Just going about their business…

This week’s archaeology lecture was a very interesting session on the preserving qualities of sand, with specific reference to Links of Noltland, up on Westray, Orkney. This is an important late Neolithic/Bronze Age site (which means 3000 BCE-2500 BCE) – even the name juggles both Scots, Norse and English – and, like a lot of Orkney’s heritage, is both buried in sand and vulnerable to coastal erosion. Excavating the site, and preserving it for future use, represents a challenge in which available resources are confronted with the remorseless impact of time.

Consequently it provides an excellent illustration of the coastal archaeology course on which I’m enrolled; and has important resonance for the Western Isles given that a large number of the sites of archaeological interest – over 13,000 of them – on these islands are coastal (or, at least, they are now…) and a large number of those are buried in the sand beneath our feet.

My lecture notes need a little more time for reflection as the content was complex but the week also featured a good class discussion (online, of course) inspired by two items of source material which looked at what prehistoric civilisations can tell us about dealing with coastal erosion. The first was a 2009 article by Jim Leary in the Oxford Journal of Archaeology looking at the flooding of the North Sea lowlands; the second a contemporary piece by Robert Barnett and Sophie Ward in The Conversation looking at how rising sea levels affected what is now the Scilly Isles, in the south-west corner of the UK.

There is little evidence as to what happened to the peoples who once inhabited the vast area of the North Sea lowlands – Doggerland – which once connected the UK and continental Europe (why didn’t they write anything down?!) and so essentially we are only surmising about what became of them; but there is a little more evidence from Scilly, where rising sea levels were associated not with a decline in human activity, as might be expected, but in a flourishing of it. The key point is of course that coastal change, erosion and rising sea levels affect people in different ways depending on precise location – the spark for Barnett and Ward’s conclusion that it is local communities that have to drive response plans. Scilly may well have flourished whereas Doggerland – hit by immensely rising sea levels (of about 1.25 cm/year; or 30+cm per generation) – had already become a series of low-lying islands even before the ‘Storegga Slide’ swept much of the rest of the land away.

The question which occupied much of the class discussion – and which is also well addressed by Leary, although the simple lack of evidence leads him to go a little anthropological in the middle – was why people stay in low-lying areas affected by inundations and rising sea levels. It’s evidently a recurring question. Many people – in many communities around the world and including up on Baile Sear, which has been the focus of all our field trips so far – are also facing similar questions. Aside of the very different, and the changing nature of, the barriers to mobility, human beings across thousands of years are likely to have had fairly similar answers to tidal inundations and to the essential question, posed restrospectively, of ‘why didn’t they leave?’: family; community; and residence. All provide ties to the land (and/or the sea), even in hunter-gatherer societies; and all provide very valid justifications for not moving, in spite of all the evidence surrounding them.

Mulling over these questions later that evening while watching a bit of TV – it does sometimes happen in this household – I was struck by something really rather profound said by one of the characters in The Missing, a programme made by the BBC (of course) and whose second series was filmed in 2016. Both series were well received and well-watched, it appears, although it is an open question as to whether such a series – set in Europe, featuring characters speaking languages that are not their own and, where they are speaking their own language, the dialogue is not always sub-titled into English – would be commissioned in these Brexter’d Isles today. Anyway, Julien Baptiste, a retired (and ill) detective, is travelling in 2014 in northern Iraq/Iraqi Kurdistan to find evidence in support of a promise made to a parent of a murdered teenager and he has procured Stefan Andersson, a journalist, as travelling companion. Reaching the city of Azwya, which has been the subject of recent intense fighting between Isil forces and the Kurdish Peshmerga, they first encounter utter desolation – not a soul in sight and every building stripped back to the bare bricks by shells and gunfire, roofless and only frames where windows and doors used to be, concrete acting as road blocks and rubble everywhere. Later, they sit down watching some young lads playing football, while some semblance of normal life returns behind them. People had, it seems, been in hiding from the fighting.

Baptiste: ‘Remarkable, is it not? In front of all this, people still go about their business.’

