Wednesday, 31 January 2018

PEDcast- January 2018

BSSS National ECR Rep, Dan Evans, presents the first edition of a new monthly PEDcast; a pedological podcast for researchers across the UK and beyond. 

In this programme, he heads to Tenerife on a field trip to see many of the world soil orders, and in the first part of a regular feature on Impact and Innovation, Professor Mark Reed, from Fast Track Impact, shares his wisdom about achieving genuine research impact. Dan also provides an update on the latest Soil Science events and news around the country. 

You can contact Dan at any time by emailing 

Wednesday, 3 January 2018

A Message from Dan

This week marks an exciting new chapter for me, as the national Early Career Researcher representative for the British Society of Soil Science. I am incredibly excited about the next two years. Here's a short video for me to say hello to you all.

Tuesday, 26 December 2017

Boxing Day Message from Dan's PhDiary

Written Boxing Day, 2017
At Christmas, the sensorium is blessed. From morn’ until nigh’, our bodies and all their faculties are awash with the sights, smells, sounds, tastes and textures that have swept over generations in the flow of December’s festive tide.
The tapestries of Christmas are stitched before our eyes. As the sun hides low behind the conifers, a small clementine flickers from a lantern, ushering  a plume of orange light over a darkened lane. Jack Frost sits beside the river, completing a jigsaw of ice over a refrigerated stream. There is a cottage across the water. At first, it is as if it sits upon a puff of frozen fog, perchance a wispy cloud, or the froth of a cappuccino, or soapy lather but it is, of course, snow; the flour of the skies, the dust of a spent year, and for many, a memory when winters were wintry.

The symphony of Christmastime clothes the silence. The belly of a ravenous fire roars for more logs. The carol singers rejoice with their crotchet baubles and tinselled clefs that hang merrily from their decorative staves. Hear the joy of children shredding their hopes and dreams from shells of wrapping paper. Our nostrils take pleasure in vacuuming up thick clouds of blissful aromas. Living rooms are freshened by the Nordic colognes of Christmas trees. As cottages smoke their pipes, the scents of fairytale woodlands ride out of chimneys to settle over the villages. And then there are those newborn smells that are kept wrapped until the big day arrives, when eager fingers break the seals of packaging and allow the odours of the brand new this and the brand new that to make their inaugural visit to the nose.

And then there are the tastes of Christmas; the flavours that bring merriment to our taste buds; the zests that are painfully yearned for during eleven months of the year. Oh how we treat the tongue to the sweet and silky truffle, the rich and fruity wine, the speciality gravy! Each and every Christmas crumb brings with it an edible joy. Estranged for most of the year, at Christmas this festive family of ingredients congregate in a reunion, bringing as an ensemble a cuisine of comfort, of tradition and of security in an uncertain world. Finally, let us not forget the fabric that wraps around us at Christmastime. As we feed the open mouths of log fires, we receive the breath of warmth upon our cheeks; a warmth which chases away the chill from the air. We fondle presents to guess their contents, we tug at crackers, we crunch on crackling and we cup our snow-numbed hands around our mouths.

All of these emblems of Christmastime – the visual garlands, the merry sounds, the joyful fragrances, the resonant tangs, the warm embrace of the season – are as true this year as they were in the last, and to misquote Housman, ‘the air of other Christmases breathe from beyond the snows’.

