people trying to convince us to go to their bus companies ticket counter. Thankfully we had already bought our tickets the day before and we were taken to our bus, which for the first time actually had comfy, non-slanty seats with a large amount of leg room.

I assume bus companies just tell tourists to arrive at an earlier time to make sure we get there, because the bus didn’t actually leave until about 5 pm and even then, it took us about 45 mins to get out of the bus station. The buses were parked so close together that they had to shunt continuously back and forth to manoeuvre round each other. Within 5 minutes we were being fumigated by exhaust smoke coming in through the open windows.

The journey itself was again a case of shuddering and jerking down windy single-track roads with traffic in both directions. A large proportion of the night was spent sat in a procession of other busses, all of which would have to stop for 15 or 20 minutes every time there was a jam or collision. At one point we sat still for about 1 hour 30 mins. But is was ok, the bus had a TV screen (result!) and they were now subjecting everyone to a whole load of Bollywood music videos (all of which were amazing funny and featured wacky dancing, usually along a boy meets girl theme). I really enjoyed them. This was followed by a Bollywood cop movie, in which main characters had the unnerving ability to disappear from the story line for long periods of time before re-appearing as if they had been there the whole time. The story line barely hung together, but that wasn’t the point. It had some fantastic fight scenes and was very amusing.

I spent most of the night watching the line of bus lights slowly descending down the mountain side in front and behind us. At about two in the morning, after trying and failing to go to sleep the bus stopped at a road side canteen where we managed to grab some noodles and a packet of biscuits before settling down to sleep again.

Info On

Objective pieces of writing designed to inform

A short piece about Dee.

I first met Dee when we were just starting out on rehearsals for a musical play as part of a local arts festival. Dee is a unique person. She has a particular condition that has changed the way in which she has developed. Due to her height and looks I initially mistook her for someone younger than me, before realising she was in fact several years older. When we met I was instantly struck by her outgoing friendliness and ability to engage anyone and everyone. She had an elating buoyancy that couldn’t help but be contagious.

Throughout our rehearsal process she would regularly tell me about all the amazing things she was doing, much of which was to do with her connections with the This Girl Can campaign. It was fantastic and now, a year after the last musical songs concluded from that wonderful play in which she performed, we thought it would be interesting to hear more. So we at Ideas On Info asked her if she wanted the opportunity to write a short piece on herself. Here’s what she had to say.

Hi I’m Dee Weiner and I’m 24 years old. I have a rare chromosome deletion on 20q13.1q13.3.

I have moderate learning difficulties and attention deficit disorder, dyslexia and dyspraxia as well as developmental delays. I have muscle and bone weakness and I stand at 4ft 2ins. I was a #This Girl Can Ambassador for inclusion in 2017 for Mid Devon. The This Girl Can campaign is to help get women and girls and young people to get more active in sports. I play badminton with Queens Badminton Club and Devon Racqueteers Disability badminton club and I’m a member of Special Olympics south west. I played badminton at the 2017 National Special Olympics summer games in Sheffield and won medals there. The special Olympics is for people with learning difficulties.

Dee at the 2017 National Special Olimpics

Sports England research revealed a large gap between the numbers of women participating in sport compared to men. Their study concluded that this was not down to women not wanting to be active, but instead down to a fear of judgment. Thus, the This Girl Can campaign was born. An initiative designed to inspire and allow women and girls to get active and proud of it. Now in its third year it has had major successes and won several awards. But hey, these things always need to get out to more people. Until Dee told me, I had never heard of it and so here you are. This is us passing on that knowledge.

Whenever I meet Dee she always seems to have been doing amazing things both at home or at competitions across the country. Hopefully Dee’s successes might interest and inspire anyone reading this. After all, there are always new things to try and opportunities to find. Support to get active and ways to have fun. We just need to know that they are there.

By Dee Weiner and Silas Welsh

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 10

Day 27

Sunday

We were up early to pack our stuff. The plan was that this morning there would be an assembly at which we would present the scholarship money to the 15 awarded students. After this we would eat and then, due to bus times, immediately get a bus to Kathmandu.

We went to the canteen, got tea and biscuits and then sat and waited. All 900 students started arriving for their 10am school start and slowly assembled in the yard into lines with the rest of their class.

Students assemble in the yard

The assembly was started with everyone singing the Nepalese National Anthem and the school song. We were sat up on a raised area with the staff and the parents of the student who had been given the scholarship. One by one the students were invited up on stage and Leon put on a Sindoor (a red powder paint dot applied to the forhead) and I would present them with the scholarship envelope. Photos were taken, we were given some presents (a traditional Nepalese hat and ceremonial scarf plus an Earthly Paradise T-shirt) and then asked to say some words in front of everyone. The assembly then disbanded and we ate in a rush, said our goodbyes and ran for the bus which left at 11.

The 15 students with their scholarship envolopes

I’m not sure if it was just me still recovering from the illness of the previous days or whether this bus was particularly uncomfortable but I really didn’t enjoy this journey. The roads were flatter than previous trips but still bumpy. The suspension seemed to be shot, the seats were slanted, the leg room was cramped and the traffic outside the open windows was awful! There was grit, dust and fumes swirling behind every vehicle. The bus stopped for a 20-minute late lunch at a road side canteen (of which there are many) and then we spent the rest of the afternoon stuck in a traffic jam getting into the city. It got no better in the city as we waited in the non-existent lanes of honking, smoking, bumper to bumper machines to move shear yards along the roads.

By the time we got off the bus, onto the road side at a sprawling junction, it was about 8 pm In the haste to exit we had both managed to forget one of the filter water bottles that we had been using for all our drinking water since arriving.

We bartered our way into a taxi and headed for Thamel: a region of Kathmandu famous for its restaurants, touristyness and abundance of hostels and hotels. Leon had tried to book us a hostel online but it had refused to accept his card. So, this left us wondering around trying to work out where to stay. Luckily there really were hotels everywhere and after finding a relatively cheap one we crashed. I felt wiped out and Leon was having to put up with a very grumpy Silas. We grabbed a veggie burger each and then headed for our room. The beds were blissful and the TV even had some familiar European channels on it. I slept so well.

Day 28

Monday

They actually had hot water! After two weeks with only one hot shower this was heavenly.

We went down stairs to breakfast. Feeling a need for the familiar we both ordered toast, only to be sorely disappointed. Finding a place that can provide you with butter that is not rancid or at best not sweaty or strangely flaky is a rarity and this place wasn’t it. We ate the two pieces of plain toasted bread. Best to go for something more traditional perhaps.

We left to go and find the youth hostel that we wanted to be at, a place called ‘Zostel’. We found it down an alley with two or three other hostels next door. It looked pretty chic with its own café and giant colourful mural paintings stretching up the walls. It turned out the internet price for the hostel was in Indian rupees (we had naturally though it was in Nepalese rupees), making it a fair amount more expensive than we had expected. But then everywhere else was the same and so we stayed. It is in the capital city after all.

We handed over a load of washing and then went to find the ‘Garden of Dreams’. We walked via Thamel and its innumerable book shops from which we bought far more than we probably should have.

A spider's web of electrical wires

The ‘Garden of Dreams’ was an amazing serine place that seemed to be the haunt of lots of young couples. The café there had wonderful food but was extortionately expensive and we managed to blow more money that we should have done having a lunch there.

From here we wondered around aimlessly, found an ATM and then went back into Thamel to find a cake shop. On the walk back to Zostel we got distracted by a shirt shop. There were rows of them each with brightly coloured T-shirts displayed around their fronts. Every shirt had a fantastic pattern embroidered on it, usually in a kaleidoscope of the most brightly coloured threads, all done manually by a person with a sowing machine sat in a corner of the shop. We bought a load.

After arriving back at our hostel, we went up to the common room where we got chatting to a pair from the Netherlands. They had just arrived to go trekking and we told them about our mad walk of the past few days before all going to the OR2K restaurant and spending the evening there, cross-legged on their cushioned mats eating some of the best food we had had thus far.

Day 29

Tuesday

Upon recommendation we went to see the ‘Monkey Temple’; a Buddhist place of prayer on top of a hill with an amazing view of the surrounding city. There are of course lots of monkeys everywhere.

Then to Durbar Square which had many amazing ancient buildings and temples, all covered in intricate carvings. Unfortunately, many were damaged or destroyed in the 2015 earthquake that shock the Kathmandu valley and indeed the whole of Nepal.

We hired a guide who talked a lot and seemed to say the same thing over and over again, mainly about Buddhist and Hindu religious culture, but couldn’t give us that much information about the buildings themselves. He did however show us around a lot of interesting places. This included a sex temple that was built with lots of rather visual carvings used as a way to educate people and encourage them to have more intercourse. It even suggested a whole load of positions to try. According to our guide it was built partly in response to lots of people becoming celibate monks and a worry about a low birth rate.

Our guide took us to a Buddhist Lama’s shop. The proprietor explained the layout and make up on a Mandela and the path to Nirvana as well as the three levels of Buddhist religious dedication: an ordinary person that follows the Buddhist ideology, a lama who has studied the texts and is considered an authority on aspects of Buddhism and a monk who lives a celibate life away from the rest of the community.

Now fairly knackered we walked back to Zostel and had supper in their café, followed by a communal showing of a ‘Game of Thrones’ episode. The only other person watching this turned out to be an Indian-British economist working for the World Bank. Naturally the rest of the evening was spent talking politics and economics and him giving us some inside knowledge on the banking situation in London post Brexit. It sounded like a lot was moving and that the sector was going to get hit pretty hard. Leon and our new friend got deep into a political-economic discussion that, in a tired state, I felt un able to contribute to. With a brain that seemed to have ceased being able to run any cognitive processes I left them to it and went to bed.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 12

Ideas On

An analytical piece of writing which contains clear opinions.

Established from the ashes of the League of Nations, in the aftermath of WWII the core body of the UN has changed little in composition. Currently there are five permanent members of the SC (Security Council), the UK, France, Russia, the USA, and China. This raises several questions, why are three of the five SC members western? Where is African and S. American representation?

It should be noted that the Security Council doesn’t just include the permanent five, and actually has 15 members in total. But the permanent 5 have much more power than the other 10 because of their veto. Therefore, this article will focus primarily on the 5 permanent seats and not the reform of the entire Security Council.

Before we discuss Security Council reform, we should first understand its role and history. Article 24 (Chapter V, UN Charter) states that the role of the Security Council of the United Nations is 'the maintenance of international peace and security'. Effectively this mean that, should a threat to international security emerge, for example a civil war, or violation of another member state's sovereignty (an invasion). It is the SC's job to de-escalate this conflict and hopefully resolve it. The most recent UNSC (United Nations Security Council) resolution, for example, is on 'The situation concerning the Democratic Republic of the Congo'. A conflict that has been ongoing in one form or another since the early 2000s.

Permanent five members of the UN Security Council in 1945 (bear in mind the huge wave of decolonisation after this period).

But we need to put this into further context, for the world has changed much since the end of WWII. Today we are used to the idea that there is really only one superpower (USA) and a couple potential superpowers (China, Russia, the EU, and India). But 1945 was an era of three superpowers. Namely the UK, the USSR and the USA. In this context the make-up of the Security Council makes much more sense. The three superpowers are all represented so as to give the UNSC as much power (to solve crises) as possible. Though one may rightly ask why France and China were represented at this time. The fact is that France was admitted because she was an allied power, and though she had been invaded and defeated in WWII she was still much more powerful than your average European country. As a whole then, when we take the American sphere of influence, and then add to that the Russian (USSR), British and French Empires (which still existed at that time) practically the whole world was covered. Africa divided North South by the British and French, Oceania by both the British ( with Australia, Papua New Guinea, and New Zealand) and America (with the Philippines). The Asian world by the French (with Indochina), the Soviets (with Russian land that reaches all the way east), the British (with India and Burma), and the Americans (with South Korea, and Japan). Europe was broadly under American influence and protection (NATO 1949 onwards), and the areas that were not under American protection were under Soviet influence. South America was a similar story. China’s seat at that time is a little more difficult to explain. One may be tempted to say that she is therefore purely political in reasons. Because the seat was given to the government of what we now call Taiwan in the West due to the ideological similarities and fear of the local chinese opposition – the communists. The People’s Republic of China (today’s China) was not given the UNSC seat until 1971. The move to give the PRC the seat was thus a reflection of reality (China was communist not western).

Permanent five members of the UN Security Council in 2019.

Today, however, the UNSC is much less representative. Long gone are the USSR, and the British and French Empires. The post war period became synonymous with decolonialisation and the creation of brand new and independent nation states in Africa, Asia and Oceania. The UK can no longer claim to represent, in any way, the best interests of her old protectorates (Malawi, Kenya, etc..) or dominions (Australian, Canada, South Africa) and even less those of the Republic of India – a country very much on the path to superpower status. This equally applies to France and her old empirical lands. One might be tempted to say that this power has simply been passed on to the USA, and broadly speaking this is true. But America is not an imperial power, her ideology (not that she always follows it to the word) prevents full blown subversion of other countries. She prefers instead to use her political and economic influence when possible. America does not have colonies, and though she does regularly use her military, she has not since WWII taken full administrative control over another country (America did have colonies such as the Philippines circa 1898). In addition to this, many of the old colonial possessions have accumulated power themselves. Australia, New Zealand, and Canada are all wealthy countries with varying degrees of significant economic and political power within their respective geographical and economic circles. India is another excellent example of a successful ex-colony; her economy has grown ceaselessly since independence as well as her political and military power (she now has aircraft carriers as well as a nuclear arsenal). China, though not an ex-colony, has done much to slowly tip the balance of power away from the west. China is just about to finish her first supercarrier and has ambition to re-build the silk road (a project that would reroute much international trade through Asia). Also, much like the laws that govern the conservation of energy, global influence is always gained at the expense of another’s. The UK no longer has the largest navy in the world, today the Royal Navy only just retains the status of a Blue Water Navy — that is to say a navy cable of being mobilised at a moments notice to anywhere on the globe. The same applies to France who only has only one aircraft carrier – a key component of a Blue Water Navy. Today the UNSC’s permanent members can only reasonably claim to represent Europe, China and the USA.

This is where India comes into play. As already mentioned she is an up-and-coming power with a growing military and economy. Permanent membership for India would be an acknowledgement of the changing balance of power. Also, India happens to have the most international support amongst the other permanent members with the UK saying that she supports:

'new permanent seats for Brazil, Germany, India and Japan, alongside permanent African representation'

Her membership is equally supported by the USA, France, and Russia. The only real obstacle for India is China. France also supports the membership of Brazil, Germany and Japan alongside an African nation. But the biggest argument against such a move is that the UNSC would become ungovernable. A UNSC with ten permanent members, all with a veto, is less likely to come to a consensus that a UNSC with only 5 members.

There is, however, another suggested alternative to simply adding more permanent members. This would be to dissolve the UK and French seat into a European seat (something admittedly more difficult after Brexit, but not impossible) leaving only 4 permanents thus leaving space for India. This European seat would also act as a representative for Germany, thus withdrawing the need to have a German seat. Such restructuring of the permanent seats would much better represent the current balance of power and would not overly complicate the organisation or reduce the chances of consensuses within the UNSC P5. This would leave out Japan and Brazil as well as Africa, but as of yet, Brazil and Japan don’t have the military, political and economic growth of India. Japan is still in recession and is all but totally reliant on the US for defence. Brazil is in arguably more economic and political turmoil and has little military might. There is, to date, no African country that can realistically compete either. This is not to say that thing might not change in the future, Japan and Brazil’s economies can recover and their military and political influence still grow. What can be said without doubt is that the UNSC P5 must reflect the geopolitical reality in order to remain relevant and pragmatic, and to do so it must change.

…

Article updated on the 7th April 2019

Written by Leon Davies

Editor Ideas On Info and Student studying History with Politics at the University of Buckingham.

Fable On

Fictitious stories, poetry and comedic writings

I have a short story on which you must dwell,
About all this plastic, what a tale to tell…

For you see,

It fills up the dumps in this beautiful land,
It clogs up our lives, the sea and the sand.
It doesn’t biodegrade, it only breaks down,
Into millions of micro bead plastics that can never be found.

So I’ve taken to paper to scribe in pen,
To tell you the truth, without trying to offend,
There’s a new geological epoch, for which we are to blame,
Caused by human influence, not a testament to our fame,
For, the new Earth layer can be so obviously seen,
It’s a layer of plastic, the Anthropocene.

Do we have any right to do this to our future,
Where our kids and their kid’s kids will have to live, love and nurture?

The irony is that plastic is so temporary,
We use it just once then throw it away empty.
Carrier bags, nylon rope, drinks cups and straws,
Kids toys, food packaging and PVA doors.
There are so many alternatives, but I’ll name just a few,
Cardboard, wood and metal, intelligent usage too.

And so due to this trouble that plastic can cause,
We should really get together and use our united force,
To say ‘No more, let’s stop this right here’,
Before we do more damage to our planet so dear.

For, this plastic is awful, it was created at our hand,
It really, quite simply, should long ago have been banned.

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 9

Day 24

Thursday

Today we were to head up to Baglungpani (a village 1000 meters or so up into the hills) to visit the a state school there who’s head teacher, Bil, was a friend we had been told to make contact with when arranging our trip to Nepal.

We got up early and packed a single day bag as we only wanted to spend a night or two up there and had been told that there was accommodation. We ate our usual dal bhat breakfast and set off with 4 boiled eggs and some salt in store for lunch. Apparently, these were quite a standard thing in Nepal to have while walking. Protein and salt. One of the Janitors guided us to the base of the track that disappeared up into the mountains surrounding Besisahar. Then we set some music on Leon’s phone and plodded on up in the heat of the rising sun.

Three and a half hours later, after following a track up an almost vertical rockface, we arrived, popping out over the brow of a rise onto a football pitch with a village spreading out behind. There was no one in sight. We had been given particular instructions to find a family run café who were looking after the keys to our accommodation while Bil was apparently out.

Our arranged place of habitation turned out to be a neat little house with two bedrooms and an indoor and outdoor social space. It unfortunately had no shower, which we had been hoping for after the walk, but there was instead a large collection of books and games for us to immerse ourselves in. The beds had mattress covers but no sheets. This was a problem for us as we had not brought any sleeping bags. The whole building had a slightly aged, irregularly used feel about it, but at the same time seemed very homely and welcoming to be in. It was named ‘Rutter House’ after a British woman, Elizabeth Rutter, who had sponsored the building and supported the school. Any volunteers the school had were hosted here.

Wondering around the town we discovered there really wasn’t very much and barely anyone around. There were lots of Buddhist flags, and a very tranquil view. It felt like a place one might go on a writers retreat.

Bil and us

Bil arrived and invited us out for a traditional dal bhad supper in the family run café. He was a lovely, soft-spoken man and we spent the evening drinking raksi wine, talking about the school and politics over a fantastic meal. Apparently, he was not happy with the government either. Politically there still seemed to be a lot of problems. Nepal had been in civil war between 1996 and 2006 and Bil told us about how he had become the head teacher partly because no one else would take the role. They were scared. Head teachers had been killed by opposing fractions of the war because of their influential power over the education of peoples’ children.

After a long while we said good night and retired to our rooms. I studied the interesting range of books, choosing a few to read in bed.

Day 25

Friday

I’ve taken to carrying a pair of socks with me most places I go just so I can keep my feet warm at night. I find if my feet are warm then usually so is the rest of my body. Unfortunately, as we were coming up the hill one of my socks must have fallen out of our bag and so I had had only one warm foot all night.

I got up about 6 am having repeatedly woken up cold most of the night, my shorts and shirt not being enough to keep off the chill. At some point I had wrapped a spare pair of pants round my other foot and pulled the bed sheet off round me to try and retain some more warmth, but it hadn’t helped much.

The morning was beautiful and clear. I sat outside for about 10 minutes before Leon emerged looking a similar state to how I felt. Apparently, his bed had partially collapsed in the night and he had ended up sleeping in some strange curved position like a bruised banana. We both felt utterly energy less and realised that we obviously hadn’t recovered from all our walking the week before.

We went for breakfast (again at this little family restaurant – it seemed to be the only place doing food) – Tibetan bread, japatis and honey. So good was it that we tried for seconds, but had to settle for japatis and omelette instead. Of course this was lovely as well.

Bil had invited us to look around his school the night before. From what we had heard, Nepalese schools and were split into state and private schools. The state schools generally teach in Nepali and are free but have a set syllabus and holidays. The private schools offer boarding accommodation though of course are not free. They also generally teach in English and are allowed to choose their own syllabus. Even though state schools were technically on holiday at the moment, Bil was still running early morning classes for those who wanted them.

A gap in the school building to mitigate the damage casued by earthquake

We walked in on the end of an English lesson and were invited to come and observe at the back of the class. On the wall was a list of irregular verbs in their different tenses and forms, the arrangement of which I realised I had never really understood. On the board they were learning about two-part positive propositions, ‘If you would like tea, I will get some for you’ and how to form them. Then how to adapt them with ‘I shall’, ‘I would’ etc.

For me as first language speaker of English who has never really studied its structure, only learnt it through practice, this was really interesting. Not for the first time, I understood just how difficult a new language is to understand, let alone learn. Particularly all the subtleties of tenses with each one having a slightly different meaning.

Bil showed us around the school buildings and we spent a while in the library looking through their collection of slightly aged books. Each building had a placard on it with a different sponsor: a German couple, a school in France, a couple from Holland, a rotary club in Cornwall UK. One room had a banner showing photos of the school since its opening. The evolution of the site could be clearly seen from a few huts to the currently square of 7 or 8 buildings.

We took photos, signed visitors’ books and said thanks to Bil for his kindness and hospitality, then with that decided to depart back down the mountain. The weather forcast had been for rain and low cloud but the current blue sky looked like it would hold and neither of us could face another sleepless night.

We descended easily and quickly, arriving back in Besisahar just in time to get some lunch. School was not on, we had been told, because of a Hindu festival and so we went for samosas and curry in a little sit-down restaurant. Through some order misunderstanding we were given two sickly sweet pasty things each. We had only wanted one to try. They probably should have been quite nice, but we were hot, dehydrated simply not in a sugar mood so to us they were barely edible. Plus they had ants stuck to them.

At this point I started feeling a bit odd and we went back to our room to catch up on some sleep. However, come the time of dal bhat that evening I was still not right. My body was freezing and yet my temperature was up. My joints were aching and I felt flat. I went back to bed without eating and proceeded to be horrendously ill that night.

I will not go into detail here. All I will say is that squat loos are not designed to be used by both ends of one’s body at the same time. They are however probably slightly more suited to this use than western loos, though that night I would have given a lot for a seat to have been able to sit on.

Day 26

Saturday

It was a Saturday, no one was in school and it was raining, which was good because I was in no fit state to do anything other than lie down. Having been up once every hour for most of the night, I had finally managed to get a decent amount of sleep in the early hours of the morning. Although I still just wanted sleep… which worked out to be great, because my body seemed to want me to do that as well.

The day pretty much consisted of me dosing while Leon sat and read and occasionally went out to buy things like coke and toilet role (or more accurately small packets of pocket tissues which were the only thing available). Both our medical bag and our diarrhoea kit were now quite thin on the ground.

In the afternoon I started to feel noticeably better and we sat up and played cards, me on occasion stopping to try the odd bit of food. I was measuring my improvement in biscuits and lemongrass tea. The lovely school cook (for staff and boarding students) had been providing us with a tray every couple of hours. Every time one arrived I was able to consume a few more biscuits and a few more sips of tea than the previous times.

Walking in the rain with the head master

At about 2.30 Uddhab, the Head Master of the Earthly Paradise, came by and invited us over to his house for tea that evening. He told us he had just returned from visiting his mother’s brother in a custom of the festival the day before.

I decided it was about time I got up and stopped mooching around, so put some clothes on and went to get some fresh air.

An hour later we were sat with Uddhab, his wife, to daughters, mother and father. We spent a good proportion of the evening there just chatting. The custom of inviting people over for tea is fantastic. Everyone was being so kind.

I was still no feeling ready for dal bhat that night and ate little then headed for bed. Tomorrow was going to be a big day. We were planning to head for Kathmandu.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 11

Fable On

Fictitious stories, poetry and comedic writings

Requiem to a Mouse

This is a tale that is bound to please

About a mouse and a piece of cheese

It happened one night, in ages past

When a mouse was about to break his fast.

So out he crept from his little hole

With fear shooting through to his timid soul.

Along the skirting he did creep

For he thought his enemy was fast asleep

Across the rug to the great big door

Over some slippers and the kitchen floor

Until at last to the trap he came

And he bit the cheese, again and again

Now the trap it was so very old

Sixty four, or so I’m told

And it didn’t spring its rusty nail

And as for the cheese, the mouse didn’t fail

So, satisfied, he turned aside

Waltzed on back, he didn’t hide

Across the rug from the great big door

Over some slippers and the kitchen floor

Along the skirting, he didn’t creep

No point, his enemy was quite asleep

But when he came to his little flat

He couldn’t get in, he was too FAT

He tried to shrink to his normal size

When over his shoulder, he saw GREEN eyes

And that is the last our hero saw

For alas, he is no more

But there is a moral to this little chat

Don’t be a mouse, BE A CAT!

Written by Tony Whatley

Tony Whatley passed away in February. He was a keen Table Tennis player, and for twenty years helped to run the North Devon Table Tennis League. This poem, written by Tony, is published with the kind permission of his wife Penny.

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 8

Day 21

Monday

We spent the day settling into the school routine. Again, two meals of dal bhat, interspersed with tea and biscuits. Even though the meals were massive we found ourselves feeling strangely hungry and ended up going for a walk just to buy a packet of biscuits that we binged on for the rest of the day.

The school staff

Very little was achieved other than chatting to people and relaxing. Again, we were waiting for a meeting about transferring the raised money. A lot of time was spent in our room, slowly working through the weariness of the previous week. Leon has two main playlists on his phone and we have listened to both so many times now, there are a few songs that are practically becoming anthems for our trip. (Imagine Dragons – Believer, Luis Fonsi – Despacito, Chinese Man – Washington Square, amongst many others).

One mega grasshopper

The days have been sunny and the nights hot and humid. There’s a lot of insects, particularly at night. We both got heavily bitten by mosquitos and resorted to spraying some chemically anti-insect stuff that had been given to us for our stay. It was disturbingly satisfying watching the little buzzing shites fall out of the air. Sorry atmosphere.

The school has Wi-Fi, but we keep on having power cuts. Most of them for only a couple of minutes, but some are a fear while longer. When the Wi-Fi is working it is slow and our room is quite a way away. Me and Leon have to take it in turns getting onto the internet and making staggered contact with family and loved ones to let them know we are still alive and that the past seven days of communicative silence was not because we had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Day 22

Tuesday

It felt like going back to school. Again, we were being passed through the same regime. Feeling a bit ‘dal dhaded out’, we hoped to avoid the morning meal and we instead had some food that we had bought the day before, only to then be invited to dine with Ganga, the chairperson of the school and out host, which we could not easily refuse. The dal dhad breakfasts were big and it being our second meal in the space of about twenty minutes, we were feeling ridiculously stuffed by the end.

