Friday, March 16, 2018

Another False Flag?

In 2003, Prime Minister Tony Blair misled the British people so that he could commit the United Kingdom to an illegal war in Iraq, which cost the lives of 222 Brits and an obscene number of Iraqis (Figure 116.1). It is well documented that Blair’s government leaned on civil servants to produce a dossier stating that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction and that the UK was potentially under threat. It was a despicable deception, and many believe Blair ought to be investigated for war crimes. As a result, public scepticism about government pronouncements has been ratcheted upward.

Figure 116.1: Mass protest in the UK

Copyright © 2014 Global Research

Something disturbingly similar is happening today. Eight days after former Russian spy Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia were found poisoned in a Salisbury park, Prime Minister Theresa May pointed her finger straight at President Vladimir Putin and his Russian government (Figure 116.2). In a single stroke, May claimed that the toxin had been identified as a ‘novichok’, ‘of a type developed by Russia’. Samples from the victims had been analysed at the Ministry of Defence’s Defence Science and Technology Laboratory at Porton Down, which just happens to be a mere seven miles from Salisbury.

Figure 116.2: Theresa May accuses Russia.

Copyright © 2018 Sky UK

Now, consider the careful wording: ‘of a type developed by Russia’. It does not state explicitly that the toxin was prepared or manufactured in Russia, nor even that it had ever been successfully synthesized at all. Nonetheless, May accused Russia of being responsible for its use and demanded an immediate explanation. Putin refused and was within his rights to do so. May ought to be reminded that innocence is presumed, and that the burden of proof lies entirely with the accuser.

Proof has yet to be established. May has agreed for samples to be given to the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons (OPCW), a UN agency based in the Netherlands, to whose strict protocols both the UK and Russia have agreed. Until the OPCW’s independent analyses are complete, the facts remain unknown.

‘Novichok’ molecules are quite simple structures (Figure 116.3). As recently as 2016, however, both Porton Down and the OPCW went on record, stating that it was doubtful that ‘novichoks’ had ever been made – by anyone. This is important: if Porton Down has never seen one, let alone one with Russian ‘fingerprints’, how can it be sure that the one it has now was manufactured in Russia? Of course, it cannot, because no comparison is available. Today, a former British Ambassador to (the former Soviet Republic of) Uzbekistan stated, from a Foreign Office source, that scientists at Porton Down have indeed been unable to identify the toxin as being of Russian origin. Further, they resent insidious governmental pressure to make them do so.

Figure 116.3: ‘Novichok’ is Russian for ‘newcomer’.

We seem to have been here before. The UK and the West in general have an overriding, and highly devious, anti-Russian narrative (e.g. Crimea, East Ukraine, Syria etc.). In addition, we must remember that the government has form when it comes to concocting scientific ‘evidence’ to foment conflict with other nations.

A few hours ago, Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson stated that it was ‘overwhelmingly likely’ that the toxin had been made and administered by Russia. I dare say the word ‘likely’ would be laughably inadequate for a Crown Court judge; yet Johnson expects it to suffice when, without watertight evidence, accusing a sovereign nation of an extremely serious breach of international law.

Until the OPCW’s investigations are complete, wild accusations are plain stupid.

Facts should come first; conclusions second. This affair stinks to high heaven.

Copyright © 2018 Paul Spradbery

Friday, December 01, 2017

Piano Recording

The term ‘classically-trained musician’ carries real kudos. It somehow implies rare genius. In truth, it is someone who has been taught classical playing techniques, music theory, harmony, composition and history. Learning involves the study of classical composers and their respective works.

I am, therefore, by definition, a classically-trained musician. Weekly lessons began at the age of nine, and I spent eight years in a perennial cycle of practice, revision and (fifteen) Royal Schools of Music examinations in both theory and individual performance. Then, it seemed like all work and little play. Today, the opposite holds true. Playing techniques that were painstaking shown to me as a schoolboy are now second nature, and I shall forever remain grateful to all my teachers.