Boxing Day marks the changing of the guard. The spirit of Christmas Present, who has venerably defended the traditions of the season, steps aside; from now on, the days and nights will be patrolled by a Christmas Spirit of the Past. The marriage between another December and January will soon be upon us. December’s stag doo – the frivolities of Christmas Day, perhaps – have now past and we must see out these final sobering hours before the big day arrives. It’s during these final days that the mind turns to reflect. 
I am writing in an armchair that sits before the family clock. For as long as I can remember, the clock has been a stage to that notorious debate between Tick and Tock. On and on they go – ticking and tocking, ticking and tocking – each desiring the final word and neither of them getting it. The pendulum swings between these two voices of time. Occasionally a mighty chime attempts to break down this cul-de-sac of percussive chatter. “Chime...Chime...Chime,” goes the clock, which in translation means, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Miss Tick, Mr Tock; just to let you know that it’s now 3 o’clock”. Slowly, the chime is netted by some silence and drawn out of the room. Tick and Tock continue their monosyllabic tirade.
Early on during my childhood, these ticks and tocks steadily buried themselves deep in the heart of my subconsciousness. One no longer heard them; they counted out time in silence. On those endless summer days of youth, the urgency of time, the unravelling of time, the constant snatching of the Future by the thieving Present, was never mused upon. Time became irrelevant. Though day and night acted as some daily comma, life seemed like an endless phrase of possibility, scribed from a bottomless inkwell and authored by hope, innocence and joy. As one grows older, one learns that time is not as endless or as infinite as this dream. The nibs of hope, innocence and joy often run dry. Having been away from home for a while, and now sitting beside the family clock, the ticks and tocks are audible again, and what’s more, they thud louder and more stubbornly. The tick is tocked, and the tock is ticked, and I am reminded, yet again, about the passing of time and a dying year.
The final hours of a year are now huddled together, preparing to be placed in the memoriam of our minds. Soon the tapestry of 2017 will be hung, and the first stitches of 2018 will be made; these tapestries colouring and clothing the blank walls down the corridors of life. 

Dan Evans 

Sunday, 26 November 2017

Week 60: (20th to 26th November 2017) or 'A Storm... and a Teacup'

This week, as the topic of the weather unlatched the gates to another conversation, a colleague insisted that we needed a different latitude. I felt like saying "wait around for another million years and that may well happen". The UK is, of course, merely a speck of dust on a piece of a crustal jigsaw. Whoever, or whatever, is shuffling the pieces around is doing it incomprehensibly slowly. But on the move, we are. We have bathed under the equatorial beams of sunlight in the past and no doubt we will again in the future, although perhaps not in our future.

What can we do to improve our collective future? That puzzle, more or less, must underpin the mission of all living things. The pursuit of betterment has been a quest undertaken by plants and animals alike since their genesis. Charles Darwin referred to it as the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life. Mankind, though a latecomer in the grand kingdom of life, has followed suit. However, perhaps - and I am no expert here - perhaps we as human beings are the only species which actively sit down and discuss how to sustain. As far as I am aware, we're the only species to train a batch of our race to become nurses and doctors, so that we are able to prolong an individual's life as long as possible. We establish targets in order to regulate our use of the Earth's resources. We set up alliances, working groups and organizations that ponder over these matters everyday. Although, as Darwin suggests, we have descended from a web of heritage, a genetic web stretching from the bat to the banana, surely we are alone in our efforts to continue our struggle for life?

The Lancaster Environment Centre recently joined in this effort. Earlier this year, a group of academic and professional staff and students assembled together in a small board room, around a plate of cake. It seems that the presence or absence of cake can do more to influence the attendance of a meeting than any other entity. It must have incentivised me as I, too, was there. Around the table, the Lancaster Environment Centre Sustainability Group was born. It stemmed from an embryonic idea of Dr Jess Davies, who leads the group and together, we are working to put sustainability into action, engaging with the departmental community and the university as a whole, and to act as a platform for debate on sustainability issues. This week saw the group's inaugural event How to be Sustainable, at which this platform was officially unveiled.

A number of speakers mused on what they considered to be the most sustainable way of living. Some were more practical and directly related to those within the Environment Centre. "If it's wrong to wreck the planet, it's wrong to financially benefit from wrecking the planet," Dr Emily Heath suggested, focussing on unsustainable pensions and offering advice on those which are more ethical.  Others spotlighted the wider debates of sustainability, beyond the UK. Julia Loginova took us to Russia to explore the environmental and social impacts of oil extraction whilst Dr Kirsti Ashworth summarised her research into sustainable US cannabis production.

One of the final speakers was Ann Brookes, who presented some postcards from a 'No Impact' week experience. In essence, this evolved from a year long experiment by Colin Beavan, and his family, to lead a zero net-impact life in New York city. The 'No Impact' week was subsequently designed to provide an appetizer of what this experience would be like for seven days. As Ann explained, "the week is designed to address much more than just environment sustainability; it's about increasing personal happiness and social wellbeing".