Looking down into the centre of the school

We taught some more lessons, now beginning to get a repertoire together. As you would expect, different age groups of children behave very differently. The younger ones are intensively loud, ask continuous questions and think everything is very funny (most of the jokes must be pretty esoteric because we certainly don’t know what they are laughing at…), but naturally they are also incredibly sweet and have adorably cheeky personalities. So many Nepalese kids that we have come across have a cheeky persona. The older ones are studious and listen intently, but when cajoled to start asking numerous questions as well. They're great to teach!

Some point in the afternoon we went out and bought some more samosas and other food we could find. We got back, after eating, to find Ganga again asking us to come and dine in the main school canteen. And so, we had a second lunch to boot!

No shoes in the computer room

I needed to do some internet banking so as to be able to work out how to transfer funds. The rest of the day was spent waiting around for the school computer room to be free. Then once they finally were, waiting for power cuts to stop. We needed long enough to get onto the bank site, log in and read their policy and instruction documents. Every time the power went off, the computers would die with an electrical fizzle and we would have to start again. After about three hours we gave up entirely and went down for a supper we didn’t feel empty enough to consume.

Day 23

Wednesday

Routine, routine, routine.
Cold showers and squat loos,
Hot sun and Nepalese news.
Leon is in search of a Paper to read, For any entertaining information on which he can feed.
There doesn’t seem to be any anywhere,
If only we could speak the language here.

We are now getting good at rising early and going to bed early (ish… well, late.)

The morning was spent wandering around looking for Leon’s newspaper. After much walking back and forth and asking directions we found the front desk of the local news press building. They didn’t print anything in English. We got back to only to bump into Ganga and be told that they get a newspaper in English everyday which he could pass onto us.

'Namaste'

Again lessons: we sat in on a Maths and a Social Studies class and also taught a few ourselves. Students really like to know our names and our parents’ names, as well as our favourite songs, musicians, football clubs and players. Now, neither Leon nor I are really that clued up on any of this. Neither of us follow football and we both have limited tastes in modern pop. However, this wasn’t too much of a problem as the students themselves only seemed to know people like Justin Bieber, some different rappers, Chainsmokers, and then Messi and Ronaldo etc. There’s an evident real fandom of famous people. We’ve been ‘requested’ to sing several times, mainly Justin Bieber or just the song ‘Shape of you’ by Ed Sheeran. I’ve been singing them sea shanties instead as an educational way to explain a bit of British history and culture, though in reality it’s because I don’t know the lyrics to any of the songs they’ve asked for. (N.B. They pronounce Bieber, B-I-ber).

The Principal and us

The things which get a lot of interest are when we talk about British culture and religion. Interactive pronunciation exercises seem to be a hit as well and we found that tongue twisters work really well. As part of culture and their interest in our families, we quite often draw a map of the UK on the board and explain where we live, the different countries that form the UK, the different languages that go with them, plus all the bizarre accents (our impressions were appalling). Or similarly, continents of the world, national symbols and flags.

We arranged to stay until Sunday as we were asked to present the money at the school assembly and so they could arrange with parents a time to come in.

The school computer room

After the school day was over we were invited back to one of the teachers houses. We sat on a bench in front of the house and drank Mountain Dew together. We talked politics and he told us about not earning enough to live on and so having to teach extra classes after school. He had a son our age. Apparently, there was a lot of unrest and anger at the government due to their fraternising with India and China amongst other things. There’s quite a lot of fear that Nepal might get absorbed into one of the countries either side of it. The Government is really in an impossible position where they are surrounded by these two super powers, India on one side and China on the other (who both have very different politics and don’t really get on), they need the help of both and of course they have to trade with both while also retaining their sovereignty and appease the needs and want of the Nepalese people. Sounds like a sad situation, particularly as many Nepalese people are traveling abroad to Qatar, Bangladesh, Saudi Arabia and the like to find work which is often poorly paid and in terrible conditions where many people die.

Our friend had to go and teach one of his extra classes. We took our leave, reflecting sadly on what he had said. He had had a dark cynical outlook on the situation even though he kept on laughing.

Ganga arranged for us to go and see a Bonist and Buddhist funeral ceremony with the local Gurung people. There’s two things to note here: first that [Bonism][0] is an ancient religion or way of life in Tibet, similar in a way to Paganism in the west. It was absorbed into Buddhism when that came along. And secondly, apparently in Nepal there is still a prevalent caste system. A person will often introduce themselves with their name and caste, as opposed to their name and surname (though regularly their surname is their caste). The surnames apparently quite often reflect what region or valley a person’s family originate from. The Gurung name is from a well-established and respected populace that covers a wide area cross Nepal. There is quite a lot local to Besisahar so we were told, many of whom have now come down to live in the city.

We were taken along by the school janitor; a short smiling man who had been looking after us and everything else wonderfully. We wished we could speak some Nepali so that we could thank him. Halfway there we met a school teacher who acted as our translator and guide for the evening.

The actual ceremony was at a Buddhist community shelter that was split into two sections: one was the Buddhist Lama temple space and the other a space for the spirit of the deceased to enter. The temple was brightly coloured with cloth, had suspended drums hanging round the front and had a central column and shrine. The spirit space was under a makeshift shelter towards the gate and was darker with a semicircle of people around three cross-legged monks sat in the centre. One had an amazing elaborate feathered hat. Between them and the gate was a chicken suspended upside down from a frame. Everyone watched it intently.

The ceremony consisted of the monks chanting quietly and a man occasionally letting go of the chicken. The bird was expected to cluck and flap its wings in some specific way, signifying that the sole had entered through the gate and passed into the space. They threw an egg at the chicken to test this arrival. If the egg broke then the spirit had not arrived, if the egg remained intact then it had. (Or at least this was what we understood from our conversations with the school teacher, though he said he wasn’t sure himself). The egg must have stayed whole for the monks now started whistling and banging drums and chanting. Then suddenly, as the noise grew, a man stepped forth with a large sickle and cut the head off the chicken and then the head off a goat they had to sacrifice as well. This was a way of expelling any evil demons that might be stuck to the sole of the person. The guy who had died had been a teenager. Apparently, at times of death, all the locals come together to support and chip in some money for the ceremony. The monks charge.

After the sacrificing the celebrations then move into the Buddhist lama temple and the whole thing goes on for three days, the last day apparently being the day of feasting and joy to celebrate the life of the deceased. All really interesting. We left to go back leaving the carcasses of one goat and one chicken lying stiff just outside the orb of light cast from the festivities going on in the tent.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 10

[0]: http://www.axachinaregion.com/culture_and_religion/religion/bonism.htm

Info On

Objective pieces of writing designed to inform

On March 31st Exeter will be saying farewell to one of its smallest, cosiest and most welcoming theatres. For many this will be a sad blow to the heart. The Bike Shed Theatre on Fore Street has been a place to socialise and a place to enjoy wonderful cocktails, lovely food and superb music for so many people over the years. Needless to say, the theatrical creations that have been produced there have been some of the most entertaining, mind prodding and innovative on offer. But as their ‘Over and Out’ announcement says ‘Nothing lasts for ever’ and that time has come.

It will be sorely missed.

When Fin Irwin and David Lockwood first opened it in September 2010 it was, in many ways, the only place like it in Exeter. The two cellars that now make up the establishment were transformed into a bar and theatre space creating its own totally unique atmosphere. It offered the city an alternative to pubs and nightclubs; a place where people could go to relax, as well as appreciate performances (and intellectualise them if you so wished). You could go on a night out there and feel safe and at ease in a way that you couldn’t anywhere else at the time.

The 8 years since then have seen it go from strength to strength: securing Arts Council England funding, becoming part of the National portfolio, winning multiple awards, and helping multitudes of performers develop and show off their work. Most importantly an excellent relationship with the population of Exeter and beyond has developed. So much theatre has been performed in the building and so much music, dance, food, drink, laughter, poetry, colliding imaginations and resulting creations have been seen by its walls that it is almost inconceivable that it will now stop.

One of the greatest achievements of The Bike Shed Theatre was to provide a space for the for ideas to grow and stories to be told. So many talented people have created so much quality work there, much of which has gone on to tour the country and propel new theatre companies into the national limelight.

We chatted to David Lockwood, the co-founder and director of The Bike Shed, about all that had passed and why The Bike Shed is closing. The theatre is a charity that is supported by the profits of the bar and as David tells us:

Well personal circumstances changed. Fin left the organisation in early 2013, I have a small child. And also, The Boat Shed. Interest in other projects… and then there’s the third point which is, ‘What are the material circumstances that have changed in a city like Exeter?’ In terms of social cultural activities; people go out less. You’ve got a delivery culture. People drink less; that’s probably a good thing. So, you’ve got that as a global trend in the west which is a challenge for us. And then the other thing is the number of new places opening with deeper pockets.

In theatre, where the artform is an ephemeral artform, to think that something is going to last for ever is just crazy.

Naturally there is a worry that, without The Bike Shed, innovative people will have far fewer opportunities to try out their ideas and to develop new things. Exeter has been a hub of creativity over the years that has hosted, and still does hosts, many theatre companies, youth theatre groups and creative events. There’s a lot the city has on offer to inspire creative minds. For instance, the annual Respect Festival, the concerts that take place at the cathedral or university and BBC Radio One’s Big weekend in 2016, to name but a few. Exeter College even has an entire building dedicated to teaching the creative arts. Those initial steps are well catered for, but without the venues for those people to go onto, where they can experiment and hone their skills in front of live audiences, there is a possibility that they will have to go elsewhere to find those opportunities. The Bike Shed Theatre was a venue leading the way in this respect and the loss of that support and space is going to be one of the biggest loses for Exeter.

Of course, it does not do good to dwell on what has already been decided or to lament the past. Beyond the 31st it is worth looking to the future. As David says:

The Bike Shed is dead. It’s not coming back. - Well it’s not dead yet, it’s got a month to go right? So, let’s celebrate that. We’ve got another month of excellent theatre, comedy, music dancing, beer, wine, etc. So, let’s go down there and enjoy it. - Nothing will replace it, but nothing ever does. The Bike Shed of 2018 is different to The Bike Shed of 2016… And so is true of the city. The Bike Shed won’t be replaced, but other things could grow.

There is a movement to have a big conversation in the city about what replaces The Bike Shed and I am really loath to do that. My reason is that The Bike Shed didn’t start from a big conversation, you would never have come up with The Bike Shed. It started because there was a personal desire to do something.

With the death of one organisation comes the potential for others to develop, and indeed there are a few likely candidates already popping up. David mentions The Hall on Stepcote Hill (a new Community, Education & Arts Centre currently waiting to open) and Kaleider (the Exeter based studio that brings people together to crunch ideas and create work) and there are always the wonderful opportunities that the Phoenix has to offer. There are regular events taking place at Poltimore House along with opportunities at Exeter’s 4 other main theatres. David also has his own project, The Boat Shed; a theatre and arts venue in the making. It is formed of four 200-year-old warehouses down by the historic Exeter Quay and if the project can be realised then the buildings are set to become a mix of spaces for creation, entertainment and socialising, designed to last and adapt for many years to come. A space that has potential to become a real community hub.

During our conversation a garden ecosystem analogy comes up:

If you think about it like a garden. If you’ve got loads of big trees, they’re sucking all the nutrients up from the ground and you can’t allow these little flowers to grow. A good gardener would make their garden I such a way that you don’t have things that are destroying the soil for others.

With it comes a warning for Exeter as a whole:

The city council is spending a lot of money in terms of trying to get people (businesses) into the city. Not necessarily supporting those who are already here and the ones that they are interested in supporting tend to be smart and shiny, rather than the underground subcultures. That’s a question in terms of what kind of city do you want to have. I think that’s really dangerous. Obviously, I have got a vested interest in this, but I think it is dangerous because, as we are seeing, 20% of chain restaurants are about to fold. It makes things very very fragile in terms of what your city centre is like. You’re better off supporting independents because they are going to want to stay in the city. As an independent you won’t just pull out of Exeter because the market looks a little bit different. You’ll try and find a way of adapting what you are doing to make it work. As a chain, why would you do that?

It’s an interesting thought and one that is definitely worth considering in light of The Bike Shed’s closure.

At any rate, The Bike Shed Theatre, as something that was originally only supposed to last for three weeks, is brilliant and we can rejoice at the fact that it has been around for so long and brought so many peoples’ dreams into reality.

All that needs be said now is well done and thank you.

With thanks to David Lockwood for the interview he gave us

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 7

Day 18

Friday

It had been massively important to walk as a pair. Everything was made safer by it: two brains for ratification, two senses of direction, two fonts of knowledge, and two voices to fill the void. We each took it in unofficial turns to keep the energy and morale up. The moment one of us felt down the other would take the lead and keep us moving. Though at times we both found ourselves snapping at each other, this constant companionship was essential. Neither of us would have been able to do our week long trek without the other. Though we were both worn beyond belief, sore of foot and body and swearing that we would never attempt such a feat again or tell anyone of our ridiculous adventure, we also knew that somehow it had been great fun. We had challenged ourselves, we had done it and now we were safe.

What was left of my shirt after our wonder

We woke early, as had been our habit, and got up to a breakfast of Tibetan bread and jam and ‘musili milk’ (literally just muesli and milk but served hot). The morning was slow and achy with us both spending most of it sitting and looking out of the hotel window at the thundering river below in a stupefied state.

I went for a walk and discovered little except the village hydroelectric plant, a few street side shops and the fact that I had damaged something in my left knee while coming off the mountain. I couldn’t bend or put pressure on it without causing pain.

Other than reading, writing, playing cards and eating, we did little for the rest of the day. At some point we managed to find a lady who we could pay to wash our clothes. Handing over all our dirty washing to her made us feel incredibly bad but we just did not want to go near it.

We found out that we could hire a jeep down to Besisahar for 2000 rupees the next day, though it would leave at 6.30am. This was fine by us, as long as we didn’t have to walk any of the three hour car journey. Besisahar was the location of the Earthly Paradise English Boarding School which we were due to visit next. It was also the location of the closest ATM, which was great by us as we now had very little money left. In fact there was only just enough to cover our food and accommodation for that night. The jeep driver would have to drop us at an ATM if he was going to get paid.

After a meal and a conversation with a Danish bloke who, on Uni funds, was walking some of the Annapurna Circuit, we headed for bed.

The menu is set and regulated by the Annapurna Conservation Committee. This includes room prices. It’s 350 Rs for a double room for the night. A beer is 500 Rs.

Day 19

Saturday

Up at 5.15am, the irony being that this was earlier than we had ever managed to get up while trekking. The bill had been settled the night before and the breakfast of Tibetan bread and chapattis was lovely.

The jeep ride can only be likened to being on a bucking bull. Everyone drove these four door Mahindra 4x4s with a flatbed on the back. There was a vague hope that we might be able to get back to sleep, but instead our heads were literally bouncing off the ceiling as we went down the gravel tracks. This wasn’t helped by the fact that there was four of us squashed into the back and these cars really didn’t seem to be designed for tall people. The windows were low, as were the rooves.

At about 8.30, after wheedling our way over tight bridges and along tiny tracks whose edges dropped into the river, we arrived. We paid the driver, bought some samosas and went to find Earthly Paradise.

The college Leon and I had just finished at had a friendship connection with the school. When we could we would fundraise money to send out to sponsor students or for building work. We had been invited ourselves as we had given a small sum for the sponsorship of some students.

Having decided to go hiking we were now five days later than we had originally hoped to be. We had contacted them, but without reply and so we had no idea if and when they were expecting us.

The School

The school was a small tower block outlined in fading blue paint and with a tarmac yard below. It was a Saturday – there was no students. The principle was a friendly smiling man who instantly got us sat down in the canteen where the cook made us all tea. He called the ‘chairperson’ of the school directors to come over. It turned out they had been expecting us the Monday before. My email had somehow been missed.

We were accommodated in a room in the school’s admin building and left to settle in with a list of meal times (breakfast was at 7, as some kids started lessons at 6am, and lunch was at 9.45am).

Most of the afternoon was spent relaxing and waiting for an official introductory meeting we were supposed to have. After a few hours of, we decided to stretch our legs and have a look around. Besisahar had numerous houses with unfinished sides but brightly painted fronts lighting up the streets with their colour. There were many shops selling the exact same things (strangely the only biscuits we seem to be able to find are either butter biscuits or rich tea. There appears to be nothing else). There were a few samosa stalls, a cake shop, a load of clothes shops and a few mechanics amongst other things. It was all rather monotonous but very pretty. Every now and then the streets and houses were interrupted by small rice paddies. Just looking around we were able to see two or three other schools in the area, all competing for the same students.

It was a very hot day and we quickly overheated. We went home where we were greeted by two of the schools boarding students who introduced themselves as Dipes and Sudip. They showed us around the school dorm block. There was a table tennis table and we challenged them to a game. We played until supper, dal bhat after which we headed for an early night.

Day 20

Sunday

Up and showered (unfortunately cold) for our instructed time of 7 am for breakfast which turned out to be tea and biscuits. We spent the morning milling around then went to the 9.45 am lunch. This was dal bhat once again, served as curry with an incredible amount of rice, a bowl of liquidly dal and a cup of boiled water. We ate reluctantly with our bodies not ready to have such a large meal in the morning. All the boarding students and care takers were there, all of us sat at long wooden tables.

Dal bhat with added omelette

The head teacher took us into his lesson (in which he was teaching about The Scouts and using it as a metaphor for good behaviour and also patriotism) and then got us teaching our own. We had partly expected this, but had definitely not been ready for it.

We taught two sessions together which both seemed to be reasonably manageable and then, apparently in demand, we were split up to teach one each. Both of us had a class of young kids, who were lovely, but could really make noise. They would all shout thousands of indecipherable questions at you and would keep on shouting louder and louder if you didn’t understand. Keeping control became a challenge. Geography (naming continents and countries) seemed to work well to keep them engaged. Similarly national symbols (birds and flowers etc). Getting the younger kids doing clapping rhythms was also a hit.

I came out to find Leon looking frazzled, his hands and face covered in black from the marker pens. We sat down in the staff room to unwind and eat some chocolate we had been given. In almost every class there had been a student whose birthday it was and it seemed to be the norm for them to hand out chocolates from a bag.

I was then whisked off to teach another lesson leaving Leon to chat to the teachers, all of whom were very friendly and spoke pretty good English. One guy particularly came up and said hello. He had an ironic and cynical sense of humour that we somehow instantly related with.

I was given an older class this time and I stood at the front and told them of our travels and Britain and where we had come from and to my amazement they listened intently. So I decided to try something else and started teaching them the past, present and future of some irregular verbs. They had already done it. Slightly taken aback I tried applying them in sentences. They had already done that too. Coming from Britain where we had not really been taught any of this simply because we all grew up with it and so, in practice, already knew it. Finally I settled on teaching what I knew I could definitely do to help them; pronunciation and intonations. This seemed to go down reasonably well.

Leon and I decided that by this point we had done our bit for the day and excused ourselves to go and get some tea from the canteen and recover. I have a new found respect for teachers. Teaching is intense.

The classes had been very interesting. They seemed to be separated into a male and female side. When we asked a young class about this the boys said ‘we don’t like the girls’ and the girls said ‘the boys are too noisy’. I almost laughed. They all seemed very eager to learn. Lessons were taught (from the very limited amount that we saw) with the teacher standing up front generally working out of a text book and talking in long descriptive, slightly misused English. But I do them an injustice saying that. For many of them, they are teaching in English as a 4th or 5th language to students who are learning in English as a 3rd or 4th language. However they manage to do it is incredible to me.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 9

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 6

Day 16

Part 2 - The Assent

Wednesday

Our progress was slow. The bank rose at about 45 degrees and the soil beneath out boots would regularly slip away in great saturated layers. Climbing through the bamboo and undergrowth was not easy, but the plant matter did give us something to hold on to so we could haul ourselves up the incline. Progressively we made our way onto the ridge and leveller ground. Then as if to spite our efforts, it started raining; a torrential down poor so quintessential of the monsoon season. This was the bad weather we had been expecting and typically it had arrived now.

It was interesting, but during this whole climb out of danger I found myself reciting old children’s rhymes in my head while I mechanically put one foot in front of the other. These were generally things I had learnt while young and not thought about for years. It kept my mind occupied and I suppose, in some way, was subconsciously meant to comfort me.

As if by magic a path appeared. Right in the centre of the ridge and going up. We followed desperately wishing it not to be an animal track and sure enough, in a small cleared section, litter. A whole saintly load of human rubbish. It was a human path and all paths lead somewhere.

Water was now soaking through my thin coat, Leon without waterproof trousers was already drenched from the waist down and struggling in shear pain from his boots. Every few minutes we would have to stop so that he could have a brief moment of relief.

I offered to take his rucksack for a while. He declined and struggled on in a pained and delirious state, then suggested we stop and try and build a fire and rest. It was about 2.30 in the afternoon, but it felt like 5 with all the grey rain. I wouldn’t have it and forced us heartlessly on. But we had to go. We couldn’t stop in this downpour, we would get cold and lose whatever remaining energy we had left. In the end he had to give me his rucksack so that we could continue moving. We now plodded slowly, but consistently forth, both ignoring the pain, the rain and the fatigue. For me, reciting songs also seemed to worked as a mental blocker, allowing me to override my muscles’ screaming to stop.

Our path continued straight up the ridge centre. Then with a spike of energy Leon turned to me and said “Look it’s a hut!”. We both rushed forwards and indeed it was. A wooden, open sided hut with a tarp over the top and a fence around it. Most of it was a living space with a fire pit in the middle. The end was a feeding trough for some animal – probably water buffalo.

The skeletal remains of a hut very similar to the one we stayed in

We ran in, pure relief flowing through us. The pleasure of being in the dry, knowing that we were safe, that we were going to be alright, was superb. The relief of taking off our shoes and socks. Our feet looked like weird white prunes, out skin swollen with water. Leon’s poor ankles had suffered leach attacks. He spent about 10 minutes just applying plasters out of our rapidly depleting medical bag.

Leaches as it happens use an anticoagulant to stop your blood from clotting while they feed. This makes sense from the leaches point of view, but it does have the unfortunate effect of leaving you with a wound that won’t stop bleeding for the next 12 hours.

Our waterproofs came off, our wet clothes as well. Thankfully our rucksack covers had done a pretty good job. At least half our stuff was still dry and we sifted through those things we could put on and laid out the rest and our damp sleeping bags to dry.

I took off by shirt to find a massive bloated leach attached to my chest, which I slid off with the blade of my penknife. The local people recommend using a little pouch of salt. Apparently, the leaches hate the stuff and you can pretty much brush them off with it. However, we didn’t have any and so a knife blade would have to suffice.

It was now about 3.30. we washed our hands in the run off from the roof, got into our sleeping bags and fell asleep.

At 8 pm I woke up to find an incredibly unnerved, rather pretty looking white bellied rat running around and over me. It would scamper up, I would shine my head torch at it and it would scamper away again. Then a minute late it would return from a different direction. In the end I gave up trying to scare it away and went back to sleep.

I woke up several more times during the night to find the rat using me as its personal playground. I’m not sure what the attraction was.

Day 17

Descending again

Thursday

The next morning welcomed in a clear blue sky once again. We got up and wearily ate what we could stomach of our last packet of dried fruit and nut. Strangely, though neither of us had really had any food in the last 36 hours we really didn’t feel like eating and it was a struggle to force down the dry, slightly sticky fruit.

We packed our stuff and prepared to leave, putting on our boots with revulsion… And then, as if by magic we heard a call. Our funny mad little lady from the day before came round the corner like some guardian angel with her six water buffalo. She took one look at us, bedraggled and exhausted, and burst out laughing. It was contagious, all we could do was laugh with her. Above all chance in this massive space we had got lost in, we had bumped into each other twice in two days. And right now we could not have needed it more. We had no idea how to find the path we had to take down out of the mountain.

In a fairly quick exchange of sounds and gestures we told her what we had done and asked her if she had found her missing water buffalo. She said she had and in turn asked us if we had eaten. A little was our answer. We gestured about the path. She dropped her stuff and motioned for us to follow as she started off into the forest behind. We hitched up our rucksacks and obliged, relieved.

Our lady lead the way with her hands clasped behind her back. She carried nothing except a sickle handing in a wooden holder tied around her waist. On occasion she would remove it to slice through some branch or piece of shrub which might be in the way, before replacing it back smoothly into its housing. On her wrist was a small ladies’ watch and, on her feet, the wellies. Other than these, she could have appeared out of a different time. This whole experience was making me feel a little like I was in some fairy tale.

She took us along many small to non-existent paths that we would never have been able to follow or find by ourselves. Though, in all honesty, I did not really notice. It was only now that I did not have think or worry that my fatigue really caught up with me. My eyes wanted to close and I walked like some zombified drone as we went. My body was in autopilot with only the basic functions operating. My brain was in total shutdown.

The only things we did have to worry about were the leaches, of which there were hundreds. Every few minutes we would stop to flick them off us. At some point our little lady cut some strong smelling shrub for us. Apparently it was good for deterring and brushing off the little buggers. We instantly rubbed it all over our legs. It seemed to help for a while.

Along the walk she stopped several times to show us things. The first was a tree with bark missing on both sides – on closer inspection clear claw marks could be seen. Later it was a patch of flattened grass and then some more claw marks. She signalled that these things eat water buffalo. We spent minutes quizzing her trying to work out what animal could take down an animal that big. Bears seemed to be the answer. They were wild bear tracks. Recent ones. I asked if this was why she kept on calling out. She nodded.

We walked on, though now, every few minutes, consciously checking over our shoulders and looking into the undergrowth.

Finally, we came to a great rocky outcrop the other side of which we could see the path descending steeply down a ridge. This was as far as she was going to take us. In our improvised communication system she explained to us what we needed to do next – go round and down, staying left and on the ridge until we came to a cliff or drop. Then turn right and follow the path down the final stretch.

We thanked her and gave her some money for her wonderful help. She took it. It was the equivalent of just under £8 and it didn’t seem enough, but we didn’t have enough to give her more. We said out goodbyes and departed.

From the rock she watched us go.

Finally, we were walking down. Everything was easy. Time passed. It was the home stretch. Everything was fine… and then the path suddenly and completely disappeared. We found ourselves adrift in woodland. Bits of path or animal track would appear and disappear as we walked. Cloud rolled in across the mountain side. Everything was overgrown. When we weren’t in woods we were in wet grassy patches where the leaches would cling to us in their scores. Again this was turning into a nightmare.

In blinding fury we just went down; walking through everything and pushing through anything that got in our way. All the while swearing profusely. Why couldn’t it just be easy? Why couldn’t there just be a sodding path? But then according to the map, we had originally been following a major trek and that had still been non-existent a lot of the way. So no bloody surprise really!

My waterproof trousers were proving to be a godsend, not just saving me from the wetness of water, but from blood suckers as well. In an attempt to lessen the pain of walking Leon had left his boot tops loosely done up. This provided a gap and leaches were now literally beginning to fall into his boots in numbers that were impossible to pick out. He had three pairs of protective socks on. We kept going.