The music for a beautiful piece was emailed to me recently. Looking at it for the first time, it did not appear too daunting, although some parts proved technically awkward. The idea of recording it came from one of my sons, who is a YouTube junkie. Simple footage was created, in my daughter’s bedroom, using nothing more than an Android phone – hence the custom sound effects (creaky piano pedals and heavy breathing).

During the first recording, my daughter’s dog started barking. The second was uninterrupted and subsequently uploaded to YouTube a few days ago.

It is dedicated to someone with whom I am, sadly, no longer in contact.

Click the link below (Figure 115.1) and ‘upvote’ (and comment) if you like it.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Monday, October 30, 2017

Albania's Blue Eye

Ever since my first visit to Niagara Falls, in the summer of 1988, I have become increasingly fascinated by hydrodynamics. (This is a branch of physics which deals with fluid motion and its resultant forces.) For the past ten years, a considerable proportion of my research work has involved a sub-branch of hydrodynamics, namely microfluidics, which appertains to the behaviour of fluid moving within extremely confined spaces, such as biological tissues. It is not quite Niagara Falls, but the same scientific principles still govern its behaviour.

Natural water phenomena have become a healthy obsession. The laws of hydrodynamics might be simple enough to define and describe, but their consequences can be extraordinary. My latest preoccupation is a magical place called Syri i Kaltër – Albanian for ‘blue eye’ – which is a natural water spring within a lake in Southern Albania, near to the Greek border. From above, the centre of the spring appears dark (like the pupil of an eye), whereas its larger outer area is a lighter blue (reminiscent of its iris) (Figure 114.1). Around its edges, green vegetation almost resembles eyelashes. It really does look like a huge blue eye.

Figure 114.1: The eye shape is not captured perfectly from this angle, but the contrasting blue colours are evident.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

It is known as a Vauclusian spring, which means it originates from an underground cave. Crystal-clear water, perfectly drinkable, is pumped continuously to the surface at a rate of 18 litres per second (Figure 114.2). The cave is an example of a karst landscape. This is a piece of land consisting largely of limestone (calcium carbonate), which is highly soluble in water. As rainwater seeps in, it erodes, leaving cavities within the remaining structure. Subterranean caves are an inevitable consequence of limestone dissolution, as are underground streams and surface sinkholes.

Figure 114.2: This photograph provides a better ‘eye’, and bubbling can be seen at the centre.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

The surrounding area complements this captivating natural water feature. Mature oak and sycamore trees line the lake (Figure 114.3), and there is a covered wooden veranda for food, drinks and photography.

 Figure 114.3: From the shallows to the abyss

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Ten metres in diameter, the cave’s depth is unknown. Divers have descended to fifty metres, but a definitive measurement has yet to be made. The first dive, undertaken by an intrepid ecologist called Xhemal Mato (Figure 114.4), took place in 1984. Mato recalls the difficulties he faced:

‘I remember the current of the water coming out of a dark tunnel. Inside, the current was so strong that my diving mask was swept away from my face, so I was forced to keep it with my hands. The deeper I went the stronger the current became until I reached a depth of 20 metres, where I felt I could not go further as the pressure of a strong river flowing out of the tunnel was unbearable.’

Nonetheless, he has inspired a generation of similarly brave and inquisitive divers.

‘I left a piece of rope which would help the other divers to plunge into the waters of this spring as well as a plastic notebook where the divers could sign. After two years, we noticed that a full page of this notebook was filled with signatures by various divers, thus encouraging underwater tourism.’

Figure 114.4: Since 2004, Mato has led an environmental organization called Ekolëvizja, which is, simply, Albanian for ‘eco-movement’.

Copyright © 2017 Shendëti

The ‘blue eye’ lies approximately 20 miles east of the Albanian coastal town of Saranda (Figure 114.5).

Figure 114.5: Syri i Kaltër is easily accessible, either by road from Greece or boat from Corfu.