I recalled a similar passage, written by Herbert Ernest Bates in 1949, in which he remembers upon "a life where everyone...had to clothe himself, feed himself, amuse himself and as often as not doctor himself from the cradle to the grave [...] Are we really witnessing, not symbolically but actually, the destruction of an era, and being drawn back, with corresponding force, to a life that is closer to earth, the element which sustains us? It is a thought that fits in well with a certain observation, expressed elsewhere, that rather than study the habits of the savage in the jungle we should study ourselves, in this jungle of our own."

Some days later, I pulled my copy of Bates' The Country Heart down from the shelf because I remembered a conversation, documented somewhere amongst the pages, between Bates and another formidable writer, E. M. Forster. It was a discussion about the ease, or at times lack of, with which change can be executed in society. Indeed, the 'No Impact Week' is an individual's effort. "Sustainability," as Ann Brooks reminded us "isn't achievable alone - we need to work together!" But there are moments when one can feel that even the best collective efforts from a community, such as the LEC Sustainability Group, are not large enough to render any meaningful and impressionable change. I eventually happened upon the passage:

"How many people care if the country tomorrow is different from the country today...It is true that some people, perhaps an increasing number of people, care very much. But do the right people care?" 

I hope they do, for all of our sakes.


There is something quite ethereal, almost unbelievable, about a cloud. From the ground, a storm cloud is an impenetrable ceiling of lead that defies even the most radiant light to singe through. And then you notice a small aircraft climbing up the walls of this sky, accelerating towards this very ceiling and you wonder how this piddling needle will ever pierce through. But it does, and you are left concluding that any cloud, however dark, is purely a phantom roaming the skies, drifting in some other dimension.

Night falls and the light, that had seemed to be entrapped by the clouds, is extinguished. And you go to bed.

The next morning, the sky is free from drifting coal but you are ankle deep in cold, turbid water. There is no ground anymore, apart from some solid base lingering twelve inches below. You gaze out the window to find sofas floating down the street. Wheelie bins have set off from your front gardens like cruise ships. Cars become submarines. Chair legs become anchors. The boundaries to yesterday's rivers have been erased almost as easily as an artist could manage. It is when your whole life paddles through the realities of a flood, that you can turn back towards a sky of clouds and wonder how you ever underestimated them.

Pockets of Lancashire were subjected to record rainfall this week; 1.7 inches in 24 hours. All told, twenty-seven residents had to be evacuated from their homes in Galgate and seventy from the north of the county. 120 premises were flooded, including a couple of lecture halls at Lancaster University.


I was off to the theatre. For £4.90, you can sit in the stalls all day and spectate upon the most fascinating of performances; the very best representation of contemporary urban life. The acts are unscripted, unannounced and unrehearsed but select any performance (and there are many within a day) and you're guaranteed a pageant worth all 490 pennies. I chose the 12:35pm showing. Oh, and the theatre's name? The 'Number 4'. 

I took my seat in this touring theatre and as it steadily withdrew from the pavement, the first act began. People you assumed were fellow spectators suddenly burst into role, and at each stop along the journey, a few would exit, and a few would take their place on the stage. Sitting backstage behind a screen is the director of this traveling play. His name is 62815 on my ticket, but he is known to the cast as 'Driver'. "Thanks, Driver," they say, as they step off the stage. Driver's job is to ensure each scene runs to time and often, when this isn't achieved, the cast are quick to inform him. If only they realized that, quite apart from running the show, he is also in charge of managing the audience. 

"Can you girls keep it down," the director cried out, staring at the reflection of three very loud, teenage members of the audience, in his rear view mirror. They had boarded a few scenes after me, and were not paying attention to the events happening before them. 

Let's meet the cast in Scene 8 or 9. There's Peggy, who wears a plum-red anorak and crowns it all with a mop of silver, which makes it seem that she's accidentally left her hair out in the garden overnight and it's caught the frost. Peggy needs work on speaking impromptu, as she sits in silence for most of her scenes. Doris, who sits opposite, has mastered the skill. Little, bar the sudden jaunt at an unexpected traffic light, can stop Doris from speaking and it appears she finds delight in issuing her soliloquy to thin air if a fellow cast member has wandered off-stage. And so, as I sat there, I began to listen to her Life and Times before a flood of characters came aboard at the bus station to drown out poor Doris. 

