Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Feliz Navidad 2010

Figure 15.1: Happy Christmas, everyone, wherever you are

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Feliz Navidad a todos

Me gustaría desear a todos mis lectores una feliz navidad. Es maravilloso saber que la gente disfruta de mis artículos en todo el mundo.

La temperatura en San Roque es actualmente 15 grados centígrados. La imagen (Figura 15.1) es una ligera exageración. El sol brilla casi todos los días. En Inglaterra este mes de diciembre es el más frío de la historia. En mi ciudad natal, una gruesa capa de nieve cubre el suelo. Viajes por carretera y el aire han visto gravemente afectados. Las condiciones de congelación se espera que duren todo el período de vacaciones. Creo que lo mismo se aplica a Francia y Alemania. Por ahora me quedaré donde estoy.

¡Nos vemos en el nuevo año!


Joyeux Noël à tous
Je souhaite à tous mes lecteurs un joyeux Noël. Il est merveilleux de savoir que les gens partout dans le monde profiter de mes articles.

La température à San Roque est actuellement de 15 degrés Celsius. L'image (Figure 15.1) est un peu exagéré. Le soleil brille presque tous les jours. En Angleterre cette Décembre est le plus froid de l'histoire. Dans ma ville natale, une épaisse couche de neige recouvre le sol. Voyage par la route et l'air ont été gravement touchés. Les conditions de gel sont prévus pour durer pendant toute la période de vacances. Je pense la même chose s'applique à la France et l'Allemagne. Pour l'instant je vais rester où je suis.

Jusqu'à ce que la nouvelle année!


Buon Natale a tutti
Auguro a tutti i miei lettori un felice Natale. E 'bello sapere che persone di tutto il mondo si divertono i miei articoli.

La temperatura a San Roque è attualmente di 15 gradi Celsius. L'immagine (Figura 15.1) è leggermente esagerata. Il sole splende quasi ogni giorno. In Inghilterra questo dicembre è il più freddo della storia. Nella mia città natale, uno spesso strato di neve copre il terreno. Viaggiare su strada e aerei sono stati gravemente colpiti. Le condizioni di gelo sono attesi a durare per tutto il periodo delle vacanze. Penso che lo stesso vale per Francia e Germania. Per ora mi resta qui.

Fino a quando il nuovo anno!


Frohe Weihnachten für alle
Ich wünsche allen meinen Lesern ein frohes Weihnachtsfest. Es ist gut zu wissen, dass Menschen auf der ganzen Welt meine Artikel zu genießen.

Die Temperatur in San Roque liegt derzeit bei 15 Grad Celsius. Das Bild (Abbildung 15.1) ist etwas übertrieben. Die Sonne scheint fast jeden Tag. In England im Dezember dieses Jahres ist die kälteste in der Geschichte. In meiner Heimatstadt, deckt eine dicke Schicht Schnee den Boden. Anreise mit dem Straßen-und Luftverkehr wurden stark betroffen. Der Frost wird erwartet, dass während der Urlaubszeit zuletzt. Ich denke, das gleiche gilt für Frankreich und Deutschland. Denn nun werde ich bleiben, wo ich bin.

Bis das neue Jahr!

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Friday, November 19, 2010

A Few Bars Rest

2010 has, overall, been the happiest of years for me. There have been very few regrettable notes – certainly none I feel inclined to write about. Recently, however, I was told of the untimely death of my former music teacher, on March 17th, aged just 64 years. A talented pianist, organist and violist, he taught at the same school for forty years and founded, often singlehandedly, a variety of bands and other musical groups, in some of which I was fortunate enough to be included.

Aside from his musical genius and boundless energy, he had the ability to see the funny side of everything, however depressing it was. An unrepentant maverick, everyone loved him and his idiosyncratic ways. I remember that he never called me by my name, always just ‘kid’. In fact, he called everybody ‘kid’. If he were still alive, and met me as the 44-year-old I now am, he would still call me ‘kid’, I just know it.

After I failed my very first music (performance) exam as a twelve-year-old, he grinned and told me I ought to learn how to march while playing, as it would be a clever way of escaping from the noise.

‘Maturity, kid,’ he chortled, ‘is when you can laugh at yourself.’

How true. On another occasion, when I asked him to define the musical term ‘accidentals’, he replied:

‘In your case, kid, it means wrong notes.’

So many of his quips and bons mots have stayed with me, still relevant despite the passing years.

Even after I had left school, his presence and sharp humour still coloured my life. We played together for the same cricket club, he as a father-of-two in his late thirties, I as a ‘there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I’ sixth-former with a head full of nutty aspirations. The thing I recall most vividly from our cricketing days was not his tenacity as an opening batsman, but the grubby red cap perched on his bald head, which probably had its own eco-system.

His primary passion at school was for brass band music. This was, arguably, because trumpets and trombones are (relatively) easy to learn to play to a reasonable standard. Moreover, playing any wind instrument necessarily involves pulling a weird face. Therefore, he reasoned, if a musician happened to have been born with one, it would not matter, as the requisite embouchure would bring better-looking colleagues down to the same unfortunate level. Conversely, taking up a stringed instrument was not actively encouraged, and I appreciated his insight. Having a Grade 1 violinist in the house must be worse than having a dog: at least your average mutt knows when to stop scratching. Most commendably, he inspired pupils who assumed that they lacked the innate ability to play an instrument. Many surprised both themselves and those close to them.

His funeral was like nothing previously witnessed in the area. His musical friends played in the rain outside a packed church. Former band members carried his coffin after the service. Within forty-eight hours of his death, an online Appreciation Society, consisting of 1,500 members, had formed on Facebook. The collective response to his premature death, I think, surprised no one.

Initially, I considered naming this piece ‘The Day The Music Died’, after the line in Don Maclean’s 1972 chart-topper, American Pie. The reason I discarded it was simple: the music did not die on March 17th. It never will. There will be a brief, respectful silence, before the band strikes up once again. The title I did choose seemed a much more accurate reflection. Inspiration given so passionately and generously by one provincial music teacher will reverberate down many future generations and in places far from the unremarkable English village where this wonderful man once lived. You will, of course, notice that I have not mentioned him by name. What matters is not who he was but what – and that can be ascertained from a single photograph (Figure 14.1).

Music is not essential to human life, and it contributes nothing to political strategy or scientific advancement. That I concede. Consider this, though: where would we be without it?

So rest in peace, our dear teacher: you gave us an ‘F’ in tune (Figure 14.2).

