Monday, 16 October 2017

Week 54: (9th October to 15th October 2017) or 'Nature's Baptism'

Signatures of Autumn are scrawled over this Lancashire night. Sitting up in bed, with the window ajar, I can hear the tempestuous howl of a callous wind that one becomes accustomed to in these moorland regions. A few loosely anchored papers on my desk are being rustled. The extractor fan of my hob is becoming increasingly restless. The sounds of the undergraduate spirit a storey below, still fresh and enthused and not phased in the slightest by the gusts, start to be delivered through the gap in the curtain. Sounds pinched from bus-stops, from bars, from bedrooms and from kitchens make up this audio drama. I listen to masculine chants erupting like sonic lava from the street below; to locally accented shrieks and shrills; to a kind of laughter only concocted after a couple of bottles have been emptied. The voices are neither clear nor distinct; these slurs are merely shadows of the audio world. I sit there and wonder whether they are sounds at all, but rather soundbite memories of an unreachable past.

Gradually, my room is fed with fewer voices and those that remain drift away like phantoms. The students have been scooped from the campus and couriered to a party. All that remains is the constant eddying of the air; a carousel breeze churning up the autumn leaves below my room. The mind floats off to the moors, where the winds pierce through the heather and taunt the lichened tors. And slowly, these images become darker and less defined as the mind is pulled through the gates of dreamland.

Back I am, in Lancashire, and casting the weather to one side, to a week which has been relatively calm. With the efforts of my fieldwork cocooned into boxes, I have spent the past few days unpacking my samples and setting them up across the department to air-dry. The air-drying process is one of the most important preliminary actions one executes prior to the sample analysis, and with some of the more clayey soils (those from Somerset, for instance) holding the largest volumes of moisture, this procedure could take up to four weeks. Nonetheless, one must subscribe to thorough and methodical work if accurate results are to be derived.

I have also spent the week producing - or reproducing to be precise - a spreadsheet that I aim to use in a future paper. Having lost the first copy to a series of computational wrongdoings- all misdeeds of my own, let me add - I have nearly salvaged the majority of the data. As with most items on this diary, I am unable to fully disclose the details of what I'm doing. That said, what I can say is that I'm considering the many ways in which the 'soil lifespan' may be extended through conservation management. In other words, which land management practices allow soils to be conserved the longest? Only an analysis of a range of studies may illuminate an answer and thus I have tasked myself the endeavour of amassing a large, yet inexhaustive, series of papers each showing how a particular land management regime retards the rate of soil erosion.


Hardly five minutes are expended commuting between my doorstep and the department. That said, the walk has become difficult in recent weeks; no more arduous in terrain or route, but mentally toilsome. On each and every trip, there emerging from behind the campus estate is the Forest of Bowland; drystone walls are but wrinkles in the western face of the moorland, the greys and greens run off into the misty horizon, and you just know that somewhere out in this wilderness, a farmer is milking his cows and an angler is casting his flies. Each and every time I pass this vista, I become more impassioned about returning there. Last Sunday, I tried.

A collage of weather rolled over the hills. Blue skies were borrowed from Summer, a mild breeze spoke for Autumn and every now and again a wintry chill awoke from a year's hibernation. More or less everything else seemed plausibly from the tenth month. A reddish, golden carpet of autumnal leaves carpeted the grass as if mirroring the sunrise. Conkers, as polished as the buttons on a soldier's trench coat, peppered the paths. Squirrels were inspecting their recently shaved branches. In a long overdue rescue effort, I withdrew my bike from what has been three months imprisonment in a dusty, damp shed and set off, out of the campus.

Soon after I left off I realized two things. First, I became enthused about the potential of rekindling some contact with the Bowland moors; its blood, the brown, peaty waters, and its spirit, the solemn and sad atmosphere which seems to exhale from the moss beds. Second, I realized I couldn't. This was the most sobering. My bike (and if I am to be truthful, myself) were in no fit state to continue ascending up the gruelling paths. Dismounted and dispirited, I leaned against a nettle-furnished stone wall and gazed out to sea. What a poor show, and especially after an active summer of fieldwork. Sooner or later I realized that the sheep in the field were not offering bahhs of comfort so I saddled up again and took a short-cut back to the campus. The path would, if memory served, guide me to a small stream, across which sat a series of stepping stones.

What had the previous year been an easily navigable stream has since become a rather ferocious stream, with an angry torrent. From a sandy bed at one side, I watched as bubbles eagerly commuted downstream as if late for an appointment with the sea. The water swirled with confusion around the stepping stones, and more important, over them. Interesting it is now to assess my own state of affairs, my own mindset, happening upon this river. There were at least ten minutes of simple yet ineffective gazing, as if I expected someone to 'turn off the tap' upstream. I climbed the banks and started hunting for logs. I even amassed a selection of large, platy rocks which perhaps could have sat atop the existing stepping stones. At no point, though, did I consider turning around. Despite my situation not improving, I was becoming infatuated with the gushing of the water; how fresh it appeared, how refreshing it would be! If the Forest of Bowland was welcoming me home, I considered this to be my calling card. This river, quite apart from anything else, was to be my baptism, back into the cradling arms of Mother Nature. And with the youthful spirit that occasionally takes over a man, I took off my shoes and socks and waded in.

I can so often remember the mind-numbing chills I encountered in Alaska, five years ago, but moreover the dose of adrenaline that the Arctic winds injected through my very pores. Once again, as I bathed my feet in the refrigerated Lancashire stream, I became likewise invigorated. I recalled the tales masterfully written by Robert MacFarlane on swimming in lakes and bathing in streams, and wished I had the tenacity to similarly excite the senses. Alas, the boyish mood which set me wading so decidedly into this river slowly drifted away from the soul and floated off with the foam downstream, and I was left once again addled with adult thoughts of water-borne disease. And so, I picked up my bike and made my crossing. When I reached the opposite bank, I felt renewed, refreshed and baptised; spiritually back into the bosom of the moorland, bathed and blessed once more by Nature.

Sunday, 1 October 2017

Week 52: (25th September to 1st October 2017) or 'One year'

Walking to the river, along the river; now in the river...wading through the, I am the river... swirling and purling, spewing and squirting, streaming and sluicing through the channels of life... and how the water gushes past me, how my thoughts surge within me, how memories are but leaves, surfing on the I watch them, feel them, remember them come and go... there they go, whirling around the pool of infinite time in my mind...and how I gaze down into the water, gazing at my rippling face, my ever-changing face... oh, how I stretch my hand through that fluidic face, deep into my cascading mind, my stream of consciousness...

I had challenged myself, perhaps, to an impossible task; to reflect upon the first year of my PhD. As I leaned contemplatively over a moss-bearded bridge, and sought prolonged meditation with the stream below, I realized the difficulty of reflecting in something that is constantly on the move. A PhD is a journey and like the river, it evolves, develops, gyrates and most importantly, is never still. Even at times, at the surface, where it appears to have relinquished vivacity in place for placidity, the current of progress flows on underneath. The contours of my head were faint and broken upon the surface of the stream, mutating incessantly with the flow, so that although my torso stood steadily opaque on the bridge, my mind appeared translucent, drifting atop a deluge of thoughts and feelings. And that word, deluge, testifies to how difficult evaluating even the first year of a PhD can be. I am flooded with memories, and having re-read every word of my PhDiary this week, I am doubly unsure of the moments in which to fish out, and those to 'throw' back in the water.

Every river starts somewhere. The river I write beside is the River Deenagh. Specks of mist which sail in isolation across the Atlantic, ride up over the mountains of south-west Ireland and coagulate into little globes of rain. They fall, in their inevitable descent, down to land on ancient bowler hats and Aran sweaters, tempered cattle and wild clover, and into the deep, rich soils that powder the land and keep company the heather. Journeying downstream before me now was an Irish river but not Irish water, at least not in the broadest sense. I peered up to gaze at future rivers, which were mingling at the tips of the Killarney mountains. Where does this river start, then? And more importantly, where did this PhD begin? So many times in the past year, I have felt obliged - delighted, even - to draw upon my previous journeys, and my previous lives; my life as a curious child, growing up in the blankets of serenity which outlay across my home county of Norfolk. I began this PhDiary in the back garden of my Norfolk cottage...