"I'm off for ma big shup...Asda," Margaret exclaimed. Margaret wears a sheepskin that speaks for itself; that is informing us, the audience, that many generations of lambs have been reared since the one responsible for Margaret's costume. 
"Oooh, off for a big shup at Asda, are you?" Sue is Margaret's friend, and has a habit of rephrasing each of her statements into a question. Their on-stage presence is priceless. 
"Yeah, the big Asda, you can get all the big bargains in there, you can."
"All the big bargains?"
"I got this the other day," Margaret says, withdrawing the face of Daniel O'Donnell from her handbag. "It's Danuel O'Dunnell, got it nine ninety-nine, all his greatest hits."
"You got it nine ninety-nine?" Sue checks to confirm. 
"Off for washing powder today...Bold. I'm off for Bold today."
"Is Bold the one you get?"
"Yeah, I do ma washing this aft-noon..." 

The plot thickens. Next on stage is a young boy, who enters clutching a miniature helicopter. His grandmother ushers him unsuccessfully into a seat at the front, oblivious it seems to the fact that the stage manager inside her grandson's mind informs him that the most exciting seat is further towards the back. "Can you make it work, nanny?" he asks, handing over the aircraft to Nanny. "I can try..." and suddenly she has changed character. She is no longer Nanny but an aeronautical engineer. 


The director keeps his appointment with the final kerb. The show has run to time and the first act is complete. The cast exit out the stage door for the interval. I made a quick dash through the rain to one of those last remaining plinths of quintessential Englishness: a tea-shop.

Taste, alone, does not mark the success of the tea-shop. There is a music to be enjoyed here. If ever (God forbid it) I lost my sight, I would take myself to a tea-shop for reassurance that I had not wandered unguided across a bridge to some distant country. I would open the door - manually, of course, and listen out for a charming bell to sound a high-pitched A above me. I would sit and relish the dainty voice that is the chatter between crockery as they are delicately stacked together by waitresses. I would listen to the sound of a teaspoon as it is gently tapped thrice against the cup and then one satisfyingly final ring as it is placed back down on the saucer. I would take note of the staccato chink chink chink as a bill is percussed into a cash register and the chorus of jangling coins as the cash tray springs open.

"It should have voided... I just don't understand it". Sheila is more adept (probably) with a cake slice than her cash register. "It's giving me...£16.94... I don't want £16.94." 
"I wouldn't mind £16.94," I said to another customer, as I took my seat behind a large red chess-board of gingham tablecloth. Suddenly, a long receipt, akin to an Egyptian scroll of erroneous numbers, was fed into Sheila's hands. I began to gaze around at the paraphernalia that adorns the artex. A pizza cutting board was hanging just above my tea and scone. Dotted around were some very old photographs too, most of which demonstrating what used to occupy this space about a hundred years ago. The similarities are reassuring. Modernity, or at least that frenetic hurly burly which whizzes around most cities, clearly doesn't care for Chamomile tea. The closest one gets to the 'current' here are those found in one of Tracy's homemade scones. 

Tracy is the chef. She remained out of sight until she swung a two-way door ajar and chaperoned three bowls of broth to the table next to me. The broths were welcomed with the "ahhhhhhs" that Tracy is accustomed to hear from those who have mustered enough miserable weather for one day. 
"It's the day for soup, apparently," she says. 
"Oh, aye. Aye!" one of the men replied, taking in a big breath of broth.

A handwritten message is sellotaped to Tracy's leather-bound menus. It reads: "Due to rising costs, we have had to raise some of our prices. Our appologies for this, but we look forward to your continued loyal custom". (She obviously doesn't pay for the use of her P's). Despite this message, Tracy can be in no doubt about the continuation of loyal custom. Sheila's warming welcome - when she's not arguing with the cash register - cultivates this loyalty. Here, in this northern tea-shop, every customer is a 'luv' and they can expect Sheila to be nonchalant with the bill. "Oh, let's call it £1.80," she will say, knowing deep down that doing so will bring them back to pay £1.80 next week. 


As I bid farewell and opened the door, the quaint bell sounded again; a chime that rings all the way from a bygone age. I crossed the road and stood in the queue for the next 'show-on-the-road', the Number Four, back to the university. Soon, the four-wheeled theatre arrived. The door burst open and we boarded to take our seats. The second half was about to begin...