Copyright © 2017 Ionian Seaways

I suppose I just love the endlessness of flowing water.

‘Men may come and men may go, but I go on forever.’
– Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-92)

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Monday, September 18, 2017

In Quest Of Mucha

I have, in previous articles, despaired of pretentious architecture and art. The Three Disgraces (26) and Emperor’s New Paintings (30) serve as examples. To counter any accusations of blanket snobbish negativity, though, I have made known some of my own tastes and preferences in Pictures Of This And That (16), The Ubiquitous Oh-Jive (48) and Save Empress Place (104). Much of the writing has been contentious, deliberately so, but today’s piece surely leaves little scope for doubting artistic genius.
In the Montmartre district of Paris, somewhere between the travertine Sacré-Cœur and sex-saturated Pigalle – I am familiar with both – lies a little architectural gem (Figure 113.1). Thousands of Parisians pass beneath it every day, but I bet few have time to stop and dwell on its aesthetic beauty. Above the édicule (entrance) to Abbesses station, the deepest in the Paris Métro, lies an iridescent glass canopy with ‘whiplash’ iron curves and the word ‘METROPOLITAIN’, designed by French architect Hector Guimard (1867-1942).

Figure 113.1: The art nouveau designs of Métro station entrances are strongly influenced by the forms of plants. 86 of the original 141 entrances still embellish the streets of Paris.

Copyright © 2017 The Art Story Foundation

It is universally recognizable. Guimard’s famous design epitomizes perfectly both the city of Paris and the Art Nouveau movement. Inspirational to this total art style was Alphonse Mucha (1860-1939) (Figure 113.2), a Czech-born painter and decorative artist whose works were largely forgotten after his death. I found time, just last weekend, to visit a touring exhibition of Mucha’s works – some world-famous, others undeservedly obscure – and was entranced by the painstaking attention to tiny detail evident in almost everything he created.

Figure 113.2: Neither ‘mucker’ nor ‘moocher’ – the artist in profile

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Mucha arrived in Paris at the age of twenty-seven. He was the archetypal dirt-poor, fledgling artist, combining study with whatever bits of commercial work he could secure. His life-changing break followed a visit to a print shop, where he applied to create a poster advertisement for the play Gismonda (Figure 113.3), featuring the renowned stage actress Sarah Bernhardt (1844-1923). The quality and public appreciation of the poster landed Mucha a six-year contract to produce further posters, all featuring Bernhardt, in his characteristic ‘new art’ style.

Figure 113.3: A four-act Greek melodrama, written by French dramatist Victorien Sardou (1831-1908), Gismonda premiered in 1894 at the Théâtre de la Renaissance, Paris.

Copyright © 2017 Mucha Trust

Many were on display in the gallery. The low-level lighting was especially dim. This was not a cost-cutting exercise, but rather a consequence of Mucha’s earliest works having been created on low-quality paper which was not designed to last. Perhaps Mucha never originally expected that they would outlive him.

Mucha’s artistic style was daringly original. There were several of his Bernhardt posters included in the exhibition. Each measured approximately two metres in height by one metre in width. This elongated format was most unusual at the time and reflected Mucha’s courage in rejecting existing norms. Furthermore, he had the confidence to break an unwritten rule of poster design. To attract public attention, poster makers routinely used bold colours. Mucha, on the other hand, confined himself to pale pastels, which were harmonious and free from obvious contrasts.

Most of the displayed works featured elegant ladies in long, flowing garments. Each picture was filled with sweeping curves, masses of flowers – usually lilies – and tiny six-pointed stars. The fonts Mucha used were equally lacking in angularity and complemented well the gracile female form. He emphasized feminine beauty with every brush stroke.

Mucha’s general philosophy was admirable. He viewed his art as a device to elevate the morale of ordinary people and, if possible, improve their quality of life. He enjoyed seeing his posters on display on Parisian streets, which he described as art exhibitions for all. After his death in 1939, following interrogation by the Gestapo, his work was considered outdated. It was rediscovered in 1963, owing partly to an exhibition at London’s V & A Museum, and enjoyed an unexpected revival, inspiring 1960s counterculture art, pop psychedelia and the 1967 ‘summer of love’.