There is something about Ireland that...gets me. I have tried, and failed, to write about it. It exists in verse of Irish song, but how? In the phrasing? The rhythm? Is it something that can teased apart from the rootlets of other things and held out? Those who have had the pleasure of being in Ireland will sympathize with how inexact this feeling manifests within the traveller and will hopefully agree that it is probably best to accept it and enjoy it, rather than to precipitate it out. It is, in the words of writer Henry Morton, "something in a minor key... half magic and half music". To me, it is the spirit of Ireland; an ancient spirit dissolved into rock and humanity.

I mused on this dissolved spirit at the stream and wondered what unseen Irish essences were whirling around in the current. At school, most students learn about the 'river load' which rides with the water downstream; the load with which you can remove with a net, like the autumnal leaves, and the load that dissolves into the water, which one cannot hold in one's hand. What about the 'PhD Load', the things we entrain along the way, and transport with us on this journey? Since Day 1, I have 'netted' a rather substantial load of papers and books, but have entrained so many intangible, yet useful skills too.

Further along, the path which so dutifully followed the banks of the river, began to migrate and I found myself leisurely sauntering through woodland. A perfect stillness nestled amongst the trees and so fragile it seemed, too. Just as 'one thing leads to another', as is my PhD experience these last 52 weeks, fresh and inviting routes seemed to grow out from each side of the path. Occasionally, I would elect one, and seek out its promises. One that struck me was the Mining Trail which skirts the border of an Early Bronze Age mine; the earliest copper mine in Ireland. According to information displayed at the site, metal was extracted from here and distributed around Ireland in around 700 AD and culminated in large-scale operations in the 1800s, with some 5000 tons of copper ore being sold to British smelters.

On one of the information boards, I noticed a small illustration of a Powder Magazine where gunpowder, used to blast rock in the mines, was stored. I smiled at the magnitude of destruction our ancient ancestors used to permit in order to access their desired material. The last couple of months in this first year as a PhD student have seen me physically mining the soils in woodlands and farms around England and accompanying what has been, at times, a struggle is an age-old question in Soil Science: what is the best way of obtaining the samples? Never would I have even considered gunpowder - more to the point, never would I have been sanctioned gunpowder - but as I gazed at the relics of mining sites, I recalled the many weeks of pit-digging and percussion coring.

It didn't strike me immediately. But as I ambled over a fresh bed of autumnal leaves along the mining trail, I realized that I was also a 'mine' too. It has been one of the honours of this first year as a PhD student to have been so actively involved in teaching and mentoring. And in this unique capacity, which is never to be taken for granted, I have been a mine of information and advice for those students which have sought it. I have learnt the trick to being a good 'human' mine; not to simply give the answer away, but to allow the student in question to 'dig away'.


A day later, and the clouds were sprayed out of the sky. Down came the rain on Killarney (it had rained most of the night, too) and I spent most of the morning in a series of cafes, drinking warmth and listening to Irish chatter. Something - perhaps also an Irish wildness - grew inside of me, though, and I had the increasing urge to be back amongst the splendours of the national park. And so, I made way for the park, becoming increasingly aware of limits of my waterproofing, but remaining stubbornly persistent. I must have had a rather dispirited look about me, though, for approaching me was a large Irishman who offered to take me to Ross Castle on his cart. Such was his generosity that he also offered me the chance to pay him for the deed, too! These moments, where experience and payment stare at each other in contest, happen so often to me, alas. If one is to write about a place, as I do, he or she must always vote for experience, and coins are rarely dispensed, but exchanged for a good story.

My guide was called John (I fancied that his surname was more Irish) and the six year old horse was called Billy. Together, the three of us rode into Killarney National Park, and in between fragments of unintelligible Irish - for which I do not complain about at all; it is one of the delights of the language - Billy would often pause to allow John to point out the notable statements of interest. Was the horse and cart still popular over the rest of Ireland? Yes, it was. And turning to a matter of immediate interest: how often does it rain in Killarney? At least twice a week. I peered over the edge of the cart. The surface of the river which had seemed so clear the day before was now a torrent of brown, muddy foam, gushing its way through the channels, as if each bubble was on a race to the front. Clearly the night's rainfall had been unusually heavy as the muddy water even made a citation on the tour! Oh, how quickly water can be muddied! I recalled the moments on my PhD where simplicity and clarity had given way for muddle and strife.

An hour in Ireland elapsed, and enough time it seemed for the rain to pass. A fresh nose-bag was granted to Billy whilst I explored Ross Castle. It has stood on this spot, by Killarney lake, since the 15th century.

Moored up beside the castle is a semblance of peace. It tugs at your torso, makes you sit. Then it tugs at your mind, makes you ponder; an overwhelming solitude. A gentle breeze ploughs a ripple into the lake. The clouds only enhance this place. On many a traveller's 'perfect' day, the skies would be clear and blue, and likewise the water, blue and still, but to see it in this way would only reveal half of its beauty. The other half remains harboured to the clouds, which roll off the lake, sketching new horizons, and painting mystique across the vista.

And then, the inevitable. All twelve of their American accents arrived about a minute before they did, but soon there they all were in person, with binoculars and cameras and a "Gee-Whiz" to hand, per chance that something might suddenly dive out of the water. Killarney Lake is large and my vista was panoramic, but somehow, they managed to position themselves in such a way as to block each and every square inch of water I had originally been espying. Expertly managed, I thought!

"Whiskeyyy...", they harmonized, exaggerating the 'key' so as to pull, and hold, the most unnatural of grins for a group photograph. They had spent no more than two minutes before they were being ushered back onto the coach. If any member of that group can write a spiritual and impassioned account about Killarney Lake, it will - for them - be a matter of fiction.

I felt a little foolish to imagine that such serenity would be - could be - uninterrupted by the exclamation marks of tourism. But why complain, too? This is, after all, what has made the last year such a fascinating experience for me. I have come to learn, at my pleasure, that doing a PhD is more than just an enquiry into your subject but a journey that makes you, as the researcher, more observant in life, more responsive, more accepting perhaps. The truly remarkable, yet unspoken truth, is that a PhD can make you more curious in areas of life you may have neglected in the past. I began to recall upon some fantastic moments where I have studied human life.

"I don't know why you take so many photographs," an American lady set out to her husband, behind me.
"I take them to remember where I've been," he masterfully replied. "I'll forget, unless I write it down..."

With those words, I realized that I have scribed so many experiences in the past year and I began to wonder why. Have I had more time? More literary liberties? A greater reflective capacity? Maybe I just like to think about things? Before long, it occurred to me that I was staring at but not seeing Killarney Lake. Too enveloped I was in self-reflection that I hadn't noticed a couple of young girls, and their grandma, down at the lakeside feeding the mallards. Scattered crumbs were being scavenged, at first with little opposition, and then slowly a couple of cygnets emerged from around the reeds to join the banquet. Then, a couple of ravens swooped in and before long, it felt as if it was market day at the lakeside, with each feathered species eyeing up a meal with discounted effort.

Food... and thoughts. Both, I submitted, had the capacity to bring people together, in extraordinary ways. Thoughts alone can scoop hundreds, perhaps thousands, from their offices to conferences around the world. I mused on the conferences I had been lucky to attend over the past year...

In an epilogue to my reflections, allow me to take you down to the Lake of Killarney, Lough Leane.