Figure 14.1: Mr H spent his life playing and teaching music with a smile. Whenever I think of him, I smile, too. Always.

Copyright 2010 Facebook

Figure 14.2: Concierto de Aranjuez (with apologies to Rodrigo)

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Friday, November 05, 2010

Tracey A. Welch, B.Sc. (Hons)

I would argue that the bravest individuals are those with a poorly-developed sense of fear and no concept of the odds against them. Such people are, however, extremely rare. For the rest of us, once apprehension takes hold, and the odds perceived to be too adverse, we either stand still or retreat. There is, though, a special sub-category among us mere mortals. It relates to those who are all too aware of what they face, and of their own limitations, not to mention the price of failure, but plough onward regardless. This article is a short tribute to one such person.

I first met Tracey Welch (Figure 13.1) in the autumn of 2006. I was enamoured of her immediately. Her humility, especially, was a delight, despite some of it stemming clearly from a chronic lack of self-confidence. This is, I know, a quality which does not evaporate without the malign influence of others. (I was curious as to whom.) I distinguished myself by calling her ‘Claire’.


Figure 13.1: Talking science ... or perhaps not.

Copyright © 2010 Gemma Dawson

Science degrees do not come easy, believe me. For Tracey, studying for one as a Mature student, while working simultaneously, and running a home almost singlehandedly, made the task doubly difficult. Principally, there could never be enough hours in the day. (I recall my mother experiencing the same pressures with an Open University degree in the early 1980s.) In other words, Tracey was up against it before she had even enrolled.

Despite the brain-ache and day-to-day logistical challenges, I never heard Tracey complain about her lot. Tragedy struck, in the form of serious illness, just four months from the scheduled end of the course. Prolonged absence from lectures meant that she would have to repeat her entire final year, this when her colleagues had already completed their studies and graduated. This would have been dispiriting for anyone.

Tracey’s quiet determination and understated capability paid off in the end (Figure 13.2). She told me, by email in August of this year, that she had taken a 2:1.


Figure 13.2: On the eve of Tracey’s graduation ceremony

Copyright © 2010 Gemma Dawson

Tracey’s graduation took place this week inside one of the oldest, and most resplendent, cathedrals in England (Figures 13.3 and 13.4). Having received my own degrees in abstentia by choice, witnessing such a ceremony was, personally, a novel experience, and I felt privileged to attend (Figure 13.5). The proceedings were dignified, with just the right degree of formality, and organized to perfection. Furthermore, a sophisticated video link to the university campus bars was provided for those who could not secure tickets.


Figure 13.3: Degree presentation was made by the university’s vice-chancellor, Canon Professor Timothy Wheeler, DL.

Official photograph taken by Ede & Ravenscroft (London) Ltd.

Copyright © 2010 Tracey Welch


Figure 13.4: Tracey A. Welch, Bachelor of Science with Honours

Copyright © 2010 Gemma Dawson


Figure 13.5: A happy reunion after the ceremony

Copyright © 2010 Stephen Welch

Afterwards, I joined Tracey’s family for a celebratory meal at a local French restaurant. Predictably, it was fully booked, as was everywhere else. At every table sat a graduand, wearing a gown adorned with the Faculty of Applied Science’s colours, surrounded by proud family and friends. It was heartening to witness so much happiness and optimism in a single room.

Looking back, it was no coincidence that Tracey was universally liked and admired by staff and students alike. In the face of substantial odds, her academic goal was attained in some style. Today, her alma mater must feel almost as proud of her as I do (Figure 13.6).


Figure 13.6: A front-row graduate

Copyright © 2010 Barrie Welch

Copyright © 2010 Paul Spradbery

Monday, September 13, 2010

An Idiot's Guide To Athens

No trip to the Greek capital could be complete without a visit to the Acropolis [Greek = ‘high city’]. The so-called Athenian Citadel stands atop what is known as the Sacred Rock, 150 metres above sea level (Figure 12.1). Construction dates back to the 5th century BCE, and it has since become, understandably, an archaeologist’s, as well as an historian’s, paradise.

Figure 12.1: An aerial view of the Acropolis of Athens

Copyright 1995 Paul Spradbery

A friend of mine took his girlfriend there recently. He phoned me from his hotel overlooking Paleo Faliro harbour. During his day at the Acropolis, he had been accosted by a pushy tourist outside the Parthenon (Figure 12.2). My pal had stopped to inspect a rectangular stone slab which was positioned flat on the ground and elaborately engraved, albeit in Greek script. The tourist grabbed the opportunity to embark on a condescending monologue. It was, apparently, a sacred memorial tablet, despite bearing no date. It was centuries old, despite being in near-pristine condition. Most significantly, though, the shapes of some of the characters demonstrated, with great precision ‘to the educated observer’, the era in which the tablet had been inscribed. The curvature of the letter ζ (zeta), in particular, was, supposedly, a definitive indicator of its age.

Figure 12.2: The Parthenon Temple, dedicated to the goddess Athena

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Once my pal had recovered from the verbal onslaught, he caught the eye of a solitary old man who was sitting nearby. Unable to speak each other’s language, the man, after gesturing for a pencil and paper, scribbled two words in perfectly-formed Greek letters.

A postcard arrived at my house the following week. On one side was a photograph of the Parthenon set against a clear blue sky. On the other, my pal had painstakingly copied:

ανθρωποθυρίδα κάλυψη

Please translate!


I am familiar with Greek letters, as is any halfway decent scientist, but had no idea as to the meanings of the words they comprised.

I sat at my laptop, opened the ‘Symbol’ section in Microsoft Word, and carefully strung together the two Greek words, before entering them into Google Translate. As I was copying and pasting each letter in turn, however, I wondered whether my pal had provided me with the correct letters in the correct sequence. How would I know? What if he had miscopied some of it? Written poorly, μ (mu), ν (nu) and υ (upsilon) could be indistinguishable. Just one omission or transposition could alter the whole word and hence its meaning. (In English, for example, friend is hardly the same as fiend.) Moreover, what if the old guy could not spell?

I hit the button. The English translation appeared. Eureka. Archimedes had just flooded the bathroom. I had certainly found it.

ανθρωποθυρίδα κάλυψη turned out to be Greek for ... ‘manhole cover’.

I almost fell off my chair. Of course, I cannot verify the old man’s opinion, although the evidence (see above) suggests that it was sound.

So, let me say to the pretentious bore who descended, without invitation, on my mild-mannered pal: you have demonstrated more than adequately the extent of your Classical knowledge. Now shut up, you fool.