This 21st-century celebration of Mucha’s masterpieces was long overdue (Figure 113.4).

Figure 113.4: Information regarding present and future exhibitions can be found at:

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Sunday, September 03, 2017

Summer Under The Radar


As I had half-expected, Article 111 – Ouroboros At Large – lit more than a few short fuses. Anonymous online abuse spewed forth within twenty minutes of publication, which proved, with unintentional irony, the very point I was making. No matter; but it reinforces my reluctance to allow comments on the page. Emails, on the other hand, are always welcome, and the majority remain thoughtful and good-humoured. Keep them coming. I always find time to read them. This post promises to be a much gentler affair.

The best summers are those that promise never to end. This has been one of them. Not everyone will agree, since I have heard a wide range of horror stories from friends. Many involved airports, before holidays even began. (Here, I ought to be very grateful. During my 20s alone, I managed to visit more than fifty different countries, in five of the seven continents. Flying was unadulterated pleasure, and air passengers, generally, were both respected and respectful. Once abroad, it was pure bliss to point a hired car toward the horizon and just go, through small-and-quirky towns and lost coastal villages, eating and drinking with the locals, learning foreign languages, and allowing a novel ‘elsewhere’ to unfold before one’s eyes.)

Air travel, in the present era of cattle class and jihad, though, is oppressive. (Having dark hair, brown eyes and a vaguely Mediterranean look is an added inconvenience.) Intrusive ‘security’ searches, cramped seating and being obliged to endure selfish, drunken cretins have become the accepted norm (Figure 112.1). On arrival, rip-offs lurk in every corner of every city and resort. Restaurants, hotels and car-hire firms are the chief offenders. (A friend and I were once chased down a Milanese back street because of our inadequate 10% tip for lousy service.)

Figure 112.1: A summer paradise? How so?

Copyright © 2017

What, then, is the remedy? Fly-abroad-only-when-you-have-to is one. As for holidays, given the inevitable stress of air travel, and Sterling’s temporary weakness on the foreign exchange markets, is the answer not obvious?

Yesterday began as follows. At 9:00 a.m., we left our hotel, a comfortable old whitewashed pub, at a crossroads in the middle of a grassy nowhere, and drove along a quiet lane over rolling fields to the nearby town (pop. 1,600), on the eastern extremity of the island. Across the strait, the mainland mountains were topped with morning mist, which would surely be burnt off by the sun well before midday.

We walked along the jetty to its recently-renovated, wooden-decked pontoon end. A small white motor boat bobbed gently next to its mooring. On board, its turbo-charged engine disturbed the silence. We set off northward, maintaining a constant 200 metres between us and the rocky shore. Looking back inland, atop a tree-covered hill was an 11th-century motte-and-bailey fortress. Although open to the public, its restoration having been completed only last year, it retained a derelict, even ghostly, appearance. Further along, almost at the land’s end – not the Land’s End, in Cornwall – stood the ruins of an ancient monastery next to a disused limestone quarry. The entire area looked forsaken, but beautiful just by being so.

Beyond the coastal tip, we sailed around a well-maintained lighthouse, fully operational, flashing once every five seconds, but unattended for almost a century (Figure 112.2). In the near distance lay a solitary offshore island, uninhabited and virtually inaccessible – to humans, at least. A protected area for the conservation of wild birds, flocks of white-breasted cormorants and kittiwake gulls looked out from the cracks and ledges of imposing cliff faces rising sheer from the sea.