I am gazing into the lake and gazing at my liquid self, my ever-changing self, my evolving and adapting self; a mind of many thoughts, and questions, all swirling around in the water. The Killarney Mountains are floating off in the distance, as a ribbon of clouds move in. Summits begin to disappear beyond sight; others are floating like phantoms in the mist. The next year of my PhD awaits, at the feet of these mountains. As yet, the routes to the summits are unguided, unmapped, untrodden paths of discovery, veiled by the clouds of questions and the mists of uncertainty. But soon these clouds will turn to rain, and the rain will fall into streams, rivers and lakes again, so that what were once challenges will simply become more pools of experience to reflect in. Lough Leane, from the Irish, means 'Lake of Learning' and now, having reflected in what I've learnt these past 52 weeks, let us look forward and scale the challenges ahead.

Sunday, 17 September 2017

Interview with Dan Evans: 'Soil Productive Lifespans'

As part of a new Masters course in Soil Science I am helping to deliver online to suppliers and employees of Waitrose, this week I participated in an interview about my research at Lancaster University with Dr Sue Ward, one of the Associate Directors of the programme.

Sunday, 10 September 2017

Week 49: (4th September to 10th September 2017) or 'Digging'

"Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests. 
I'll dig with it."

(Seamus Heaney: Digging)

Page 4. Aboard. Forward 1180 pages. Newness. Forward 258 pages. Questions. Turn back 1017 pages. Curiosities. Forward 72 pages. Discoveries. Backward 212 pages. Challenges. Forward 682 pages. Knowledge. Forward 1054 pages. Wisdom

A long and tortuous journey of 2017 pages in the Oxford English Dictionary. In print, how distanciated these words are from each other. But allow these words to spring from the page and seek them out in our towns and cities. They sit closer together than a dictionary suggests...

It's 7:53am and soon all eight words will be passengers on the bus that's pulling up beside me. I step aboard and exchange a polymer Queen Elizabeth for a small, torn piece of thermal roll. I elect a seat at the front, just behind the driver and my punctuated commute to the British Geological Survey commences. The first couple of bus stops are merely commas in our progress; one, two, maybe three passengers embark. A couple alight. But further on, we reach a semi-colon; a lengthier pause as a queue of school children step aboard. It's the first day back at school, and oh the newness. Filing up the aisle beside me are shining, non-scuffed shoes, unfaded blazers, non-frayed ties. No doubt, unmarred pencil cases carry pens full of ink, uneroded rubbers, and shatter-proof rulers that, for now, live up to their name. Receiving bus tickets this hour, and receiving knowledge in the next, the children are of variable age. (The South Wolds Academy and Sixth Form foster students from 11 to 18). For some, this journey marks the first 40 minutes of their schooling and, for now, their vacuous backpacks only harbour questions and curiosities. Boarding next are pupils from later year-groups, some keen for new discoveries; some acutely aware of the challenges that lay ahead. Hogging the back seats and casting an eye over lower tiers are those from the upper two years - the Sixth Formers - who, after five years amassing knowledge and wisdom, may still be tantalized by the prospect of further education. 

On we travel and I attempt to recall my first ride to school; that state of being ready to quarry through knowledge to yield wisdom. At that time, having a curious mind was much like wielding a sharpened knife and carving out tunnels through Science, labyrinths through History and passages through Mathematics. How keen will these studious passengers be to machete their way through the inevitable curricular difficulties to expose new-found knowledge? Soon, they will take their seats in the classroom, which is really a departure lounge, and their imaginations will soon board their flights to unreachable societies of the past, ancient landscapes and unimaginable cultures. There are some, I expect, who would prefer to simply skim away at the surface, removing a few flakes of basic information, just enough to paste into an exam answer booklet. And then there are others whose curiosity-fuelled engines of intellect will bulldoze their way beyond expectations, digging deeper and deeper into the heart of their scholarly passions. In any case, here they all are, on a bus aptly called the 'Keyworth Connection'; a key to the next chapter of their schooling where the destination is, as yet, unknown. 

For most, if not all of the passengers, the dig for knowledge is purely allegorical but for myself, it is extremely literal. The data for my PhD is underground. After many weeks of digging, coring, drilling and sampling, I arrived at the British Geological Society for my final week of soil collection. The plan this week was to spend a couple of days at a farm in north Nottinghamshire, once again with the BGS Drilling Crew, to extract a series of soil cores from multiple points along an arable hillslope. 

The week was on loan from November; a fresh, blustery and damp week. Clouds were smears of dull grey, grey like pencil graphite. Summer and Autumn were rubbing shoulders once more. Prolonged dreary phrases of bitterly cold winds and fine rain were parenthesized by momentary lapses of sunshine, as if the weather was day-dreaming back memories of Summer. 

As in Somerset, I was granted an audience with the Dando Drill. It is, in case you have missed my previous entry, like an injection that pierces the ground and draws out a column of soil. It punctures the earth by way of a large metal weight that is pneumatically sent crashing down onto the top of the core. I have witnessed it 'in action' so to speak several times now, and the menace with which it impales the soil is still breath-taking. The aim - as has been the case for my other three sites - is to extract a column of soil from the surface down to the bedrock. Here at this Nottinghamshire farm, the depth to bedrock (or saprolitic 'weathered' sandstone, to be specific) varies as one travels downslope. On the plateau at the summit of this slope, the depth is about 2 m. This thins to about 40 cm on the steepest segment before thickening once more to about 1.2 m at the relatively flat 'toe' of the slope. It is my hypothesis that much of the thickening taking place at the lower portions has resulted from many years of soil eroding (and thinning) from the upper, sloping segments. The lifespan, therefore, of a soil on the slope - the length of time before the soil thins to bedrock - must be of stark contrast to that at the toe slope. 

Suddenly, it was as if a monstrous hand, deep underground in the subterranean darkness, had grabbed onto the core. Try as we did, the mechanics of the Dando were not sufficient to liberate the metal casing from the ground. The rescue attempts went on and on and on. This, of course, did not happen in Somerset for reasons which are faintly mysterious; after all, the soils in Somerset were more clayey and, as a consequence, more 'sticky'. Here, in Nottinghamshire, the soils are almost entirely sand-based with very little cementation keeping the grains intact. Yet, here we were with a pipe impaled 2m underground. Stuck.

The farmer had almost seen this coming. Several years ago, on a completely separate project, a keen geologist had managed to get a set of coring equipment stuck 25m below ground. The upper 4m were set free thanks to the farmer's digger. Bearing this in mind, it was beyond embarrassing that our equipment had become immobile only 2m below the Earth's surface. It was with heartfelt gratitude, and some degree of inward disbelief, that we applauded the arrival of the farmer with his digger.

I referred to the Dando Drill Rig with animalistic descriptors a couple of weeks ago, and I now realize that these are inaccurate. In comparison to the farmer's digger, the Dando Drill Rig is a delicate instrument, inserting a tube into the ground with finely-tuned precision, but sluggish pace. The bucket on the neck of this giant digger is, without doubt, the supreme predator. With a nudge on a knob, the jaws of the bucket strike the earth, lacerating it up and gobbling great mouthfuls before spitting it out to one side. It is with nothing less than anger that it goes back, head first, and drives its metallic molars deep into the soil again. I remember standing there thinking that the action is much like a scooping a wedge of ice-cream with a small plastic spoon, except the digger executes it with force, with menace and with greed.

Very soon, a mound of spoil - that had taken an hour to penetrate with the Dando - sat next to a very deep pit. And exposed were four very distinctly coloured walls. 60cm of brown, organically rich soil sat upon a seemingly endless wall of red sandstone. Without hesitation, I decided to make good use of the pit and climbed down to the bottom. Never have I been so deep into the Earth, save perhaps for the times I've been down into caves or volcanos. Once again, an overwhelming sense of discovery charged through me and I began to extract samples, vigorously. The great theft of soil, 2m below the Earth's surface was the most labour I had completed throughout the entire week.