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Thursday, September 09, 2010

Acróstico

Sometimes people look without seeing. I suspect you are doing so right now. For the quick mind, or those who see patterns where others perceive mere randomness, understanding such a concept should come easily. Two of the most enjoyable films I ever saw were The Usual Suspects (1995) and The Sixth Sense (1999). Both were littered with clues to the stories’ pivotal themes. In the former, a violent thriller, the central character, played by the Oscar-winning Kevin Spacey, relays a tissue of lies to his police interrogator. In so doing, he reveals all; but, by spinning such a complex yarn, the truth remains cleverly camouflaged in the foreground.

I think the same is true here, don’t you?

less dramatic is something I recall from my third year at university, back in the good old days of the late 1980s. A dear friend of mine – half-Indian, half-Danish – often visited my hall of residence to call on me before a lecture or seminar. Once, as I was explaining something on the way, I stopped abruptly and just stared at him.

yet I could not say why. He knew, for sure, but he was not letting on. Something or other was out of place. My bewilderment was subconscious. He knew as much, and, underneath the deadpan façade, was probably finding it quite amusing.

When we arrived at the lecture theatre, I scrutinized him for a few seconds. I had an inkling that something about him had changed. It was of a physical nature. He started laughing. By then, I knew that he knew that I had noticed. ‘What’s different?’ I asked, leaning towards him inquisitively.

young though he was – twenty or twenty-one at the time – I had always known him, over our first few years, to have a full moustache. That was it! He had shaved it off, under the orders, perhaps, of his new girlfriend.

maybe I ought to have noticed it immediately. He was a good friend whom I did, after all, see practically every day. Demonstrably, the human brain is not infallible. During real-time scenarios, the eyes see whatever they expect to see, not necessarily what is really there. Another example is a writer proof-reading his own work. He takes care, yet reads the lines, often many times, inserting words that are not actually there.

mentioned in the first paragraph were two films in which the truth was staring everyone in the face right from the beginning. Do you notice something similar here
?


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Monday, September 06, 2010

Digging Like A Dog

About nine years ago, some of my folks moved to the small town of Fairfax, Virginia, USA. It is a mere twenty-minute drive from Dulles Airport, on the outskirts of Washington, DC, so paying them a visit was a simple proposition. This part of the country is famous for having been the main battleground of the American Civil War (1861-5) (Figure 10.1). During my stay, therefore, we decided to take in some of its history, exploring the state and neighbouring West Virginia and Maryland.

Figure 10.1: Manassas National Battlefield Park, Prince William County, Virginia

Copyright 2001 Paul Spradbery

Twenty-five miles southwest of Washington lies the small Virginian town of Clifton (Figure 10.2). By ‘small’, I refer to its current population of fewer than two hundred people. The place is delightfully unspoiled. In a store called Judy’s Junque, at 7144 Main Street, on August 16th, 2001, a lady asked me whether I was ‘a real limey’. Having never previously met one, she was utterly charming when I confirmed her suspicions.

Figure 10.2: Clifton, Fairfax County, Virginia

Copyright 2001 Paul Spradbery

While peaceful and picturesque, however, Clifton’s principal claim to fame is one of America’s most enduring urban myths. I was unaware of its existence while I was there (Figure 10.3).

Figure 10.3: Exploring the town's Main Street

Copyright 2001 Paul Spradbery

The legend goes something like this. At the turn of the 20th century, there was an ‘asylum for the insane’ just outside the settlement. As the population grew, in the aftermath of the Civil War, the inmates were transferred to nearby Lorton Prison. During the transfer, the bus was involved in a road accident and most of the prisoners were killed. Those that fled were soon rounded up – except for one. Douglas J. Grifen attempted to escape across the nearby Southern Railway overpass and was hit by a train. Afterwards, the police heard laughter from the other side of the tracks. In subsequent years, on Hallowe’en, his ghost, dressed in a rabbit suit – the so-called ‘Bunny Man’ – appears at the railway bridge (Figure 10.4) and mutilates revellers with an axe. The locals have also seen carcasses of skinned rabbits hanging from nearby trees on November 1st. What gripping stuff!

Figure 10.4: The 'Bunny Man Bridge' on Colchester Road

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Nowadays, thanks to the Internet, looking into such tales is made easy. I decided, therefore, just for fun, to conduct my own research. I had to dig quite hard. When investigating any incident of a criminal nature, the best place to begin is the local police department. Any murders or mutilations carried out by a killer lunatic returning from the dead in a rabbit costume would surely have been classified as recordable incidents.

Surprise surprise, it turned out that nothing of the sort has ever occurred. Moreover, Fairfax County has never had an asylum, and Lorton Prison had not been built at the time of the purported bus crash. (Even if it had, it would have belonged to the District of Columbia, not to the state of Virginia.) Lastly, there is no official court record of either Grifon or his first ‘murder victim’, a man called Marcus Wallaster.

Facts certainly get under people’s feet, don’t they? Well, not under everyone’s. Each year on October 31st, locals congregate around the railway bridge, drinking, smoking and trying to frighten each other witless. Some leave minutes before midnight; others take their chances.

Perhaps I shall return at the end of next month. If no articles appear on this website in November, you will know the reason.

An urban myth? That is perhaps a little unfair – Clifton is in the country.

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Wednesday, September 01, 2010

The Pilot Light

I wrote The Pilot Light (Figure 9.1) in 2002. It took about six months, which equates to fewer than 140 words per day – slow progress by anyone’s standards. After having the final draft read, and checked for typos, by a couple of very capable friends, I set about hunting for a suitable, not to mention reputable, publisher.

Figure 9.1: Front cover

Copyright 2004 Pegasus Publishing Ltd.

The Writer’s Handbook (Figure 9.2) is, arguably, the best place to begin. As thick as a King James Bible, it is revised every year, as publishers come and go, but it provides a wealth of information regarding who deals with what. I noted the most relevant organizations and set about contacting them one by one. (It is considered unprofessional to approach two or more simultaneously.)


Figure 9.2: The WH: an excellent place to begin publication research

Copyright 2003 The Writer's Handbook

I was prepared for the inevitable stream of rejection letters. In his classic 1952 novel Matador, fellow hispanophile Barnaby Conrad (1922-) tells the story of a man who takes up bullfighting because of the unpredictability of being a writer. He preferred to face the bull’s horns than receive yet another rejection slip. His rationale was that at least he could run away from the bull!