Everything was now too much. Our adrenaline had dropped when we were following the lady. We had thought we were done. We thought we had finished being messed over. But now we checked the GPS only to find we weren’t even half way down and we had somehow managed to come off the ridge. “What ridge?! How is that possible? We can’t even see the fucking ridge!!” I bellowed. Now, like so many times before, we had fallen foul of underestimating the distance, size and position of the mountain side. However far we went we never seemed to make any progress.

On we went, smashing our way down the mountain side, not caring about anything except getting down. We came across some water buffalo in a hut. We checked the GPS again. We didn’t appear to even be moving. We had now run out of water as well. For all the dampness, there was not a single spring or stream. Things were just getting worse.

On and on and on. More leaches, more undergrowth. Then there was an unpassable drop. This must be the drop… but which way to go? We weren’t on the ridge. Going right like the woman had said didn’t seem to make any sense. It lead back up the hill.

We turned left and to our relief a slight track emerged in front of us as we walked. Leon was now groaning. Somehow the leaches had got to his skin and he could feel them.

Then we saw it. There it was as it should be. A path descending to the right. We rushed down and down and down. It was overgrown, but never the less it was something to follow. All I could hear from Leon was the occasional moan and gasp for liquid.

The view from our vantage point

Suddenly, a stream. Then, even better, we bust out from below the trees into an open, sun burnt space. There was a stone bench view point and on the other side of it, steps. Clear, well maintained steps hairpining their way down the mountain side to a track hundreds of feet below next to a raging river. The whole environment seemed to have completely changed. As we walked we now started to overheat. Everything was open and scorched dry by the sun. Our waterproofs were pointless and very soon I had to stop and take them off. Off came the soaked shoes and socks. I opened up the sides of my waterproof trousers and found a miniature colony of leaches stuck between them and my trousers. I flicked them off, watching them wiggle away from the searing heat of the sun.

The steps down

I dug out my sandals from my bag and carried on down. Catching up with Leon I asked why he didn’t do the same. “Look Silas!” he groaned. “I can feel them eating me”. In his shoes was a writhing mass of little bodies. They had somehow managed to get to his skin through his three layers socks and these were now soaked in blood. As he pointed out to me, he just wouldn’t stop bleeding if he took his shoes off.

We looked at the map and “Fuck it!”. We appeared to still be half a mile at least from any bridge, let alone any labelled village. The heat was unbearable. Leon was in a terrible condition. We really needed to find a place to stay and essentially a place with a shower. I tied a shirt over my head to keep off the sun and we walked slowly, so painfully slowly, down the last of the track to the riverside.

Round a corner we turned and as if by magic we found a hotel. Not a mirage or figment of our imagination. A genuine building with ‘Blue Sky Guest House’ written on the side of it.

We must have looked a state because they simply showed us to a room and indicated their two washrooms. Leon was straight in the shower with medical kit waiting ready. I was straight in the other one and stood there for ages just letting the blissful hot water run down me.

I got back upstairs to find Leon sitting on his bed looking pale, a pool of blood at his feet and what must have been our whole medical kit wrapped around his ankles. He had lost quite a lot of blood and hadn’t eaten for the past two days. Quite unsurprisingly he was feeling faint. I bought him a coke; always one of the best ways to get energy, liquid and sugar into your system.

After hours of simply lying down (and after clearing up the blood and washing out our boots), we went downstairs and had the biggest supper ever. Then disappeared to our rooms intending never to be seen again.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 8

Ideas On

I am in Barnstaple, in the constituency office reception of the MP for North Devon, Peter Heaton-Jones. It is a modest affair, situated in the historic town above an acupuncture clinic and below a specialist music shop. Its windows overlook a church yard; the church and spire pointing up into the sky just to one side. Parliament normally only sits from Monday to Thursday and so this is the place where Mr Heaton-Jones spends most of his weekends. I make ready, chat to his PA, and look through my notes. At the top it reads ‘So, who is Peter? Where did he come from and how did he get to where he is now?’.

He was born and grew up in Surrey where , as a boy, he had a very steady childhood - something he acknowledges in our interview. With the intent of becoming a teacher he attended university in London to study a geography degree, but ended up volunteering for radio stations instead, and in 1986 found himself with a career at the BBC. Over the next 20 years he worked for them on and off as a radio journalist, presenter, editor and then manager. During this time, he also went out to Australia for two stints where he says he first found his political bug:

It was while I was over there I first volunteered on an election campaign. It was a complete whim. I literally got off a bus one day outside the office of a liberal candidate who had a notice in his window that said ‘Can you help us?’, I walked in and I said ‘Can I help?’, and that got me really interested in politics.

In 2006, this bug ‘suddenly seemed to break free’ and, after returning back to the UK, he started volunteering for the Conservative Party. He became a councillor for them in Swindon, Wiltshire, where he had now settled and was to spend the next 8 years. Alongside this, he was also a school governor and, at different points, worked in the constituency offices of two Conservative MPs in the area, slowly building up to where he is now.

When the decision was made and ‘the Conservative Party thought I was the right sort of chap to be a parliamentary candidate’ he specifically applied for constituencies in the South West. Peter was shortlisted for a few in Devon and Cornwall and was selected by the ‘North Devon Conservative Association’ to be the best MP for their constituency just months before the General election of May 2015. This was his first time standing. When he won he took the seat off Sir Nick Harvey, the incumbent Lib Dem MP of the last 23 years.

North Devon is a constituency that stretches from the meandering Taw estuary to the east of Exmoor and all the way down to the Saxon market town of Chulmleigh in the heart of the county. It has long been a contested seat between the Conservative and Liberal Democrat Parties. Though the constituency was first created in 1832, it has only been in its current shape since 1950, and in the past 68 years it has only had 6 MPs: 4 Conservative and 2 Lib Dems. The most memorable of which is Jeremy Thorpe; the liberal revivalist and party leader of the 1960s. In the sea of blue currently dominating the South West it is interesting to note that, though twice the number of conservative MPs have been elected from the constituency, it has been a Lib Dem seat for almost 20 years more (at 43 years) than it has been a Conservative seat (at 25 years). It may not be a Lib Dem strong hold as many people had said, but it might appear Peter has his work cut out?

Peter tells me about the things that drives him in politics:

I think it’s two things: it is because I genuinely think that if you’ve got strong views about stuff you need to put your head above the parapet, as difficult as that sometimes is … and I genuinely want to make a difference to the communities that I serve.

As we all know, the past three years have been ones of massive political upheaval, but despite this Peter says he has ‘thoroughly enjoyed it’. Indeed he has been on the Environmental Audit Committee and is currently the Private Secretary to Lord Chancellor & Justice Secretary. He very much holds a true conservative ideology and we move on to talk about this:

Why I went into conservative politics is because the Conservatives, it seems to me, share more of my values: the values of less government, of economic responsibility, of people being responsible for, to some extent, their own economic ambitions and for the wealth creation that that brings. Those are the key things that lead me down that road.

By his account, he is a staunch unionist, a ‘traditional one-nation Tory’ as he puts it. He brings up the original name of his party, ‘The Conservative and Unionist Party’ pointing out his feeling that this, along with smaller government, low tax economics and social mobility are core conservative values. He talks passionately about self-responsibility as another defining factor of his conservatism:

I believe that every individual has a responsibility to do the best that they can to have the economic income that they and their families require. That the state needs to provide a safety net for those who can’t, but for those who can, we should provide every help that we can to make them economically independent.

I ask him about the Prime Minister, and he pronounces unequivocal support for Theresa May.

She is the right person because she can bring together the various different strands of opinion, if I can put it like that, in the Conservative Party. But she’s also the right person because she has an incredible amount of experience. She is one of the longest serving home secretaries in our countries history, she commanded a great deal of respect in the country as well and more importantly she is a strong leader to be able to negotiate through Brexit.

The obvious answer to this is ‘What about all the criticism she has received? Is that not evidence of some fault?’. In answer to this, he says criticism comes with the job, the more so the higher up you go, and continues:

I would say to people who criticise this, think of the alternative? And the alternative is that Jeremy Corbyn is Prime Minister, leading a hard-left Labour government. When you criticise Theresa and the Conservatives, I just say stop, take a breath and think what that will mean.

Of course, it is up to you how you see that proposal.

We look at what has been happening in North Devon. Peter points out that the constituency is a ‘brilliant’ place to live and come on holiday to. He doesn’t feel it was recognised as such before. We talk of transport and the planned and potentially imminent improvements to the North Devon link road, the A361, as the access point to the rest of Britain. The Tarka line might be upgraded. There’s the potential for a ferry over to South wales (a plan that has been in the works since 2010). The MP’s website has a section dedicated to the environment and talking about it, Peter brings up plastics. He seems passionate about cutting their use in Britain and in North Devon, citing the work and campaigning that Surfers Against Sewage are doing. I couldn’t help wondering whether this was political brownie-point scoring considering the recent popularity and rise in awareness of the damage plastics can cause in the oceans. Though he does also mention an enquiry into micro plastics that the Environmental Audit Committee set up with him as a member, about 18 months previously. He talks about his meetings with visiting government ministers that week and the funding that’s just been granted ‘to kick-start developments of new houses and much needed commercial enterprises’ in North Devon. He comes to a finish on this, picking out one of his aims:

Two government ministers in the space of four days. Ten million pounds in the space of three weeks. That to me sounds like North Devon being on the political map and on the government’s radar in a way that we never were before, and if there is one thing that I wish to achieve as North Devon MP, it was that.

As a last question, I give Peter three wishes: one for North Devon, one for the country and one for himself. For his constituency he wants a fair share of funding. For the country he would like us to ‘stop obsessing about Brexit’; that it is resolved quickly and efficiently to relive uncertainty. And for himself, he must always remember that ‘it is a real honour to be the MP’. Which of Peter’s wishes will come to fruition and what the future will hold, only time will tell.

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 5

Night Time 

Last light and last rest before the decent 

Straight away we ran into difficulty. The track was not a continuous gentle slope downwards. In fact nothing was in Nepal so I don’t know why we expected it to be. Instead it rose up steeply and we had to climb. Then almost immediately the path split – this time no sign post.

Studying the map, up and over the crest in front of us looked the best option. The other path dropped down the wrong side of the mountain and we didn’t want to end up on the wrong side of a ridge again.

We went up, got to the top and promptly found out that the path vanished into nothingness. Hoping to re-find it we circled up and round, climbing higher, then realised this was a stupid thing to do in the dark. We could hardly see let alone find a path. We kept on circling, now trying to descend to where we had started, slipping and sliding down the steep hillside as we did so. Finally, after minutes of searching, we came across the other path and started anew, descending round the peaks. It seemed fairly well-trodden to begin with but at times it would get lost amongst rock falls or would start braiding into many smaller paths. On we went assuming it all lead to the right place. In the distance we could see two electrical storms flashing away above distant mountains, too far away to hear the thunder.

The path slowly and haphazardly dropped down the mountain side. The night got later. And later. And later. One phone was close to running out of charge so Leon switched to the other one, the LED piercing through the enveloping dark. We seemed to be going the right direction. We passed several more viewpoints, each one pre-empted by increasing amounts of rubbish.

The route seemed to lead to the most horrendously overgrown, steep and slippery section of descending ridge there was. At the bottom of this it didn’t get any better. We now appeared to be walking through a crop field, the path quite literally someone else’s vague wanderings which had flattened the crop. We probably should have thought more on this, but the paths had been doing this to us since the beginning of the walk, and in all honesty what other choice did we have? We had barely been able to get down the previous section safely, getting back up would be an impossibility. We genuinely thought that this was the right path and so we were just hoping that it would connect up with a bigger path in due course. The darkness and long grass had taken its toll and by this point, even with waterproof walking boots, our feet were sodden.

Then suddenly the path was almost nothing. It seemed to be more of an animal track. In fact it was an animal track for we suddenly emerged into a field full of sheep and our path disappeared entirely. Still thinking this must be the correct direction and that the path must resume on the other side we walked through disturbing all the sheep in the process. Their faces formed a bank of glowing pin pricks as their eyes reflected our torch light.

There was a shed and hoping to possibly find people and a place to shelter if this was the wrong path, we walked round the side only to disturb a load more sheep and their guardian dogs. They barked their heads off as we hurried away thinking that any moment we could be bitten on the bum.

On the other side of the field we found sheep tracks. Not knowing what to do but thinking that we had travelled across so far horizontally that we must now be in the right valley we followed them. We had travelled across the mountain side before dropping down so as to end up in the right valley to take us to where we wanted to go. If we managed to get into the wrong valley we could end up travelling 90 degrees to our intended direction of travel and being carried away into rural land. Our hope was to descend and meet up with the proper path by the river in the valley bottom.

As we dropped it became more apparent that something was wrong. We had already checked the GPS several times but it wasn’t fantastically easy to discern the contours and valleys and then to match these up on the map. Particularly in the dark in our tired and exhausted state.

We had been walking down into a sludgy boggy area, dominated by woodland and undergrowth. To our left was a ridge, the bottom of which was a mass of fallen boulders. We checked the GPS again and in horror realised we had somehow ended up on the wrong side of that very ridge. We had dropped too early into the wrong valley. It was now about 2.30 in the morning. The only thing we could do was to walk back the way we had come and try to find a way over.

We took about ten steps back up the hill and with that Leon’s second phone died. There was now one slowly dimming head torch between us and an iPhone we needed to GPS and emergencies should we come to it.

It was about 3 hours until sunrise. Getting anywhere with one light was ridiculous. We were exhausted. We decided to find a rock to sit on (to try and avoid leaches) and wait for daybreak. After a little walk and what felt like a long search found a moss-covered boulder. Leon sat down on one side and I curled up to sleep on top of my rucksack on the other.

Day 16

Part 1 - The Decent

Wednesday

My feet were cold and wet. I got up feeling the same chill throughout my body. Leon was next to me, bent forward head resting on his knees. It was still dark. I checked my watch and found it was 4 am. There was still an hour until it got light.

Leon got up as well. We both stood their looking ghostly, then started to move about trying to return some heat to our limbs and body. After half an hour of not saying much and staring blankly into thin air we decided to start walking. With the last of the power that seemed to have returned to one of the phones we set off up the hill.

The sun rose quickly and by the time we had reached the top there was a decent blue sky above us.

We assessed the ridge, now to our right. It still looked unclimbable, though according to the GPS there was a notch somewhere close by that looked like an easier place to get over. We predicted where it was and started to scramble up through the undergrowth. At the top there was no path. We knew the river at the bottom of the valley went straight down to Syange and that the path we were meant to be on was just up on the other side of it. It seemed like a logical thing to go down and follow the river along. We set off. There was no route to follow so we made our own. The ground was covered in leaf litter and so was slippery but soft under our feet. Young trees made good hand holds as we continuously descended.

We came to a water course that steeply inclined down the hill and debated what to do next. Should we cross it and continue zig zagging our way down the or should we follow the water as the fastest, most direct way to the river. Suddenly we heard a shout. To begin with I thought it was a bird. But it couldn’t be? It was somewhere between a scream, a shocked exclamation and a holler. We looked around and then saw on the opposite bank and slightly higher than we were, a face staring down at us. Exhilarated by our first human contact in what felt like days we rushed over, breaking through rows of old brittle bamboo stems which lined the stream.

A single dwelling we had seen during our accent of the mountain illustrating how isolated many people are and also how uninhabited much for the land is

The woman stood watching. She was short and stocky, dressed in bright Nepalese clothes and a pair of large black wellies. Her face was round and smiley and she laughed a genuine, good humoured laugh as we approached.

I spoke at her in English and she spoke at me in Nepali, both laughing at the fact neither of us could understand a word the other was saying. After a minute we came to an understanding where by using our arms and gesturing and repeating certain words over and over a gain we were able to roughly get our meaning across.

Initially I thought she was asking us if we had fallen down the bank, then she put her hands to her head to make horns and I slowly established she was asking if we had seen her water buffalo up the hill. We hadn’t.

There was definitely something slightly crazy about her. Her hollering calling shouts pierced your ears and yet seemed to very much fit in with the sounds of the woodland around.

We told her we were going down to the river to go to Syange. She looked surprised and gestured chopping her arm off, then pointed back up the hill and round. Slowly gathering there must be a path up there I asked “How long?” and pointed at my wrist. She drew her hands apart indicating a good distance and then held up 10 fingers. “Ten hours” we both yelled a sense of exhausted shock cutting through us. This couldn’t be right.

She gestured for us to follow her. She was going to take us there. Unsure of what to do we discussed quickly. We had literally just come down that slope and 10 hours seemed far too long. Could we face going back up it and abandoning our original plans? It was currently only about 9 am and we hoped to make Syange by mid-day if we could. On the other hand, she obviously knew there was a path and was offering to take us on it.

In the end our fatigue got the better of us. It was decided that battling our way down the hill was going to be easier than trudging back up it. We gestured our continuation down. She looked at us and again motioned the chopping off of one of her arms. I had no idea what this meant, so shook my head in confusion. We smiled a thanks and departed, continuing our journey.

We tried going down the water course, clambering from boulder to boulder. Getting our feet wet wasn’t a problem. Our boots were still soaked. The process was slow and after about 30 minutes we stopped, got back onto the bank and tried that again instead.

The woodland was interesting: a weird mix of high canopy trees with very little understory and a thick base of leaf litter, areas of thick brambly undergrowth and shrub and then large swathes of sprouting bamboo. They each seemed to occur in intermittent sections changing from one to another rather swiftly.

Our energy was flagging. We had not eaten since the previous night. However, under the current circumstances neither of us felt massively hungry… but we did know we needed to eat.

Bizarrely the inclined slope suddenly plateaued out. Exhausted we collapsed once again onto our rucksacks.

Leon was in pain. His feat which had been wet far longer than mine were developing blisters, his ankles had been attacked by leaches getting into his boots and socks and generally the rubbing of his boots were causing him a lot of angst. He took his shoes off. We sat.

Somewhere there was a packet of biscuits left which we split while trying to work out how far we still had to go. I went on a scout and it turned out the flat area was actually quite large. At points it even opened out into patches of grass where there were a few water buffalo and a single open sided shed. But eventually there was an end and it dropped off again, steeply.

I came back to find Leon. We checked the GPS; it appeared we were about half way down to the river. Collecting ourselves we walked on.

To begin with everything seemed alright, but progressively over the next hour, the gradient by the stream we were following became steeper and steeper until finally it was more a case of slipping and sliding our way down than it was walking. We started using long bamboo shoots like ropes that we could cling to as we went.

The other side of the bank looked easier to navigate so we crossed then both consecutively put our feet on loose earth and slid down. Cursing, we wondered; this steep decent could not be right? A thought suddenly struck me and oh what an idiot I felt. I had not bothered to check the contour lines on the map to see what they behaved like around the river. I looked and sure enough they did what I feared. They dipped horribly down around the water. It was a gorge. We were going down towards a fucking gorge. I felt like crying. The frustration and anger mixed up in my weird sleep deprived state just made me want to give up. We had walked all this way to get to a bloody gorge. I suddenly understood what the woman had been saying. The ‘chopping her arm off motion’ had been her telling us we were walking towards a drop. We could not get down.

“Fuck it!!”

This whole fear, worry, stress caldron we were trapped in had been rotating like the water cycle during our trek. There would be a worry, then it would evaporate, then condense, soak us, then finally melt away only to rise back up from the ground like a flood. This was the flood.

I have never been a person who has got home sick, or missed the comforts of my own house and family, but right then, in that moment, the only place I wanted to be was at home, sat down with my family and loved ones in front of a film. Warm. Dry. Happy.

I hated what we had done. How could we have been so stupid as to assume that the river would be small and easy to cross or follow like most of the ones back home? We were in the Himalayas. Everything was ten times what we thought it would be. We should have known. We should have realised. We should have followed the lady. When the Nepalese say something about the land, they usually know best. After all they do live there.

We were now in a position that was potentially dangerous. It was about 1 o’clock, we were tired and without any proper food in an incredibly inaccessible part of the world with a single phone on just under 30% battery.

I’ve watched many of the rescue programs on TV. Watched people being hauled into helicopters, or life boats or onto stretchers. But never in my life had I thought that one of those people might just be me. Might be us… Now it was beginning to look like that might just be the case. If things got too bad we were going to have to call an emergency number.

We did not know whether it was going to be possible for us to get back up the slope. We weren’t sure what to do. It wasn’t easy to work out the scale of the gorge on the map. The GPS didn’t show us any idea of size either and this far down into the woods it was not able to pick a location to tell us where we were. It was just possible that the gorge was close by. Maybe even crossable – a thought that we clung to. Somewhere there was rushing water, or at least we thought we could hear it. At the very least, if we were going to need to be rescued, being on the gorge side would make us much easier to find. In the hope that we were close to the bottom and that maybe, just maybe, we could cross, we decided to push on once more.

We wrapped up everything valuable in waterproof bags and made our plan. If, while walking, one of us was to slip and break something, we would call an emergency number. If we got to the bottom and could not cross or get back up, we would call an emergency number. If we were not out of danger by 4 o’clock, we would call an emergency number.

And with that we set off down the hill.

We crossed back over the stream, Leon leading the way, both of us now not caring how wet or muddy we got. We slid down banks, fell between tree roots and splashed into muddy patches of undergrowth.

The other side of the valley (the side with the path we were supposed to be on) was visible through the trees. Judging from its proximity we reckoned we were getting close but must still be 100 – 200 meters up. Was this last stretch going to be passable?

No, turned out to be the answer. The tributary we were following disappeared over a drop and around a corner and the banks either side were just too steep and the soil too soft for it to be passable, let alone safe.

“Right I’m calling quits on this” Leon said turning to me. “Let’s go back up”.

“I agree” I replied.

We had come to terms with what we were going to have to do. So much for making it to Syange for 1 o’clock.

Assessing our options, we decided the best bet was to go steeply up onto the ridge then follow that all the way back to the top. Hopefully at some point our GPS signal would come back and we would be able to work out where we were.

We started to walk then Leon turned to me and said “Hey Silas, what ever happens this was both our fault, neither one of us is to blame, we’re both responsible.

“Yeah” was my reply, and then “Leon. Let’s get out of this safely alright.” We shook hands. We were going to survive.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 7

Info On

Objective pieces of writing designed to inform

Having voted to leave the EU in June of 2016, negotiations on Britain's departure are now in full swing. But there proves to be one persistent and exasperating headache for Theresa May's Brexit; that of Ireland.

The lush green island of Ireland

The lush green island of Ireland has had a long and arduous relationship with the UK (especially with England). Much like Scotland and Wales, Ireland's gorgeous countryside has seemed too irresistible for English eyes. England and her lords and kings have been trying to exert their influence on the island since the early 1st millennia AD. This initial colonisation of Ireland took the form of the Lordship of Ireland (this lord was also the King of England) and followed on from the Norman invasion of (what we now call) Great Britain. However, despite the claims of the English Kings, English control of the Island was never absolute until the formal creation of the Kingdom of Ireland in 1542 by Henry VIII. Ireland was not fully absorbed into the United Kingdom until 1801, a century after Scotland in 1707 and almost 300 years after Wales (Laws in Wales Act 1536).

Anti-Irish propaganda from Punch magazine, published in December 1867. It shows an Irish catholic sitting on a keg of gunpowder, alluding to the Guy Falks plot to kill the King and blow up Parliament.

But there is a reason why the act of union between the UK and Ireland was not until much later; Ireland was treated more like a colony by the English than the other nations of Great Britain. For, unlike the rest of the UK Ireland was Catholic and not Protestant. Though this (hopefully) amounts to little today, it was paramount in much of protestant England's history. During English and later British rule of Ireland, local language, culture, and religion were all subject to subjugation and represented as barbaric and savage. Ireland was also ruled by an English Ruling Caste and British customs, laws, and language were all imposed. It is perhaps not surprising that there was much disgruntlement at the British rule of Ireland. This discontent came to a head in the early 20th century and resulted in the creation of the Irish Free State in 1922 (Ireland became a Dominion of the British Empire following in the path of Canada, The Cape Colony, New Zealand, and Australia). There was however one sticking point, six counties in the north (predominantly protestant) opted not to join the free state. This lead to much dispute between the new independent Ireland and the UK. A period known as the 'troubles' emerged as a continuation of Irish nationalism (in both the North and the South) in favour of a United Ireland. This period lasted from around the 1960s until the signing of the Good Friday Agreement of 1998.

The Shankill road, Belfast during the troubles.

The Good Friday Agreement was a monumental landmark in Anglo-Irish relations. For the first time in history both sides agreed upon the existence of Northern Ireland as a part of the UK. It also guaranteed that if the Northern Irish were to change their mind, the UK would peacefully accept the creation of a United Ireland. In addition to all of this, the GFA (Good Friday Agreement) saw the creation of several Anglos-Irish and Irish-Northern Irish intuitions whose sole role was to facilitate the continuing of good relations. Much of the GFA was built upon constructive ambiguity (the deliberate use of ambiguous language in negotiations in order to avoid disagreement or deadlock ). Most of this ambiguity revolved around the border between the two countries. The idea was to create as smooth a border as possible so as to create the illusion of a unified country. This would satisfy those who wanted a Unified Ireland because for all parts of daily life Ireland was United. One could work in the North and live in the South, withouyt seing any tangible diffrence or challenge. It also appeased the unionists in the North as officially and politically speaking Northern Ireland was part of the UK. It also helped that the GFA ensured that any Irishman (northern or southern) was entiteled to hold either a British or Irish passport or both.

The seamless border was facilitated by the fact that both the UK and Ireland were members of the EU (They both joined in 1973). The Single Market (SM) and the Customs Union (CU) allowed people to live, work and commute freely from either side of Ireland because the SM meant that there was no need to check what tariffs were due, as the tariffs in Ireland and the UK were the same. The CU also meant that there was no need to declare anything that one might be bringing across the border, as once something is within the EU it does not need to be declared at every border.

This is where Brexit comes into play. Because, the current policy of the British government is to leave both the SM and the CU. This, if applied to Northern Ireland, it might threaten the GFA. It might also see the re-emergence of border checks, something reminiscent to many of the infamous 'troubles'. One could suggest that Northern Ireland should be an exception in order to avoid any more 'troubles'. But here in lies the headache. An unaligned Northern Ireland would mean undermining the governments 'supply and demand' deal with the DUP, potentially taking away the Tory Party's working majority (which in turn might trigger a fresh election and create yet more uncertainly). An unaligned UK would also provoke Scotland and the City of London to lobby for their own special relationship with the EU, leaving only England and Wales completely outside. One might then suggest that the government opt to keep the entire UK in the SM and CU, so as to avoid issue in Ireland. But this would completely defeat the point of leaving the EU as the UK would not be able to make its own trade agreements and would be subject to EU law that it would not have a say on.

The UK, at least for the moment, is thus in a bit of a pickle over Ireland. That is not to say that there is no solution to be found somewhere. After all the possibility of something like the Good Friday Agreement was once ridiculed by some. Perhaps a united Ireland is on the horizon, but then again, perhaps not.

Record on

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 4

Day 13

Sunday

We were up early but typically not as early as we wanted to be – about 7am. The packing of bags as effectively as possible commenced and then we went down to breakfast. This morning the breakfast was bigger than it had been the day before. Again pancakes and potato fries. I suppose they wanted us to have a good meal before we started our trek. We were certainly thankful for it.