As I write, I now have most of my samples. (There is still work to be completed in Somerset). As the rain pummels the window beside my desk, I am aware that the Summer has now passed, and Autumn, with all the associated weather, is fast approaching. There has scarcely been a minute this Summer where I've been able to extend an eye and an ear to the barren moorlands of Lancashire, to soak up the dynamism of the northerly towns or even to make my inaugural visit to the Lake District. As much as these aspects of life 'away from the PhD' entice me, right now my efforts must remain unremittingly bound to the completion of my fieldwork and laboratory work. I am also very much aware that I am edging closer to the end of my very first year as a PhD student; a milestone which I shall herald with the dignity that it rightfully deserves when it arrives.

And thus, the extensive fieldwork campaign draws to an end. Now the intellect must continue digging, deeper and deeper, down into the heart of the mysteries that envelop my thesis. I must dig deeper to satisfy my curiosities and deeper to yield answers to unanswered quandaries. I will dig on with my determination, and my passion. And soon, of course, I shall get back to writing again. The spades are now clean and back in their cupboards. The auger is resting on the shelf. The Dando is hibernating in a storage container.

"Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests. 
I'll dig with it."

Monday, 28 August 2017

Week 47: (21st August to 27th August 2017) or 'Punctures in Somerset'

Muddy boots. Shropshire sands and Herefordshire clays, which had stowed away in the soles since woodland fieldwork, became married with Somerset soils. This week, I planned to extract cores down a field in Shepton Beauchamp; cores which would stretch down 4m underground, to bedrock. The principles remained the same - the need for saprolite (weathered bedrock) and overlying soil samples - but there the similarities grew distant. The farmland posed many interesting and novel challenges, one of which being the deeper soils at the base after decades of soil deposition, two deep alas to manually dig a soil pit. The issue, fortunately, was relieved. A lorry reversed into the farmland forecourt; strapped within it was a solution.

The mouth of the lorry yawned and the animal awoke. Emerging over the lip, a large metal dinosaur roamed steadily towards the ground. It's neck, locked in contortion along its own back, was set free and it elongated out, doubling its height to survey the area. Minutes of adjustment passed; a menacing sustained groan rumbled from within. It had neither legs nor arms, but a belt underneath its belly, conveying itself sluggishly over the furrows. And then, when it assumed its rightful position over one of my proposed coring sites, it dipped its neck, picked up a long tubular corer and prepared to beat it into the ground. First, silence. Then... Bang! In an abrupt execution, it recoiled its head and sent it with merciless fury back down to beat the corer, puncturing the soil. Then, again, and again... fifty, perhaps one hundred times, each seemingly as violent as the previous.

The acupuncture became more arduous; the metal corer now 2m deep underground began to argue against the prolonged beating, resisting further incision. It's demands were ignored and the beating continued. Bang! And then, silence was draped over the area once more. The corer was clawed out of the ground and with it an in-tact core of soil.

What I have just described, albeit perhaps with animalistic qualities, is the Dando Drilling Rig, operated by the drilling team at the BGS, and often employed in borehole projects. Despite the name, its more of a large, mechanical hammer than a drill, and with the correct use of multiple extension rods, it can stretch down to over 10m. My ambitions to puncture only 4m of Somerset, I imagine, did not exhibit its full potential but what I saw justified its usage. In 6 hours, a total of 10m of Earth were entombed within plastic. Soon after, they were kidnapped.

The rocks that lay at the depths of my core have not seen daylight since dinosaurs roamed the Earth, over 180 million years ago. The Bridport Sandstone that underlies much of my study field was formed when sediment settled at the bottom of warm, shallow seas that once inundated the area. 180 million years later, the sandstone lays underneath a duvet of silty, loamy soil. Once, the region may have been swarming with giant, plant-eating dinosaurs. Today, it grows potatoes and maize to be sold in supermarkets and bought by hungry humans. With the Dando Drilling Rig, the sandstone, asleep in the dark for 180 million years, was awoken in a matter of minutes.

The Bridport Sandstone has travelled thousands of miles. It was laid down when the UK was enveloped within one large super-continent. Where precisely it was formed from, I nor anyone can state for sure, but I can confirm, with extraordinary accuracy, that its final hundred miles were spent aboard a lorry, cruising with satisfying ease up the M5 to Birmingham, where they encountered the first 'delays' in their 180 million year history. Their final hundred miles in jams were hellish, but I imagine even the punctuated journey up the M69 and M1 was relatively speedy compared to the tortuously slow migration they've been subjected to these last hundred million years.

In a rather vacuous, dusty basement at the BGS, the teeth of a saw bite through the cores. They are sawn length ways, revealing the profile in preparation for sub-sampling. Then the knife is wielded, and as if one is segmenting a fig roll, the cores are partitioned into 5 cm increments and bagged. Although the samples are yet to be analysed, the knife is an informative tool. The pressure required to slice through the core suggests its density, whilst the ability for the sliced piece to sustain its shape following the cut is testament to its soil structure. What's interesting is that there are bands where the core, overwhelmed by the knife, reduces to a mound of crumbs. In catering, this missing ingredient would be a binding agent. In Soil Science, it's clay. But further tests will no doubt reveal all.

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Week 45: (7th August to 13th August 2017) or 'If you go down to the woods today..."

The Earth - a planet skewered onto an axis like a kebab - slowly spins under the grill of the Sun. For all the magical splendour that summertime may bring, for most of us it amounts to spending a few months on the galaxy's largest Rotisserie. Round and round we gyrate on the spit, each country roasted to varying degrees.

Somewhere deep in the heart of the cosmos, I can imagine a few refined aliens sitting down to dinner, selecting their country from the Rotisserie menu.
"I'm partial to a smouldering forest fire", the first alien will admit to the waiter. "I often find it's best served with a couple of buckling roads and side dish of dried-up lakes... have you anything like that?".
"Oh, well in that case, may I recommend the 'Congo' or perhaps, the 'Mexico', served 'Well-done'?"
Alien One eagerly nods and the waiter pivots to the second alien. "And for you, Madame?"
"Oh, I'll have the 'Norway', please."
"And how would you like your country cooked, Madame? The 'Norway' is often best served rare."
"Oh, indeed, most definitely 'rare'... just so that a few glaciers may melt down the valleys."
"Absolutely, Madame," the waiter scribbles, turning to the final alien, who cannot make up his mind at all. The waiter proffers a menu from his waist, in assistance.
"Allow me to recommend our pièce de résistance; the 'Summertime England' is our chef's speciality! It's best served 'medium'." But the third alien sits unconvinced.
"What does the 'Summertime England' consist of?" he asks.
And then we realize the waiter was once resident in England himself, for his eyes, suddenly enchanted with a nostalgic romance, gaze up to the sky as if his memories float in a heaven of their own, and he passionately recalls the splendour of 'Summertime England'.

And, oh, to be in England during the Summer! Neither chargrilled, nor rare, Summertime England is a pièce de résistance!

Summertime in England! The unhurried opening of a wicker picnic basket; the graceful placing of a freshly baked scone on blue china; the effortless transmission of jam onto a miniature pillow of clotted cream; the curious scrutiny by tomorrow's clotted cream donors, peering through the neighbouring hedgerows, their hooves buried in the rich grassy meadows. Long afternoon shadows outstretched across sleepy hollows and sunken lanes; the golden-brown shortbread of the parish church; a small plume of dust ascending to the sky at the tails of combines. Every Summer, the seeds of an old England - an English ancestry of simplicity and tranquillity - germinate in hamlet and parish, far and wide.