My first instalment of bad news came from Transworld who claimed, simply, that their lists were ‘extremely full’. Hodder & Stoughton were even more blunt: they did not accept novellas, full stop. Apparently, hardly any British publishers did. I was slightly incredulous. Novellas are extremely popular in, for example, the United States; and, in today’s fast-moving world, surely shorter works would be ideal for readers with limited spare time?

To be fair, H & S did affirm their interest, but only if I were to increase the existing length (24,000 words) to that of a standard novel (120,000). I declined straight away. I felt that the story would ‘work’ only as a novella. It does, after all, focus on the events of a single weekend. Increasing its length fivefold, purely to conform to transient publishing conventions, seemed absurd. It made me wonder how many potential literary gems had fallen by the wayside as a result of short-sighted men in suits who knew everything about short-term marketing but little of the Arts themselves.

Orion were more positive. After sending them a synopsis, I was asked to submit three sample chapters. This amused me somewhat, as the story has only eight in total. In other words, they wanted to read a sample 37½%! Three weeks later, though, they confirmed their lack of interest.

Pipers’ Ash, who specialize in short books, described it as: ‘Beautifully written, as expected. We would not suggest that you compromise your style in any way.’ The stumbling block was the supposed lack of ‘crash-bang-wallop’ excitement, which today’s readers are deemed to demand. Back to the Handbook I went.

Further encouragement came from Tindal Street Press, who described the plot as ‘well thought-out’ and the writing ‘effective’. They, too, however, returned the typescript, along with the lament: ‘It is always hard to publish and successfully market a novella.’ To this day, I cannot understand why.

I have heard a number of authors state that their novels were accepted by the very last publisher they approached. (That much is surely self-evident: once accepted, why continue submitting the wretched thing elsewhere?) My own ‘very last publisher’ was Wordsmill & Tate, based in central London. Good news arrived in November 2003, by which time, however, the firm had been bought out by Pegasus. The editor’s appraisal still rings in my ears:

‘The text is very well written, with awareness of character and plot construction. Suspense is well created and achieved, with occasional clues for the observant reader. There is a strong sense of narrative voice, maintained throughout. The setting in Norfolk is well developed and visually created. The ending is crafted, giving the reader pause to consider the narrator’s dilemma. What a joy to read a text with so few errors and a real sense of style and pace.’

He also coined the phrase, ‘A 21st-century tragedy’, which I liked immediately, along with the poignant advertisement slogan, ‘A reminder that the most hideous tragedies are the preventable ones’ (Figure 9.3).

Figure 9.3: Promotional poster

Copyright 2004 Pegasus Publishing Ltd.

As well as enjoying witnessing the publication process unfolding, it was fun being asked to give interviews (Figure 9.4) and contribute to short press articles (Figure 9.5).

Figure 9.4: Press article

Copyright 2004 Mary Griffin

One such piece, which I wrote for the Home Office’s quarterly magazine All Points North, cemented a couple of solid friendships. Editor Anthony Stone wrote: ‘This 38-year-old has a realistic take on where writers sit in the social hierarchy.’

This was in response to an article which I began:

‘Nobel Prize-winning author Sinclair Lewis once said that only in America was the successful writer indistinguishable from any other decent businessman. In other countries, art and literature are left to shabby bums living in attics and feeding on booze and spaghetti. In most cases, he is right. Worse still is that trying to impress a major publisher is a bit like skiing uphill. In this country, the only things most authors ever see in print are their own fingers. I am one of the fortunate few. Prior to publication, I was an unknown. After the release of The Pilot Light, I moved up to obscurity.’

Figure 9.5: Magazine article

Copyright 2005 Home Office

Publication of the book has since been discontinued. To my amusement, the final royalty statement began: ‘Dear Mr Steel ...’ (?) Few copies remain commercially available. Amazon, for example, now lists it as ‘out of print’. At present, I have no plans for a second edition, but am nonetheless extremely happy with the overall response. Since 2004, The Pilot Light has sold more than 10,000 copies worldwide. Not bad for a novella!

A limited number of copies are still available on application by email to paul.spradbery@googlemail.com (£6.99). Additional information can be found at the following web addresses:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Pilot-Light-Paul-Spradbery/dp/1843861348

http://openlibrary.org/works/OL9791963W/The_Pilot_Light

The Writer’s Handbook (2010) can be accessed online at:

http://www.thewritershandbook.com/


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Sunday, August 29, 2010

World DNA Day 2011

Since this website materialized, last month, I have been pleasantly surprised by the collective response. 70 hits per day has been about average, along with a stream of emails, some informative, most very articulate, and a few strangely entertaining. Please keep them coming. Yesterday, I received an extremely welcome message from a Ms Alina Qian of Dalian, China. It began:

‘Dear Dr Spradbery,

‘We are organizing BIT’s 2nd World DNA and Genome Day 2011. It is truly an honor [sic] to welcome you to present your work (Track 4-6: Genetics and Forensics) on April 29 [my birthday], 2011 in Dalian, China.’

Then, later:

‘We would invite your precious comments and suggestions on the structure of our program. Also, your reference to the other speakers would be highly appreciated.’

It lists some of the other speakers as:

‘Dr Thomas A Steitz, Nobel Prize for Chemistry 2009; Dr Aaron Ciechanover, Nobel Prize Laureate in Chemistry 2004; Dr Tim Hunt, Nobel Prize Laureate in Physiology or Medicine 2001; Dr Richard Roberts, Nobel Prize Laureate in Physiology or Medicine 1993; Dr Kary Mullis, Nobel Prize for Chemistry 1993; Dr Avram Hershko, Nobel Prize Laureate in Chemistry 2004; and Dr Robert Richardson, Nobel Prize Laureate in Physics 1996.’

Needless to say, I rubbed my eyes and read it again! It was, clearly, a genuine communication from the Beijing Institute of Technology, although I have yet to discover the source of my nomination. It relates to a research article, published in Bioscience Horizons by Oxford University Press in May of this year. This was a compressed version of a dissertation report which I had written during a highly enjoyable term at the University of Chester, England. It was the first forensics article ever published in that particular journal, so, naturally, I am delighted by its recognition and at the prospect of another trip around the world.

I have no idea what to expect when I arrive. In the small print of the invitation, though, is the promise of:

‘Five Social and Art events to let you enjoy the essence of romantic Dalian.’