The bill was settled and we went outside to have a photo. They asked us again if we were taking a guide and seemed surprised we were not. Their daughter painted a red streak on both our cheeks, I assume as a blessing of good luck to help protect us. We had seen a picture of two Frenchmen who had stayed a few weeks previously on their way to Pokhara. They had not had the red streaks on their cheeks!

Photos were taken and then we were walked to the start of our path by the father with the rest of the family waving from their home. Anticipation was in the air. Behind us lay the village, in front of us the path. We shook hands and with that we were on our way.

A big boulder

The path descended deep into a valley with a glacial river raging at the bottom. We crossed on a bridge that sat bowed across a massive bolder and stared in awe at the power of the water around us. On the other side was a large hydroelectric plant in the process of being built. Workers were about welding the massive 6 foot wide pipes. Their sleeping dorms had been decorated in very detailed drawings of Hindu gods, women, vehicles and animals.

We panted out way up the access track zig zagging its way up the mountain. Yet again the sun was beating down. The bad weather still had not arrived.

Raging water

At the top of the construction site the track continued horizontally around the hill. Round the corner there were some men washing in a stream. We asked them the way to Kori (the collection of huts we had been told where on top of the mountain). They laughed and pointed back the way we had come. We asked if they could show us. They didn’t understand. After a minute, two people came along. They were both in their twenties, but one in work clothes and the other in a smart black shirt and jeans, flip flops and clasping an umbrella to shade him from the sun. This made for a slightly odd picture in the middle of a building site, but they were laughing and heading our direction so we followed on trying to ask for directions. They wanted to take photos with us. We were red faced and sunburnt and didn’t feel particularly picturesque, but there didn’t seem to be much choice in the matter.

On we went, then they pointed to a spot where there was a small gap in the undergrowth and bellow which there had been a minor land slide. It was totally inaccessible. “You’re kidding me!” I almost shouted, my hart sinking. “No” they said. “This is old path. This is the new one.” It was just around the corner, but didn’t look much better. We went up, a growing feeling of worry developing as we ascended into the forest, the track only just visible.

Our path split. We tried left and it lead nowhere. We tried the other direction and it emerged onto stone steps rising up the hill. This was more like what we were expecting.

Half way up (or at least a point that felt like it should have been half way up), we came across a man sitting on a rock who asked, in broken English and hand gestures, “No guide? Just two (of you)?” We nodded. He raised his eyebrows.

As we went, we found or were able to see the occasional farm house perched randomly and isolated on the mountainside. Certainly a reclusive life.

At about 3pm, after walking continuously up, we emerged into a clearing in which there was a neat looking hut and loo building and a small heard of water buffalo. This was us. We were over the first lip of the hill. We had had a reasonably relaxed walk with a plentiful supply of spring water all the way up. We seemed to have made good time.

The hut was basically four walls with an internal one to make two rooms and doors at each side. There was a low second wall outside to stop the buffalo getting near. The floor was made of hard wooden floorboards, just raised off the earth underneath. Many of the planks were slightly bowed so as to make them uneven. In the corner of each room was a fire pit, but no chimney.

‘The Chimney’ seemed to be a novelty yet to be discovered in Nepal. Nearly all the places we had stayed had a fire pit or stove of sorts to cook on, but none of them had a means to let the smoke out other than the windows or gaps between the roof and the walls. The fire simply smoked the place out.

The rest of our afternoon was spent snoozing, reading, writing and eating our first meal of dry instant noodles. They came with spices which you were supposed to add to the liquid base. We added them to the noodles like you would the salt to ‘Salt and Shake’ crisps. They were not too bad, but definitely not something you would want to eat regularly.

As the sun set, we retired early with our sleeping bags to the hard floor and tried to sleep. No position was a comfortable one.

At some point a rather pretty white bellied rat came in through the window, watched us, and then scampered back out.

Finally I fell into broken sleep.

Day 14

Monday

An appalling night’s sleep. We both woke up aching, hips sore from resting on the unforgiving surface bellow us. We packed our stuff away and ate a breakfast of Bombay mix. I tucked my trousers into my socks, did my boots up tight, and put on the waterproof trousers all with the aim of avoiding the forest leaches.

We set off up the slope. Our water buffalo friends had apparently moved up the hill as well for as we walked we found the sludgy excretions they had left behind.

The misty forest

At intervals as we walked up the path we would come across flat open grassy areas, many of which contained the skeletal frame works of old shelters, all of them to the same design. Often the path would disappear at these points and we would have to stop, do a quick scout to find it before being able to carry on.

Two thirds of the way up the mountain the rainforest type canopy of trees gave way to bamboo, and then to grass and shrub land. Somewhere between the bamboo and the shrubs we burst into an open patch of the most amazing meadow style grassland. There was a huge array of flowers, all in bloom, with everything from Pitcher (fly catcher) plans, to orchids, to wild strawberries. Overhead we saw an eagle of some sort and there were so many small woodland birds and butterflies it was ridiculous.

A sign post. The path split, but only one side labelled. Dudh Pokhari it read, pointing to the left. Dudh Pokhari was the lake we intended to go to and stay at further along our trek and this signpost took us by surprise because all the previous ones (what few there had been) had simply said Kori. Also our map showed a left turning that went on an indirect route. The sign post directed us one way and our map the other. We went right and put our faith in the map.

After about 15 minutes the path disappeared into an open patch up grassland and then ribboned out the other side becoming many small indistinct trails. We kept on going hoping we had made the right choice. After a few minutes more we reached a ridge that promptly dropped off the other side down into a wooded stream channel. This was obviously not where we were meant to be. We had turned right too early.

Leon at the top of the herb bank

We knew we were not too far from the crest of the hill. In optimism we started to climb directly up the wooded slope, clambering through the undergrowth and abandoning all hopes of following a path. At the top of the stream channel it gave way to a steeply inclined bank covered in grasses, dead trees and amazing smelling herbs. We decided to climb up, our rucksacks off balanced us and making the task a perilous one that threatened to throw us back down the slope should we lose our footing. We discovered that grass tufts made good hand holds and foot stops and also that hanging on to dead rotten trees for support was a bad idea.

I think the moral to this is always follow signposts.

Two hundred yards up and the ground began to level out; now mainly covered in brambles and Himalayan balsam. We waded on through, finally making it to the top and “oh what a view”. On the other side of our mountain was a snow covered peak. It was still so high above us that we had to look up at a 45 degree angle to see its top which disappeared into the cloud. These could only be the Annapurna Mountains.

Form our vantage point we could clearly see the full breadth of Annapurna II, the second highest. We could also see, slipping off the mountainside down into a valley, what we had been told was the lowest glacier in the Himalayas coming down to around 3,600 meters above sea level (whether this was true or not we never worked out).

We carried on to find our next hut of refuge. There was an elderly shepherd couple whose dogs would not stop barking at us and who again looked surprised by our lack of a guide. We asked them where they stayed; apparently they had four places. Their home at the moment was a wooden frame work much like the skeletal dwellings we had seen further down the mountain, but with a tarp pulled taught over it and split into two sections, one for them and one for the animals.

We found a nice spot and stopped for a break and to admire the view. It promptly became very cloudy, giving us a 360 degree surrounding of grey water vapour. It started drizzling. We carried on walking.

Further up there were some men sitting under another wooden canopy structure with a fire and playing cards. I assume that they do not in fact get very much wind up in this region of the mountains as these makeshift buildings did not look strong and were held down by very little. Their tarpaulin walls definitely wouldn’t offer much shelter from a gale.

The men pointed us still further upwards. We stomped on, now wet and exhausted only to find that the trekkers hut was semi derelict, it’s floor covered in sheep shit and its wooden roof displaying more holes than a cheese grater. One end of the building had pretty much fallen down. To make matters worse the separate loo was filled in and appeared to have not been entered for the past decade or so. A proud sign outside was inscribed with the name ‘Kori’. In desperation and hunger we collapsed outside trying to work out what to do.

Even though clouds kept on coming and going making visibility poor we were sure we could see two more huts further up the hill. I dropped my rucksack and went to scout them out. One looked just about habitable, with a dirt floor and fire pit, but more importantly it had four walls and a roof, all in good condition.

We set up camp, chucked our stuff inside and then tried to make a fire with damp wood and pages out of Leon’s note book. It just smoked us out. There was still no chimney. In the end we got some embers, ate a packet of noodles in the dark and laydown to a smoky cold night.

Day 15

Tuesday

The next morning the mountains all around us were outlined by an incredibly clear blue sky. I crawled out of my sleeping bag, still wearing my clothes from the night before, to stare blinking into crisp air. The night had been chilly, but I had slept surprisingly well. Nevertheless this was too early to be up. Poor Leon who, without a sleeping bag liner, had been cold since our pitiful fire had died – so most of the night – crawled out a minute later.

We took pictures, packed, ate a breakfast of biscuits, and left round the mountain.

Waking up to the blue sky

At this point the path simply followed a row of black and yellow poles that sat on ridges, each one just about visible from the next. We walked between them, joining them up like some giant dot to dot.

The path followed our route on the map, then turned right in front of a peak instead of left behind it as the map showed. Fearing a mistake like our adventure up the bank the previous day, we followed the poles and not the map, assuming the two would somehow come together. We rambled up the most amazing flat bottomed, U-shaped valley. Once carved out by a now vacant glacier.

Halfway along we stopped for a quick bit of lunch and so Leon could catch up on some much needed sleep. We each ate our packet of dried fruit and nut and lounged in the sun.

Just as we prepared to set off a cloud rolled in and we found ourselves suddenly plunged into a world of grey mist and gloom. Once again drizzle dripped from the sky. To make matters worse our path of poles suddenly stopped. It just literally disappeared and we found ourselves being guided by small irregular mounds of stone probably put in place by past walkers and guides. Between the mounds ran a worn section of earth, the path, just about discernible from its surroundings.

This lead us on round to the right of yet another peak, when we had expected to go left up the main end of the valley. We followed on, assuming there must be a path up a ridge round there which lead up and over to where we needed to be.

As the valley sides started to steepen, scree slopes appeared crosscutting the path which got completely lost amongst the stones. It was as much guesswork as anything else to work out where we needed to go. Our only signs of human movement were occasional pieces of dropped plastic (noodle, chocolate, crisp and biscuit packets mainly, with a fair few packets of chewing tobacco thrown in). I can safely say I’ve never been more grateful to see human garbage.

Lead by the limited trail of litter, we made it round the mountain to a raised section between two peaks, the slopes rising up too steep to climb on either side and dipping off in front and behind us. This point was marked by a stone ‘view point’ bench and a whole load of mini cairns and standing stones. We collapsed on the bench, exhausted and worried by the paths continuation on what the wrong side of what now turned out to be two ridges.

Leon had downloaded a google maps GPS locator onto his phone and it was already proving to be invaluable. Using it we were able to place ourselves on the map and work out roughly where the path must go. Suddenly realising how far we now thought we were going to have to go and also how late it was getting, we set off along the path at a pace. We were slowly discovering that everything seemed to be much bigger than it appeared on the map. We seriously needed to scale up our perceptions of distance.

The path did not turn left as we had anticipated. Instead it continued straight along the mountainside, now dropping instead of rising and slowly taking us away from where we wanted to be – Dudh Pokhari. In despair we kept going, now not sure we would make it anywhere before nightfall, but knowing that a path must lead somewhere. To the left of us was a steep slope rising into the sky. To the right an angled decent into a cloudy valley that we could not see the bottom of. I found myself cursing our decision not to follow the map.

Every now and then we would disturb a resident Pheasant. They would cluck hysterically making us jump out of our skins before zooming down into the valley like some miniature fighter plane, disappearing into the cloud.

We kept going. It got later.

After what seemed like an age we saw another set of cairns and standing stones and in the middle of them a sign post. There were three paths leading from the spot and the sign post had two labelled. One said ‘Sikles’ pointing the way we had come, and the other was some place we did not recognise and could not find on the map. It’s odd, but all the Nepalese signs we had seen (which wasn’t many) seemed to assume you were coming from a certain direction and so only labelled the other routes.

The beautiful meadow

Flora on early descent

We studied the map, studied the GPS and studied the map again. One path looked hopeful. It finally turned left and was descending into a valley. Leon went to scout it out. It looked good. We followed it, went round a bend and bellow us the most amazing scene stretched out. A meadow of flowers and grasses, with a meandering river then dark mountain peaks on the other side. On our side was a path stretching out into the distance past a glassy smooth lake, and in front of that, huts with smoke, people and animals. However it was not this that elated our spirits. Looking at the map we realised that we had somehow taken a short cut past Dudh Pokhari and that this was in fact the path down the other side towards Syange – our intended emerging point along the official Annapurna trek circuit. This meant that though we had accidentally missed an amazing view spot, we were now on the downward stretch. We had no more climbing to do and the end was in sight. Our fears and worries vanished from our thoughts. In that moment we agreed to walk on through the night so as to make Syange by day break and so we could shower, eat and sleep. We would be safe and back in civilisation.

In a state of shear happiness mixed with a weird desperation and a feeling of ‘19 never dies’, we walked down the stone steps, entered the valley, passed the houses with three Gurkhas outside and a fire within, and carried on out the other side of this blissful microcosm. Up past the lake we went, stopping at the top of a rise to eat our last packets of instant noodles and to admire the last of the evening sun.

As we sat and ate a cloud, borne on rising hot air, rose up the valley like some great wave. Then, as the sun set and the air cooled, it slowly sank back again. It was 7.30 pm.

I got out my head torch. Leon took out his spear SIMless phone and my locked Nokia brick, both of which had a torch and a full battery, and we headed off into the growing darkness.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 6

Ideas On

Patriotism is great. Especially when you actively feel it. Seeing your country win at a sport, excelling in academia, or even learning about its past achievements.

In fact nationalism in general has many great effects. It helps, for instance, to create a cohesive society. A nationalistic and proud society is inevitably much more successful and efficient than one with a disenfranchised populace. People are much more inclined to work hard and for longer for something they love and feel a sense of belonging/duty to. Here in the west, nationalism has been a great tool in the invention of the nation sate - a country with well-defined borders and a citizenry (as opposed to subjects). For a long part of European history you allegiance was usually given to kings and seigneurs, not to sovereign nation states such as Britain or France. One of the first documented examples of soldiers fighting for a nation was not till the Napoleonic wars of the early 19th Century where the French, having disposed of the King, had to find a new way of inspiring their troops - as a whole the nation state is a very new concept.

Hillingford - Napoleon with His Troops at the Battle of Borodino, 1812

As mentioned previously nationalism can also give a person a great sense of belonging and identity. Identity is perhaps one of the most important human needs. It is a primal need and without which a human can see - amongst many things - a decline in mental health. To quote a 2007 study on the importance of belonging 'The need for social belonging is a basic human motivation' and though this study was primarily focused on belonging in the workplace and on the college campus (with focus on race), the factors mentioned apply equally to the nation state as a whole. Nationalism can also be a tool for poorer countries in their battle with brain drain - that is to say when the well-educated go and live abroad to further their careers and opportunities as opposed to working at home and boosting the local economy. Brain drain has multiple effects on a suffering county (according to L'Université Catholique de Louvain); the emigrated don't pay taxes on income (despite the fact that they send money home), where education abroad is subsidised by the home nation that debt is often never repaid, and it can lead to a shortage of manpower in the mother land itself. A country with a highly nationalistic populace might see lower rates of brain drain as the people see an importance in building their own country more than furthering their own career - there are no known documented cases of this trend.

Nationalism can also be a preserver of culture. Home nation ( Scotland, N. Ireland, and Wales) nationalism is the reason that you can still hear native speakers of Scottish Gaelic, Welsh and Irish Gaelic, and to a certain extent Cornish.

Welsh road signs

But for all its benefits nationalism doeth have its negatives. Nationalism has as much dividing power as it has uniting power, for identity often comes by defining oneself against what one is not. Linda Colley1 wrote a great article on this exact topic, she put it that:

'National identity, "like ethnic or communal identity is contingent and relational" ... Quite simply, we usually decide who we are by reference to who and what we are not.' Linda Colley, Page 311

In this the 'who' and the 'what' are usually seen in the negative not the positive. In her essay she uses the example of British unity in the fight against the 'evil' that was catholic France. Examples of such nationalism are present in modern Britain. Parties like the BNP and UKIP are strongly nationalistic as a response to what they see as a foreign invasion of culture. Reasonable defence of culture can turn very fast into the hatred of another culture for this reason.

Cultural preservation is equally tricky. Yes it's a great tool to conserve a dying language or tradition, but it can often be misplaced. Traditions are invented all the time and tradition and culture we deem to be ancient and true can be both surprisingly new and historically inaccurate. One need only look at today's highly commercialised and irreligious Christmas, or today's orange tinted, sugar-filled and fancy-dress Halloween. There is a list here of supposedly ancient traditions.

The second paragraph of this article mentions the importance of identity and how nationalism may help shape identity. But this ignores the fact that identity can be fluid and highly circumstantial. This fact was again explained by Linda Colley's essay:

'In practice, men and women often had double, triple, or even quadruple loyalties, mentally locating themselves, according to the circumstances, in a village, in a particular landscape, in a region, and in one or even two countries. It was quite possible for an individual to see himself as being, at one and the same time, a citizen of Edinburgh, a Lowlander, a Scot, and a Briton.' Linda Colley, Page 315

One may also define themselves in many more ways than by nationality. When trying to create identity, focus should perhaps be less on the nation state and more on the individual (personality, hobbies, etc...).

Ardent nationalism can also be damaging to the nation state and when applied to politics it often comes with protectionist tendencies. This can lead to a country being isolationist and uncooperative e.g. Trump's new America. These policies are excellent for successful countries at the peak of their power like the USA today or the UK in the 19th century, but often destructive for the societies outside it. For instance, Britain's era of Splendid Isolation during the mid 19th century in which it refrained from interacting with international politics, a policy that arguably contributed to the outbreak of WWI. This is exacerbated today when you consider the biggest threats to humanity. For instance, climate change is an issue that can only be tackled at a super-national level. This applies equally to genetic modification, nuclear weapons and plastic waste, plus lots more - learn more of these threats here.

This is not to say that there is no place for nationalism. It has its place and will likely never disappear. But it is essential to keep it in check. Radical anything is likely to be bad. You culture/identity is important, but perhaps just as important as everyone else's.

1: Journal of British Studies, Vol. 31, No. 4, Britishness and European-ness: Who are the British Anyway? (Oct., 1992), pp. 309-329

Written by Leon Davies

Editor Ideas On Info and Student studying History with Politics at the University of Buckingham.

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 3

Day 10

Thursday

Typically, we got up late and after packing, settling the bill and going to find a café for breakfast it was already heading on 9am. I had a massive bowl of banana porridge, Leon had toast, we discussed where we were in Pokhara and more importantly which direction it actually was that we needed to go (our map only showed half of Pokhara). Then we went and bought a farewell cake and set off. For the next 7 days we were going to be trekkers.

Epiphytes (plants that grow on other plants)

The sun was beating down, we had no idea how big Pokhara was or indeed quite where we were going and after 10 minutes of walking a taxi pulled up. The driver convinced us that we were a long way away from where the trek started and from where we wanted to be, in the city outskirt region of Bagar. We got in. It was lucky as well because, though we didn’t know it at the time, Pokhara is the biggest city in Nepal in terms of land coverage and we were miles away.

The Taxi driver chatted all the way, but repeatedly said as we drove, “No guide? Just you two? Ok I take you Bagar, but after that I have no idea. No idea. But I point you Bagar”.

The start of the trek was fantastic. We instantly took several wrong turns and had to ask a load of people to help us get back on the right track. However, once we were on it we were having a whale of a time. We crossed a phenomenal wire bridge spanning a gorge with an incredible white water glacial river at the bottom.

When we had initially researched the trip, it had been our understanding that during the summer months (the monsoon season) Nepal tended to be warm but very cloudy, wet and generally just pretty damp. Indeed, BBC weather showed perpetual thunderstorm icons over the whole of Nepal for the entirety of the three months of summer, but the bad weather we expected just didn’t seem to exist. We walked and walked with the sun remaining incredibly hot in the sky and realised we should probably have brought a hat and sunglasses instead of water proofs and a bottle of sun cream which just didn’t quite seem to cut it.

After walking most of the afternoon, getting lost, getting re-directed and getting hot and sweaty climbing what must have been greater than 40-degree slopes, we met a young man running. He stopped for a conversation and proceeded to show us the way to the next village. A process that included wading through shallow fords, climbing up banks and balancing along the terraced levees of rice paddies. It was very good fun but we were knackered. Our friend had to return home for work, leaving us for the last bit and with no reason to keep our energy up we slowed down to a crawl, having to drag our feet every meter.

Upon arrival into the first settlement in hours we met a man who we had previously seen on a motor bike and got invited to come and stay at his guest house in the next village. Now sunburnt, grimy and covered in a film of sun cream and salt crystals that had crystallised out of our sweat, we trudged on towards the town of Mohoriya.

The final stretch of the way two young boys popped up, studied our maps with us and babbled to us in broken but understandable English. They invited us to come and stay with them as well. Many children seem to speak better English than their parents and, as we discovered, were always smiley and seemed to give pretty good directions. A game developed where we each had to produce a new entertaining sound and everyone else would try and imitate it.

Terraced rice paddies

We arrived in Mohoriya, met the family and brother of the man who ran the guest house and were then shown up to the showering spot. A pipe came out of the bank and from its end, blissfully cool spring water poured. We washed in the evening twilight.

As we dried ourselves the brother came down to invited us up to his house where he had two cups of lemon grass tea waiting for us. I can safely say I have never had a cup of tea nicer. It was herbaly, hot and sweet, almost too sweet, but so good after a long days walking. After sitting and talking for a long time we returned to the guest house where they had made the most amazing meal of rice, stew, poppadoms and chicken. We ate and watched as the darkening night was pierced by hundreds of pinprick white lights made by LED’s in the houses around the valley. The whole scene was somewhere between a black canvas studded with stars and some fairy village from a Disney fantasy movie.

Day 11

Friday

Our room was an attic over a small barn. It was filled with a naked lightbulb, a single socket and two rock solid beds, but it was glorious. We slept well and after rising experimented with the house hold squat loo. This was our first experience, having been in hostels and hotels with western loos up till this point. (On the whole squat loos were pretty much everywhere and were now the only thing available). It was genuinely not a bad experience and it even had a hose to wash one’s arse with if there was no toilet roll available.

We went to say good bye to the family and give them some money for accommodation only to find a breakfast of pancakes and tea ready for us. The pancakes were sweet, thick and doughy, but with a crispy fried top and bottom. It didn’t appear to be the norm to eat them with anything.

We had been told that the trek to our next destination of Sikles would probably take us two days, but we were hopeful that we could do better and so, with an excess of energy and excitement, we walked hard and fast out of the village, down into the valley and back up the other side. Yet again, the day was sunny and hot and we soon started perspiring, but this was the last of our worries for down in the valley it was humid and our main concern was leaches. They were everywhere, of all sizes, creeping up our boots and trousers. Worst of all, when you attempted to flick them off they became little gelatinous balls of snot, sticking to your fingers and trying to latch onto your skin.

Finally out of the valley we found that where we had to walk and what our map showed did not match up. We asked some women the directions and they pointed up the hill. The map showed us going along contour lines, or in other words, flat.

At some point, Leon turned to me and said “Happy Birthday”. I’d forgotten. Today, of all days was my 19th Birthday. “Shit” I replied, “how’d that happen”. We decided to buy a couple of beers later and a cake (if we could find one) to celebrate. We carried on.

As we walked we saw many people working, making fences, maintaining the track or roads after washouts and looking after their animals (cows, water buffalo and oxen mainly). Above all we saw people working in rice paddies, planting and picking, or occasionally in a crop of maiz. Having so many people around was perfect for us who, unguided, needed all the help we could get.

The sun beat down. We had been hand washing all our clothes and so I stuck a pair of wet pants onto the back of my rucksack to dry and my damp facecloth on my head to keep me cool. It helped but I’m sure I looked crazy.

At about 11 we came across a man walking the same direction as us carrying a branch. As we walked we chatted about the beauty of the land and which country Leon and I were from, and then he turned to me and said “in this country there is communism, how do we solve this problem?” Slightly taken aback I asked him what he meant. Apparently, they had recently had an election and the communist party had gained 75%… though 75% of what I could not work out. He asked me again how we should solve this problem. I wasn’t totally sure how qualified I was to answer this so I gave a rather long and meandering explanation, most of which he probably didn’t totally get, but it went along the lines of: talk to people, have a free press, make sure people and the state are honest and most of all get as many people out to vote as possible, because in doing so that was democracy in action. Not communism. I even managed to chuck in a couple of references and comparisons to Brexit and the current changes in the British political system mainly because I could talk about them with some actual knowledge.

He listened intently and we chatted further having a really interesting conversation, then he went to a side, weaved his branch into a fence he was creating and turned back. We thanked each other and I rushed off to catch up with Leon who had outpaced me while distracted by the conflab.

Having a shower

At the bottom of a slope we found a waterfall just bellow the next village we were aiming for. Hot and sweaty, but making good time we went for a dip. The water was blissfully cold and the falling water from the rocks above was the perfect massage for aching shoulders.

10 minutes later we were walking up the hill into the next village. This was the place we had originally been told we should stop for the night, but it had only just gone 12 o’clock so lunch and then carrying on seemed a better idea. Interestingly the village centre consisted of a guest house, a shop and a small café. That was pretty much it.

Down the valley

We sat in the café playing Russian Whist while waiting for our food. As far as we could understand there was only one option on the menu; instant noodles cooked with an egg. When it arrived though, it was a superb meal with the noodles in a sort of stew like liquid. Probably a pretty perfect meal for travellers – carbs and protein.

For a while we played cards, letting our food settle and relaxing. Then we were off again.

As it turns out walking higher into the Himalayas consists of a lot of uphill walking, and indeed, for the rest of the day, we pretty much climbed our way up tracks, steps, and more tracks and steps. However far we went, our destination never appeared to get closer according to the locals, and there were always more steps.

Walking higher

In the mid-late afternoon, it became cloudy and started to rain, which was a relief for our sun heated bodies. Somehow we were feeling pretty good, though now worrying about how long this last section of our journey was taking and the lateness of the hour. For some reason everyone had disappeared as well. As we progressively got more tired and the sun got lower we started singing songs. Anything in a decent 4/4 to keep our pace and spirits up. The track sank and then rose. It was almost dark. We kept going, stopping every now and then to catch our breath. Finally, we came across a house. I ran up to the door, peered inside.” How far to Sikles” I asked. 12 fingers were shown to me by the woman inside. 10 followed by 2. I hoped to god she meant minutes.

With new energy we marched on finally making it to a village which we quickly realised was ‘Parche’, the village before Sikles. In exhaustion we sat on the steps of some official looking building, then went in to ask how far Sikles was. Half an hour was our answer. They offered us accommodation should we need it. We went outside feeling down trodden to work out what to do now.