Figure 112.2: Man (almost) overboard

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Having looped around the island, we completed the offshore circuit and stepped back onto the jetty at 11:30. Back on the road, the rural lanes were almost clear of traffic. We criss-crossed the island to its opposite (western) extremity, following a narrow, winding lane to a dramatic clifftop. Perched on an exposed islet, accessible by a truss footbridge, stood another lighthouse, its brilliant whiteness causing it to glow under the midday sun (Figure 112.3). We trekked 412 steps down the cliff, then another 75 up a magnificently-restored spiral staircase to the top of the tower. The breathtaking panorama was well worth the breathlessness.

Figure 112.3: The 360° view from the top of the lighthouse is well worth the killer trek.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

After picnicking on the clifftop, we navigated a labyrinth of lanes in search of the main northbound road. After twenty minutes, we reached somewhere truly magical. Turning off the main road onto a single-lane track, we located a solitary parking space alongside a rusty gate leading to an isolated lake of perhaps 30 acres (Figure 112.4). Bisecting the water was a straight, narrow causeway, perhaps an old quarry track, which was alive with exotic-looking flying insects. Some were recognizable. There were numerous bright blue damselflies, hovering and fluttering above the water, if a little camera-shy, their wings tucked in when at rest. Others I could not identify. We learned later that it was a private lake, stocked annually with brown trout, and home to some rare aquatic plants. The boys were more interested in skimming stones, investigating some abandoned rowing boats, and were reluctant to leave.

Figure 112.4: Almost hidden from the world, this small, two-part lake is a geographical gem.

Crown Copyright © 1985

Continuing northward, we reached a small fishing port with a sheltered natural harbour (Figure 112.5). There were around thirty people roaming its sandy beach, kids fishing for red crabs and mackerel from the top of the sea wall, cafés with decorated verandas overlooking the bay, and cliff-faces which looked to be a geologist’s paradise. Formed presumably by coastal erosion over millennia, the colours and shapes of all the different rock strata were indescribable.

Figure 112.5: If you recognize this place, please keep it to yourself.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

At 4:30, the day was beginning to quieten down – not that it had ever been noisy or hectic. Air temperature was probably still 20°C, and the bay water had been warmed by the sun since mid-morning. We kicked around in the waves for an hour or two until the sun began its descent above the western headlands beyond the bay. As we left, a boat with a single white sail drifted into the harbour (Figure 112.6). It was met by a couple of grizzled old seadogs ready to carry a few open containers ashore. Fresh seafood for the locals’ dinners, I thought.

Figure 112.6: There are clues, if you look closely.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Our clothes dried in the sun on our way along the esplanade to the car. We drove the remaining ten miles back to town, windows wound down and listening to ELO and Gerry Rafferty. The car seats and footwells were a mess of sand, damp socks and sausage roll wrappers, but none of us gave a damn.

It was almost 7:30 when we reached an open-fronted (three-or-four-table) bistro on the pretty main street. The staff were unconcerned by our unkempt beach-bum appearance. They could see that we had spent the entire day outdoors and cherished every minute of uncomplicated freedom. My younger son’s trousers were still rolled up to his knees and spilling sand everywhere, yet no apology was necessary. We ordered more (award-winning) fish and chips than we could eat, relived the day, then wandered down to the promenade from where we had set sail in the morning.

At the western end of the prom, about a dozen men were, in defiance of the fading light, playing bowls on a well-tended green which was surrounded by colourful late-flowering shrubs. Laughter echoed from a small beach-shack pavilion, its front guttering festooned with coloured lights. We stopped to watch for a while before returning to the car via the waterfront. It was gone 9:00 when we stumbled through the hotel doors and upstairs for a hot bath.

That was just a single day. We have enjoyed many of similar quality throughout the summer – no queueing, no rip-offs, no ‘security’ delays, no antisocial drunks, no jam-packed beaches, and no passports required. The glorious, unblemished ‘elsewhere’ that I have tried to describe is, technically, part of the UK. Find it, if you can. I am saying nothing more.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Ouroboros At Large

Nowadays, it seems impossible to work an entire week without encountering the weasel word that is ‘diversity’. Business corporations organize ‘diversity awareness courses’. Public sector agencies employ ‘Diversity Officers’. My daughter’s university holds an annual ‘Diversity Week’, as do, I presume, most others. This central plank of political correctness has become ubiquitous.