Quite what that means is anyone’s guess. It could imply anything from a fine art gallery to a lap-dancing club. When I read the rest of the literature, it prompted me to think back to the 2002 London Book Fair at Kensington Olympia. There were 1,600 booksellers under one roof, along with sales executives, advertising agents, retailers, PR types and all manner of consultants – but hardly any writers, on whose creativity the whole parade ultimately depended. It seemed to be so dreadfully ‘top heavy’ to me. It is to be hoped that DNA Day centres on the most deserving individuals – the scientists themselves.

So watch this space, if you will. The plot will surely thicken between now and next April.

Full details of this prestigious event can be found opposite at:

http://www.dnaday.com/

My research article is freely available, in full (either HTML or PDF), at:

http://biohorizons.oxfordjournals.org/content/3/2/166.full


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Monday, August 23, 2010

Meet Lord Whitehouse

Lord Whitehouse of Suckley can trace his ancestry all the way back to his father. This is, of course, a rare attribute among the English aristocracy. The Whitehouse estate, all six hundred acres of it, straddles the border of Herefordshire and Worcestershire and provides him with a panoramic view of both counties. As I walk through the rococo-decorated front entrance, I am ‘welcomed’ by His Lordship’s best friend, a nine-year-old Burnese Mountain Dog (Figure 7.1).

‘He’s a sniffer dog,’ he explains. ‘Crotches, mainly. Especially if they’re sweaty. Never fails to investigate a stranger down at the village pub.’

His local, incidentally, is the Nelson Inn, a mile down the lane at Longley Green, where once he drunkenly introduced himself as: ‘Suckhouse. Lord Suckhouse of Whiteley’.

‘The Nelson is a marvellous watering hole,’ he enthuses, saliva dribbling down his chin. ‘But the lanes are unlit. One has to walk home in complete darkness.’ He leans forward and grins. ‘Arrived home covered in cow dung last week. Took a short cut across the meadow and my flat cap blew orf. Found it all right, but not before I’d tried on a few others.’

The remaining (non-alcoholic) part of his diet consists mainly of scotch eggs and blackberries, most of which he pilfers from the banks of the Severn in Worcester or, failing that, his neighbours’ gardens.

‘Did try one of those Indian curries once,’ he says, recoiling. ‘Damned near burned my mouth.’ His eyes suddenly widen. ‘And, let me tell you, worse was to follow.’ At which point, he laughs so hard that he starts coughing. ‘Digestive system can be somewhat unpredictable at my age. Diarrhoea and so forth. Usually torrential. Sometimes explosive.’ He shakes his head vigorously. ‘Never been one for surprises.’ He laughs again and wags a forefinger. ‘My old underpants are not to be sniffed at.’

‘Who owns the adjacent property?’ I ask him, changing the subject.

‘Ah, just some city lawyer. Lowers the standard somewhat. And knows nothing of country life.’ He reaches for his whisky glass and talks into it. ‘Blithering idiot, he puts manure on his strawberries.’ He lowers the glass and belches. ‘I prefer ice-cream on mine.’

The latest Lady Whitehouse, an Essex blonde twenty years his junior, is oblivious to any of his five previous marriages. A graphic designer, she is equally eccentric in her own way. Her main passion is for cleaning up after horses, and she spends most evenings up to her neck in her work. His Lordship tries manfully to tolerate her singular passion.

‘I don’t object to horses per se, you understand. It’s the manure I find hard to swallow.’

‘I thought you preferred ice-cream,’ I add.

‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ he says, missing the joke. ‘And blackberries to strawberries.’

‘What about booze? Any preferences?’

‘Single malt.’ He leans towards me. ‘After reading about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.’

‘So whisky is the answer, is it?’

‘No, but it certainly helps me to forget the question.’

A surreal hour with one of the guardians of the English countryside comes to an end when his good lady reappears. He winks at her and gestures for her to sit on his knee, thereby confirming his reputation of being eccentric, sociable, accommodating ... and very, very drunk.

Figure 7.1: 'Balti', the resident hound at Four Turrets Manor

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Galileo In The Kop

Anfield. Tuesday, 1st May, 2007.

The Champions’ League semi-final, second leg, between Liverpool and Chelsea had just ended 1-1, after extra time. This all-important tie was to be settled by a nerve-wracking penalty shoot-out. A toss of a coin determined the end at which the match would be settled. Liverpool won the toss. The finale would, therefore, take place at their famous ‘Kop’ end, where thousands of their noisiest supporters were congregated.

The fans knew this would be advantageous. When one of their own players stepped up to take a kick, they would be absolutely still and respectfully quiet, so as not to distract him. Conversely, when a Chelsea player did the same, they would move wildly about and create the most raucous din possible. Why? Because they have learned that vocal intimidation affects opponents’ concentration.

Chelsea scored only one of their five penalties. Liverpool converted three and won the match.

As tense as the spectacle was, it was nothing new to the Anfield faithful. After a similarly thrilling European match in the early 1990s, a previous manager, Graeme Souness, equated the Kop’s deafening roar to an extra player. Few disputed his logic. Put simply, crowd noise counts.

Allow me, now, to open up a parallel thread, as it were. It pertains to the equally heady world of pure mathematics. There is a particular type of algebraic curve called a parabola. Physical manifestations of this curve, such as the Sydney Harbour Bridge (Figure 6.1) or a jet of water from a fountain, are thus said to be parabolic. (This shape is important in mathematics, physics and structural engineering. It applies, also, to projectiles. For example, the path of a football kicked into the air will be parabolic. Every time. How hard it is kicked and the angle at which it leaves the ground are immaterial. The same is true of a golf ball, a javelin or a ballistic missile. If a moving object is subject only to gravity, then its trajectory will necessarily be parabolic.)


Figure 6.1: The parabolic bridge spanning Sydney Harbour

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

One of its mathematical properties is of great consequence. Every parabola has a so-called focus. If, for example, a light source is placed at the focus of a parabolic mirror, then, no matter where on its inner surface the light rays contact, they will be reflected in a parallel beam (Figure 6.2). This is the principle of a searchlight.


Figure 6.2: All waves, of either light or sound, emerge in parallel

Now, back to football. In 2003, Liverpool were granted planning permission to build a new stadium at nearby Stanley Park. The proposed new Kop Stand will be - ingeniously - a three-dimensional parabola. The crowd will be seated at and around the focus. As sound waves behave exactly like light rays, the noise generated, tremendous as it is, will be reflected from all over the inside surface of the stand to form a parallel ‘beam’. In other words, only a bare minimum of sound will dissipate. Almost all of it will be channelled, like a searchlight, towards the pitch. The net effect will, of course, be substantial amplification of vocal support for the home team.