At the end of a country lane in Herefordshire sits a thatched, sandstone cottage. Generations of farmers have taken their wellingtons off under the small archway beside the wooden door. Once a toddler learning to ride a bike down the country lane is now a grey-haired father sitting amongst the Dahlias digesting the broadsheets whilst his own son is out harvesting a field of barley. The gardens are festooned with blood-red roses and breathe out a sweet perfume to the bees. Swifts playfully sweep the air. A lady is inside, kneading some dough and surveying her beauteous garden. Her father-in-law has fallen asleep in the deckchair, which draws from her a warm smile and she turns to gaze off into the far distance. The view from the sash windows of the kitchen boasts the best view of the house! There, in the far distance, she can make out a speck, a boy - a young man, perhaps - perched on the trunk of a fallen Oak. Though too far away from her to see, the 'young man' is writing about her cottage, her gardens and her father-in-law asleep in the deckchair. Indeed, that 'young man' is I.

Down in the valley that separates my notebook and her dough, is an early chapter of England's history: an ancient woodland. From my oak-trunk bench, it is a bowel of Broccoli. In the far distance, the woodland is nothing but a smudge on the horizon, as if a band of low-lying clouds had been dunked into a pool of dark green paint. Closer, I can detect a brigade of individual trees, and closer still, their interlocking branches wearing green sleeves. In the foreground, these sleeves are not sleeves at all, but little green palms, some lobed and serrated, some more refined. I run my hand over the roughened bark of the fallen Oak upon which I perch, and then the smooth page upon which I write and realize both are different verses in this requiem to an old England.

At first glance, the woodland is passive. Notwithstanding the threat of the saw, or some similarly fateful disease which might beset it, the tree holds a life-long loyalty to its home, often not a place of its own choosing. There is neither an Estate Agents nor a passport for a tree. Belowground, however, the tentacles of the trunk are on the move; stretching out, burrowing their way through the earth, sometimes rising to the surface like a Dolphin might come up to breathe, and then diving back down again, vacuuming nutrients and water. The community of trees that sit between that little thatched, sandstone cottage and myself are their own villages, sharing space and resources just as we do.

When a sapling emerges and casts its first shadows onto the mossy carpet, they are but infants at the toes of their elders. They must equip themselves with centuries of perseverance if they are to reach those dizzy heights. But if trees had the capacity to feel emotionally, I imagine they would be cautious to be so hopeful of climbing the great ladder of air, for they know their life may begin in a woodland, but may not always end there. The British woodland used to be a duvet, cloaking the body of the British Isles. It still does, but much of it is disguised as coffee tables, breadboards, paperback books and picture frames. It is, of course, a great shame and our weakness that we result to cutting these columns of history down but at least when I write on paper, as I do now, I know that my inked page is only a fraction of a long history, and I can imagine the page not as A5 and lined but as columnar, stretching 200 feet into the air, with roots outspread for miles. I can imagine the branches - the playgrounds of squirrels - and the leaves, the luncheons for caterpillars, and the twigs, the currency of birds. The plastic pen or the metal stapler can never boast this history.

An ancient British woodland is, itself, an important artefact in Britain's history just as much as British history is preserved in handheld, leather-bound woodlands but for many parents, this history is kept alive in their child's imagination. The woodland is where Robin Hood assembles his Merry Men and where Teddy Bears gaily gad about. Indeed, I have very fond memories of a cassette tape with the 'Teddy Bear's Picnic' on, and singing it when I used to 'go down to the woods'. Little did I realize at the time that a line in that familiar tune would come back to pull on the strings of my curiosity.

"Beneath the trees where nobody sees,
They'll hide and seek as long as they please,
'Cause that's the way the
Teddy Bears have their picnic"

Though it may well be a nursery rhyme to carry a child into a dream, there is a mystery in every woodland: the mystery about what, indeed, lies "beneath the trees where nobody sees". No playful teddy bears, alas. Soil, definitely. But how much soil? What kind of soil? And how did it get there? Sitting on a small fallen Oak in Herefordshire, espying an ancient woodland, I began to think about the formation of soils in our British woodlands. How might this formation compare to the arable farm? Do woodland soils erode as quickly as our cultivated soils? What were the lifespans of the British woodland soil? Gathering up these thoughts, along with a bag of equipment, I alighted from the trunk, took one final look at the thatched cottage, and strolled down to begin a fortnight of woodland fieldwork. 


"In long-range planning for a trip, I think there is a private conviction that it won't happen."

(John Steinbeck 'Travels with Charley: In Search of America')

The very first line of Steinbeck's novel had haunted me, in Lancaster, for many weeks. I had spent weeks planning the fieldwork in copious detail, but at the back of my mind, I still had lingering doubts that it wouldn't actually take place. This may, at first, seem perhaps a frightful silly. But the truth is that almost every plan was falling into place a little too easily. The National Trust had granted me permission, encouraged the study no less, and I had arranged access. The weather appeared to be bright. Each item of desirable equipment had either been acquired successfully from Lancaster Environment Centre, or otherwise purchased without incident, and I had managed to secure a relay of field assistants. Paul would take me down to complete the first few days of drilling (explained later), John would take the baton for a while before finally handing it over to Andy. On the page, it sounded too seamless. 

My two woodland sites, whilst not naming them specifically here, are in Shropshire and Herefordshire. They were selected based on a promise made by a few unknown geologists that underlying them - indeed, "beneath the trees where nobody sees" - is sandstone bedrock. To calculate Soil Production Rates from sandstone bedrock, the first task would be to acquire some of this weathered sandstone. Many weeks back, I was recommended the employment of a Percussion Corer. Very simply, this is a metal tube which is pushed into the ground by a petrol-driven drill. The tube (or, to be precise, a bag within the tube) slowly fills up with soil. Persist with the corer, and the almost maddening vibrations that surge through your hands and up your arms, and the tube finally hits bedrock, at which point some of the sandstone is grounded up and squeezed into the bag. The drill is then removed, and a mechanism to manually 'jack' the core out of the ground is assembled. I cannot adequately describe to you how quiet this 'jacking' mechanism was, in comparison to the deafening fury of the drill. Although I'm sure a motorized machine could have removed the core in double the time, I protest that this was surely the cleanest and most satisfying aspect of the challenge.

The satisfaction didn't prolong. Two problems, of varying severity, transpired. Firstly, the volume of material extracted from one coring session was by no means enough. At least three cores would be required at each of my four sampling points to amass the volume of sandstone necessary for calculating soil formation rates. Another means by which to collect the material would be to manually dig soil pits, but would this take longer than coring thrice? Alas, the rip-cord of the drill severed, and pit digging very quickly transformed from a contingency plan to the main order of the day.

How deep would one have to dig to reach sandstone? One morning, a car rattled down to the bottom of the wood, and out emerged Andy with a Panda Penetrometer. Both Andy and the Penetrometer are two very interesting subjects to write about, but as knowledgeable as Andy is of sandstone, the penetrometer would perhaps provide more reliable information. Again, in layman's terms, this is a long metal rod which is manually hammered into the ground. Extension rods are subsequently screwed on and hammered in until the first rod 'hits' bedrock. The force that is required to hammer the rod through a known depth of soil is then used to work out the penetration resistance or the strength of the material. As the bedrock is stronger than its soil overburden, one can establish the approximate depth of the sandstone.

"Beneath the trees, where nobody sees"... A jovial line to the toddler becomes a tease to the Soil Scientist. How can one resist the temptation to dig through the soil, this earthy underworld which as the tune quite rightly describes, is forever unseen. It is still quite bemusing to think that we justify space exploration whilst satisfying our minds with simply 'imagining' what might lie beneath the trees. These thoughts were encircling my mind whilst I dug, dug, dug... deep into the heart of another one of Earth's undiscovered, unseen worlds. 

Theory states that soils should be thickest on plateaus, and thinnest on slopes. My woodlands abide by these theories, I am happy to state. On the steep, arduous wooded slopes where the brambles and nettles attempt to retard your efforts, the soils are about 50-80cm deep. Beyond these depths, little purchase is made with the spade, and you wield your knife into one of the pit walls to extract a piece of saprolite (weathered bedrock). At the summit, I dug continuously: 80cm, 1m, 1.2m... 1.5m before finally making a satisfying noise with my spade that informed me I was hitting rock, not soil. It is then a matter of collecting enough samples, not only of the rock itself, but of the overlying soil. I collected soil samples every 5cm down three columns in each pit.

