Across the Universe

Voyager 1 has now spent 50 years in space, is 50 billion miles away, and we are still in touch – just – but not for much longer. Soon, it will be exploring deep space alone, and continue to do so aeons after we are extinct. Long after the pyramids have crumbled into sand, our planet an empty wilderness, Voyager 1 and its 1970s’ computers, will be exploring strange galaxies with its smorgasbord of hope: the sounds of a humpback whale, a human kiss, thunderstorm, Beethoven and Bach and an Indian Raga. It might also have included the Beatles’ ‘Here Comes the Sun’ but for EMI’s refusal to release copyright. It wanted more money. Never mind, Voyager does at least have a message from Jimmy Carter. 

The question is, and putting human culture to one side, can it ever convey to a future alien the full glory and mystery of our planet? Will an alien intelligence ever know why an owl bobs its head in a gentle dance, or appreciate the fact that because its eyes are fixed in place, it has to continually shift its visual perspective to determine the distance and position of its prey?

 Robert McFarlane waxes lyrical over an owl’s eyes, ‘their size and sheer liquid darkness…wells of ink, shafts of oil: two boreholes drilling right down into the night.’ The owl absorbs every vestige of light for hunting in darkness, their eyes packed with light and motion-sensitive “rod cells.” Possessing so many rod cells mean less space for reactive “cone” cells, so owls see largely in monochrome.

Their ears are equally powerful, turning darkness into an open book, able to pick up the ‘the scutter of a vole through grass at a hundred yards.’

Their hearing is made more acute by the position of their ears, which are set asymmetrically on their head. This enables them to more accurately pinpoint their prey. Their ears are also linked to the eyes: ‘part of the hearing nerve that goes to the brain branches off to the owl’s optical centre as well.’ In that sense, owls ‘hear seeingly.’ (Jennifer Ackerman) 

Such sensitivity has its drawbacks. The owl cannot hunt in sustained or heavy rain, the cannon-like roar or rain on grass drowning out the sound of anything else. Out of sight, a platoon of voles could do the Can-Can and the owl would be none the wiser. 

And as for their legs, those dancing voles should think again.

Other creatures enjoy equally mysterious powers. Sea turtles communicate with their siblings whilst still in their eggs, synchronising their hatching as one. When grown, they navigate the Earth’s oceans by tracing geomagnetic fields as easily as we are guided by satnavs, pregnant females returning to the exact spot where they themselves had been born.

But should a far future civilisation from a far distant galaxy ever decipher Voyager 1 our wonderful planet will have been reduced to a few random sounds and a message from Jimmy Carter: ‘This record represents our hope and our determination and our goodwill in a vast and awesome universe…...’ 

Speaking of which:

 

The Beatles response to missing out on outliving mankind. 

The joys of AI

I recently downloaded two AI programs and tested them, to reassure myself as a writer and to compare their abilities. Claude first.

I asked it to write Winnie the Pooh in the style of Micky Spillane:

‘I pulled my battered stuffing out of the honey pot and brushed away the sticky crumbs. This was a dark trail that started with a missing slob of a bear and his pinched honey stash. I’d smelt this kind of case in the Hundred Acre Woods before—it reeked of desperation and the cheap, floral perfume of a twisted doe. Keeping my grip tight on my trusty pot, I prepared myself to confront the twisted stuffing-filled underbelly that lurked beneath the sickly-sweet surface.’

Then, Winnie the Pooh and Tigger in the style of Charles Dickens:

‘Twas the bst of times in the Hundred Acre Wood when the jovial, striped creature came bouncing into our presence, disturbing what little peace a plump, aimless bear might find amid the melancholy trees. With vigour unchecked and exuberance unmatched, this orange nuisance did pest the tranquil soul relentlessly, until composure lay scattered like the honey pots and their viscous remains.’

Could it manage a Micky Spillane version of Miss Piggy and Kermit?

'The smoke-filled swamp joint went silent as the curvy pig in the low-cut sequins sashayed in. I tried keeping my focus on the piano keys, but it was no use. Her beady eyes locked on to me like aorp looking for a fly to snatch. I could smell trouble coming off her like fumes from a water treatment plant. Pulling my collar tight, I braced for impact.’ Still not too sure what an aorp is.