There are already some famous behind-the-goal stands in English football. Manchester United’s Stretford End, for instance, was designed for 12,000. The present Kop at Anfield holds slightly more, 12,390, and Aston Villa’s Holte End caters for a whopping 13,472. The new Kop has a provisional capacity of 18,500, which would blow away all today’s competition. Moreover, taking into account its ingenious ‘parabolic reflection’ facility, an amplification boost of, say, 30% would create the equivalent noise of 25,000. This would be double the intensity of noise generated by today’s Kop.

When the new stadium is built, as well as having the combined passion of thousands more fans, Liverpool will also be able to summon the combined expertise of Menaechmus, Apollonius, Galileo, James Gregory and Sir Isaac Newton (Figure 6.3).

More penalties will be missed, for sure.


Figure 6.3: Can the application of mathematics skew the playing field in Liverpool's favour?

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Friday, August 06, 2010

From Here To Absurdity

Schopenhauer once wrote that absurdity is the king of the world, relinquishing control only for brief periods. Any writer or dramatist who attempts to create it from scratch is wasting his energy. It is far easier simply to wait for reality to deliver it on a silver platter. After all, it is never likely to take long.

Here is a chain of events relayed to me recently by a friend of a friend. I was taken into confidence on the condition that I would not put any of it in writing. I gave my word but, after listening to the story, tried shamelessly to grab it back. The compromise was that I would 'tweak' the details so as not to identify those involved. Here goes.


Figure 5.1: Artwork inspired by A.W.

Becky and Ballard have been on the verge of separation for years. Only apathy has kept them together this long. Last week, however, it became known to my friend that Becky had bought another house. Nothing unusual, or unexpected, about that, except that she had done it without telling Ballard. Even more astonishingly, her new house was just a hundred yards down the lane from the one they still shared.

One Saturday last month, Becky decided to spend a few hours' solitary relaxation in her secretly-acquired space. This was on the pretext of a shopping trip to town, ten miles away. When she announced her intention, however, Ballard insisted, to her stifled annoyance, on giving her a lift. She cursed him under her breath, put on a sickly smile and climbed into the car.

On arrival in town, she waved goodbye to him and, once he was out of sight, cursed him again and headed straight for the bus station. There, she waited for half an hour, boarded a bus and spent another half-hour stop-starting all the way back to square one.

In order to reach her new pad from the bus stop, she had to walk past the marital home. She anticipated not being seen, as Ballard was still in town. So she thought. To her horror, as she walked down the lane, a familiar grey Toyota appeared in the distance.

Ballard wound down the driver's window. 'What are you doing back here?'

'I forgot my credit card,' she said, innocently. 'You're home early.'

'I know. The blokes at the garage fixed it while I waited.'

Becky unlocked the front door and went upstairs. What happened next?

Groundhog Day.

Ballard called casually after her: 'There's no need to rush - I'll take you back into town!'

Now spitting bricks, she climbed into the car - again - and endured a carbon copy of the ten-mile trip. As Ballard drove away - again - she retraced her steps to the bus station and boarded the very same bus, which was being driven by the same driver, who probably thought he was losing his mind.

It was midday when Becky arrived back where she had started, by which time it was pouring with rain. Such is the poetry of moral justice, I suppose.

The difference between creative genius and absurdity?

Genius has its limits.


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Tuesday, August 03, 2010

Ophidiophobia

The first snake I ever saw was on Brighton Promenade. I was twenty-two years old. It was an African rock python (Python sebae), if I remember correctly, and I posed for a photograph with it wrapped around me. Its handler had attracted a small crowd, all presumably thinking that his 'pet' posed no danger to them. (Why, otherwise, would it have been let out?) Not everyone stopped to investigate, though. Some people watched, with a mixture of apprehension and repulsion, from a safe distance; others took one glance and moved smartly on.

My next encounter was not quite such a relaxed affair. Five years later, while travelling with an American friend in Northern Thailand, I came within ten yards of a monocled cobra (Naja kaouthia) (Figure 4.1). No longer than a few feet in length, and with dull, brown skin, it looked none too threatening - until it raised its head, fanned out its neck and made an ominous noise. This time, a photo opportunity was not on the cards. My pal, anxious at the best of times, almost laid a duck egg. Without needing to confer, we turned and ran, and decided immediately against sleeping under the stars.

Figure 4.1: Meet Mr Naja kaouthia, better known as the monocled cobra

Copyright 2010 Heinz Klaus Thiesen

Our fear was well founded. The venom of this species contains an extremely potent neurotoxin (nerve poison). Very few bite victims survive. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can still see the thing and shudder at the thought of what might have been.

Many children, including my own, are fascinated, and quite fearless, when in contact with snakes in a 'safe' setting (Figure 4.2). Their reaction to meeting one, unexpectedly, in the wild, however, might well mimic my own several years ago.

Figure 4.2: Father and son with a six-year-old Boa constrictor

Copyright 2010 Suzanne Knipe

Most people, worldwide, are inherently wary of snakes. This is in spite of the majority of them having never encountered one in an uncontrolled environment. Some are utterly terrified. Others cannot even bear to look at pictures of snakes. Fear of this nature qualifies as phobia - ophidiophobia, to be precise.

Why, then, if actual danger is, in most cases, non-existent, is fear all but universal? Most modern living environments are, in this respect, perfectly safe. Parents do not warn their children to keep an eye out for snakes whenever they venture outdoors. There is no need. The answer can be explained only in the light of evolutionary biology.

The environment of our ape-like ancestors was significantly different from our own. The threat from snakes was, in many parts of the world, real and constant. Individuals who had innate ability to anticipate danger (with, for example, fast reflexes and sharp peripheral vision), along with the good sense to avoid anything wriggling along the ground, would have been more likely to survive than those who had not. Hence, their reproductive success would have reflected this advantage. The long-term effect is that those who reacted reflexively to snakes would have survived to produce a greater number of descendants.

Biological evolution is, overall, a slow process. Conversely, environmental change need not be. Humans, today, carry the snake-fearing genes of their ancestors, despite those same genes now bestowing little benefit in a world which has moved on. In other words, our 'old' genes still hold sway in our 'new' environment.

This leads us to a broader consideration of what determines all the other aspects of human behaviour. Where, indeed, would be the best place to begin?

Our DNA, that's where.