The first online definition I came across read as follows:

‘Diversity awareness is one’s ability to embrace the uniqueness of all individuals along several dimensions such as race, religious beliefs, ethnicity, age, gender, physical abilities, political beliefs, and socio-economic status.’

It sounds benign enough. Even so, such elementary human attitudes used to come under the heading of ‘common courtesy’. Anyone obliged to attend a ‘diversity training’ event would probably receive careful instruction regarding tolerance of others and of their respective opinions and beliefs.

So far, so virtuous – but let us scratch the surface a little. Imagine participating in a ‘diversity’ seminar, where the importance of mutual tolerance was repeatedly stressed. Now, suppose a fellow trainee introduced him or herself as follows:

‘My name is XXXXX. I am a racist. I believe racism forms the intellectual basis for the concept of the nation state. Furthermore, I am proudly xenophobic; although I do not like the word “xenophobic”, as it is a Greek word, and I cannot abide Greeks … or, for that matter, Italians; and the less said about most other Europeans, and more so non-Europeans, the better. Today’s young people are largely devoid of education; elderly folk have an unwarranted sense of entitlement; and religious devotees are delusional, possibly a consequence of undiagnosed mental illness. I reject entirely the multicultural ideal. This is particularly relevant to Islamic culture, which is pervasive and fundamentally incompatible with the established Western secular way of life. Oh, and lastly, owing to my unwavering belief in karma, it seems clear that disabled people, and the disadvantaged in general, had it coming to them.’

This is, of course, a deliberately controversial caricature, drawn purely to demonstrate a point. If such a case were made, it would doubtless go down like the proverbial lead brick. Jaws would hit the floor and eyes would pop out on stalks. Mine certainly would. We must, however, refer back to the obligatory ‘tolerance’ of others’ views. Should the aforesaid views, therefore, be tolerated? I would say so, however unpalatable they might sound. Would they be tolerated by ‘diversity’ advocates? I think you know the answer to that as well as I do.

Therein lies the inherent hypocrisy of political correctness. It recommends tolerance of only those views that it finds tolerable, and is intolerant of views that it considers to be intolerant. This misguided doctrine thus eats itself, rather like the mythical ouroboros in Egyptian iconography – a snake or dragon which devours its own tail (Figure 111.1).

Figure 111.1: The word ‘ouroboros’ is Greek: ‘oura’ = ‘tail’ and ‘boros’ = ‘eating’. The icon even has relevance in modern science, namely in organic chemistry. (Look up Kekulé’s dream.)

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The (intentional) consequence of this (unintentional) self-contradiction is a smothering of legitimate debate, rhetoric and argument. In an enlightened society, it ought to be possible to hold an unemotional discussion with someone who fervently disagrees (Figure 111.2). Much truth, after all, begins as heresy; whereas suppression of dissent allows the perpetuation of falsehood and absurdity. Irrational arguments can be contested and demolished only if they are permitted to be aired in the first place.

Figure 111.2: PC zealots would do well to remember the wise words of French philosopher Voltaire (1694-1778), who famously declared: ‘I disapprove of what you say, but would defend to the death your right to say it.’

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Free speech is the charlatan’s nemesis. Sadly, it is not the norm worldwide. Most nations are run by autocrats, theocrats, fascists or barefaced gangsters. People risk punishment by speaking out of turn. We in the West have – for now – more rights than most. We must, therefore, decide: do we value freedom of speech and expression, even in their most repellent forms; or should the contemporary Orwellian ‘thought police’ be here to stay?

So, the next time you witness politically-correct, self-styled ‘anti-fascists’ striving to stifle debate (and true diversity of opinion), you might wish to remind them that they resemble the likes of Hitler and Franco more closely than they care to imagine.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

Monday, August 21, 2017

Natural Born Allelopaths

The Sussex Downs after rainfall is as lovely as it gets. This is a lyric from ‘Forget’, an introspective track from Ben Watt’s 2014 alt-folk album, ‘Hendra’. This song has been buzzing intermittently around my head for almost three years, and I was recently given an opportunity to put the writer’s assertion to the test.