Leon turned to me and said “Silas, we can’t walk all this way and not make it to Sikles”. I looked at him, then laughed, “well we had better rock onwards then”. We got up and walked back into the darkness. Down the road we went, then off across a bridge. No signposts of course – we had had the continuous problems throughout the day with tracks splitting and us not having a clue which one to take. Our map showed none of them. On the other side we found some more bloody steps. I got my head torch out and slowly we worked our way up.

Perfectly placed within view of the top step was a bar, a small low-slung building with wooden benches and tables inside. We practically ran over, “Namaste, is this Sikles?”. There were three people in the bar. “ Namaste! Yes, yes this is Sikles, come in, sit down. What’s your country? Where have you come from? May I welcome you to Sikles, we are very proud of Sikles”. We enquired about hostels, hotels, guest houses, what ever there was and the third and most chatty man smiled and goes “Yes, yes, my very own brother owns the Annapurna guest house, come with me.” Exhausted and achy we followed him two minutes down a track to a heavenly place with toilets and showers signposted outside.

We step in, drop our bags and collapse in a chair. I am so exhausted that the moment I sit my adrenaline drops and every part of my body goes numb like I’ve got pins and needles. I start feeling faint. Our new friend sits with us, talking constantly telling us about the place and everything going on. Somehow my Birthday gets mentioned and a Tuborg beer is bought. I so desperately need something in my system that I start gulping it down the moment it arrives. To our joyous surprise the owners of the establishment bring out food: rice, bean stew and fried chip like potatoes (salty), it tastes so good. We thank them repeatedly. It’s late!

Having had very little to eat all day, the beer was making me feel very light headed. Good nights were exchanged. We had showers, went to our rooms, feet landing heavily and clumsily on the stairs and discovered proper beds with duvets.

I slept like a log.

As the bird flies we think we travelled about 15 – 20 km this day. That might not sound like much but it really is. We rose about 800 meters and were doing regular drops and elevations each of about 200 meters.

Day 12

Saturday

Having done such a mammoth hike the day before we decided to have a rest day, before starting the main section of our trek; going up and over the mountain.

We rose late and went down stairs to another breakfast of the same doughy pancakes with the addition of some more salty fried potato chips. I can safely say that oil and salt has never tasted so nice nor somehow felt so good for you.

Our morning was incredibly slow and relaxed and mainly consisted of washing clothes and writing. After this we were taken by the guy from the hostel, his brother who had brought us to the hostel and a random other, slightly hung over looking man, down to the local culture and conservation museum.

This other man’s relationship to us was not clear at all. We had no idea why he was there, though we did initially mistake him for the smiling brother who had befriended us the night before. It’s interesting to note that though people’s facial shapes are incredibly different, across cultures it is sometimes very difficult to tell people apart or recognise those who you have already met. This man’s whole demeanour and style was totally different to the man we thought he was. And yet this slightly hung over, post rough night looking bloke was who was here and so we assumed he was our smiling friend. We even chatted to him as though we had already met, before realising, when our friend did finally arrive, that we had not.

Up a sightseeing tower

This inability to distinguish facial shape differences had been repeated in revers as well. By this time Leon and I had been mistaken for brothers about three times (a trend that would continue regularly though out the rest of our trip) – something that had never happened at home.

The Museum was amazing, with lots of local traditional items on display including cloth, work tools, musical instruments, cooking implements and a selection of pickled wild-life. The 5 of us were the only people in there and we ambled about with the three tour guides giving us a running commentary on everything.

On the first floor of the building there was an elevated papier-mâché model and map of the local mountains and trails. We realised immediately that the route we intended to take, going up towards the Lamjung Himal mountain region and past the glacial Dudh Pokhari Lake, was going to be one hell of an undertaking that would probably take us 4 days at least and there were no villages up there.

Sikles

We returned back to our guest house to eat and discus what to do next. Looking at the map we realised there was really only three directions we could go: along our intended trek into the mountains, or to turn right and go along smaller paths which didn’t go so high and on which there were still very few settlements, or to go back towards Pokhara and try another route. Turning back seemed a disappointing concept. We knew that there were trekkers’ huts along the mountain trail and we wanted to see the view so we resolved to give it a shot.

The rest of the afternoon was spent sighting out our path for the next day, planning and being convinced by our Nepalese friends that we should take a guide. They even went so far as to get a local guide down to talk to us. However, because our trip was not a circular one it did not really work for him. Indeed for us it wouldn’t be great either as we just did not have the money. In the end we decided to go at it without a guide, but we spent a long time talking and researching our track with him instead. Then, much later than intended, we headed for bed.

Mill houses

While considering our options, we had walked past some water powered grain mills, which were really interesting. Each one had a flutter wheel attached directly to the top stone of a single set of mill stones and a person sat inside feeding in grain into the top of them.

Water buffalo

Sikles has two shops and lots of free roaming water buffalo. Earlier in the day we had made a food list to last us both for the next 4 days. This consisted of 6 packets of instant noodles (to eat dry), 4 packets of biscuits, 4 packets dried fruit and nut, half a packet of Bombay mix we already had, 6 mini snickers and a bottle of coke. We were quite limited as there was very little else available in the local shop huts.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 5

Ideas On

The very fact I am writing this and you are reading it is hypocritical to the point that this article is trying to make. But then again, points have to be said so that something can be done about them. The very fact that you are reading this is proof that Trump’s name generates a huge amount of interest. Too much interest.

The issue is that he is so obviously the perfect story: he is the president of one of the most powerful and influential countries on the planet, he actively engages and makes decisions that affect controversial issues, he says totally ludicrous things, defends them and gets away with the lot. So often these are comments and actions that would have destroyed anybody else’s normal career, let alone a political career, but not his. Yet.

In 2016 (the year he was elected) he was the 3rd most searched topic on google and the 1st most searched person. Interestingly he dropped off Google's list in 2017, but look at any news sight from around the world and he will be somewhere. In the UK a piece about Trump seems to be published almost daily. Just type ‘Donald Trump News UK’ into google and look at the dates of the articles. Many are published only hours apart, let alone days.

He is egocentric. The name ‘Trump’ being in almost every news organisations’ publications or on every social media sight, in almost every country, is the perfect fuel for such a man. He has continuous publicity, as news organisations everywhere pick up on tweets from his continuous stream and set about scrutinising them as if they are policy statements that need to be looked into by the best political minds there are. The truth is that many of Trump’s comments don’t need analysis. They are literally just comments. However, the analysis makes fantastic content that can gather high click rates.

A part of the reason for this wide ranging interest in him is his connection to the anti-establishment shift we have seen across the western world. As this is a subject that is so relevant currently, it naturally makes his politics a regular day to day topic of conversation, particularly as what he says and does repeatedly challenge the norms of current society. Of course, news and media organisations want to capitalise on this. If people want to read it, then they will print it. The whole thing forms a sort of self-perpetuating loop. The public are interested in him and so media outlets continue to report on his every move. This keeps the public informed and thus interested, making them want to read more.

Perhaps it is time to simply ignore Trump. Let him do his thing and let the American people work out what should be done. Ultimately, do we really need to keep informed about the internal politics of America? If we didn’t know about everything he does day in and day out, would we care? Would we miss it? Would it make any difference to us? He seems to have become a staple of our news, like a sitcom might be part of our regular watch list. But if we were to find a new sitcom to watch, we would soon lose interest in the original. It is wrong to say that American politics should not be covered in our news, but imagine if the Prime Minister of New Zealand -Jacinda Ardern, or the President of South Africa -Jacob Zuma, was getting the same levels of coverage as Trump. Would we not find that a little strange? Admittedly he has the bestowed title as the 'Leader of the Free world', but it's a title that he feeds off and arguably abuses. We don’t need to know about his golfing holidays, about his most recent tweet, or his most recent staff appointment. Why are we so obsessed with American politics? I fancy the problem is that humans like gossip, and Trump provides a lot.

If he was to lose the excess of coverage, he would lose a lot of his impact. The international obsessive interest in him would decrease and if he loses that, then he’s less able to affect our daily lives and we can concentrate on other things in life. After all there is so much else we could be thinking about: the gender pay gap, the environment, the housing crisis, the NHS, the development of our local community, the maintaining of our own relationships and friendships to name a very small few. Perhaps we need to ask out media outlets to reduce their coverage of him and increase their coverage of a more diverse range of countries. Let’s find out what is happening in Brazil, Austria, Uruguay or in the Philippines. Individually, let’s not treat him as a celebrity to gossip about, as for him, like the saying goes ‘there is no such thing as bad publicity’.

It is a busy world for each of us and there is a lot of other things out there to be interested in. Trump does not have the right to claim the 'time of day' most of us give him.

RECORD ON

We were on the West side of the island. The sun was high enough in the sky that we could see it over the houses and palm trees. I turned to look at the horizon. Our snorkelling trip would keep us out on the water all day as the sun arched its way over us and sunk into Caribbean Sea which extended far beyond what I could see in front of me.

“Alright folks, before we go any further we’ve got a couple of traditions to honour to bring us luck out there today” Pops called out as he eased off the throttle and brought the boat to a stop in a small inlet along the mangrove shoreline. Perhaps the statement should have made us nervous about what our guide was going to have us do. However, it was about 10:30 in the morning, barely 10 minutes into our trip and the 8 of us had already consumed 1 out of the 5 gallons of Pops’ homemade rum punch as well as a beer each, and we were content to just go with the flow.

“First thing’s first” he said as he killed the engine and produced a bottle small enough to be cough medicine from his back pocket. He gave the liquid no introduction, but we could interpret from his malicious grin what it was likely to be.

“This stuff’s illegal on airplanes”, Pops almost boasted as he handed around the shots, then quickly added that it was rum when he saw no-one drinking. Chris, whom I’d just met that morning, turned out to be the bravest. We watched as he swallowed and I waited for the typical grimace of strong liquor. Instead his eyes just widened slightly and he rocked a little in his seat before muttering a single inaudible word which was met with laughter and clapping from Pops and his crewman, Rastaman.

Unsure of whether or not I should be encouraged by Chris’ reaction, I took my shot of anti-aircraft rum. It hurt a little, as strong alcohol does, but not in the normal stinging way. More in a blunt way, like it punched me in the roof of the mouth before sliding down my throat. We all asked what the strength was but Pops insisted he didn’t know, he could only tell us it was ‘strong…real strong’. After a moment to recover, Rastaman started walking around the boat replacing the cups in everyone’s hands with freshly caught sardines.

“That was just for fun, this is our real good luck charm, you wanna see sharks today then this is what we got to do” Rastaman said in his thick Belizean accent. I glanced around the boat, but no one looked any more comprehending than me until Pops silently lifted his hand to his mouth and mimed taking a bite. Our reaction closely mirrored the 5 stages of grief. First we laughed, confident it was a joke, but our denial was only met with stoic faces from Pops and Rastaman. Next we hit anger, sure that our guides were just trying to take advantage of the innocent tourists, but this turned quickly to bargaining as Mike, a Madagascan/Canadian I’d met in Cancún and travelled South with, suggested we put them in our drinks instead. This received a gentle head shake. We realised we were trapped and each stared down into the eyes of the fish that sat limp in our hands, this was the depression. Suddenly their stern faces broke and our guides burst into laughter, unable to keep the joke up anymore.

“So here’s what we’re actually going to do…” Pops began but he was cut off.

“Wait…” Said a girl at the front of the boat, her name was Kelly, I knew her from the hostel. We turned to look at her and she lowered her hand nervously to reveal a sardine that had had an almost cartoon like bite take out of its midriff. She had reached acceptance just a moment before the rest of us.

We’d only been driving at speed for 5 minutes but our little island of Caye Caulker was already just a thin strip on the horizon behind us. The boat slowed and our wake began to settle. The water was as clear as glass. I peered over the edge and saw the barrier reef below us. The soft coral drifted slightly in the current as I watched, the sea wasn’t deep here; I could even make out the ridges on the sea fans.

I took my mask excitedly from Rastaman, this would be our first snorkelling stop of the day. We were expecting to see different wildlife at each of our three locations but I didn’t ask what was waiting for us here, I wanted it to be a surprise. Pops spoke for a moment about how to behave in a reef, he told us what not to touch or get too close to, but wrapped it up pretty quickly in respect to his promise earlier that morning about minimising the serious talk. Then, all of a sudden, we were jumping in. In spite of the mask I was wearing I instinctively closed my eyes.

First I felt the water, then I didn’t. Its temperature matched my body’s perfectly and it seemed to become one with my skin. This wasn’t a huge surprise, it wasn’t my first dip in the Caribbean that week and the Cayes were having a typical November of 30 degrees Celsius most days.

What was a surprise was what greeted me when I opened my eyes. I saw the corals again, but now more than 30 feet below me. I hadn’t been able to gauge the depth from the boat and I was totally unprepared. I looked down so my peripherals couldn’t catch the surface of the water, all I could see were my legs and the floor far below and I could feel nothing at all. I was flying.

Rastaman jumped in last and lead us away from the back of the boat. We swam over a huge, flat area of sand towards another bank of coral which rose like a wall from the seabed. At the edge of the sand there was a boulder. It was at least 8 feet long and rounded. I stared for a moment then carried on until I caught a flicker out of the corner of my eye. I looked back and saw a dust cloud pluming up around the rock. Then it moved again. A huge tail pounded against the floor and the mass rose gracefully upwards.

The whole group watched, transfixed, as the massive animal glided effortlessly upwards. It sat breathing on the surface before turning and reversing course to come to rest in exactly the same spot it had been in before. Once it was still, we carried on to the coral where we could get a better view of the manatee.

I amused myself for a few minutes weaving in and out of the coral. Without realising, I had pointed myself back the way we had come and as I rounded a large sea fan I was met again with the large expanse of sand. The manatee had just taken flight again and I mimicked it – being in need of air myself. The rest of group came back to watch, but stopped several metres behind me. The creature had finished breathing and was now completely still just below the surface, facing us. Slowly but surely, with tiny waves of its hand sized flippers, the manatee moved towards us.

I became quietly nervous. He was now as close in front of me as my friends were behind me, he was much bigger than me and we were definitely in his element. But as he stopped, I looked into his eyes. They were just tiny black beads, no discernible pupil, but I was sure he was looking at me and I knew then that he was just being curious, like I was.

I found out later that of the half-a-dozen snorkelling tours that went out that day, we were the only ones to see a manatee. This, I thought, was the good luck Kelly had brought us, so I thanked her. She swore at me. Then smiled.

Tiny high pitched noises kept escaping from my throat. Long black shadows were darting through the water all around the boat. Pops had explained what we were really doing with the sardines and now we were all leaning over the sides of the boat holding them by the tail just a few centimetres above the surface. He never said why, but we were working it out.

The fish were taking their time, they circled ominously long enough to cause hysteria throughout the boat. Rachel was next to me. Like Mike I’d met her in Cancún along with her friends, Lucy and Helen. I’d helped talk the 3 of them into coming to Caye Caulker and in that moment I wondered if I’d have to feel guilty about that. Her sardine was the first to go.

She screamed and I spun to look at her hand. Her sardine was gone and a long, sleek tail disappeared back into the depths. Fear rising, I looked back down. I’d been busy watching the shadows whipping back and forth, waiting for one to leap. I wasn’t expecting the attack that came. The fish came from beneath the boat so I didn’t see it until it was already out of the water. At first it looked like a barracuda but as it rose I realised it was darker in colour and much bigger. It was a tarpon. Its open mouth engulfed my entire hand then it slid back down, closing its jaw over the bait and snapping it out of my grip, there and gone in a fraction of a second.

I’d been holding my camera in my free hand and immediately turned it around to check the video, hoping to get a better look and what had just happened, but as soon as I got it ready to play, another sardine was dropped onto my lap.

“In honour of her spirit, I think Kelly should go first this time” said Pops with a grin.

We all turned to look at Kelly then back to Pops. He walked up through the boat and started whispering in her ear. Her eyes grew bigger as he spoke. When he’d finished she thought silently for a while, then shrugged and without a word stood confidently on the bench and held her new sardine as high as she could in the air. The rest of us caught on at the same moment and looked at the sky excitedly.

The birds were faster to arrive than the fish had been. They were huge and jet black. They had long beaks with deep orange trim and an incredible wingspan relative to their bodies. Dozens of them circled the boat, as the fish had done, but above us now and far more intimidating.

"Frigate birds!” someone behind me called out.

We didn’t have to wait long. A bird broke away from the group, tucked its wings in tight, and dived. It unfurled inches away from Kelly, changing direction in a heartbeat and grabbed the sardine from below, brushing her hair with its feathers as it soared upwards.

Pops clapped loudly and waved his arms in a ‘stand up’ motion. We were reluctant, but having suffered no fatalities to the fish, we got to our feet and lofted our poor sardines.

I began to wonder if my arm would get tired but in the time it took me to process the thought, it was all over. I never saw my frigate bird coming. I felt something sharp against my knuckles and then it was gone. I flinched and spun around to see the bird already far away. There was some laughter around me but it quickly turned to screaming as more and more birds swooped in.

I felt a sharp pain and looked at my hand. My index finger had blood flowing down and dripping off the end, the bird’s beak had given me a nice little cut just below my knuckle.

The boat slowed again and fell into a circle with several others. The 5 vessels created a space roughly 50 metres in diameter. This was the final snorkel stop of the day and was supposed to be the main event. We were in the aptly named ‘Shark and Ray Alley’ of the Hol Chan Marine Reserve. Before we’d even stopped we were leaning over the sides of the boat searching for movement in the water.

Right away Pops began throwing food into the water. Within moments hundreds of small fish were swarming beside the boat and beneath them came bigger, slower moving shapes. The first of the nurse sharks came up over the feeding frenzy and rolled back down into the water in one movement.

10, 20, 30 seconds passed where all we could see were the fish, then in a heartbeat they were pushed aside as 3 sharks rose up to take Pops’ food. They writhed around each other in a tight ball of brown skin and flicking tails. Pops said we should get in quickly while they were at our boat, but I already had my mask on and was swinging my legs over the side.

I’d jumped in on the opposite side of the boat to the feeding frenzy. The water was shallow here, only about 3 metres, and the bottom was all sand. Lucy jumped in next to me. I glanced at her then span around to get my bearings. Then I looked down. My feet were inches above a shark that was swimming leisurely along the seabed. I exhaled slowly, frozen to the spot. Suddenly Lucy saw it too and grabbed a hold of my arm; I jumped a mile. She would later tell people we saw it at the same time and I jumped at the sight of it rather than her grip. I’m still bitter about that.

We swam around the stern of the boat and I found myself swarmed by fish. They flitted around me faster than I could track them, not a single one touching me. Then another shark passed, going by my knees this time, and another right in front of my chest. It was as long as I was tall, with sharp eyes and two protruding teeth at the front of its rounded head that looked like vampire fangs. I lifted my face out of the water, breathing a little too heavily for the snorkel and looked around amazed. I had been expecting to be trying to glimpse the sea life from afar, but here I was unable to get away from it. Everything was swimming unnaturally close. Then something soft hit me in the side of the head and it all made sense. Pops had been throwing the food directly at me. He doubled over with laughter when I looked at him.

I moved away from the boat into more open water. From here I could see everything. I watched rays glide along the floor and gazed at schools of fish in every colour…then I saw more sharks. Swimming away from me this time. One was big, a little over 6 feet. To its right was a slightly smaller one and next to that, two more. Each of them only about a foot long. It was an awesome sight; a family, enjoying a nice day out, swimming with humans. How lucky, I thought, must I be to see this. Then I looked at the little incision on my finger and decided this was the luck I’d brought myself with the honouring of traditions.

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 2

Day 7

Monday

The staff at the Hotel

After having a solid 9 hours sleep we rose, ordered a breakfast of ‘toast’, which was literally just heated up bread with some odd flaky butter that neither of us wanted to touch. It was strangely sweet and incredibly white, though somehow far too easy to eat. Both Leon and I wrote a post card to send home, then we left to go into town.

Gorakpur

We got a tuk tuk who took us the 6 km to the centre quite cheaply and dropped us at a road full of large western style shops. I bought some ‘branded’ shorts having only brought one pair from home. Then we walked on, following directions to a post office on Leon’s phone. This took a fair while as it turned out to be a fair way, but we found some fantastic street food along the way and were very content.

The post office proved to be nothing more than a first-floor room up some dirty narrow stairs in a badly signed and grim concrete building. We sat down and persistently had people overtake us in the queue or direct us to different queues entirely. In the end a girl introduced herself as Theya. As was the case with a lot of people she incredibly friendly but rather short and thin. With her help it was established that we were in fact in the wrong post office and that we needed to travel across town. Luckily Theya offered to take us and within ten minutes and two tuk tuks, which she paid for at a fare far lower than we had ever given, we found ourselves back on the street we had started on. We had quite literally retraced our steps in less than a quarter of the time.

Central Gorakpur

She walked us over to the gates of the post office which was set back form the road and unsigned so that we had not noticed it originally. For her help and for the tuk tuk fares we offered Theya some money, but all she wanted as payment was a selfie. Leon and I entered the post office only to find they were closed for the next two hours. We left.

Our next target was to try and find a bus station to sort out our tickets to the Nepalese boarder the following morning. We got a rickshaw to the place just as it started raining. However, in a humorous way this made us rather happy as we traipsed about all the parked busses trying to find the right place to buy our tickets. After being redirected about 4 times we found a staircase up to the admin office at which they told us we did not need tickets and that busses left every 15 minutes to Sonauli on the border from the road bellow.

We left to get a tuk tuk home. However, in high spirits we got out early to buy some fruit and walk the rest of the way back. As we wandered along several people came up and stopped us to chat: two Uni students, two kids and their bikes and few other strangers, all of whom were lovely. We all talked for a long while and by the time we got home it was early evening.

A watermelon had been bought and we cut it up intending to take it down to share with our hosts. We ended up all sitting and chatting about life, language, India, Britain and our favourite films for an hour or so. The strange conversation and communication techniques everyone adopted to overcome the language barrier were a constant source of amusement for all!

After retiring to our rooms, we ate, made sure of our plans and set up our bags for our trip to Nepal the next morning and then went to bed.

Patience and good humour always seem to be the best characteristics one can have.

Day 8

Tuesday

We woke early but later than we meant to, about 7.30. Slowly got up and packed the last of our stuff. After again having a breakfast of sweet toast, we left saying good bye to the hotel staff who we accidentally woke on our way out.

This was all followed by a tuk tuk into town who drove us to the train station, not the bus station and parked up. We managed to convince the driver that this was not the place we wanted to be and were just pulling off when a man spotted out pale complexions and ran up, stopping the tuk tuk and shouting “Sonauli? You going to Sonauli? Quick come with me!” We obeyed, then promptly decided that the travel agents to which he was taking us was not a good idea and so started to walk away. At which point the man (who was just generally very in your face and no matter how close he was would not stop shouting) came back and started to chauffeur us onto a bus (one of only two), which was apparently bound for Sonauli, then proceeded to charge us ₹20 for the service. We payed him hoping he would go away. He didn’t. It transpired he was pretty much the buses ‘press ganger’.

After about half an hour the bus pulled away, did a circuit of the city centre, via the bus station, picking up people and getting progressively fuller the whole time, before setting off out of the city towards the boarder.

The journey was on a long, straight, flat road with a few villages and towns along the way. All the way along the road there was litter: litter in front of the houses, litter on the grass, litter in the water. It got slightly better the further away from the city we got, but not much. There were rice paddies and whole fields in which brand new trucks, diggers and busses seemed to have been deposited. This came as a surprise as we had not seen a single new work vehicle the entire time we had been in India. On our left was also a queue of brightly coloured trucks carrying steel, wire, bricks and any number of other things, all looking like part of some massive infrastructure project. There was mile upon mile of them, stretching out to the horizon and taking up half the road so both directions of traffic had to use one lane. The drive turned into a perpetual game of chicken with anything going the opposite way challenging our unknown bus driver to a face off. The trucks next to us just sat there, still.

Three hours after we left Gorakhpur we reached the boarder. We got out, ate a meal which included some dodgy looking liquidy dahl and which we immediately regretted, and then got our passports stamped on the Indian side before going to the Nepalese side to acquire visas.

The actual boarder consisted of two massive square gateways which faced each other across a space of about 100 yards. People appeared to be coming and going at their leisure.

The moment we crossed the space there seemed to be a marked difference. What the difference was, we could not explain, nor why it affected us so much. We could just feel it. However, our first impressions were of the little things, like the fact there were public toilets signposted, and the tourist and immigration offices were in logical places and reasonably easy to find.

The officials were friendly and spoke reasonable English. They gave us the forms to fill in and everything went very smoothly with the exception of one of the $20 notes we had brought to pay for the Visas. One of them had a small, round stamp on it which apparently made it unacceptable, so Leon was forced to go off to hopefully exchange some rupees for another $20 bill. About twenty minutes late he came back with one that had come off the ‘black market’.

We visited the tourist office, discovered there was almost nothing there and then went off to try and get some bus tickets to our next destination – the lake side city of Pokhara, high up in the Himalayas at the base of the Annapurna range.

On Leon’s $20 search he had made friends with a man called ‘Pops’ who worked as part of a travel agents and who arranged a bus, taxi and hostel room in Pokhara for us at a very decent price. “The Nepalese”, he was saying “don’t try and rip you off”. Someone even went and got us a cup of chi tea each… now I don’t drink tea, but this cuppa’ of hot flavoured water was lovely… though that might have been down to the quantity of sugar and milk it contained.

The bus to Pokhara was an overnight, 10-hour journey leaving at 8pm. This gave us about 4 hours to kill, so we went for a walk.

There was a rather stark contrast between the Nepalese and Indian sides of the town we realised. On the Indian side many of the houses were incomplete, colourless and the spaces in front uncared for. On the Nepalese side there was colour everywhere, the houses were ordered and there were even a couple of front gardens. The people were friendly and incredibly easy to talk to and the street food was delicious and appeared clean (we ate some lovely dumpling stew thing and some weird sweet millet seed pasties). This is not to say that the this wasn’t the case on the Indian side as well, but it was just different: the atmosphere was different, the way people walked and looked was different, the way people talked to you was different. There was still a lot of litter.

A well groomed garden in Nepal

Cheerfull Nepalese children

We stood by a food stall and chatted to a doctor who ran a local clinic. Then wandered around marvelling at the place, being followed by several laughing, cheeky looking kids. We bumped into the doctor again actually at his open fronted clinic and sat and chatted further, then walked around the corner and immediately got chatting to a couple and their daughter who were sitting outside their home relaxing.

Businessman's scales

After while we got ready to get on the bus. We played a game of cards then went to take up our seats. The bus was nice though the leg room was minimal, or at least too short for long western legs. Many Nepalese seem to be shorter and stockier on the whole, but this may have been an inaccurate conception as we met many tall people as well. Whatever the case, they always walk with purpose.

A man got on the bus and tried to scam us with a supposed unpaid baggage fee. We told him we were going to pay at the other end and he disappeared.

The bus filled progressively then left, picked up some more people and then was stopped by the police who examined it, the tires and our passports. Then we were off and feck, what a journey!