Or Wind in the Willows in the style of Raymond Chandler?

'It was a dark night along the river bank when the trouble started. A weasel in a worn coat tried to peddle some hot merchandise to a badger and his muscle. Across from the way, a toad with a shady past nursed his third pint, eyeing the scene like he was gonna make a play. I gripped my trusty walking stick tight. This wasn’t gonna end well for someone if it went sideways.'

Next I tried ChatAI with comparable requests.

Miss Piggy and Kermit in the style of Raymond Chandler.

‘In the dimly lit alley of obscurity, where the city’s shadows lingered like unwelcome secrets, I found her, Miss Piggy, a dame with a figure that could make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. She had a voice like screeching tires on rainy night  and a glare that could make a grown man tremble like a leaf in a hurricane.

Beside her stood Kermit, a frog with eyes that had seen too much for his own good. He had the look of a man who had danced with danger one too many times and knew that the next waltz could be his last. His words were as smooth as whisky on a cold night, but there was steel beneath the surface, ready to strike if the need arose. 

They were an odd pair, Miss Piggy and Kermit, two souls adrift in a sea of troubles,  clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors in a storm. As they stood before me, their faces a mask of stoic determination, I knew that their story was far from over in this city of broken dreams.’

And Miss Piggy and Kermit in the style of Charles Dickens.

 

‘In the heart of a bustling metropolis where the streets teemed with a cacophony of voices and the air was thick with scent of industry, there resided a peculiar duo—Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog. Miss Piggy, with her rosy cheeks and resplendent demeanour, cut a striking figure amidst the crowds, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of ambition and longing. Kermit, a humble frog of gentle disposition, stood by her side like a steadfast companion ever ready to lend his support.

Miss Piggy, with her dreams as grand as the mansions of the wealthy elite, aspired to rise above her humble beginnings and make a name for herself in the glittering world of show business. Her heart beat with the rhythms of the city, its pulse echoing the promise of fame and fortune that beckoned from afar. 

Kermit, a creature of simpler tastes and kind-hearted nature, found solace in the companionship of Miss Piggy, her larger-than-life personality a beacon of light in the darkest corners of the city.’

And to round it off a piece of art from Gen Craft shown above. The actual request was a picture of Miss Piggy dressed in a low cut sequinned dress and Kermit in trench coat and fedora in a noir style bar. Not too sure about the low cut sequinned dress, or whether I have anything to fear in the writing field yet. A fun waste of  time? Oh yes. . . . The  Famous Five in the style of Dostoevsky, Biggles in the style of Nietzsche.    Endless possibilities if there’s nothing else better on TV. If anyone fancies trying my last two suggestions, please let me know the results 😀

 

Better than fermented socks

Distinctive is a suitably neutral term, I think, so let it be said. I have drunk several distinctive wines in my time. One, deep in the past but never forgotten, was an Israeli wine bought in Tescos. It tasted like fermented socks. I can even specify the colour: blue. Blue woollen socks. 

My most recent experience is a bottle I bought a fortnight ago.

Bells rang from the start, but I was seduced by the price. I mean:

 Apothic?

Untamed and Unbound?

Plush and Jammy?

Plush I associate with soft fabric or something upper class. In my limited dealings with the upper class I’ve never heard them extol the virtues of jammy wine. But it gets worse on the back of the bottle.

The wine was apparently inspired not by a reputable vintner but a clever little blackbird, and here the imagery becomes even more confused: plush and velvety – fabric then, but one that soars on the lips. *

It crossed my mind the ‘copy’ might have been produced by A I in which case a skilled copywriter has little to fear, at least for the moment. But why the name: Apothic?

On a related website, I learnt that Apothic Red Wine can be traced back to the ancient Greek and Roman practice of blending different wines together to create ‘a unique taste profile.’ Hardly Catullus but perhaps Californian.  The practice was known as apotheca and supposedly created more flavoursome and complex wines. Perhaps Scottish distilleries should take a leaf from the apothica book ie extol the virtues of  cheap ‘blended whiskies’ at the expense of the ‘single malt.’