Sunday, 19 November 2017

Week 59: (13th to 19th November 2017) or 'Towed Thoughts'

Have you seen the face of Lancaster? Its two eyes are to be found at the Castle and the Cathedral, which for centuries have towered over the city and surveyed the echelons of its society. Nearby, protruding out of the city like a nasal ridge, is the bluff of Williamson Park. And there, curved into an eternal smile, is the mouth of the River Lune. The face of Lancaster is not without its blemishes, either. Like wrinkles on aged skin, the roads have multiplied and widened. Pockets of deprivation have emerged like patches of unmanaged stubble. And yet, many including myself, choose not to notice these blemishes, but solely a veteran city; the wisdom held in the eyes of a venerable retiree, who once worked to keep the North industrial, but now content on allowing new towns take charge with their fresh ideas. If the new town of Milton Keynes were to visit Lancaster, it would be like a young boy meeting his grandfather, admiring his shrewdness and senescence.

If we peel back the skin of Lancaster, we find a thin capillary that's marked on the map as the Lancaster Canal. In the 18th century, it was a major artery, linking together the limestone quarries and the coalfields so as to feed the hungry mouths of mills and workhouses throughout Lancashire and Cumbria. Little, if any, of that history remains. Once upon a time, men used to tow coal down the canal. All they seem to tow nowadays are their dogs.

If, like myself, you have ever had the privileged opportunity of spending an afternoon, musing about history with a retired grandparent, you will be aware of their instinctive desire to pluck you from your armchair and take you into the hidden cupboard of their mind where memories are stored. And as you collect more fragments of their former life, you begin to remember them not as senile or enfeebled occupants of the armchair, but youthful and dutiful forbearers, who contributed admirably towards noble causes. A saunter alongside the Lancaster Canal conjures the same atmosphere. If you follow the canal as it dives under bridges and wraps around the ankles of buildings, a story that lay dormant on the bed for 300 years, begins to awaken. The faces of those who pass you become blackened by coal. The dog being walked becomes a horse, strenuously hauling vessels of limestone. Smoke begins to rise out of chimneys and you believe, if you walk up to the castle, that a public execution may just take place.

Thus, is it this undying link to the past, to a sort of fluidic wisdom, that inspire men and women to leave the warm lounges of their homes and spend an hour or two beside this water? Away from the deafening rush of the city, a bench by the canal may well be akin to spending the afternoon sat in an armchair, enjoying the peaceful company of a retired grandparent as they narrate their stories. Or is it the fact that water opens the mind to new possibilities? On a sunlit day, when the reflections of bridges and houses are painted in the oldest mirror, the world seems that little touch larger and deeper. Whatever brings people down to the retired waters of the Lancaster Canal, one thing is for sure: it does it well.

I took my thoughts for a walk along the canal. We tunnelled through a small woodland that enjoys a suburban peace all the year round. Bathing on the opposite bank were a couple of bungalows that use the canal as a foot-spa; the toes of sloping gardens just sinking into the water. A blue sky bathed over subtle ripples. Often, a number of silvery wings would emerge up ahead; the shallow waves pulled over the surface by a convoy of ducks. But all was calm and still.

Passing through Lancaster on the canal towpath is like travelling the full length of a field through one long rabbit burrow. The city, as seen from this basement corridor, is unrecognisable, apart from the occasional flash of familiarity as the cathedral and castle float into vision. You begin to see slim boats cutting through the water and wonder what it's like to live on a floating hallway. A book is yet to be written on whether the names emblazoned on the shells of canal boats boast the truth about what happens inside. How serendipitous is the Serendipity? How celestial is the North Star? What gives the Mint Imperial its name? I would love to do a tour of the country, hopping and hitching from one canal boat to another. On the ocean, one has to accept the remoteness, but on a canal boat which flirts all the while with civilisation, how disciplined is the lifestyle? If the crew from Mint Imperial wish for custard they need only to cruise a couple of miles downstream and jump ashore. But would they?

I walked for 11 miles. The artist inside me painted a beautiful canal out of watercolours, and then as if divinely enlightened, he kept festooning it with foreground interest: a boy with his Dad's fishing line, a family cycling the banks, the Cuz I Can cruising delicately past me, and of course, bridge after bridge. Occasionally, a dull reality seeped through: a tyre at the bottom of the canal, an empty beer-can floating sorrowfully over the water, a chip cone entangled within the weeds. Litter on the banks feels, at least to me, essentially manageable but down on the murky depths of the canal bed, one stares at it feeling utterly helpless.