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery


Sunday, August 01, 2010

Save St Mary's Lodge

St Mary's Lodge is situated between twin reservoirs on Lordship Road, Stoke Newington, London. Built in 1843, this 13-room property, complete with substantial gardens, incorporates subtle architectural features such as arched windows and terracotta brickwork accents.

Of all the elegant Victorian houses which once adorned this part of the capital, St Mary's is the last one standing. Well, just about. Today, tragically, it is a wreck. Ravaged by fire in 2005, and since used as a tyre dump, it has remained neglected and uninhabitable ever since. It would still, nevertheless, be possible to restore it as a unique development for the people of Hackney Borough.

There is, of course, a good reason behind my keen interest in the Lodge's future. It was designed and constructed by my forefather, Mr John Young (1797-1877) (Figure 3.1), renowned architect and erstwhile Surveyor to the City of London. Among his other works is the Royal Marsden Hospital on London's Fulham Road (Figure 3.2).

Figure 3.1: My ancestor, the architect John Young (1797-1877)

To be exact, he was my great-great-great-grandfather. His daughter, Caroline Pettis Young (1838-1908) married my great-great-grandfather, Mr James Knight Spradbery (1841-1907) in 1865.

Figure 3.2: The Royal Marsden Hospital, London (1863)

My forebears lived in the property until 1878, when it was sold to a wealthy corn merchant, Mr William Crabb. Despite the Crabb family living there for only six years, a fascinating story about their grandson emerged in 2006, fifty years after his death. Lionel 'Buster' Crabb OBE, GM (1909-1956) had become famous, posthumously, after winning the George Cross for outstanding courage during World War Two. The acclaimed 1957 film The Silent Enemy tells of his days as a Royal Navy diver and intelligence agent. According to newly-released documents, he was eventually murdered and dismembered by a Russian frogman while attempting to attach a surveillance device to the hull of a Soviet warship. A dangerous occupation, if ever there was one.

Almost a century later, the Lodge had assumed a quite different status. In 1961, London County Council utilized the building as a charity-run hostel for single mothers. Although fondly remembered by many of its occupants, the facility closed in the mid-1990s (Figure 3.3) and was subsequently vandalized until completely derelict (Figure 3.4).

Figure 3.3: St Mary's Lodge in 1993

Copyright 2006 Charles Rohrer

Encouragingly, there now exists an energetic campaign dedicated to its restoration. However, the possibility of full renovation has been hampered by complex legal wrangling, involving not only its current owner, but also the Mayor of Hackney, various local councillors and Stoke Newington's MP, Diane Abbott.

I hope desperately that an acceptable agreement can be reached in the near future. Otherwise, an impressive facet of East London's history will be lost forever.

Figure 3.4: St Mary's Lodge in 2003

Copyright 2006 Charles Rohrer


The campaign to save St Mary's Lodge is based at:

http://www.stmaryslodge.co.uk/

Further information regarding John Young can be found at:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stoke Newington

National Archives files appertaining to Lionel 'Buster' Crabb can be accessed at:

http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/releases/2006/october/crabb.htm

A concise account of Crabb's life and work, along with further references, is available at:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lionel Crabb


I should like to thank Mr Charles 'Chuck' Rohrer, a leading campaigner, for allowing me to include his photographs in this article. He describes the Youngs and their descendants as 'an interesting bunch'.

Thanks, Chuck!


Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Friday, July 30, 2010

The CSI's Tale

Forensic Science seems to be all the rage these days. Between 2003 and 2008, British universities experienced an jump from 2,191 to 5,664 yearly applicants. This invites the question: why? Well, according to the Skills For Justice (SFJ) quango, television programmes such as CSI, Silent Witness and Waking The Dead have made relatively little contribution to this 160% increase.

Pull the other one. Being a Forensics graduate, I know that this argument is fallacious; as does the Head of Forensics at the University of Chester, an inspirational man called Dr Ian McDowall. SFJ admits that its findings were obtained by the completion of questionnaires, which, as everyone knows, are notoriously unreliable. Many interviewees are less than entirely candid, and this level of qualitative research is often undermined by either potential conflicts of interest or poor wording of the questions themselves.

Looking back, I feel quite privileged, having been able to work with a broad range of students from various corners of the world. We spent more time together throughout that three-year period than we did with our respective families. Naturally, we came to know each other inside out. Most turned out - unlike myself - to be CSI addicts and, consequently, geared their studies towards a career in fieldwork as opposed to laboratory-based disciplines.

My own principal fascination was for Molecular Genetics, especially the methods of extracting DNA from various types of cell and subsequent analysis of its polymorphisms ('many forms'). The ingenuity underpinning this new branch of science is mind-blowing. Google the phrase 'polymerase chain reaction' and you will appreciate my point. It is, in my view, the most powerful asset of modern forensic science: that such conclusive, and highly consequential, evidence can be secured from so little physical material.

Among the Biological Sciences staff, all experts in their own fields, was a CSI and fingerprint specialist who had twenty years' experience at New Scotland Yard. The first time I met him, I thought to myself: 'I bet this guy has a staggering collection of anecdotes.' So he did. Of the ones he saw fit to share, one tickled me purple.

Once, as an inexperienced investigator, Chris had been called to a student residence following an alleged burglary. Being methodical, he began to process the scene room by room, beginning in what he believed could have been the point of entry. In a ground-floor bedroom, shattered glass from the window lay scattered across the carpet. Drawers had been upturned and clothes strewn randomly everywhere. Chris evaluated the mess and set about his work, making detailed notes and sketches and dusting surfaces for finger marks.

Only when the occupant reappeared did Chris realize that he had been wasting his time. The student stated categorically that no one had in fact entered his room. In other words, the place resembled a crime scene before the burglar had even dropped by - broken glass and all. Brilliant.

Those three years were invaluable, both professionally and personally. Word of mouth, alongside popular television shows, will ensure that interest in Forensic Science, and in particular Forensic Biology, continues to grow in the imaginations of tomorrow's aspiring scientists.

In addition to taking First Class Honours, my research was published in Bioscience Horizons, 3(2), pp. 166-178, by Oxford University Press in June of this year.

An edited version of the paper, entitled Restriction Fragment Length Polymorphisms of Mutans Streptococci in Forensic Odontological Analysis, can be found at:

http://biohorizons.oxfordjournals.org/content/3/2/166.full

Further details of Forensic Science courses at the University of Chester can be found at:

http://www.chester.ac.uk/

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Monday, July 26, 2010

Viva San Roque!