There is an unspoken delight in digging soil pits, arduous as the task may be. You may gaze hard at the soil; this mysterious world 'beneath the trees where nobody sees'. You may collect and bag as many samples as you please, but a bag of soil on its own will not whisper the secrets to the mysteries of the woodland. There may be an urge to quickly re-fill the pits, and to scamper to the laboratory, but speaking personally, there is an overwhelming and slightly surreal experience about sitting still, six feet below ground.

We often speak of the 'woodland floor' as that which we stroll down, casually on Sunday afternoons with the dog; that surface where roots become trunks and saplings take their first breath. But as any curious dog, or root for that matter will demonstrate, in reality, the woodland floor we know is not a floor, but a rooftop and the tree trunks are merely chimneys, breathing out oxygen in exchange for our CO2. Below the rooftops are many floors, home to millions of species. The top floor, that rich, organic horizon with freshly decomposed litter, a thick middle floor full of light sandy soil, and the ground floor, the bedrock - the true woodland floor - and the foundations for all that exist in the storeys above.

If you dig down in the woods today, you're sure of a big surprise; a surprise that would make any Teddy Bear's picnic seem fairly commonplace.

Monday, 17 July 2017


Think of the word Catena and any Soil Scientist would instantly imagine a soil sequence draping a hillslope.  But the word Catena originally stems from the italian word for Chain.  


 This week, as well as highlighting the fascinating work by other soil scholars, we shall be making our very own catena of words; a chain of soily word associations...



Visit the Soil Security Programme blog


 ** Previous Blogs featured in the Catena Chain ** 

Visit Dirt Doctors 

Visit Emily's 'Defra Digital' Blog 

Visit Emily's Bankfull Science Post

Visit Victoria's Student Blog

Visit Pierre's 'Plant Soil Interactions' Blog



Sunday, 9 July 2017

Sunday, 2 July 2017

Week 39: (26th June to 2nd July 2017) or 'A Postcard from a Rainy Day'

England has kept its appointment with the maritime climate. As one who is accustomed to the British Summer knows only too well, occasionally the country has a 'wash, cut and blow-dry' although not necessarily in that order. On fine Sunday afternoons, husbands and wives become garden barbers, shaving the grass and pruning the sideburns which are for many the hedges between neighbours. A day or two may elapse before these trimmed gardens are rinsed in sharp downpours, so that the leaves of the Prunus may forever shine in the forthcoming sunlight. A warm breeze which lingers amongst the leaves of the trees then descends into England's mini-Edens. The waves of air which so gracefully flow over the mosaics of our rural idylls is a sympathetic score to the ears.

How wonderfully incessant this washing, cutting and blow-drying is in the calendar of rural England. Each step in the sequence breathes promise and hope. How the nation's gardeners rub their green fingers with collective patience for the rain to be delivered; how reassuring it is when the loyal droplets come. But oh, how the mood shifts in urban England! As I write, a deluge is tormenting the rooftops of Nottingham. Drainpipes have awakened and the dust that collects on dry days in pavement cracks is being chased away. Umbrellas are tortured by the harrowing wind; some relinquishing the fight by inwardly contorting themselves to concede victory. They are no longer little domed roofs above irritated heads but little defeated bowls which now collect the water that is pulled from the sky by the underground beast of gravity. How miserable the scene appears and yet thirty miles away, in suburban villages, the rain that falls is hailed as a blessing for cottage gardens, allotments and the farms.

I am in Nottingham once again to meet with Dr Andy Tye at the British Geological Survey. Let me account for the latest developments to my PhD fieldwork campaign. First I can confirm that August and September will witness the first comprehensive spell of fieldwork with a thorough sampling campaign for my four sites across the country. My two arable sites will be the focus for the BGS Drilling Rig which will be injected into the soil to extract the requisite samples of weathered bedrock. Here is a video from the BGS explaining in great detail the process of drilling.

On my two woodland sites, the rig will be substituted by a percussion corer which achieves the same objective of extracting a core of soil, but is easier to transport through a broadleaved woodland. My woodland sites will also undergo what, to an untrained eye, might perhaps look like acupuncture; a grid of large steel pins will be hammered down the slope. If these eyes are trained, one would acknowledge these as erosion pins. They work, more or less, by calculating the difference in height between the soil surface and the top of the pin after a year. A greater length of exposed pin above the soil surface would indicate some degree of erosion.

It is still raining here in Nottingham but I must now sign off this postcard, reawaken my umbrella, and depart for the BGS.

Sunday, 25 June 2017

Week 38: (19th June to 25th June 2017) or 'It turned out nice again'

"The increasing powers of steam will, I think, one day waft friends together in the course of a few hours"

(Sir Walter Scott)

"He's got the whole world in his hands..." When I was younger, an hour or two of my schooling was spent sitting in a small, yet memorably warm mobile home, singing an anthology of spiritual anthems. One such hymn was "He's got the whole world in his hands..." which was never one of my particular favourites given that the melody is repetitious. Nevertheless, the message it imparts is explicit: we are sitting in His hands, the palms of God.

It is only until one is comfortably inside their third decade of life that one realizes that God may not be the only one with the world in his hands. I was thinking about this, as I journeyed to Edinburgh this week to see one of my co-supervisors. Sitting at the nose of a ten carriage train, the driver may not witness nor join the hubbub of activity that he dutifully pulls along the tracks, but he must be in no doubt that the lives of every passenger are in his hands to some extent. He can apply the breaks and immediately delay hundreds of appointments. And, indeed, he does have the world in his hands, or at least, ambassadors from all over the globe. If you take the train between Lancaster and Edinburgh, it does not matter which carriage you select, for in each vessel the spices of international culture gurgle and simmer with eddying frivolity.  

To my left, with their back to Scotland, was a modest Japanese family. Scaling innocently up their mother's thighs and clambering upon the carriage tables were the family's youngest members. If one is acquainted with the tribulations of journeying with infants who have yet to discover their own volume controls, you will understand my silent yet desperate plea for them to subdue their excitement, and likewise you will no doubt be unsurprised to hear that such a petition was unelected. With every passing mile towards the seam, where the last patch of the English quilt is stitched to the tartan of the Scottish highlands, the infants heightened in their elation. Opposite them, occupying the other half of the table, were representatives from India. The five thousand miles that distanciate Japan and India had become compressed into a small void that hovered above their shared carriage table. One of the Indian infants was counting the sheep from his seat beside the window, and was becoming increasingly stimulated as if the sight of each sheep was a coin in his own energy generator. He has many years to go before such an activity has the reverse effect.

By the time we were edging around the castle at Edinburgh, the carriage hysterics had peaked to maddening levels. Though I have reservations about the word 'friends', Sir Walter Scott had been right with his forecast. The increasing powers of steam had wafted friends together in the course of a few hours. The train stopped, its many jaws opened wide, and the cosmopolitan aroma of internationalism wafted out to become diluted once more.

I have written elsewhere (Week 18) about the alleyway that scales the brow of Edinburgh's Royal Mile. Edinburgh Railway Station is as Scottish as London Victoria. Some railway stations across the country have been constructed with a conscious effort to preserve some essence of locality. Alas, Edinburgh Waverley does not make the list. But what is lost in this architectural sin, elevates the importance of the 'alleyway' for the steps up to the Royal Mile bridge three centuries. Three hundred years of history are traversed in ignorance everyday. As I began climbing this ladder back to the 1700s, I stopped at a pub that had been the Halfway House during my previous visit. But the wonderful sign which creaked in the whispers of a highland breeze was not to be seen. Had this, too, lost its footing on the tightrope of history to fall down to the present day? I wandered in to a lonely bar. Behind it, a Scottish woman.