When you walk along the Lancaster Canal, you have one decision to make: when to stop walking along the Lancaster Canal. It is a difficult decision, for there arises out of one the incessant curiosity and desire to know what lies beyond the 'next bridge'. But the canal is a story 42 chapters long, where each mile is an exciting and beautiful chapter, enriched in history and like any great novel, it is good to pause and refresh. So that's what I did. After 11 miles, I let a finger post direct me out of this watercolour painting and back into the heart - or perhaps that should be face - of Lancaster.

Monday, 13 November 2017

Week 58: (6th to 12th November 2017) or 'Lost at Sea'

It was high tide in Huddersfield; a tide of ghostly silver mist rolled out across the moorland. The houses of the industrial north were smoking their first pipes of the day, sending small clouds into the air, to lose themselves in the mist. The tall necks of factories hung above the grey slates like brick giraffes surveying a savannah of drainpipes and gutters. In this country shed of its colour by a blanket of suspended water, a medieval spirit as old as the peaks themselves came alive. I half expected an army to come marching down to seize the town.

One of the wrinkles set into the heart of the industrial north is a stretch of metal that sends trains from Manchester to one of England's famous cul-de-sacs: Kingston upon Hull. It is difficult to believe, as one weaves through the heartland towns of Huddersfield, Leeds and Selby, that there should exist a coastline at all. On and on, the train gobbles up miles, pulling us through a seemingly endless map of England. Horizons come to meet you, new horizons are born; new and exciting possibilities, coming and going, coming and going. The sounds of a conversation between sea and sand here seem gagged into a silence of implausibility. The sea? Here?

That shawl of mist, which England wears with Shakespearian mystique, is really a promise; a promise of crisper and brighter hours to come; a promise of sunshine that smiles through whimsical clouds. And as the mist rolls back out, a promise is fulfilled. Willows become fountains of light frozen in time and the Beeches stand golden as if drizzled overnight by demerara. I read a quotation recently from Albert Camus who described the British Autumn as "a second Spring where every leaf is a flower".

I caught glimpses of farm workers, wielding their spades through the soil, a lone horse in a farmstead, a robin carolling from a street sign, and far off into the distance, eight or nine dull grey vases boasting, not flowers, but thick and sluggish blooms of steam. The rugged country, the wild moorlands of the west, which had occupied most of one's view, were now distant horizons themselves, and now we rolled out across the flat stamp that sits on England's right. Elevation here is represented by the occasional farm mound or molehill.

I was writing when I suddenly gazed up to see water. A vast bath of glistening deep-blue had swallowed up the land. Small shapes were sitting at the water's edge on the far side, and as our train moved westwards still, a town began to raise its brow above the Humber.


He sat on a street corner, and I stood from the opposite. His greying beard seemed to be pulling him towards old age whilst his brown leather jacket was tugging him back. With dexterity and unfathomable speed, his fingers were exercising themselves across an accordion, parcelling up notes into small melodic bundles and delivering them to his passing traffic. I admired the sheer ease with which he seemed to impregnate joy into the lives of strangers. Not one child passed him and failed to become absorbed by this great wave of notes. Even the teenagers (whose self image is often guarded with unparalleled focus) broke out of the rhythms of their own world to let themselves be pulled into his. I went over at a fitting conclusion to what could have quite easily been an incessant tune and raised my hat.

"Fran├žois?" I suggested, pointing towards the accordion.
"No, Romania," he corrected.
"Ah, you play in Romania?" I pursued.
"Nah, Germany... no good in Romania."

Why he had to travel close to 1000 miles to pick up his instrument was never to be answered as he pulled out a phone - that great conversation warden - and tapped out some numbers, perhaps to Romania, perhaps to Germany, perhaps to someplace else. Further up the street, a market trader was dishing out Dutch Pancakes. Beyond this floated a faint tune on a Spanish guitar. And there, projected on to one of the city walls, the words which verified all of these first impressions: "Hull, the city of culture".