Andersson: ‘This is the only way of taking control of your life, I suppose. Feeling like your future is in your own hands for a change.’ (The Missing, Series II, programme 2 ‘The Turtle and the Stick’ @ 42.05)

It struck me immediately that this is likely to be a time-honoured response to disaster, whether in Azwya in the middle of the Iraq War; or on Doggerland or on Scilly thousands of years ago. Faced with problems that are external in nature and environmental, which wreak their own havoc and which exist beyond your own control and your own plans, your choices are limited – of course, you organise to fight back, however you can and by whatever means. But, ultimately, you stay because that remains your decision and, when everything else is being taken away, that decision – perverse as it might sometimes appear – is the only thing that remains your own and within your own control.

What should Auntie do now?

Yesterday’s announcement by DCMS Culture Secretary freezing the BBC licence fee for the next two years (until April 2024) before allowing it to rise in line with inflation until April 2028, was an interesting exercise in news management since much of the coverage concerned how the licence fee will be replaced from 2028. The DCMS statement itself really wasn’t about that – the future beyond 2028 was somewhat shoe-horned into the press release as its very last paragraph, covering around 60 words out of about 900.

Nevertheless, the BBC has some powerful detractors in the media, all with their own vested interests in getting rid of the licence fee; the ongoing ‘culture war’ evidently sees the BBC as one enemy (among many); and Secretary of State Nadine Dorries first announced the news by the somewhat unusual method of tweeting out a link to a Daily Mail article (and clearly setting out her own agenda for the press release in the process), only tweeting the link to the official DCMS press release sometime later. A department whose current political head believes that this licence fee settlement should be the last might seem – in the context of a forthcoming separate consultation on ‘whether the licence fee will remain a viable funding model for the BBC’ – might seem to have rather pre-judged the outcome of that consultation.

And, of course – of course – this government of populists (that is, this Prime Minister) needs a few distracting headlines of its own right now.

The single argument raised in support of the freeze – that people facing ‘a sharp increase in their living costs’ could not be asked to pay more for the BBC at this point – is a powerful, but multi-sided, one. We should question the role being played by the government’s own policies in the steepness of that increase and what it ought to be doing to redress those in practice.

Furthermore, this is a government whose policies usually pay attention to the living standards of working people only when it suits it: it is failing to address the dramatic rise in energy costs being experienced by people whose energy suppliers (or re-sellers) are bankrupting themselves; it refused to extend the £20 uplift to universal credit given during the early stages of Covid-19; and it only acted on free school meals during school holidays when it was publicly shamed into doing so by Marcus Rashford (whose subsequent gong courtesy of Her Madge is telling on so many levels). The failure of wages even to keep pace with inflation – yesterday’s other half of today’s living costs news – gives a further lie to the arguments of Brexiteer cheerleaders (Nadine Dorries among them) about the ‘reserve army of labour’ coming from the EU (to which there were anyway other solutions than Brexit): almost as if the weakness of our labour market institutions (i.e. our trade unions) hadn’t been the intended result of much of public labour market policy for the last forty years. And, indeed, where is the Employment Bill?

Naturally, a ‘sharp rise’ in inflation means that the freezing of the BBC licence fee will have an even more deleterious impact on its services – that’s programmes, of course – since it will need to be either ‘absorbed’ (by way of ‘efficiencies’ – also known as ‘cuts’) or else in reduced levels of programming (which are also quite clearly cuts).

While recognising that £159/year (or £13.25/month) is a lot of money – quarterly and monthly payment options are available, at little or no extra cost – and that more needs to be done in respect of those on low incomes and the elderly, I think the licence fee provides good value and should be retained. This is clearly not a popular view – note that the BBC’s own reporting of yesterday’s story contains, quite uniquely, a section on ‘Can I legally avoid paying the licence fee?’ – but I’m far from alone here: in-depth 2016 opinion poll research by GfK (for the government) on the alternative options then under consideration emerged with the view that the licence fee was actually the most favoured of these (section 7; p. 40ff).