"Excuse me," I said. "I wonder if you could tell me the name of this pub?"
I didn't want to ask what had happened to the Halfway House, perchance that the landlady thought me displeased with whatever it currently was.
"It's the Halfway House," she insisted.
She noticed me starting to gesture to a little patch of the brick wall, beyond which used to hang the sign.
"Oh...we've had a re-paint. The sign should go back up tomorrow. It will be the Halfway House again, tomorrow."
I wandered back out, and sighed relief. I was still one and a half centuries away from the Edinburgh Royal Mile, so I continued up the alleyway.

I will never tire of Edinburgh. For as long as I breathe in the air which circulates around the body of this ancient place, I will be re-energized by its heritage and revitalized by its culture. For most of us, our hearts beat with a dull thump. For those who saddle the mountains and search out the wilderness of Scotland, their hearts appear not to thump, but to dispatch an impassioned melody which is carried to towns and cities across the country. This sorrowful cry from the Highlands floats over the Firth of Forth and is received by a uniformed guard who stands daily at the edge of the Royal Mile. The cry is translated in his exhalation; it travels through the Bagpipes and rides out into the Scottish air to make poignant contact with the souls that promenade the street.

My meeting in Edinburgh was my second visit to the office of Professor Simon Mudd. I had come equipped with many questions, mostly about the fieldwork. I appraised him of the developments that had occurred since January: that I had six field sites, that I had been to each site for preliminary inspections, that I had discounted two of the sites, that I had applied to the Cosmogenic facility for funding, that I had prepared a thorough fieldwork campaign programme, that I had been to see a statistician. One of Simon's interests is that of geospatial mapping which is apposite, given that I will need topographic maps for my research. The Environmental Agency, over the last couple of decades, have flown over certain areas of the country in a small aeroplane, sending down lasers to calculate with remarkable precision the distance between themselves and the ground below. This technique, known as LiDAR (Light Detection and Ranging) is used to draw three-dimensional maps that indicate the slope, curvature and rugged nature of the terrain we like to imagine as flat on our street atlases. Here's an example, showing a Digital Surface Model for Comer Woodland, one of my fieldsites in Shropshire.

There is a problem. The Digital Surface Model includes everything that, naturally, appears on the surface: trees, hedgerows, buildings and so on. Thus, the Environmental Agency have also produced Digital Terrain Models which, put simply, have wiped the surface clean as one might dust a sideboard. However, next in the problem queue is the fact that the plane hasn't swept across every square inch of the country; some of my fieldsites sit, rather annoyingly, a mile or two beyond the flightpaths.

Luckily, there is always a solution. I will travel down to the British Geological Survey again next week and spend some time producing some Digital Terrain Models for each of my four fieldsites. Whilst the Environmental Agency may not have sufficient data, the NEXTmap has a similar facility.


How can you get an entire university campus thinking and talking about the same thing? The answer can be discovered by going down to one of the local power stations, finding the control room, and switching the electricity off for a few hours. Ill-fated weather tried this out on Wednesday.

At night, an outage of power is almost immediately clear but the disgruntled cursing and overall frustration is often self-contained inside individual households. Candles are sought from the dusty alcoves of the 19th century; bedtimes are pushed forward as humans succumb to the hopeless reality. But during the day, a redundant computer or an unconscious microwave are more than nuisances. They paralyze most of the liberties of our everyday lives, as if the very human experience itself is wired to the mains. It is during such a (fortunately) rare, yet seismic event, that a very different way of life is exhibited; as if a lifestyle without electricity that has been dormant for so many years has been plucked from hibernation and offered a one-day pass of freedom. Awake from the passages of pre-electric history, a lifestyle prepares to inflict a sobering message upon us all: we should not take electricity for granted.

Leaving the eel aside, we are the only species to exploit the wonders of electricity. The magpies that skate over Lancaster University most mornings must have perched upon the canopies of the campus trees, puzzled as to why scholars were suddenly emerging en masse from their buildings. Why were they crowding in small groups, appearing helpless? The anthropologist, who studies the human condition, must smile - as I did - when the power was snipped. I grabbed my notebook and headed towards the campus. My first stop was the Lancaster Environment Centre, but when I arrived, it was bordering on deserted. Lobbies, that usually hosted student luncheons, were barren and as I ploughed my way through the dim corridors, I realized that most of the centre was already being locked up for the day.

"How cool are these?" one of my colleagues said, pointing in amazement to a ceiling of epiphytes that decorate one of the avenues between buildings.
"It takes a power cut to notice nature?" I said, half-amazed for the other, more cynical half, realized that many often parade this avenue peering down at little glass screens rather than up towards the foliage.

I continued my walk. Passing the library, I noticed keen scholars squinting at their texts using the residual light that was dripping in through the windows. In the main square, the banks and shops were closed. A cashier in W. H. Smiths revealed her agonies against technology.

"Back to the pen and paper," I reckoned to her, pointing at her vast array of notebooks and pads. The campus pharmacy was also closed. Why was cash, which by its very nature is pre-electric, also redundant? Could the items sold not be written down and entered into the till at later time? The campus bakery was open. Queues of dispirited students were cleaning the shelves of its stock, rustling into their pockets in the hope that out would rattle a few pound coins. Outside, a student who, like myself, seemed to distance herself from the pandemonium, was observing the action alongside me. She told me that humans were going crazy. I pointed out that some aspects of life were disaffected, pointing to a man delivering a trolley's worth of parcels to one of the departments.

I remembered a sequence from the second act of one of Sondheim's plays, where an unveiling of a sculpture that almost entirely relies upon electricity, is grounded due to a fault.

"For precise synchronization of all of the visual elements, I have installed a new state of the art Japanese micro-computer which controls the voltage regulator. I think the surge from the musical equipment has created an electrical short and unfortunately, no electricity, no art."

No electricity, no art. Is this the case? I ambled over to the art department. By the entrance of the music department, I happened upon two musicians hauling equipment down the stairs.

"Surely, music doesn't stop does it?" I asked, toned with the dismay of realizing the answer already.

They told me that music, indeed, does stop. I fluttered the idea of an acoustic guitar, but it was fought with the argument that they needed an amplifier. We started to make a slow exit; they were apparently heading to the city where a small pocket of electricity was fighting (and winning) against the cut.

"The show must go on!" I said.
"We've quite a lot of work to do. We have a concert on Sunday, a prom on Friday, something else Saturday..."
Another performer hastened to add. "The power cut is not our friend, right now."

I made several other visits to vacant buildings which would, on any other day, be happily populated with scholarly life. Emerging from one of the accommodation blocks, a student - whose choice of clothing would suggest a rather recent departure from the mattress - approached me and asked what was going on. I informed him that there had been a county-wide power cut.

"Oh I see," he said, with hint that he didn't. "Are we supposed to evacuate?"
I replied with a negative and then learnt that he hadn't just awoke, but had been working on his computer for his dissertation. We both meditated upon the timeless agony of an unsaved, and now lost, document.
"I'm an English lit student; I am used to reading from books but I don't have any that I haven't already read...[a slight pause]...well, that I like. I've got plenty that I've bought, read three pages of, and put aside".
I suggested that certain subjects lend themselves to power cuts and that those embarked upon Computer Science were particularly redundant.
"They could write their code on a piece of paper?" he suggested.

I decided to swing around and make one final visit. If there is anything left in the world that can thrive without a voltage, surely it is faith. Surely, the act of worship and the outward expression of belief, are and will never be engineered into the circuit board of modernity. Surely they exist in an altogether more sublime prism? I walked to the chapel. As I entered into this holy place, a small female choir were cradling the air with their glorious verse. The flame from a candle sent a shimmer of light across the hallway. On one of the walls, a message read: "Light will always break through the toughest of dark shields".

I ambled back out, and whispered that again. "Light will always break through the toughest of dark shields".