Overtaking buses

We travelled for a while on the flat, the roads a mixture of smooth tarmac and heavily potholed dirt track. Then suddenly we began to climb. On one side of us a cliff rose up into the night sky, while on the other a drop-off grew down into nothingness. The roads were a winding, potholed mess full of puddles and washouts just about wide enough for a couple of small cars to pass each other in opposite directions, but this did not slow the bus. We travelled at some ridiculous speeds around hair pin bends and while overtaking trucks and other busses. Sometimes we would both overtake and go around the bends at the same time, our squealing breaks vibrating the whole vehicle and our wheels literally within a foot of the roads edge, which so often was just ‘the edge’ full stop, a chasm of darkness the only thing you could see beyond. If ever bus racing was a sport the Nepalese would win it hands down. The buses genuinely seemed to race each other along the roads. At one point a bag jumped off the luggage rack, landing in my lap. In surprise I turned to the man behind me who grinned and said “we’re very proud of our country, we like it a lot”.

The bus stopped twice; once for a wee break and once for food and snacks. I had my head out of the window like a happy dog for the best part of 4 ½ hours. As the mountains slowly grew in size, I watched the world go by and saw some of the most amazing night time scenes I think I have ever seen.

I don’t know how any of us slept that night, the bus shock, jumped and shuddered so much.

Day 9

Wednesday

At around 5.15 the bus went over a massive lump. I was now awake; the sun was rising and the view was incredible. We were weaving our way down to Pokhara out of the surrounding mountains. The scene as we descended was over a massive lake with the city stretched out behind it into the distance.

About quarter to six we got to the bus depo (literally an empty dirt and stone space for the buses to park on) and got off. Took our prepaid taxi to our hostel outside which out sleepy looking host stood. He was mid-thirties, thin built with long hair and sleek clothes. All in all a pretty cool looking guy. His name was Pokash and he showed us to our room saying we’d sort out the money later and we should get some rest first. And we did. We got in, showered and immediately fell back asleep.

At 11 we rose bleary eyed and went down to find that Pokash had been asleep as well. We sat, chatted and discovered that Pokash could sort out all the necessary hiking permits and things, though they were expensive. It turns out, as we had read on Leon’s phone a couple of days previously, that you need a permit and a pass to be able to go walking in the Nepalese conservation areas. Yet again we were spending more money than we wanted to be.

After sorting out all the necessaries Pokash offered to take us to his family restaurant where they served a superb breakfast. We went on the back of his scooter, buying a trekking map en route. The sun was out, it was a glorious day and from here we walked back. Apparently, it had been raining a lot in the weeks previously, but luckily for us all seemed to be dry, long may it stay so.

A Pokara street

Having decided to walk we somehow managed to miss our hostel and continue going for about 15 minutes before realising anything was wrong. Our brains were tired sludge and we were feeling so warm and relaxed that the speed of our thought processes had decreased to about the same velocity as a treacle river. After retracing our steps back and finding the place we collapsed in our room, still exhausted from the nights journey.

At some point in time we realised that we should probably get out and look around, considering we were only in the city for a day. The lakeside where we found ourselves ambling was beautiful. Even with the water brown from the soil and silt washed down off the hillsides the surface gleamed in the sun, the glassy mirror reaching out to the foot of some amazingly big mountains. We didn’t do much other than discover Pokhara has a range of German cake shops, Italian pizzerias, Spanish restaurants and an Irish bar. There were also numerous other pubs and waterside drinking venues, all intermixed with the zillions of hotels, hostels and guest houses. We walked past a Gurkha barracks over which was a strange tree containing a large number of nesting egrets, and we walked past a hell of a lot of other tourists… there was literally another one every hundred yards down any street… and this was the low season.

On the way back to our hostel we stumbled upon a book shop. It was a place to put any Waterstones or W.H. Smiths to shame. Three floors filled with books on everything from what must have been the published set of Lonely Planet guides for every location on earth, to Douglas Adams, to world history and even sex books. All for about the third of the price of the same books in Britain. We were both impressed and amazed. Needless to say, I would have tried to buy half the shop had I been able to fit it all in my rucksack.

By this point it was late and we were thinking about food. We also wanted to go and talk to some fellow travellers/tourists to ask advice and hear the local gossip. Though there were copious amounts of other foreigners who we had walked past, none of them had yet acknowledged us, let alone stopped for a chat. But then neither had we tried to engage them. There was a strange, unsure awkwardness holding us back. I can only assume the same was true for them.

Upon returning to the hostel Pokash offered to take us to a local barbeque. In awkwardness we accepted then slightly regretted it. This was not what we had planned. We just wanted to chat to some people, eat and then get an early night for the start of our hike the next morning and now instead Leon’s vegetarianism seemed to, yet again, be going down the drain.

Our idea was simple. We needed to get over to the east to the town of Besisahar where the school was that we here to visit. To get there we could either get a bus, or we could walk as directly as possible over valleys that, according to our map, had no major paths, or we could go up and around getting quite high in the mountains just below Annapurna II along, what our map showed to be, a major route. We had been told that accommodation was not usually a problem as there were always guest houses and tea houses in the villages. It was our assumption that we were most likely to be able to find places to stay along the busiest paths and we liked the idea of having a proper good trek in the Himalayas. And so the third option was our chosen route.

The Dreaded Map

We sheepishly followed Pokash, ending up at the second of two barbeque places, the first being closed. A load of different meets were ordered and a bottle of traditional Nepalese wine with a bottle of coke to mix with it. We immediately new this was going to be an expensive meal.

The meat range was spicy but superbly done. The wine, known as Raksi, tasted a little like watered down vodka, but was far too drinkable.

Pokash was great company and we laughed. Then he started offering us advice and told us to buy a tent, none of which fitted with our half made, ill formed plans. In an attempt to console ourselves and confirm that what we were going to do was the right thing, we split and went looking for tourists to interrogate. We met an Indian born British bloke called Robin who was currently being taught guitar by a chatty Nepalese guy. It turned out that Robin had arrived intending to spend a few days in Pokhara and three weeks later was still there without a booked plane home. He advised us to go to either ‘Busy Bee’s’ or the local Irish bar if we wanted to sit down, meet people and get a drink. So we did. Deciding Busy Bee’s sounded like a good option we entered, got drinks at a very high price (around £4.50 each with a 10% service charge slapped on the top… and that was the cheapest beer) and sat down.

The place was full and was kitted out with live heavy metal rock band, three mega TV’s showing Wimbledon, WWE wrestling and golf and a whole load of pool tables. We saw and decided to joined a couple our age and who were on a sponsored trip to an orphanage. They were both just out of college in Britain and like us, seemed pretty desperate to work out what the hell was going on and to find someone to talk to. We gossiped and learnt, through their stories, about the horror of leaches and then we headed for bed so as to be ready to start our trek early the next morning.

Very quickly we were taught that ‘dhanyabad’ was thankyou and goodbye and that it was commonplace to use ‘namaste’ to greet anyone you interact with – a greeting and good wishes from ones’ hart to another’s, I believe.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 4

Info On

The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists announced via a live stream on the 25th of January 2018 that the Doomsday Clock is now at two minutes to midnight. This is the closest it has ever been - only once before holding the same position.

Links are there to add context over the cocncerns shown by the Bulletin.

The Bulletin was set up in 1947 by the group of scientists that worked on the infamous Manhattan Project. This project was responsible for the creation of the first ever nuclear weapons in 1945; two of which were dropped on Japan in the last stages of WWII. The Doomsday Clock was set up by the Bulletin to raise awareness about the dangers of such weapons - and all other threats to human survival. In its 70 years of existence the clock was at its furthest away from midnight in 1991 - following the collapse of USSR. This year the clock stands as close as its ever been.

The Doomsday Clock through history.

In a press release issued on their website the Bulletin explain what caused them to move the clock forward. Key among their factors was the news that, after a period of plateauing, levels of CO2 are once again on the rise. This was exacerbated by the US's intension to withdraw form the 2015 Paris Climate Accords and followed the news that the Arctic has had its smallest winter for the third time in a row.

Another key concern was how 'technological change is disrupting democracies around the world as states seek to exploit opportunities to use information technologies as weapons'. The Bulletin was specifically concerned with the erosion of institutions that were 'essential to free though and global security' - one need only look at the concern over Russian bots. Further concern was given about the increasing role that computers have over the financial system, the development of 'autonomous weaponry that make kill decisions without human supervision', as well as the 'possible misuse of advances in synthetic biology' thanks to the discovery of CRISPR gene editing.

However, by far the biggest reason for the new assessment was that 'major nuclear actors are on the cusp of a new arms race'. The Bulletin show particular unease over North Korea's 'remarkable progress in 2017' in developing Inter-Continental Bllistic Missiles, and the 'hyperbolic rhetoric and provocative actions by both sides' on this issue. The publication added to this list the continually growing nuclear arsenals of India and Pakistan, uncertainty over the 'landmark Iranian nuclear deal', continual 'military exercises along the borders of NATO' in Europe, as well as growing tensions and deteriorating relations between the USA and the Peoples Republic of China over the South China Sea.

There was a common theme throughout the press release; that of Trump. Extracts pertaining the US president include:

'In the past year, US allies have needed reassurance about American intentions more than ever. Instead, they have been forced to negotiate a thicket of conflicting policy statements from a US administration weakened in its cadre of foreign policy professionals, suffering from turnover in senior leadership, led by an undisciplined and disruptive president, and unable to develop, coordinate, and clearly communicate a coherent nuclear policy.'

'While President Trump has steadfastly opposed the agreement that his predecessor and US allies negotiated to keep Iran from developing nuclear weapons, he has never successfully articulated practical alternatives.'

'The Trump administration, which includes avowed climate denialists in top positions at the Environmental Protection Agency, the Interior Department, and other key agencies, has announced its plan to withdraw from the Paris Agreement. In its rush to dismantle rational climate and energy policy, the administration has ignored scientific fact and well-founded economic analyses.'

For all their pessimism, the Bulletin does propose solutions to the outlined issues. They ask that Trump refrain from 'provocative rhetoric' towards North Korea, that formal communication should be resumed with North Korea, that the US should once again endorse the Iran deal, that the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty should be renegotiated, and that the nations of the world should do more than just comply with what was agreed in the Paris Accord.

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see the beginning of The India and Nepal Diaries (Part 1)

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 3

Day 4

Friday

We woke up at 8, or at least Leon did. The alarm failed to go off on my new phone that I had bought at the Chandni Chowk market the day before. It was the cheapest bit of crap they had and I had that knowing voice in the back of my head, telling me I shouldn’t buy it, as I had handed over the money to the man behind the counter. So no surprise when its battery failed to last through the night.

We packed our stuff, sat, played cards and ate bananas. When we left we caught a taxi to our new hostel for ₹600. It dropped us slightly short and we had fun messing around with an ATM again. I am already worried about how quickly money seems to be flowing through my hands. Leon worked out that with the spending money we had, our daily budget, including for accommodation was just below ₹1,700 each (about £20). I already know I’m spending more than this most days. But then Delhi is expensive - comparatively - , particularly when you are not wise to all the cons and have no idea what prices should be. This is exacerbated when, for every transaction, one is hurriedly trying to work out what’s relatively being paid in pounds and then whether that sounds about right.

The hostel looks good inside. It’s a place called goSTOPS. Rooms are 6 person bunks, but look good. We’re sharing with two French Canadian tourists who seem nice. There’s an AC common room.

We sat down and immediately met two British travellers, Alex and Bethany. They seem to know a lot more about what they are doing and about India itself than we do. But then Alex is a medical student and he has speed read the large Lonely Planet Guide. They had only arrived that morning but had already sorted out their train tickets for the next three weeks. Apparently buying tickets is a nightmare and trains are generally pretty fully booked. We were aiming to catch one the next day.

They gave us a train ticket form that they had picked up and we rushed off by tuk tuk to the New Delhi train station to try and buy ours.

Shop fronts and the diversity of building structures

On arrival all was mad. We were on the wrong side of the station and so had to go in, passed security checks, across and then back out the other side through the throng of people. We were following signs for the ‘Tourist Information burro’. However, as we’d been warned, there were people trying to tell us to go in the opposite direction. I have no idea why? I assumed it was something to do with money.

On our way to find the currency exchanger

Finally making it to the burro we met two Germans who offered advice and conversation while we all waited. The actual buying of the tickets was reasonably simple, though the ticket itself is printed badly and incredibly difficult to read. (Both our tickets were on one, wallet sized piece of paper).

We got directions to a currency exchanger in this amazing market street full of shops and stalls and lined with massive overhanging signs. Apparently we need US dollars to get a Nepalese visa… and an ID photo… which we don’t have… we’ll have to sort that later.

Two out of three currency exchange places won’t do it, but the one that will seems legitimate. However, both me and Leon realise we haven’t got the faintest idea how to tell if Dollars are real or not. We had to take the chance.

Upon arrival back at the hostel we met a rather charismatic, well-travelled Dutchman called Tony. He was about 20 and looked like a classic US high school baseball player (or at least my image of one) with tank top, nee length shorts and backwards facing cap. He proceeded to lead us four Brits (Leon, Alex, Bethany and I) away from our planned place of dinage to a bustling street and into a dodgy looking chicken restaurant, most of which was set below street level. In true British fashion we all trooped in after him, none of us willing to say we thought this was a really bad idea. Even Leon who’s been vegetarian for a year or so was taken in and sat down at a grotty looking table in a stupidly hot corner of the room. I can only think it was the pressure of the moment. Tony pretty much preceded to order for all of us, which was fine as there was really only one thing available on the menu – chicken tikka.

A marvellous market street on our way to find food

Our drinks arrived. It was some weird lemonade soft drink; a product of the Coca-Cola company and we studied their grimy bottles before putting them to our lips. Mine had some ominous looking reddish grot stuck just below its rim which refused to move even when encouraged to by the use of a tissue and some alcoholic antibacterial goo Bethany had in her bag. In an ‘oh fuck it’ mood, induced by the perceived pressure of one’s peers, I drank it anyway.

The chicken arrived and looked alright. It was spicy. I ate little, hoping that somehow this would help me avoid the famed 'Delhi belly'.

On the way back through the growing dark we stopped off at an Indian cake shop and bought two incredibly sweet, incredibly sticky date mush lumps. These turned out to be rather nice though I wished I had had some tissues as they got everywhere. Luckily we chanced upon out first super market and went in to buy some plus other essentials.

The decided next move was to buy some beers and retire to the hostel’s enclosed garden space. This was pretty much a gap between several buildings filed by a ring of chairs and box tables. We were joined by two Dutchwomen and then three Indians, a woman and two guys, all of whom where lovely and all of whom brought more alcohol. We chatted, had fun and somehow managed to get almightily pissed. I have no idea at what point Leon left or at what point I managed to get back to my room, but it was the early hours of the morning. Even when intoxicated I somehow managed to open my locker to get out my sleeping bag, brush my teeth and remove my clothes. I don’t remember any of it.

Day 5

Saturday

Whether it was the chicken or the alcohol I don’t know. My guess is it was probably a combination of both. However, at some point in the night I threw up. I preceded to spend the rest of the night in the bathroom in a weird state of mind. Time didn't seem to be working. I have no idea how long I was in there for. It could have been an hour, it could have been half the night.

At about 8am I crawled out, got back into bed and fell asleep for way less time than I would have liked. We had to be out of the room by 10 so I had to be up. I had a lovely but needed hot shower and packed my stuff, my body screaming the whole time to remain horizontal.

The rest of the day was spent with me dozing on cushions in the common room, while Leon feeling better but still not great, taught most of the rest of the hostel’s occupants how to play Russian whist.

At some point a couple came over to say hello and check if I was ok. It turned out they were another pair of British medical students, again wielding a large Lonely Planet guide. They gave me a nausea pill and sat down to play cards and chat to Leon.

In actual fact, while horizontal I was having a pretty good time. The hostel had an interesting play list of music which mainly seemed to consist of The Beatles. In all honesty I could think of nothing more pleasurable than lying down with eyes closed in a lovely cool room and listening to a bit of classic 60’s pop. The fact that the moment I stood up I wanted to be sick, was the perfect excuse.

After finally getting some sleep and waking up feeling better, Leon and I revitalised ourselves with some rich tea biscuits, a coke and a game of pool on the most bowed table I have ever seen. Interestingly, though each bottle says it, if you ask anyone for a Coca-Cola they have no idea what you’re talking about. Everyone says coke. That’s just the way it is.

The two medical students came and sat down and we got chatting. It turned out they were off back to the UK that night… I asked if they would like £18 in small change that I just happened to have in my bag and if they could give me some rupees in exchange. They laughed and agreed to swap it for a £20 as they didn’t have any Indian money left.

A '2 A.C.' coach - 2 being two bunk levels and A.C. being air conditioning. There were also '3 A.C.' and 'sleeper coaches'

What had happened was this; we had been collecting donations to help support a school in Nepal that we had a connection with. We were going to visit it later on in our travels. Anyway, the donations Leon had collected in the newsagents and pub in our local village had somehow got into the pocket of my bag where I promptly forgot about them, failing to deposit them in a bank. Of course, once in India I had no idea what to do with them. No one really wanted £18 in coins. So they just sat in my bag making an entertaining sound every time I opened the top.

We left for the train station at 6.15 pm. Our 13 hour train east to Gorakhpur was set to leave at 7.50 pm but we wanted the time to sus out the rail system.

After managing to work out what train and platform we needed to be on we spent ages trying to work out how we were supposed to know our carriage and seat number before realising they were on our tickets.

The trains are air conditioned with a central aisle and compartments with bunks in. Food was brought to everyone who wanted it and our compartment companions seemed very nice, even giving us a packet of Indian style bourbon biscuits.

Day 6

Sunday

You can tell the railways are a matter of national pride as on board the train everything runs like clockwork. The ticket man comes along with bed reservations and names. Men walk up and down the corridor selling water, Chai tea and snacks. The chef comes to take the seat numbers of the people who want either the vegetarian or the meat meal.

The bunks

There are 4 in our booth and two more on the opposite side if the aisle. I am on one of the top bunks opposite Leon on the other side. We’re both doing the same thing which is to work out the best position to have our rucksacks in. As a pillow or as a foot rest. We’re still worried about having our stuff nicked and there’s no room on the floor for it anyway. The compartments are enclosed and only have two windows, one on either side of the train at bottom bunk level. So for me and Leon we are completely cut off from the outside world. The metal roof and tight nature of the bunks makes one feel as though you were in a war bunker or a cabin of some ocean liner.

I slept incredibly well and to our unjustified surprise the air conditioning worked superbly. If anything I was too cold as opposed to too hot.

It was now early Sunday morning and upon arrival into Gorakhpur everything appeared dry, but cooler and more humid than Delhi. The streets are less crowded and the people, in my opinion, look healthier.

We got a tuk tuk to our hotel (there didn’t seem to be any hostels). They sat us down before check-in in front of an incredibly corny but amusing Bollywood movie; the chisel-jawed hero walking lonely and holding the same, beaten down and sad expression for the entirety of the section we watched.

The room we are shown to is a weird combination of immaculately painted gold arches and mouldings contrasted with sections of bubbling paint. There’s a grandfather's clock in the corner and a strange, tacky looking 1980’s style double bed surrounded by similar furniture – the whole décor is rather kitsch.

We went out for an initial walk, discovered there wasn’t very much and turned to go back. Then a car pulled up and one of the men inside asked us what it was we were looking for. We said a shop that could take visa photos. He seemed to know one and offered us a lift. We took it.

The place turned out to be literally 5 minutes away, but the owners of the establishment directed us to another shop instead. According to them it was closed on a Sunday and we should go there tomorrow. We decided to walk on and have a look to see if we could find it. We got about 500 yards down the road and found the same man, the shop owner, on a motor bike beside us and beckoning to us to get on. As the roads were relatively empty, the bike looking ok and the concept an entertaining one we hoped on. Of course we also had no idea where we were going, nor how far it was, so a kind man on a bike taking us there sounded great. We already felt like we’d done a great deal of walking and getting lost.

The shop was indeed closed but looked promising. We walked home.

'Unphased' probably describes the cows best - many would sit in the middle of the road with traffic all around them.

I decided to go for another wander and really enjoyed dawdling down the different streets, watching life go by. There wasn’t really that much to see. It was mainly rows of concrete and brick suburban houses, most with flat concrete or tin rooves and all made to a very similar design. The streets were neater than Delhi but not cleaner. There were cows everywhere, chewing nonchalantly on any vegetation there was, and where there wasn’t any chewing on compostables or rubbish instead. Between the houses there were loads of little shops, each of them selling more or less the same items: crisps, chocolate, Bombay mix, nuts and similar. Chocolate is really never something one should buy because, as we discovered, all these places get regular power cuts and so it melts and goes off.

I did find a barbers and decided to try it for the experience. It was very entertaining and I even got given a shave with a proper cut throat razor, which was a first. The smiling young man doing the cutting was lovely, but didn’t seem to know what to do with my thick fair hair and my persistent cows lick (it’s a problem barbers have expressed before). In the end he just left it, which in all honesty was no surprise. I do the same on a daily basis.

I went home. We ate a nice rice – veg biryani and headed for an early night.

Our hotel is called the Kings Prince Palace Hotel. Certainly royal. There seems to be a real trend of calling things exceedingly long and zealous names. It's great!

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 3

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]]>The India and Nepal Diaries Part 2Ideas OnThe Ideas On Info PodcastLeon DaviesSat, 20 Jan 2018 10:00:00 +0000https://www.ideasoninfo.co.uk/ideas-on-info/2018/1/19/who-is-ben-bradshaw-an-interview-with-ideas-on-info5a13092c90bcce3224e3db79:5a13117e9140b77581e5e11e:5a61e24971c10ba72c7ca5e6Elected as the MP for Exeter in 1997 during the great Blair landslide. Having never lost his seat and having been a journalist; Mr Bradshaw is very much a veteran of British Politics. The newly journalist-turned-politician won in 1997 what had been considered - for most of post-war British history - a safe Conservative seat. Prior to 1997, the parliamentary seat of Exeter had seen - since the creating of the Labour Party in 1900 - only one Labour MP (Gwyneth Dunwoody, 1966-70). Though the victory was certainly aided by the popularity of New Labour, the Exeter MP has never dipped below 38% of the vote. the seat is now no longer considered a safe Tory seat, but rather a safe Labour one. In 2017, Ben achieved his biggest vote share yet - he now holds 62% of the vote. Though at least part of this new upsurge can be attributed with Corbyn's popularity.

Record On

Contains some strong language

The names of other people appearing in this diary have been altered

To a degree this is a story about not very much. Mainly about being young and slightly stupid in places and cultures we didn’t know or understand. Everything told here did take place and it is more or less an exact transcript of my actual diary. And so, on that note, I do not advise anyone to do anything we did. However, we learnt a lot from it and, I think, came back from our exploration as wiser people. I hope you may also.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 2

Day 1
Tuesday
July 2017

We arrived.

Air Bn'B in New Delhi

Touched down in Delhi and Leon and I walked out of the aircraft straight into a wall of mid-day heat. Bought SIM cards at the airport then promptly found that my phone was locked and it wouldn’t take the SIM. Typical, it was bought specifically for the trip. Got a taxi to the place we were staying at which was down a dodgy looking street in a dodgy looking apartment block. The actual apartment itself though was lovely; with air conditioning.

A Tuk-Tuk

We had booked through Air B&B and initially mistook the man directing our taxi to be our host. He wasn’t, but he took us up the stairs to the right apartment. A lift shaft was present but empty. Our host introduced himself, we dropped our stuff, looked around and then decided to go for a walk. Having said that, there wasn’t really anywhere to walk. The local area seemed to consist of large main roads which were impossible to cross. No lanes and a mixed beeping cacophony of bikes, tuk tuks (auto rickshaws), beat up cars, trucks and particularly scraggy looking buses. There was the occasional plush looking SUVs or other posh cars, all probably owned by the local political and business elite. Delhi is the capital of India.

This whole mass of roads was made worse by the fact that the pavements were non-existent and generally consisted of dirt, stones and trees right in the middle of the pathways. We walked for a while, got confused, found the only big landmark building in the vicinity (a hospital) outside which there was a row of public urinals with the catchy slogan ‘Use public urinals, not public places’ emblazoned above them and carried on, walking past numerous road side huts intermingled rather bizarrely with small display rooms.

We finally found a café, which opened onto the main road. Ordered god knows what on the menu and sat feeling hot and sweaty. When the food arrived it looked and smelt amazing. Very oily, reasonably spicy, but very good to eat. We ate, paid up, both amazed at how cheap it was, and walked on. After ten minutes we were hot and sweaty again and turned for home.

We got back about five-ish. I had a lovely cold shower and then passed out on my bed sleeping intermittently pretty much all the way through to 8am the next morning.

Delhi is hot, 32 degrees C, but it’s not raining. Which we were surprised about considering its July and so is monsoon season.

Day 2
Wednesday

Mughal Tomb in Lodi Gardens

Got up, ate fruit we had bought the previous day and then caught a tuk tuk into town. We visited several amazing gardens and tombs, walking in the heat between them. Lodi Gardens particularly were incredible. Then we walked to the ‘Gandhi Smriti’, the houses and gardens where Gandhiji (ji being a term of respect) spent his last 144 days drawing up draft constitutions for the newly formed Government before being shot by an assassin in the gardens on 30th January 1948.

With all the heat and the walking both Leon and I felt far too hot and truly exhausted. We decided to employ a tuk tuk.

A driver found us before we found him. We decided to go to the India Gate, a massive 1914 to 1921 war memorial. Our driver called Babu Ram was an incredibly nice bloke with a good grasp of English. He offered to take us to get some food and then tour us around a lot of Delhi. ₹600 each (₹ is the symbol for Indian Rupees)… seemed pretty cheap. (At the time we were out there, you would get somewhere between ₹83-85 to the pound. So ₹600 worked out at about £7.20 each.)

India Gate

Ministry Building, near The Rashtrapati Bhavan (The Presidents Residence)

We went to the Gate, got accosted and probably ripped off by tourist smart pedlars. I somehow managed to get a henna tattoo that I didn’t want nor did I really pay for and Leon ended up eating some weird street food. A hollow crisp bubble that they filled with mashed potato, some green stuff and a weird dodgy looking liquid. It apparently tasted of vinegar and they tried to charge us ₹100 for one. (Called Golgappa in the region of Uttar Pradesh within which Delhi is situated, or Panipuri more generally). We were feeling very out of our depth. We went back to Babu and his tuk tuk.

We drove up the massive avenue from the Gate to the Indian Government ministry buildings. These incredible red sandstone constructions had a massive footing laid out either side of the road with the president’s house at the end. They were designed by Edward Lutyens, the same guy who designed the India Gate and also coincidentally Castle Drogo in Devon.

From here Babu took us past the Parliamentary building to this amazing emporium shop full of incredible cloths of all colours, stacks of clothes, rooms of art and jewellery. We bought a thin shirt each to wear in the heat. I intend to buy a suit or something when we’re back at the end of the trip. We then went down Embassy Road on the way home.

Still hot – we saw other tourists for the first time.