The website was replete with virtue. Apothic, a subsidiary of Gallo wines, is committed to ‘responsible and sustainable measures’ – ‘environmental stewardship’- ‘bold leadership.’ But what did it taste like? 

Alcoholic Ribena, a perfect match for Sticky Toffee Pudding and Eccles cakes. It’s fair to say it didn’t soar on my lips. Spluttered perhaps. The ancient Greeks and Romans were also partial to diluting their wine with seawater.  Perhaps I shouldn’t be giving ideas to vintners in search of profit. 

* Soaring from the lips 

Here is one reviewer trying to restrain his enthusiasm. It must be said though, my wife quite liked it. Each to their own, as they say.

Hidcote and the ambiguity of man

The lane leading to the enchanted garden.

Hidcote Manor, in Gloucestershire, had been part of the Bradenstoke Priory estate, which in turn was based in Wiltshire. It reflects how wealthy the medieval church was and why Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries in 1539. In the C17th  Hidcote became a farmhouse and in 1907 was sold to Lawrence Johnston, son of the fabulously wealthy American socialite Gertrude Winthrop; for her, £7,200 was but a drop in the ocean. 

As a youth, Lawrence Johnston had drifted across Europe, somewhere along the way becoming a Catholic, falling in love with France, and Edith Wharton, and becoming at last a naturalised Englishman. He joined the Imperial Yeomanry to fight in the Boer War (no record though of him ever meeting my grandfather, Sergeant John Keyton). 

                                                                   Lawrence Johnston

After the war, he tried a spot of farming in Northumberland before settling in Hidcote with a domineering mother. There, he developed a grand passion for gardening, later scouring the world for new and exotic plants. His motto was always ‘Plant only the best form of plant’ and ‘Plant thickly’ on the principle, presumably, that nature hates a vacuum and would otherwise fill it with weeds. 

When World War I broke out in1914, he joined the Northumberland Fusiliers, was wounded, gassed and once mistakenly left for dead on the field. 

                                                     Johnston with his team of gardeners 

As soon as the war ended, he returned to his beloved Hidcote and spent so prodigiously his mother, who held the purse strings, left his inheritance in the hand of ‘trustees’ so in a sense he remained a dependent for life. 

We were there on a bright March day when only hellebore, daffodils and magnolia were in bloom. As the video at the end of this post will show, it is heaven on earth in Summer and Spring. We just glimpsed it's architecture

Did a giant crow take a bite  out of that house?

In 1930, and now in his sixties with a gas damaged lung, he toured western China in his search for new and exotic plants. Accompanying him was George Forrest of Edinburgh Botanic Garden. It was an unhappy partnership. Johnston fell ill and Forrest developed an active dislike of him: 

‘Had I raked (the entire country) with a small tooth comb I couldn’t have found a worse companion than Johnston…Johnston is not a man, not even a bachelor, but a right good old spinster spoilt by being born male.’ 

It's an odd comment to make of a man who fought in two wars, was badly wounded and in his sixties embarked on a hazardous expedition to China, and yet, how do you define a man?

 

 

How do you define a man? I was struck by this on entering the men’s toilets in the Hidcote estate and encountered the unexpected. Instead of the tacky but  perhaps more traditional machine dispensing Durex with their lurid logos and names, I came across this.

Were they expecting a charabanc?

I have no idea whether these were also on offer in the women’s toilets but at the time I paused and wondered what Lawrence and Gertrude would have thought,  and whether such a thing would be permitted in the Garrick Club presently under siege?

But back to the indefatigable Lawrence. By the 1940s and with Lawrence Johnston well in his 70s, he began to think of his future and that of his garden. After much hemming and hawing the National Trust was persuaded to acquire it in 1948 and have kept it ever since. 

A longish video but well worth watching especially on a gloomy day. Around 19.40 -- 20.20 mins in you'll see the formidable Gertrude and imagine her views on present cultural mores