Pull out from your bookcase your thesaurus. Marooned between "commodity" and "commotion" is the word "common", and the scholars at Collins have dutifully provided four situations where the word 'common' may be most appropriately employed.
1. Ordinary, usual, commonplace, simple, run-of-the-mill, bog-standard, workaday[...]
2. Popular: standard, widespread, prevailing [...]
3. Vulgar: inferior, low, coarse [...]
4. Community: public, community, communal [...]

If you are inwardly debating the mastery of Collins, come with me to Blackpool, for Blackpool is a synonym of the word 'Common'.

Where does Blackpool begin? The great arms of British terrain stretch west towards Ireland, and there is a sensation, I imagine, to believe that Blackpool occupies the tips of its fingers; the very interface between land and sea. Perhaps, when one thinks more about Blackpool, the expanse of the Blackpool sands which are revealed at every low tide, come to mind; the palm of the English coastline. And from this palm, four fingers are outstretched: three fingers pointing west, one for each pier, and one bloodied finger pointing towards the clouds, the prominent Blackpool Tower. But the phalanges of north-west England, that drill into the Irish Sea, do not mark the start of Blackpool, as those who visit by train are only too aware. Blackpool begins further up the arm, at the wrists, and it is there where we will start our journey.

The main artery towards the palm of the Blackpool sands is a high street that, collectively, arouses the first of our four synonyms: ordinary. I quickly abandoned my search for the peculiar, for such cultural eccentricities do not linger here. Were it not for the signage that emblazons walls and doors with the words 'Blackpool this' and 'Blackpool that', one could mistake this street for any in the United Kingdom!

I was thinking about the pulleys that drag millions to these 'run-of-the-mill' streets when I happened upon a bar called 'Ma Kellys', which I originally misread as 'Mr Kellys'. At the entrance, a battle was erupting. The outside insisted it was 1:30pm, the inside argued it was 11:30pm. I slipped passed this battle between day and night, and ventured into the bar. From inside, it seemed absurd that it was daytime. Hundreds of evening dresses, wrapped securely (and some less securely) around the waists of middle-aged women, were being chaperoned around the dance-floor. Around small tables in Frankie's Lounge, eggs were beginning to crack open to begin all-night hen parties. On one side of the lounge, a fully occupied tiered seating area afforded a reasonable view of the stage upon which 'Charleigh', in a blue and sparkling dress, was sending her northern dialect assuredly down the microphone. Her final act on this midday cabaret would be a "triple decker". Apparently, this would be like a double decker chocolate bar, but three tracks instead of two, and "you won't put any weight on". I'm bound to say that it hadn't yet worked for her.

Her triple decker began: a salute to Abba. I fled to one of the corners with a Guinness. Dublin, you may be interested to know, translates from the Irish into Blackpool, but the links between the origin of the Guinness stout and the origins of the British seaside holiday resort are sadly no more than etymological. It was, regretfully but perhaps not surprisingly, one of the worst stouts I have ever had the misfortune to drink. I guzzled and gazed. Ma Kelly's brings out the second of our synonyms, for however 'simple', 'ordinary' or 'bog-standard' the place and its occupants appeared, at 13:45 during the daytime it was undoubtedly 'popular'. I spent some time thinking about the wonders of sound. Forty years ago, a Swedish musician woke up and jotted a lyric about money: it was funny in a rich man's world. That idea, which may have fleeted across the mind as quickly as it takes a man to brew his morning coffee, has been scribbled into a pad, typed onto a page, sung in a small Stockholm studio, and has been preserved into eternity as a sound-wave. Those waves have been cast to tape, burnt to disc, zapped into a computer and for three minutes they rippled through the carpet of Ma Kellys to vibrate hundreds of shoes and sandals. Forty years and a thousand miles has transformed an idea into a vibrating sandal.

The triple decker came to a resounding halt. I alighted and carried on down to the sea.

Amusement arcades sit waiting to douse the tourist with delight. Anyone purely passing the time, and not fixated on any one particular game, finds themselves wading through a sonic cocktail. Television theme tunes, movie soundtracks, and incidental music are whisked together, as if one were walking around a series of occupied music studios without soundproofed walls. Clinging to two penny pieces in the slot machines were lollypops, chewing gum and lottery tickets, each equally threatened with the deep and dark cave that would send them with a one-way ticket into the eager paws of a child. I paused by the grab machines. Amassed in chaos were teddies of all denominations, and though they never reach out to grab hold of the metal hook, their imprisonment surely makes them want to.

I sauntered up the pier. Our third synonym became realized. With each step, the vulgarity became ever more apparent. The dispiriting sight of oxidized iron wrapped itself around the pier. Huts declaring fudge and ice-cream were nothing but false-promises clinging to the edge of the wooden boards that suspend you above the waves. At the end, the front hoofs of twenty horses were perpetually kicking the air. Keeping them company was a lady who sat with glum patience inside a small control box, waiting for someone to decide to travel half a mile in a circle.

Further along the seafront, I happened upon the word 'Brilliance'. The letters were part of a neon lighting display, and the neon had clearly popped out for a breath of fresh air. I asked myself how brilliant the street that leads off from it could be, and with the infectious inquisitiveness that commands my movements in these situations, I crossed the road. To my left, a lap-dancing club and 'Knobby's Karaoke Bar'. To my right, Brannigans claimed that it "likes to party". In Blackpool, it seems, no distinction is made between the words 'vulgarity' and 'brilliance'.

"Luk Mum," a voice shrieked from behind several inches of fake tan. "Soph said it's well dead cool in 'ere." I turned around to see a young girl pulling her Mum towards a shop selling 'everything half price or less'. Sitting on a small island in the middle of the high street, I began to watch what I believed was Blackpool's major shopping district. The biodiversity of the human species is healthy here in Blackpool. Pigeon street cleaners dodge the pilgrimage of customers who pinball their way from shop to shop, in the conquest of a bargain.

Around the corner, at the summit of the high street, a relatively ornate church stood as a backdrop for a town show. Erected before it was a stage, from which two speakers were spouting the music most often reserved for the circus. I had arrived just in time to see the George Formby Tribute Act. Up a set of stage steps came the ghost of Mr Formby, clutching a ukulele. Against the harsh winds that were threatening to steal his top hat, he spent half an hour exuding a gaiety across the square that salutes our final synonym of Blackpool: that of community. I have little doubt that the town has entertained the crowds for over half a century and it is perhaps the celebration of the other three themes- a widespread passion for ordinariness, the prevailing acceptance and celebration of its own vulgarity - that makes Blackpool the town it is today. Little mops of grey hair were sitting in rows, and I watched as Mr Formby used the oldest paintbrush known to man - comedy - to paint smiles across their wind-swept faces. Many were fanning the air with little union jack flags. Nearly all were tapping their feet as Mr Formby strummed out some echoes from the bygone age. The clouds had given way to the first rays of sunlight, and like he promised, it had turned out nice again.

Down by the Blackpool Sands, the gulls were puppets being pulled by the wind. With the tide's day trip to the coast now over, I watched it as it made its westerly voyage to the horizon, ready to bathe the sun. Several acres of Blackpool had become available. Donkeys carted children across the sand; their hooves sinking in to small pools which were now only memories of an Irish Sea. I walked across to greet the current shoreline, which was at least 700m away now. The farewell messages from the departing waves were sketched into the sand; the corrugated ripples punctuated often by the commas of shells and the apostrophes of crabs. Beside the legs of the Central Pier, now ankle deep in sand not water, were two figures seeking treasure with metal detectors. I gazed as they ironed the air with their machine, often making exploratory digs with their spade. If the jewel of the coast is here in Blackpool, it may well be deep underground but then Blackpool doesn't protest to be seasoned in treasure, or indeed, peppered with riches at all. It prides itself, I think, in being common: in being ordinary, popular, occasionally vulgar, and forever a community.