Day 3
Thursday

Woke up ridiculously late at 11am having stayed up playing cards the previous evening. Got up, got made food by our host’s cook (chapatti and a potato curry), then left and commandeered a tuk tuk for ₹450 to Delhi Gate (one of the gate houses that formed part of the original defensive wall round old Delhi). The driver obviously felt hard done by and dropped us at Delhi Gate Metro station. This was fine though as the hostel we intended to book for the following night was close by.

We went, booked ourselves in and then messed around with several ATM machines before establishing the technique. It’s amazing how simple technology changes from country to country and how often this is enough to stump the best of us… and by no means am I saying we’re the best, but we’re not doing too bad. I think.

We’ve only been here three days but it already feels like an age. As Leon said this evening ‘I’m amazed we haven’t been mugged yet’. I think the simple answer to this is we are two, young, healthy looking, tall white men who are not displaying our wealth, but then it was probably also an unfair preconception to begin with. Anyway whatever the case, we’ve only been out in the day and in busy public places.

We walked to the Red Fort. It was an amazing, ridiculously big building built during the Mughal dynasty for the emperors. It was started in 1639, took over 8 years to complete and is built from the same red sandstone as everything else historic. The price was high and after meeting three Frenchmen, who thought there wasn’t much to see inside, we decided to go to Chandni Chowk – a large authentic market place.

The Red Fort, looking like something straight out of Lord of the Rings

Walls of the Red Fort

It was mad, overcrowded alleyways mainly filled with shops and stalls selling technology hardware. We weren’t even sure if we were in the right place. The exterior margins stank and were obviously used as frequent piss spots. Generally everywhere you look there are substantial amounts of rubbish (which, in a way, is to be expected as there are no bins anywhere), but this was the normal amount multiplied several times over. Someone had taken a dump somewhere as well and one of the main memorable moments I have is Leon turning to me and saying ‘I wonder how anyone can find a time to shit in one of the busiest streets in the world’. It’s a fair question and who knows. But then the honest answer is ‘I don’t know, I don’t want to know and I really don’t want to find out’.

Slowly, we are beginning to realise and get the hang of crossing the road. This is no mean feat because the traffic does not stop. Unless it’s jammed and then every vehicle is bumper to bumper and you can’t even see the pavement on the other side. It seems to be a matter of just picking your moment, looking confident and then going for it. As long as you watch the oncoming flow of cars, busses and lorries and make sure you’re making rough eye contact with anyone coming on a collision course, you seem to be alright.

We tried to find the train station and after walking in several directions found it and got in through a side entrance onto a busy platform with large, dusty coaches sitting on the tracks. We bumped into a woman whose accent suggested the Netherlands and who promptly told us we were at the wrong train station. We gave up. We were tired, hot and sore footed having walked most of the day. We went home in a speed mad tuk tuk.

I’m fairly sure that drivers must be able to telepathically communicate with each other. Their abilities to drive full speed across roundabouts, fitting into all the gaps with 20 or 30 other vehicles all doing the same thing, is both terrifying and rather fun.

Please click to see The India and Nepal Diaries Part 2

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]]>The India and Nepal Diaries Part 1Ideas OnKevin DaviesSat, 13 Jan 2018 22:00:00 +0000https://www.ideasoninfo.co.uk/ideas-on-info/2018/1/11/ideas-on-replacement-pvc-windows-and-doors-no-thanks5a13092c90bcce3224e3db79:5a13117e9140b77581e5e11e:5a57dd1f419202b169bff26b

Guest Ideas On

Kevin Davies is an architect living in Devon and specialises in work to listed buildings and sustainable development projects in the UK and the developing world. He is a director at SweedishLinseedPaint, and has a long history of association with Allback Linseed Paint. He is also the father of Leon Davies.

We all want to do our best when renovating our period French property and up there on the list of ‘improvements’ is replacement windows and doors, with double glazing of course. What is not appreciated is that this is also high on the list of ‘common mistakes’ and certainly not an approach taken by the sympathetic restorer.

Damp proof membranes under solid concrete flooring, insulated dry lining, central heating systems and replacement double glazing…the perceived solutions to ‘modern renovation’ are often inappropriate and may cause serious problems to the very ‘bricks & mortar’ or fabric of a building. Old buildings need to breath, moisture content varies through the seasons, old buildings move. I fully appreciate that improvements may be needed to acquire near modern comfort, but please think first and consider the alternatives, at the same time you may contribute to safeguarding a small part of French heritage, whilst saving money and increasing the value of your property.

Renovation brings many opportunities and it’s not within the scope of this article to discuss the virtues of restoration or renovation, cement verses lime, wood chip over gas. BUT we would like to shed some more light on renovating your windows and doors. A little bit of knowledge goes a long way…..

Reasons given for replacing windows and doors.

• My windows and doors are very old/ rotten/ beyond repair.
• Wood is high maintenance, it needs painting every 3 or 4 years.
• We want to improve insulation and save money on heating.

And the facts

• Old windows are made of old wood. Timber used in windows, shutters or doors on a period property, whether softwood or hardwood, is invariably of a higher quality than the modern equivalent. Timber would have been selected from a colder, slow growing region and cut to retain maximum resin content (not during the waning of the moon), natures’ way to limit decay. Off the shelf timber windows today cannot replicate this as mechanised sawmills cannot cut wood with a high resin content. Your windows may look beyond repair, but look again carefully. In most cases the bottom sill and lower portion of the frames suffers most and tends to decay, this can be replaced by splicing in new sections of wood, preferably of a similar character and quality. Casements and glass are often in reasonable condition and only require stripping, filling and repainting, re-using the original glass with all its imperfections. If in doubt ask your local carpenter and obtain some quotations, don’t ask the double glazing rep for impartial advice! When restoring windows and doors we advocate the techniques developed by Windowcraft in Sweden and always recommend use of high quality linseed paint.
• Wood can require regular maintenance, how much depends on a number of factors, the location, exposure & orientation, the quality of the timber and the methods used to protect the wood. There maybe little you can do to influence the first two factors, although shutters or shading measures will reduce exposure. However the choice of paint, stain and preservative products on the market is vast. Here’s some help to focus your thoughts…..

Do you wonder how your windows and doors have already lasted so long?

Alkyd or plastic ‘modern paints’ were largely developed during the second world war, to paint the war machine and have subsequently become main stream due to the possibilities of high volume production with associated lower costs and higher profits. Prior to this, linseed oil was used as the main medium in paint, with various pigments added and the use of lead, giving rise to a soft colour pallet and lighter shades. Look under flaking ‘modern paint’ and you may still find the original linseed paint, after time (and oxidation) linseed paint has a chalky appearance and will rub onto your finger. Modern paint sits on the surface of wood, it does not penetrate or stick to wood, hence the development and use of a separate undercoat. Even a so called high quality branded exterior paint will require rubbing down or stripping and repainting within 4 - 6 years. By contrast linseed paint penetrates and nourishes the wood, it allows the wood to breath and slowly oxidizes. It is not brittle and does not crack. We recommend the use of linseed oil based paints, where the flax has been grown in the cooler climates of Northern Europe, for example Sweden. Flax grown in more southerly countries does not produce sufficient oil quality for use in paint.  During the processing the raw linseed oil is cold pressed and should be cleaned of all impurities and proteins, this minimises yellowing (a common trait of earlier linseed paint) and eliminates ‘food’ for fungal growth.  External wood painted with three coats of quality linseed paint will require a coat of boiled linseed oil after 6 -8 years, after around 15 years an additional single coat of linseed paint will be needed. No rubbing down, stripping or scraping required. Linseed paint should be organic, solvent free and have 100% dry weight ie nothing evaporates. This means coverage is typically high, approx 20m²/ litre, but drying times are longer, 24hours at room temperature.

So if you steer away from the ‘modern paints’ you need not strip, scrape and sand every few years.

Heat loss reality check

It is a common assumption that windows account for 20% of heat loss in a typical dwelling and that double glazing will save around £80 - £100 on heating bills per year. There are some points to note here. Period properties may have windows smaller than a typical say mid C20 property, around 10% window to floor area in the former and around 20% in the latter. This is due to limited glass size, cost and the need to form a lintel spanning the opening, possibly in stone. Period properties tend to have narrow, tall openings. Windows in period properties may therefore only account for 10% of heat loss. The energy saving assumption includes both the benefit of the double glazing and the improved draft proofing. Therefore savings can be made by simply reducing infiltration heat losses from minimising drafts to existing windows. But beware, ventilation is a building regulation requirement and unless you have an alternative in place, trickle ventilators are required in double glazed units. A little leakage in an existing period window is therefore beneficial. Remember chimneys and solid flue appliances also need fresh air!

Condensation may occur in single glazing, water vapour will find the coolest place to condense. I personally have no major objection to this as it gives an early indication of moisture levels and can be easily removed. There may be little or no condensation on double glazing however unless ventilation has been improved, condensation, damp or mould will appear elsewhere, look low down in the corners of North facing walls or behind wardrobes. Furthermore the assumptions do not take into account either external shutters or curtains. Therefore double glazing may only save £30 - £50 per year and much of this saving could be achieved by renovating existing windows and shutters, reducing leakage and hanging heavy curtains. The high cost of replacement windows and poor payback indicate this is not the best use of your money and this opinion is widely accepted. Insulate your roof or loft, floors and walls, consider alternative heating or fit modern heating controls to an existing system, this alone can save you £100 - £130 per year

There are substantial grants (subventions et primes) available for insulation and renewable energies in France, to find out more visit www.anah.fr (Agence nationale de l’habitat) and www.ademe.fr, with French & English versions (Agence de l’environnement et de la Maîtrise de l’energie).

Replacing period windows and doors may change the whole appearance of a property, this will affect not just its character but the financial value. Buildings which retain their traditional appearance are increasingly sought after. In most cases there is little justification for replacement, you will lose the delicate detailing of the original timber, the imperfections of old ‘crown’ glass and the period ironmongery.  

Is it really worth it?

And I haven’t even mentioned the environmental downsides to the alternatives.

So, be intelligent, keep your old windows and doors, they could last another 50, 100, 200 or more years…surely this makes sense.

Ideas On

Imagine this Thought Experiment.

A Human is in its Car going from its House down to the local Beach. The Car is driverless and does not need any Human input other than the destination address. The Human sits back and relaxes, reading the local News, maybe on paper or a screen or even a hologram projection by this point.

Then have this dialog within yourself.

Is this Human using its brain?

Well Yes, it’s reading.

Is this Human using its brain practically?

Well yes it’s making the most use of its time learning about what’s going on in its local area.

True, but is its brain being used to perform a practical task?

No the Human is sitting there.

So does this Human know how it got between its House and the Beach?

Yes, of course. It drove.

But does this Human know where the Car took it? Could this Human repeat that process or correspond it accurately to a stranger?

Probably not.

Has this Human learnt anything?

Yes and no. It’s gained knowledge on the local area, the gossip and the politics, but it hasn’t actually learnt anything about the local area by being there. By being present within it, driving through it looking around and engaging with the surroundings…after all it was being driven. It was reading.

In the real world all of the above would never occur in the same way. However, it’s a model that is distinctly human. But we will come onto all of that in a minute.

Firstly, in this mind prodding article I am not going to look at the ethical arguments around driverless cars and automation in general, or the science behind them. Together, we are merely going to explore the practical effects and solid impact that driverless cars might have on our society, the world and us individually as humans.

Google's Driverless Car

If you look around you, most cars on the roads in this country are generally less than 10 years old. With governments across the world pledging to stop the sale of diesel and petrol cars within the next 10 to 25 years, a new generation of vehicles will be introduced. You just need to look at what Google (now Waymo) and BMW are doing to appreciate how close we might be. After that point a steady phasing out of old technology will take place. This could mean that, once driverless cars break into the public market they could be taking over within decades, bring with them a host of benefits and drawbacks.

Initially there may be accidents as software and technology continue to be developed and adjusted to suit the real world. However, after a few years, with inter-vehicle communication and sensors, road safety will increase bringing with it a reduction in both accidents involving multiple cars and accidents involving pedestrians. This communication will mean heavy traffic can be avoided by diverting cars down alternative routes. Where there is traffic, vehicles will work together to make the roads as efficient as possible. They might all slow down to a sustainable speed to stop traffic coming to a standstill, or smoothly merge in turn when multiple lanes reduce in number. Whatever they do, over all we will each be getting around faster and in the most efficient way.

All this will result in a reduction in insurance coasts and possibly a re-invention of the insurance arrangements. Cars crash less. Cars drive more efficiently and so get less wear and tear. This may result in car companies building ‘natural life spans’ into their cars to make sure people keep buying. As the monetary cost (once you own the car) decreases, driving will become cheaper and so public transport will have to either invest in new technologies themselves or economise and push down their prices. Most probably they will have to do both, otherwise they’ll risk going bust. Car mechanics will become computer coders who mainly sit behind screens all day analysing performance data. It’s even possible that each car company will use its own software to analyse and mend their cars, leading to similar car design ideas and company models as we currently see with Apple. Cars that needs specialist tools to get into. Software and customer services that only the car company can provide for your vehicle.

We will all have more spare time as automation frees us up to do what we want in our passenger seats. Humans might become more productive, but this will possibly be balanced by an increase in the amount of time most of us spend searching the internet or on social media sites.

Most people in this country have a smart phone with google maps or satnav installed on. In this digital age we are beginning to need physical and vocal directions less and less and there may come a point when road signage becomes an unnecessary overhang of a past gone by and is completely removed. Why waste money and time maintaining road infrastructure that is never used? We may also be waving fair well to bus drivers, cabbies, chauffeurs and pretty much any other type of employment that involves driving other people around. Taxis might disappear entirely. After all when your car can drive itself, all you need to do is send it a message and it can come and pick you up from your location, beamed to it by satellite. Farewell parents having to pick up and drop off their children at schools, clubs and parties. Now your car does it for you.

Conversely this may mean that our cars start doing greater mileages as distance and time spent traveling becomes less of a an issue. Before, humans acted as a natural limitation to how far and for how long people could travel. Similarly how regularly they were prepared to do so. Now, with driverless cars, it wouldn’t matter as much.

The only occasions when people will still be driving will be for joy rides, old classics shows and racing as an entertainment spectacle. I am willing to believe that this, as a concept, is one of the greatest hurdles driverless cars will have to overcome to become a success. Humans have proven to be very attached to their cars and the power that driving can give a person is addictive. But then, like any addiction, it is possible to slowly get off it and we can almost be certain that both the free market and government policy will be pushing us towards these new vehicles as the next big step in development and growth of a country. Maybe being in the driving seat will be a fashion that will dwindle into irrelevance.

Of course with the arrival of autonomous vehicles, comes a huge change in the way we interact with the world. Coming back to that initial thought experiment, we will no longer need to interact with where we are going. We will no longer need to understand what is involved in getting from point A on a map to point B. Information such as ‘The Knowledge’ that London black cabbies have to learn will just no longer be necessary. To any of us. Forget needing to know how to travel from London to York or Lands’ End to Snowdon. You won’t even need to know how to get from your house to the local police station and so you won’t know it. The potential result is simple. On mass or individually, we will know less and less about where things are in our country and maybe even our local area. No one will need directions. No one will need their own mental map.

This might sound silly, but I remember going to school. We travelled on the same bus, along the same stretch of road for 20 minutes, twice a day, 5 time a week, for 5 years. At the end of that time I doubt whether most or any of the 50 students on that bus could direct anyone else along that route. I know I couldn’t. I tried. No one on that bus was stupid. Yes we were all young and yes at that age we probably didn’t need to know, but then that’s just the point. There are kids all over the world who, from a very young age have to travel miles to get water or go to school. They each need to know the route. They have to pay attention and engage with their locality. We did not. Every single young person on that bus was engaged 90% of the time in a conversation, a game or in a phone. They never needed to pay attention. They never learnt anything about what was outside the bubble of that bus. Even when looking out the window.

On several occasions in recent years I have been trying to find somewhere and have stopped and asked local people for directions. A majority of the time, particularly in cities, they have turned to their phone for the information. Similarly, ask any person in a delivery van for directions and they will often say they’re just following the satnav. And this makes total sense. It’s a fantastic resource that is there in your pocket or on your dashboard. It allows you to think about other things instead working out how to get between places. It’s just that driverless cars will accentuate this for everyone and without giving them an alternative. Now, not only will humans not need to know the directions, they won’t even need to look at the road.

This does unfortunately mean that our mental practicality, in certain areas, will be reduced. Our brains won’t ever learn to picture maps, our sense of direction (unless we are walking) will not be needed and we will never have to make intuitive guesses as to which direction to go at a cross roads. In short our mental agility will diminish as will a large part of regular conversation. Ancient homo-sapiens used to have huge mental maps of their territories. They also had a huge library of knowledge necessary to survive without books and such like, in their brains. The average nomadic ancient Homo-Sapiens had much better mental memory than that of a human today. However, it is true that this doesn’t mean that, given the opportunity (and the time) humans would not still be capable of regaining this. After all it’s still the same brain. It’s just that in this modern world that brain is becoming less well tuned in some area and more so in others.

The amount we talk about direction and travel is slowly, but steadily decreasing and the arrival of the self-driving car will be another step in that direction. When you tell your friends about that wonderful trip you went on and they ask ‘oh yeah, that sounds amazing, where was that?’ You’ll be able to say ‘I’m not really sure, but put this name into your car and it’ll take you there…’ and that will be the end of the conversation. Maybe it is bias to say humans will have no travel knowledge and, it’s true, we can assume that humans will still study and take an interest in geography, allowing us to have conversations more like ‘Where was it?’ ‘Not sure, in the north of UK, just shy of Edinburgh somewhere. If you want to know exactly look it up. But here are my pictures, look’. Even so, it is a minimal difference and on mass across a population it could have quite a large effect. Talking about everyday travel is a small and ever dwindling part of regular dialogue, but it might well become even less important.

Driverless cars will be a huge change in the fabric of our culture and will have some sociological and practical effects no matter what. Whether this is similar to what I have laid out above, only time will tell.

Of course all of this contemplation on driverless cars only begs the question ‘What happens when something goes wrong?’

Fable On

Fictitious stories, poetry and comedic writings

By Tansy Welsh

Oh curving yellow silky fruit
Why oh why are you so mute?
You make me slip under my boot
You’re like a rather bulbous root
The orangutans will travel miles
And meet you with such greedy smiles
But alas they are far too late
For the sweat bananas have already been ate
Because so many other animals do
Love to munch and chew on you

You were once a rarity
That most people would not see
But now the shops are piled high
With bulky bunches my oh my

Some people think that these fruits are pervy
Because they are long, thin and mighty curvy
But this fruit is not a joke or toy
Or the private parts of boy

But it is the most important thing
To go inside a baking tin
Banana bread, banana loaf
Can satisfy any hungry oaf

Info On

Press release issued by SPAB: 9th January 2018

The future of a hugely significant Devon longhouse dating from the late 14th century was made more secure last weekend (Jan 6th/7th) after a group of volunteer architects and building craftspeople, alerted by SPAB (The Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings), gave up their weekend to carry out vital repairs.

The 22-strong group assembled at the Grade II-listed building - situated in Exmoor National Park between Barnstaple and Tiverton - to carry out essential work to prevent the remote medieval farmhouse from passing a point of no return.

The closed truss with central post

The farmhouse is a remarkably unspoilt example of a medieval cob dwelling. Probably dating from the 14th century – the period after the Black Death - the building also incorporates elements from remodelling carried out in the late 16th or early 17th century and has a long and fascinating story. A closed truss at the upper end of the hall is an extremely rare example of its type. So rare, in fact, that only two others are known to exist in Devon. These are to be found in medieval buildings in Kennerligh and Tedburn St Mary. However, the truss in the threatened building is the only complete survivor making the farmhouse regionally important.

Sadly, the building’s current plight is an example of an all-too common story. When the last person to live there died in 2009 the farmhouse was left unoccupied and subsequently fell into a state of significant disrepair. Despite the best efforts of the executors, there is still uncertainty as to its ownership. In addition, abandoned to the elements, it simply fell off the radar of various authorities. Thanks to SPAB’s intervention it has now been placed on Historic England’s Heritage at Risk register and the Society is working with the support of Historic England and others who live locally to save the building from further collapse.

Cob, the earthen material used to build much of the structure, can decay rapidly when wet. Unfortunately this longhouse had several sections of its roof that were no longer present or doing their job allowing water into the walls resulting in some severe deterioration and partial collapse. The work carried out included propping perilous walls in the farmhouse and adjoining linhay, repairing the roofs and extending the eaves, dealing with rain water drainage and covering elements of the earth-built building that were exposed to the weather. Our volunteer group further helped prepare the site for more repair work to take place in the future.

The morning briefing before work starts

Each year SPAB, Britain’s oldest and most practical conservation body, deals with hundreds of old buildings facing threat – whether through inappropriate development, ignorance or neglect. The Exmoor longhouse came to the Society’s attention through its Casework team which helps and protects buildings in need.

Recognising the importance of this remarkable survival, SPAB contacted Historic England and the local authority conservation officer for permission to assist and gained local support. Within days, in the depths of January, a group of expert volunteers travelled to Devon from far afield to carry out a targeted schedule of ‘guerilla’ conservation.

The Volunteers congregate after finishing the emergency repairs

Emma Lawrence, SPAB’s Head of Casework, said:

The farmhouse was at serious risk. Our main aim over the weekend was to make it watertight and head off the worst structural threats to ensure it doesn’t suffer further damage or even the possibility of total collapse over winter. When we left on Sunday we’d made a huge and positive difference.

Jonathan Garlick, SPAB Technical Officer explains:

With a hard winter ahead, its poor condition meant that we had to take immediate action. As a charity we have a huge network of tradesmen, architects, surveyors and people passionate about preserving Britain’s historic buildings. We put out a call to arms and quickly gathered together a group of expert volunteers who were more than willing to spend two days carrying out immediate remedial work which would ensure this amazing house makes it through to spring intact.

The future for the farmhouse remains in the balance as a plan is developed for its future ownership and use.

Emma Lawrence concludes:

“The SPAB has existed for 140 years. Our main message has always been that decay can be halted through maintenance and careful repair. Unfortunately this wonderful farmhouse has fallen victim to neglect and the weather. SPAB is an organisation uniquely placed to act with agility and purpose to save a building in a perilous state. We have the expertise and support of dedicated members, supporters and staff and, in this case, were able to mobilise a ‘guerrilla’ working party using donated time, tools and materials to prop perilous walls and make the building watertight until more long-term works can be undertaken. We continue to support all the stakeholders involved and are in discussions over the future of the building.”

SPAB

Is Britain’s oldest building conservation body. It was set up by William Morris to oppose the destructive restorations of the Victorian era and promote the alternative of “conservative repair”. By law it must be notified of applications to demolish listed buildings in England and Wales and comments on hundreds each year. Today its broad remit is to advise, educate and campaign.  The Society, a registered charity, also trains architects and craftspeople; produces a range of helpful publications and campaigns on issues affecting our built heritage.

Ideas On

Reaching a consensus on what is the most important place in the world would be an impossible task. For the myriad indigenous tribes of the Americas, Africa and Australasia, the forest constitutes a lifeline. In Western Africa or the Indian subcontinent, it may be the monsoon clouds that carry life-giving rains to parched lands. For over 160 million Africans from Kigali to Cairo, it is the mighty River Nile.

The Mighty River Nile

Yet by looking through a geographical lens, it is possible to approach this question more objectively. In my opinion, the most important place in the world must surely be the place which is most vital for long-term ecological stability and prosperity… one would think. It could be argued that this place is one of nature’s great biomes. For example, despite only constituting 6% of the world’s land cover, rainforest well-and-truly punches above its weight. Over half is found in the Amazon basin, which receives and releases moisture on a monumental scale, heavily influencing the climate of the Americas and beyond. Wider from east-to-west than the distance between Madrid and Moscow, the Amazon Rainforest is an ecological colossus. Home to over half of the world’s species of plants and animals, the rainforest is also widely touted as the source of future cancer cures – with 70% of plants identified as having potential anti-cancer properties are rainforest endemic.

A place rivalling the rainforests in importance is the ocean. One-in-two people depend on ocean fauna for protein and global trade is also reliant on the seas – 90% of the world’s goods are transported via the ocean. The ocean’s benthic zone, the region at the lowest level of a body of water is also home to the ethereal phytoplankton; a one-celled plant that processes carbon-rich nutrients and sunlight to produce up to 85% of the oxygen in the atmosphere. Thermohaline circulation in the ocean moves warm waters from tropical seas towards the poles, warming otherwise frigid regions like Western Europe and cooling sweltering equatorial nations in the process. The ocean contains up to 40,000 gigatons of carbon, sixty-five times more than all of the world’s plants put together.

The Pacific Ocean

These huge and diverse biomes, harbours of immense biodiversity and regulators of climate, are being irrevocably damaged. Half of all historical rainforest cover has been lost in the past 100 years and if current rates of deforestation continue, forest in the Amazon could remain in only a few isolated areas by the end of the 21st Century. Even if deforestation rates fall rapidly, the impacts of climate change could render these efforts futile. As the Amazon basin warms, precipitation is decreasing, causing widespread drought-related die-offs. Brazilian scientists argue that droughts such as those in 2005 and 2010 – during which 15 gigatons of CO2 were released – are pushing the Amazon towards a climactic “tipping point” at which rainforest will become savannah.

Tasked with becoming the world’s larder and its rubbish dump, the oceans are faring no better. Huge technological advances have led to super-efficient trawling methods which have reduced the numbers of large ocean fish by an estimated 90% since the mid-twentieth century. Eutrophic fertilizers, toxic waste and vast quantities of plastic have infested the oceans – the infamous ‘Great Pacific Garbage Patch’ constitutes an ocean landfill site which some estimate at twice the size of France. The oceans have also absorbed roughly half of all CO2 emitted since 1750 – or an astonishing 500 gigatons – triggering ocean acidification that is decimating marine ecosystems.

As alluded to in the above examples, the threats posed to the natural world today are unequivocally anthropogenic. Despite having existed on earth for over 200,000 years, humans have infinitely increased their influence since the industrial revolution, becoming undisputed orchestrators of global change. Therefore, when searching for the most important ‘place’ on earth, the question must revolve around man. And despite the fact that non-urban, natural biomes are under the most threat, it is the city which has driven global change. Urban populations consume 75% of all natural resources and are expected to double in size by 2050.

New York City

Perhaps more importantly, it is in the city where decisions are made; almost every environmental policy is concocted in a gleaming skyscraper or neo-classical hall. Whether they be UNESCO, the International Energy Agency or the United Nations Environment Programme, their decisions are invariably made in a Paris, a Beijing or a London. At the 2014 UN Climate Summit in the Peruvian capital of Lima, many world leaders advocated for a peak in greenhouse gas emissions before 2020 and climate neutrality by the second half of the 21st Century. Agreements like these, while no guarantee for success, will play a key role in worldwide attempts to stay below a 2°C warming rate – commonly recognised as the threshold between manageable change and unspeakable climactic, ecological and economic disaster.