The hilltop town of San Roque in southern Spain is the perfect home from home. Situated in the Cadiz province of Andalucia, it overlooks, from an altitude of 350 feet, both the breathtaking Bay of Algeciras and the hills of North Africa. Most significantly, it lies just five miles north of Gibraltar (Figure 1.1), and this geographical proximity is central to its recent history.

Figure 1.1: Location of San Roque, Andalucia, Spain

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

From 1701 until 1714, the War of the Spanish Succession raged throughout Iberia. The conflict emanated from the plan to unify Spain and France under a single (Bourbon) king. Not surprisingly, such a prospect sent shockwaves throughout the rest of Europe. The dispute began when the childless Charles II, of the House of Habsburg (Austria), left everything to his half-sister's grandson, Philip, who happened, also, to be the son of King Louis XIV of France. Consequently, Philip was crowned King of Spain while being simultaneously eligible to assume the French throne. This was vehemently opposed by, among others, Great Britain, and war became inevitable.
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The Holy Roman Emperor, Leopold I, insisted that the Habsburg claim was the more valid. A large coalition was then formed to oppose Louis XIV by defending existing territories and gaining new ones. The Dutch Republic, Portugal, Bavaria and the Duchy of Savoy all had their own interests. Spain itself had divided loyalties, and civil war could not be prevented. Nor was the fighting restricted to Europe. It spread to the Caribbean and other colonies in America both North and South, hence becoming known as 'Queen Anne's War', after the eponymous monarch had become Queen regnant of England, Scotland and Ireland in 1702.
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Eventually, Philip did become King (Philip V) of Spain but had to renounce his claim to France and make heavy concessions to the likes of Great Britain. A total of 400,000 people were killed throughout the 13-year conflict.

In 1704, British and Dutch naval forces invaded Gibraltar. The Gibraltarians surrendered within days and were given a stark choice: swear allegiance to the Habsburgs or flee the peninsula. 98% of families refused to acquiesce and left, perhaps confident that they would soon be free to return. Prior to this so-called Exodus of Gibraltar, local men were killed, women abused and religious buildings and artefacts destroyed. Most refugees settled in nearby San Roque. There was no homecoming, so most of them remained there. In 1706, King Philip gave the town its official motto:
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Muy Noble y Muy Leal cuidad de San Roque, donde reside la de Gibraltar

This translates as:
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'Very Noble and Very Loyal city of San Roque, where Gibraltar lives on.'
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Today, San Roque has fewer than 30,000 inhabitants. (Walking through the town's narrow streets and thoroughfares, even this modest figure seems hard to believe.) However, this total might well be breached within the next decade. In the first half of the 2000s, the local population rose by 11%. Clearly, such a rate is unsustainable, as subsequent pressure on its infrastructure and social amenities intensifies. I hope only that the place retains its character, architectural styles and distinctive Andalucian charm.
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Everything here is so thoughtfully maintained. San Roque is a jewel of the Andalucian coast and its inhabitants treat it as such. Streets are immaculate, buildings' exteriors are freshly painted and colourful container plants ramble across quaint, wrought iron balconies.
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Historical buildings dominate. The neoclassical ermita (chapel), honoured by a statue of Saint Roch, celebrated its bicentenary in 2001. Older still is the parish church of St Mary the Crowned (Figure 1.2). Restaurants and bars are mainly family-run, each atmosphere having evolved naturally over time rather than been hastily contrived by ignorant marketing executives.

Figure 1.2: St Mary the Crowned Parish Church on the Plaza de Armas

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

I remember the first time I visited Venice, Italy. My girlfriend described the experience as being akin to wandering around a huge film set. San Roque is similarly evocative, albeit in a more understated fashion. Much reminds me of the works of American realist painter Edward Hopper (1882-1967). The town appears to encapsulate all that fascinated him as an artist: light reflecting from whitewashed walls; near-deserted streets (Figure 1.3); solitary houses on hillcrests; aloof and introspective figures; simple beauty in the mundane; and sublime detail, fully appreciable only by those wandering nowhere in particular, with all day to get there. Hopper did, in fact, visit Spain, in 1910, but ventured no further south than Madrid. More's the pity: he might have drawn great inspiration from this place.

Figure 1.3: Early morning in San Roque

Copyright 2007 Mirco Rehmeier

By writing so passionately about the town, I ought to point out that I am not paid to do so. I do, nonetheless, admit to a significant degree of personal bias. Some of my ancestors were Spanish - hence the colour of my eyes and hair - and one of them, my greatgrandmother Josepha Maria Moreno (Figure 1.4) was born and raised in San Roque itself in the late nineteenth century. Indeed, the name itself means 'dark and swarthy', mora translating as 'blackberry'. It is probably the Spanish equivalent of 'Brown', which was, funnily enough, the maiden name of my British grandmother.

Figure 1.4: Josepha Maria Moreno of San Roque, Andalucia

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery

Currently resident in the town and its satellite villages, there are still several Moreno families, some of whom might well be distant cousins, although I have yet to meet any of them knowingly. According to the Instituto Genealogico e Historico Latino-Americano, the name is commonly found throughout not only Andalucia, but also Santander, La Rioja, Aragon, Castile and Extremadura.

It would be logical to assume that people whose municipality lies at the junction of two continents, three distinct cultures - British, Spanish and Arabic - a sea and an ocean would have strict regard for autonomy and independence. So they do, too. They always have done. The ancient city of Carteya, now Cerro del Prado at the mouth of the river, even went so far as to mint its own coins. Add to that the fact that, three centuries ago, the Spanish were 'ethnically cleansed' from the Gibraltar Peninsula, and it is easy to understand their hostility to external political interference.

This attitude remains potent today, despite Spain being one of the European Union's largest net beneficiaries. The locals possess impressive historical knowledge. Some equate any attempt to construct a pan-European superstate to the re-emergence of the Roman Empire, whereas others view it as un pacto con el diablo - a pact with the Devil - which is widely considered to be a lesser evil! One brooding old man I encountered, over at the wonderfully authentic Bar Torres on the cobbled Plaza de Andalucia, stated that those who sacrifice sovereignty for the promise of economic advantage deserve to lose both - and frequently do. Profound, considering that he was half-drunk. Such a view is commonly held here, and I would find it hard to disagree. In a world awash with mindless compromises and lazy expedients, the Sanroquenos are a principled lot. I salute them and remain proud of my Andalucian heritage.

Es bueno estar aqui!

Copyright 2010 Paul Spradbery