The South Downs Way (Figure 110.1) is a 100-mile (160-km) route across the southern English coastal counties of Hampshire, West Sussex and East Sussex. It is largely a combination of footpath and bridleway, although there are sections of road, weaving through the chalk hills towards the south coast. Cycling along, at my usual 10 miles per hour, midday sunlight filtered through the trees, traffic noise was negligible, and gently-sloping embankments were bursting with masses of delicate, hat-shaped flowers on tall red stems (Figure 110.2). Watt’s word picture seemed perfectly apt – until I looked more closely.

Figure 110.1: From Winchester to Eastbourne, the South Downs Way is contained entirely within a National Park.

Copyright © 2017 Britainexpress

Figure 110.2: A single plant species dominating a West Sussex roadside

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

I lay my bike on a grassy verge and inspected the one-and-only species of plant. Most of the flowers were pink (Figure 110.3), the remainder pure white (Figure 110.4). Its lanceolate leaves had serrated edges and gave off a sweet balsam scent after I had crushed a few between my hands and cupped them to my face. Everything about this distinctive plant was beautiful. I clasped the nearest three or four stems and ripped them from the earth.

Figures 110.3 & 110.4: In accordance with the Monohybrid Phenotypic Ratio, the pink variety outnumbers the white exactly 3 to 1.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery

You see, the plant species was Impatiens glandulifera, a.k.a. Himalayan Balsam, and a botanical thug. It is currently one of the most invasive plants in England and fast becoming a major headache for gardeners and environmental agencies alike. It was originally imported in the 1830s on the pretext that its rapid growth and spread would make gardening a less expensive pastime for the masses. If a single plant could yield hundreds of seeds capable of surviving up to two years, then what was not to like?

The Law of Unintended Consequences was waiting in the weeds. Within a decade, the impatient Impatiens had successfully negotiated the nation’s garden fences. The dispersal capability of its seeds was even more astounding than Victorian horticulturists had anticipated. Once its flowering period has ended, usually by early autumn, the seed pods literally explode with even the gentlest disturbance, producing up to 800 seeds which can be propelled as far as seven metres from the parent plant. Prolific does not begin to describe its propagation capacity. Riverbanks are particularly vulnerable to colonization, as seeds can be transported downstream as far as the water flows. The Downs are especially susceptible to unintentional seed transfer, by wildlife, ramblers and vehicles – including, I am disheartened to admit, my own bike tyres and boot soles.

This thuggish invader – the plant, not I – is, in a Darwinian sense, stupendously fit. It is the tallest annual presently growing in England, enabling it to impede smaller native species by depriving them of sunlight and attracting a greater proportion of bees for pollination. As if that does not provide sufficient evolutionary advantage, it has another, more subtle, weapon in its competitive biological armoury. There is evidence to suggest that the Himalayan Balsam exhibits allelopathy. This means that it can excrete, as a by-product of its metabolism, powerful toxins capable of inhibiting the survival and growth of neighbouring species.

Throughout England, volunteers of ‘balsam-bashers’ have begun to tackle the growing threat to public spaces (Figure 110.5). One method of control is to uproot whole plants before seeds develop; another involves chemical controls. Perhaps the most promising method, however, currently being researched, involves the parasitic use of rust fungi, which act by infecting fast-growing invasive plants.

Figure 110.5: Busy balsam-bashing

Copyright © 2017 Julio Lopez

It would seem impossible to know how problematic this plant will be, a decade from now. Will it be semi-controlled? Will it be everywhere? I cannot predict its fate, yet I am confident that the Sussex Downs, especially after rainfall, will remain as lovely as Ben Watt described.

Copyright © 2017 Paul Spradbery