Hull's playground has not one blade of grass in sight. Neither for that matter does it have any of the accustomed pleasures: no swings, no slides, no roundabouts. It consists simply of a trio of large circles which are constantly drawn, erased and re-drawn on the concrete by a series of underground fountains. With a graceful and reassuring regularity, columns of fresh water leap into the air, each seemingly attempting to out-jump the other, before they descend back down to make their meeting with the tiles. Occasionally, the ensemble breaks out in a series of elegant solos or a Mexican wave, before they unite in symmetry yet again. Sometimes they flirt low with the tiles, only to ascend back into choreographed dance. In the glorious sunshine, as an old man recalls familiar melodies on a Spanish guitar, I gaze at these fountains - these aqueous ballerinas - and the townsfolk who play with them. This is, as I say, a playground.

I watch as young children approach the spaces of temporarily absent fountains, small holes in the ground that would soon spout unannounced geysers, their faces painted with unwavering concentration as they calculate their vault across. Some enjoy many successful flights, and with boosted confidence, begin to jump in gay abandon and without premeditation. Some have clear disinterest in staying dry, and attempt to stamp out the gushing water, only to find the water ascending in ferocity through the voids uncapped by their shoes and boots. Occasionally a friendship, albeit transitory, strikes from within one of the circles, as an impenetrable wall of water forces unacquainted youthful eyes to meet and then, before names and schools can be exchanged, the ground swallows up the water and they run out of each others lives. Pigeons meet to wash down their lunch of breadcrumbs and pastry flakes, some perching close to one of the showers to wash the dust of their wings.

Choose the right cobbles and you find yourself gazing up to Hull Minster. It's not the grandiose Minster of York, but impressive nonetheless. An organ was playing somewhere from within when I arrived and with the curiosity that piggybacks on the conscience of the solitary traveller, I wandered in. The air inside these holy sanctuaries is often unlike any air one can encounter anywhere else; it's weaved together by an unseen, untouchable splendour and it doesn't wait to be inhaled; it rushes to you, through you. I started to become the Minster. I smelt nothing but that antiquarian, sweet comforting aroma that ascends to the nostrils from ancient books when you open them. I heard nothing but the triumphant bars of the organ, which became no less grand no matter where I took myself within the church, as if the organist was sitting on a stool from within my very soul. Shimmers of bright light beamed through glass, turning a window into a story, and down at my feet were stones under which were the remains of a Hull past.

I ambled around this contained peace, thinking what would happen if the walls were removed. Would the peace float out to dispense itself around Hull? Around England? What radius could the peace adequately cover? Like dropping an inkwell into the ocean, would it soon dissolve away? Is it the state of being quelled within these four ancient walls that ensures its strength and its eternality? Later, when escorting myself around the exterior, I happened upon an open window. Drifting out were the voices of what sounded like angels preparing for evensong. I leaned against the wall underneath this extractor fan of peace, and listened as the voices rode upon a wintery air. I expected them to become fainter and fainter as I moved away and on through the rest of Old Hull, but they didn't and I realized that, standing beneath the open window with welcoming ears, the voices had found, in me, a new sanctuary of peace.


At the fingertips of Hull, the mouth of the Humber sits gaping wide, as if in permanent awe of the sea. A raft in the far distance is the Lincolnshire coastline, over which seagulls gather in the afternoon sunlight. As I write, a lonesome sailing boat is drifting just beyond the marina. It gyrates around, like a lost soul might search an unfamiliar space to seek lost friends. It seems to be searching for a fleet, but the fleet - once an emblem of Hull - is absent.

You have to use your imagination at Hull Marina. You have to imagine the men with foam in their beards, grappling thick rope with their beaten hands. You have to imagine the men who jumped ashore to marry their ships with the large, iron hands that stick out of the decking. You have to imagine the cheese from Stafford, the corn from Cheshire, and the butter from East Riding bidding farewell to their fatherland. You have to imagine the tobacco and sugars arriving on early mornings from the West Indies, and the crews saluting a Halibut ship that pulls away for a week out at sea. You have to imagine the grain ships, the wool ships, the vessels laden with coal and the triumphant crafts escorting machinery, that skated so freely across miles of foam, congregating just beyond the marina, like an anthology of epic tales bound together for the first time.

The tides of change have swept across Hull, bringing a wave of international culture, but its seafaring days are sadly lost at sea.