Yet while the decisions of politicians and organisations are important, it is arguably the availability of research and technological development that is paramount to the positive (and negative) trans-planetary change. Strong environmental policies are all well and good but they would come to nothing without accurate research and statistics – repairing the ozone hole would constitute an uphill battle if we didn’t know it existed in the first place. Equally important is technological innovation – it is no good the government banning oil consumption if there are no renewable alternatives.

Although the core thesis of cornucopian Julian Simon’s controversial 1981 book ‘The Ultimate Resource’ has been widely critiqued, some of his ideas are powerful and thought-provoking. He believes that the planet’s resources are endless, thanks to the human brain’s innate capacity to invent and adapt. Yet for every Charles Darwin or Galileo there are millions of humans who do not innovate. Although fulfilling a vital role in society and economy, the vast majority work in primary, secondary and tertiary industries which do not directly increase the human knowledge-base or develop new technologies.

A surprising exception to this is the ‘quaternary’ industry. This is the industry of the researcher, the scientist and the inventor. While the rest of the world is trapped in nature’s constant cycle of life, the quaternary sector continues to embody much that has elevated the human race above the rest of the animal kingdom. Attempting to understand the world, and inventing ways to adapt and flourish. It is no coincidence that history’s most famous minds were unmistakeably quaternary. Yet how can this industry which is blossoming across the planet be quantified into a place? Research and innovation takes place across a panoply of governmental organisations such as the British Antarctic Survey, private companies like Volkswagen and countless universities. Yet is the latter that leads the pack. Although often working in collaboration with private and governmental organisations, the university itself performs much of the research and innovation – in 2009 carrying out over half of all basic research in the USA. Moreover, the university is the main nurturer and supplier of brains and expertise to other research bodies, from the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change to the Environmental Resource Management Body.

Although easily misconstrued as a melting pot of bingeing teenagers paying extortionate tuition fees for shoddy lecturers, the university is paramount. These educational institutions are the focal point for every possible Plutarch to live and learn from each other and from world-renowned experts. This elevates natural intelligence from curiosity to expertise. Yet as most under-graduates depart and adopt their place in human society, there are some that remain, taking PhDs and becoming professors and researchers. Each new PhD student asks a question never before asked and thus new knowledge is constantly garnered. In a world where a clean energy supply is a top priority, constant innovation is crucial. In 1929, Robert Atkinson and Fritz Houtermans, while studying at the University of Göttingen, proved that the fusion of light nuclei could create stellar energy. The process, now called nuclear fusion, promises an endless supply of clean energy with zero waste.

Studies of a changing natural world also form a cornerstone of university research. A study taken by Stanford University, California, used IPCC estimations, ocean/atmosphere models and a series of simulations to conclude that ocean pH might be reduced by 0.77 units in the coming centuries, a level of acidity higher than at any time in the past 300 million years. Studies like this will be imperative in building a complex picture of the damage unsustainable consumerism is causing to the environment and breaking the ‘denial dam’, the refusal to acknowledge and act that has so far prevented a large-scale human response to climate change.

Just as isolated Amazonian tribes are utterly unaware that surveillance monitoring recently developed by the University of Missouri is prolonging their survival, many people across the globe underestimate the power of the university. A centre for learning and a huge source of experts and innovators, on a planet that is teetering on the brink of catastrophe, the university is the most important place in the world.

Written by Dylan Inglis

Human Geography and Languages Student at the University of Durham.

Fable On

Fictitious stories, poetry and comedic writings

By Tansy Welsh

At day, the slug is sluggish
Slow and full of slime
But when the silver moon comes out
Tis then he begins to shine
His slime becomes a marble floor
For him to dance around
And the cobwebs full of twinkling dew
Make a magnificent background
Around the garden he makes his way
He bends and twists and twirls
Illuminated in a soft spotlight
By stars as bright as pearls
Dancing his way between the shadows
He meets the compost bin
And gliding up the side of it
He comes upon the rim
Sweeping around the circle
Gracefully he roams
Leaving behind a silky trail
Of sweet pheromones
And so, this dance of moonlight
Strictly would it win
But as the sun begins to come
He disappears beneath a bin.

Guest Info On

Kevin Davies is an architect living in Devon and specialises in work to listed buildings and sustainable development projects in the UK and the developing world. He is a director at SweedishLinseedPaint, and has a long history of association with Allback Linseed Paint. He is also the father of Leon Davies.

The humble flax plant.

Turquoise blossoms of the flax plant, Skane, SWEDEN.

The cultivation of Flax (Linum usitatissimum, Linaceae) dates back several thousands of years. Flax seeds and woven cloth have been found in Egyptian tombs. The Bible mentions ‘fine linen’, this was spun from Flax. It has been used for millennia in all manner of ways. Today you may have some lino or linoleum covering the kitchen floor, it’s made from solidified linseed oil (linoxyn) or fed the birds some flax seed or taken a drop yourself for nutritional purposes. Flax contains the highest level of omega-3 fatty acids among all vegetable oils. If you play cricket you have no doubt applied linseed oil to protect your beautiful willow bat, you have done this because everyone knows linseed oil is good for wood, don’t they?

Well yes, aside from using the flax plant for making cloth, sails, lamp wicks, cord, lino, for medicinal & nutritional purposes etc (it’s a very useful, versatile & pretty little plant) linseed oil has been pressed from the flax seed and used to protect timber for thousands of years. The ‘chemistry’ may not have been understood, as it is today, but it’s performance as a protective and extremely durable coating is not disputed.

Some technical explanation...

We actually differentiate between two basic types of flax – oilseed flax and spinning flax. Oilseed flax grows with shorter fibres and produces seeds that are rich in oil. In contrast, spinning flax has long fibres, but with less oil in its seeds. Linseed oil (or flax seed oil) is referred to as a ‘drying oil’, meaning the initial material is liquid but after a period of exposure to air it hardens to a tough, solid film. The ‘drying’ process (there is no evaporation) is the result of an oxidative reaction (or oxidisation) where oxygen attacks the hydrocarbon chain and as a result the oil polymerizes forming long chain-like molecules. As time passes the polymer chains cross-link resulting in a vast polymer network. The result is an aged material that is stable and rigid but remains somewhat elastic. Most applications of linseed oil exploit these drying properties.

Linseed oil molecules are also small, and aided by an expansion in volume of around 10% during drying, it offers excellent penetration into wood pores, both visible and microscopic but without expanding the wood itself. Linseed oil is also hydrophobic, its molecules are repelled by water. Droplets of water will form on the linseed oil film much like morning dew on grass or on the surface of a leaf. We can begin to appreciate how linseed oil can protect not only our cricket bat but most surfaces exposed to the elements.

Restoration of 19th century shop-front using linseed paint. Quincaillerie Mallet, Mirambeau, FRANCE.

It wasn’t long before colour pigments were ‘suspended’ in the linseed oil and its use as the preferred supporting medium (binder) for making oil paint. Linseed oil paints have been used in Europe and England since the 13th century and were widely adopted as an artistic medium during the Renaissance period. Pigments are essentially ‘fillers’ that serve to thicken the film, increase the volume of paint and provide colour, they also affect drying time and durability. Natural granular solids were typically used including clays, oxides and carbon, with these pigments a palette of natural earth colours can be achieved including sienna, ochre and umber. These traditional linseed oil paints have lasted centuries and continue to protect exterior timbers, our windows, doors and iron-mongery. Paint failure was unheard of. 

All was well... aside from some poisonous pigments.

Various poisonous minerals and metals have been added to paint over the years. Emerald Green is a pigment based on arsenic and Vermilion on mercury. These were favoured colours by the impressionist painters. Cezanne developed severe diabetes (a chronic form of arsenic poisoning), Monet went blind and Van Gogh suffered neurological disorders. These illnesses may also in part be attributed to use of other commonly used substances including liquor & absinthe, solvents such as turpentine and lead pigment. The addition of lead as a pigment did improve paint performance and increase durability. It is a ‘dryer’, resists moisture and retains the paint appearance. Lead was used in high levels in paint between the 1930’s and mid-1950’s, including for domestic use, and in significant quantities up to the early 1960’s. Lead is however poisonous, particularly for younger children, and can cause nervous system damage, stunted growth, delayed development and kidney damage. European Union legislation banned the sale of lead based paint to the public and this took effect in the early 1990’s. 

In France a lead survey, referred to as a Diagnostic Plomb: Constat de risqué d’exposition au plomp (CREP) is obligatory if selling or letting property constructed before 1st Jan 1949. More information can be found at www.afnor.org, search for ‘peintures au plomb’ or www.defra.gov.uk, search for ‘lead paint'.

Unless you are involved in the restoration of paintings, by for example of one of the Dutch-masters, who favoured a yellow pigment called orpiment (made from arsenic & sulphide), or are exposed to the risks of existing lead based paints, our health today, and that of the painter, has been and is to a much greater extent affected by the use of solvents in 'modern' paints.

The introduction of modern paint

Since the 1940’s the paint industry moved away from traditional (linseed) paint production in favour of chemical, petroleum and solvent based paints (Alkyd & Acrylic). Paint manufacture became a high-tech industrial scale process, think large carbon footprint, which continues to this day. Vast quantities of paint could be made at relatively little expense, thanks to the use of fossil fuels. Post war perhaps one can argue (although I would hesitate) that the low cost and availability of oil paint outweighed the negative environmental and health impacts. We are now in a period of ‘green enlightenment’, it’s unlikely we would have chosen the petrochemical and paint industry giants solutions if they were proposed today, even with the marketing departments telling us otherwise.

Alkyd paint (artificial oil paint) – linseed oil is replaced with synthetic alkyd resin oil then dissolved in petrochemical solvent. Polyurethane paints and varnishes contain urethane binders or urethane-modified alkyds. Whilst the alkyd resin oils are often derived from plant products (the fatty acids may come from safflower, sunflower or fish oils) the solvents that evaporate as the paint dries are harmful. Toluene, benzene, acetone, paraffin oil (white spirits) and ethanol contain high levels of volatile organic compounds (VOC’s) and exposure to high concentrations has been the cause of ill health among painters for decades. Most of us will have at some time experienced the general narcotic effects of using solvents – headaches, drowsiness, dizziness & nausea. The dangers of long term exposure to solvents can be much more serious, the World Health Organisation reports a 20% increase of cancers and in Denmark a chronic cerebral syndrome is referred to as ‘painters dementia.’ It is not surprising then that there has been a demand to reduce the amount of VOC’s emitted from many products and this includes oil paints, varnishes and wood stains. In the European Union this has resulted in directive 2004/42/EC which came into effect on January 1st 2010. All manufactured decorate coatings have to comply with new VOC limits. There are many who believe that these limits are still too high, the paint industry giants were certainly reluctant to change and effectively lobbied government to ensure that some of their products (albeit modified) could comply and profits could be maintained. The VOC limit for solvent based oil paint for wood is 300 g/l, traditional linseed paint will contain less than 18g/l.

Acrylic ‘latex’ paint (plastic dispersion) – this is a fast drying paint containing pigment suspended in an acrylic polymer emulsion. A rapid drying time enables a painter to apply two or three coats in a day and move onto the next job, this is very advantageous. These paints are often sold as environmentally friendly because the solvent used is water. As the paint dries water evaporates and the acrylic polymers fuse. VOC emissions are low and the painter will suffer no ill-effects. The downside, and it’s a big one, is that acrylic polymers are derived from petroleum products, it’s plastic! Acrylic paint consists of polymethyl methacrylate (PMMA) suspended in water and you need 2 kg of petroleum to make 1 kg of PMMA. Clever marketing by the paint industry perhaps but since when has using non renewable fossil fuels become ‘eco’, ‘green’ or environmentally friendly?

If we can put aside for one moment the image of oil refineries and demented Danish painters we should consider the other aspects of paint that are of concern to us i.e. performance, durability and cost.

A Paint Comparison

(For exterior application on new timber.)

Protein removal from linseed oil.

Acrylic and Alkyd paints have a dry matter content of around 40% and 55% respectively, the remainder is solvents and these evaporate as the paint dries. So, about half the ‘paint’ in the pot actually goes into the atmosphere, not on the surface being painted. By contrast linseed paint ‘dries’ through oxidisation, the dry matter content is therefore 100%. Drying time for the Acrylic paint is rapid, four to six hours is typical for the topcoat but primers and undercoats can dry within one or two hours. Alkyd oil and linseed oil paints can generally be recoated once every twenty four hours i.e. one coat per day. Recoating time for linseed paint also depends on the quality of the oil used, here we have selected a Swedish linseed paint. Oilseed flax cultivated in northern latitudes (cold & damp climate) is high in linolenic acid, this contributes to a faster drying time of the linseed oil and therefore the paint. The proteins have also been removed from the oil. The higher the protein content the longer the paint will take to dry.

Coverage rates for the Alkyd and Acrylic paints are between 10% & 40% lower than for the linseed paint, meaning you need more paint to cover the same area. Lower coverage rates combined with the necessity to apply primers and undercoats (top coats do not stick to wood) result in higher overall costs for the application of the modern paint system. If a higher paint cost corresponded to an increased longevity this would be acceptable, on a typical project the cost of the paint represents less than 10% of the overall cost, however this is not the case here. The modern paints have a claimed life expectancy of around six years, this is less than half that of the linseed oil paint. Why is this? Well the answer lies in our earlier explanations. Modern paints have been unable to successfully replicate the properties of linseed oil. Modern paint does not penetrate, breathe or remain elastic as linseed oil paint can and has proven to do so for generations. So our modern paints don’t last very long, are rarely green, but are expensive. We have paid a high price for paint failure.

Restoration of 18th century door using linseed paint. Hotel des Gendarmes, VERSAILLES.

We are fortunate then that, although in decline since the 1960’s, the linseed oil pressing industry did not completely vanish with the advent of modern paints. Today linseed acreage is actually on the increase and raw cold-pressed linseed oil is being produced in northern Europe, Canada and in the United States. Furthermore a combination of traditional European skill, ancient wisdom, modern production techniques and cooperation with farmers, has enabled the development of a new generation of linseed oil paints. These contain no solvents or poisonous pigments. They do however last a very long time……and they’re green.

As they say in Sweden ’we have to look back if we are to see the future’ and we must therefore ‘rediscover the ancient wisdom.’

Ideas On

This article is a debunking of an article written in The Spectator by Matt Ridley. It is advisable to read The Spectator's article first.

Their article aims to prove that wind energy is not green and that we should focus our effort more on gas and nuclear energy. Published on the 13th of May this particular article from The Spectator certainly does not speak for the majority of the British public. It does however, represent a loud and growing minority group which is highly sceptical that much need be done about the over-use of fossil fuels, or indeed climate-change as a whole.

The first part of the article's argument against wind focuses on the fact that wind (in 2014) contributed 0% to global energy production - this is a rounded figure; production was 0.4%. This claim is entirely true, but is misleading. It is misleading because this is when one measures energy consumption as a whole. This pushes down wind energy's contribution because, as of yet, wind energy and green energy in general hasn't broken into industrial energy provision. That is to say wind turbines are not used to power smelting plants, or used for large haul transportation. You can't directly power ships and lorries from wind. But this is an aspect that is fast changing. Electric trains, cars, lorries, ships, and planes are all on the horizon - look at Tesla's new articulated lorry. Also, these figures apply to the whole world. We should not really be looking at the poorer countries of the world when it comes to climate change and green energy (yet), for it is the more developed ones that cause the vast majority of pollution. China, the USA & Europe alone account for 54% of the worlds CO2 emissions from fossil fuels. Also given that The Spectator is a British publication it hasn't focused on the fact that between 11% and 17% of UK energy is provided by wind. Their argument also ignore the fact that wind is a developing energy source, and has not been given enough support to directly challenge the behemoth that is the Fossil Fuel industry, especially within industry and transportation. After all the network of petrol stations, underground gas pipes, and oil rigs weren't built overnight either.

The article also tries to explain why wind has not taken over. The Spectator says that wind is unreliable. This a common argument against wind; the turbines don't turn all the time and that leads to an unstable flow of electricity. Whilst this is true this does ignore the fact that those who argue for renewable don't argue just for wind but for a mixture of green energy sources (wind, hydro, wave, solar, geothermal). So that when the wind isn't blowing we use solar, when the sun is't shining we use hydro, and when the reservoir is empty we use wave energy. In addition to this, there are new technologies that are tackling the intermittent nature of some renewable sources of energy - the largest ever Lithium-ion battery has just been built in Australia.

The next point The Spectator move to is the fact that energy growth currently stands at 2% per year and that if we were to use just wind turbines:

At a density of, very roughly, 50 acres per megawatt, typical for wind farms, that many turbines would require a land area greater than the British Isles, including Ireland. Every year.

This seems like a rather damning fact for wind turbines. But again it is misleading. Whilst it is true that we need roughly 50 acres per megawatt of wind energy, not all of those 50 acres is made unusable. In fact, according the union for concerned scientists:

Less than 1 acre per megawatt is disturbed permanently and less than 3.5 acres per megawatt are disturbed temporarily during construction.

So in actual fact, one would only need a country the size of Mongolia (1.5 million km2), not the British isles. This is still a large area of land, but again one should not just built on shore turbines, or even just wind turbines, but also solar panels (perhaps on each roof of every suitable house). One of the great benefits of wind turbines (and solar panels) is that they can be put virtually anywhere without causing much disruption. Famer can still farm their sheep and grow their crops, and people can still build their houses and live their lives.

Their article then goes on to talk about the future of wind turbines and how there is little room for improvement due to the fact that they are very close to the Betz Limit. The Betz Limit (Discovered by Frederick W. Lanchester) which applies to all Newtonian Fluids (of which air is one) states that wind turbines can only extract 59% of the wind energy. Wind Turbines of today currently stand at about 80% of that limit- meaning a total of 47% of raw wind energy is converted when run in optimal conditions. This might seem rather damning for wind energy. However, never does their article talk about the fact that wind turbines are still getting bigger in capacity - regardless of the Betz limit (as that affects only efficiency). Wind Turbines of today on average are rated at about 3MW, and turbines have been consistently growing in size over the decades. However, there is a limit to how big these turbines can get, but this limit is estimated at 20MW. A far cry from their current rating. So in truth, there is still much room for turbines to grow.

The Betz Limit

The Spectator then move onto another aspect of wind energy production: it's pre production.

But out of sight and out of mind is the dirty pollution generated in Inner Mongolia by the mining of rare-earth metals for the magnets in the turbines. This generates toxic and radioactive waste on an epic scale, which is why the phrase ‘clean energy’ is such a sick joke and ministers should be ashamed every time it passes their lips.

Ouch...

It should be apparent by now that there is a bit of a pattern emerging in their article. Yes, it's true. Metals are extracted from the earth at great cost and toxic concrete are all used in the manufacture and installation of wind turbines. This is an undeniable fact. But that's not the full picture, The Spectator again forgets to compare. If we take gCO2eq/kWh (that is grams of carbon dioxide per kilo-watt-hour), and if we take the mean of this value then wind energy is the least polluting. According to the IPCC, wind energy produces 11g/kWh, and nuclear 12g/kWh. In truth gas, which The Spectator recommends the use of instead of wind produces a whopping 490g/kWh. Also, arranged as a mean the top nine least polluting energy sources (with the notable exception of nuclear) are all renewables. As well as that, the jump from the last renewable (in the top nine) to the first non-renewable is 112g/kWh. Solar PV produces 48g/kWh and CCS (Carbon Capture and Storage) Coal with Oxyfuel produces 160g/kWh.

Source Data: IPCC

It might seem from the above that nuclear is a reliable energy source and therefore a clear candidate in the fight to reduce fossil fuels. Maybe, but nuclear has problems that wind does not. There is yet no safe and permanent way to dispose of nuclear waste, and the current method involves a huge quantity of cement and concrete and comes with its own dangers including percolation of the toxic waste into the ground water - Tom Scott made a video about an old site in the USA. Also the potential solution - fission - is still a way off. What's more, wind (in the UK at least) is actually cheaper than nuclear... and we have plenty of it.

Overall, it should be evident that wind - contrary to the title of The Spectator's article - is green and is an excellent source of energy. Again, although their article represent a minority view, it’s one that is growing. In times such as we are in, where the focus within government has shifted away from climate change and towards Brexit and Trump, it is ever more important to make sure the false messages of these publications don't go unchallenged.

Fable On

Fictitious stories, poetry and comedic writings

By Tansy Welsh

When it is cold, we are tired and night is coming in
We go home in the darkening din

Falling sleepy in our sacks
It's almost our time to relax
But no we need our nightly drink
So we must stay awake and blink
Creep down stairs with torch on head
Wishing wishing wishing we could go to bed

With a cold and clinking kettle
We turn on the tap and fill up the mettle
Twist on the gas and hear it hiss
Then give it a spark for the hot red kiss

Just wait, listen and sit a while
For the whistle to shriek in untuneful style
Put the bag into the cup
Ready for water to sizzle all up

But alas for all this toil
A watched kettle never boils.

Ideas On

How has a man whose fortée is the filibuster and whose first tweet was in Latin now suddenly become a potential future PM?

Elected in 2010 and with majority of over 10,000, his great charisma, charm, and fearless efforts to give Somerset their own time-zone have obviously not been wasted on the people of North-East Somerset. It may seem to some that ‘Moggmentum’ would be an obvious side effect of such a straight forward and unequivocally British chap. Yet his early career was not one of instant success, but rather one of outright electoral rejection. Standing for the constituency of Central Fife in 1997 he won only 9% of the vote. His efforts to gain ‘name recognition’ were flawed by his inability to understand the Fife accent nor they his own upper-class mannerisms. The story followed the same pattern when he stood for the seat of The Wrekin, where the national swing towards the conservatives ran in the opposite direction reducing their vote. It seems obvious that a man who is proud to name one of his six children Anselm or even Sixtus, would fail to gain traction in such a seat as Fife where Labour was strong at the time or such a closely contended seat as The Wrekin (where virtually every election has reversed the decision of the previous).

One must then beg the question, how has he suddenly shot up in popularity?

Well the answer is simply this, that Jacob Rees-Mogg is an eccentric character and a great performer. He speaks with a degree of perceived honesty and yet somehow maintains good humour at all times. In an age where we are more used to understanding performances than factual unengaging politics his mannerisms engage us and his eccentricities hold our interest. We may be the electorate, but in simplicity we are the audience and politics is our weekly reality show. Everyone likes a bit of drama and light humour. Jacob Rees-Mogg provides both.

In the past he has argued that policemen with the power to issue on-the-spot fines should wear bowler hats because:

“People would then know when an accredited person was getting close to them and would be able to scarper in the opposite direction.”

He has attempted to get Somerset its’ own time-zone (fifteen minutes behind London). He has built for himself an excellent reputation as a filibuster. During these lengthy discourses he has somehow managed to mention, The Battle of Agincourt, Floccinaucinihilipilification (the act of estimating something as worthless) and a mug he owned as a child with a poem emblazoned on the side of it about the bliss of a farmer’s life. And this is only the tip of the ice berg. His first tweet was ‘Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis.’ (the times change, and we change with them) and in general conversation he regularly brings up his children, the superiority of Somerset, history.

His charisma makes him ideal for TV, Radio and Newspapers. He has made regular appearances on the BBC’s Question Time, Daily Politics, Any Questions, Have I Got News For You, and Newsnight. On top of this he has had guest appearances on LBC, Good Morning Britain and ITV’s Peston on Sunday (3 times). He has also been at the centre of countless newspaper articles both online and in print. There are not many back benchers that are so regularly in the national public’s eye.

These media appearances have helped to promote his person and brand. The fact that every time he is brought up in conversation his name is said in full supports this. He has essentially become the new Boris Johnson. posh, flamboyant, eccentric beyond belief; but still somehow loved. One may notice that he tries to distance himself from interparty conflict, allowing him to be liked by all. This is a tool that Boris used as well during his time as London Mayor but has since lost as an MP and candidate for Conservative Party leader. This is not to say that Jacob Rees-Mogg does not have strong beliefs. One need only look at his recent appearance on Good Morning Britain where he admitted being anti-gay marriage. Despite this, his lack of interest in interparty conflict and his persona have so far been enough to distract from his beliefs. When most people imagine him, they imagine the accent, the suits and the glasses, not his opinions on what should and should not be considered sin.

This may help to explain why he is distancing himself from the claims that he is looking to stand for the role of Tory leader. This move would likely bring out much more than just his accent or his fondness for Latin as it would plunge him head first into that party politics. However, this does not mean that he wouldn’t jump into the race if one is ever called. After all he has no immediate allegiance to May — given that he supported all other candidates but May in the previous leadership election — and it is not a ridiculous idea for someone with such a cult following within Tory party members — if the political punters are to be believed — to throw himself into the running.

Whether he would win or not is anyone’s guess. He may be a popular politician, but that does not necessarily mean that he would be a good Prime Minister, nor capable of winning an election. He appeals to a select section of society and of his party. He is after all firmly on the right of the political spectrum in a time where the left politics are obviously becoming popular.

Ideas On

I just read an article by Obama on how best to tackle climate change. He made two very important points that I believe everyone should know.

We all know climate change is disastrous. Yes, oceans will rise to the point of flooding entire countries, yes seas will warm and destroy sea life like coral, and yes it will lead to extreme weathers such as flash floods and longer dry seasons. This message has been blasted all through the western world, we learn it at school, we see it on social media, and there is always a TV documentary talking about it in some way. We know it’s bad. But we are complacent, these severe effects are 20 years away from really affecting us, day to day we see little change in the weather or sea levels. What people seem to forget and what Obama points out is that it is ‘a luxury to worry about climate change’. As a general rule, we humans are quite poor at thinking about events way in the future. For most people climate change is but a distant problem. Additionally, we are much less likely to worry about climate change if we have other short-term problems to deal with. For most people food, children, and money in general are far more important things to worry about. This is quite a difficult concept for the average climate activist or conservationist to really comprehend. Most are middle class well off and well-educated people. Most people like this have little else to worry about, and therefore climate change is absolutely an issue. This often create a problem when say a poorer person and an activist discusses climate change. The activist can easily get frustrated with what they perceive to be ignorance or complacency towards the issue. ‘Why? Why don’t they realise the scale of the issue at hand’ they might think. But it is not complacency, they do not have the luxury of being able to worry about climate change, much else is on their mind.

How the do we approach this problem? Obama proposes that the trick is to make sure that they know solving climate change is in their best interests both economically and environmentally. A world where climate change is ignored will hit the poorest harder than the wealthy. He gives the example of Kenyan farmers that are encroaching on national park’s territory in order to cultivate more food. They ignore these national parks because they have never been informed on their importance or their potential to improve their future. To them these parks are simple impeding their ability to grow food and making their already hard lives harder. The biggest mistake climate activists can make is to not adequately explain to people that solving the issue of climate change is in their best interests. To not do so will cause a rift between the two parties, which will undoubtable contribute to the anger already felt at the establishment, and above all will prevent worldwide progress on the issue.

Remember, we cannot solve this problem without the consent of all the people. All must be on board for it to be a success. It is also the morally correct thing to do because it is in all our best interests to do so.
 
I highly recommend that you read the article:

https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2017/may/26/barack-obama-food-climate-change