Comparatively speaking, the licence fee is also in fairly rude health. A subscription to the news and opinion columns of a leading newspaper, often linked to in these parts, is £119/year (or £11.99/month); a Netflix subscription costs, at basic, single, level £5.99/month – or £13.99 for a family of four watching screens at the same time; Sky plus Netflix is £26/month (18-month contract); and Sky plus Netflix plus broadband stacks out at £46/month (18-month contract). With Netflix – a platform which, essentially, is collecting your information about your viewing habits with a view to monetising you further – there is of course no public service broadcasting element; Sky – no longer a vehicle of the Murdoch family following its sale to US giant Comcast in 2018 – also has no public service broadcasting obligations and its basic programming (not including sports…) thus costs at least as much again as the BBC licence fee. In terms of earnings, the £3.05/week which the licence fee costs (per household) compares pretty favourably with the £550/week which is the November 2021 average weekly pay figure.

Quite a lot of people yesterday were spending time justifying – one way or another – their BBC viewing and listening habits, but I think this is a dead end. I suspect that few of us escape the BBC entirely (and why on earth would you want to?) and, while there are rightly some things that need to be learned around pay equality, around some of its editorial decisions, around its interpretation of its requirement for impartiality (flat earth being but the latest ridiculousness), as well as around its role as a part of the establishment, the BBC does do a lot of things very well. It’s very easy to focus on an area of public spending on which individuals don’t see a lot of personal return (health, roads, benefits) and demand a cut – but we can’t escape taxation and we don’t live in a pick’n’mix society (and nor should we). There is, however, such a thing as public goods – things for which we all pay regardless of individual consumption but which lowers the cost to all of us. To me, the BBC is a public good (a look at other subscriptions – as above – points heavily in this direction, too) – and the ‘soft power’ return to ‘global Britain’ of a corporation which has worldwide brand recognition and which enjoys global trust is incalculable. We squander that at our peril.

Nevertheless, the perils of squandering things do not tend to occupy for very long the thought processes of vandals determined to stamp their boots over society. Dorries’s very public scribbling on the wall doesn’t signal the end of the licence fee as much as advertise for trainee grave diggers and fire lighters – though we should note that 2028 is at least one government away, and that even 2024 may well not end up within the purview of this one (please). Dorries herself is unlikely to see 2024 in post – there have been no fewer than six secretaries of state within DCMS in the 4.5 years since it was established and she is thus already almost half-way through the average tenure.

If I was Tim Davie, I would thus be putting a deal of effort into building relationships within the opposition, within the trade unions and within the creative sector generally ahead of the DCMS consultation with a view to building as much support as possible around the future for public service broadcasting in order to raise public perceptions of how much the BBC does in this area. While the question of the consultation is for another day (it will come: this government is, in respect of its pet projects, one that is in a hurry, as much as it is slothful elsewhere), I note that the BBC is not the only public service broadcaster and that others are funded for this role from central taxation. Where we end up in terms of BBC funding, presuming a continuation of current policy, may well therefore be some sort of hybrid model of central taxation plus subscription (I’m not arguing for this – just what I think is most likely). In this respect, maximising the channels which are geared to delivering public service broadcasting (and which are funded out of taxation) may well be the best means of minimising the impact of those boots.

[EDITED 19 January 2021 to record that Sky is now owned by Comcast.]

The power of words

Like a lot of people in my corner of the internet, I’ve recently become attracted to the daily Wordle puzzle published online. I first came across it via Twitter, when some of those I follow started around the turn of the year to publish some strange coloured runes accompanied by a wee bit of unfathomable text – and then someone posted a link to a short news item (now lost to me, I’m afraid) giving me a clue as to what it’s all about.

For the uninitiated, this version of Wordle (I first encountered the word years ago as a form of software for drawing word clouds to help make visual sense of large blocks of text, now with an address slightly shifted to edwordle.net) is a simple word game in which you have six goes to guess a five-letter (proper) word. The response to each guess you make is a green tile for a letter which is in the right place in the target word; an amber one for a letter which is in the target word but not in the same place as in your entry; and a grey tile for each letter in your entry which is not in the target word. It’s a bit like the ‘Mastermind’ board game in the 1970s, only with words as the target rather than coloured pegs; and you get fewer goes (but, as a result, with more specific information in response). I didn’t really get Mastermind (others did…) and probably the key for me is the use of words here rather than coloured pegs.

Each day’s Wordle is posted on a simple website – www.powerlanguage.co.uk/wordle – and its ‘inventor’ is ‘Josh Wardle’ who describes himself as an ‘artist, product manager and engineer’ and whose confessed purpose is to use the game to focus on human interaction. The result is that your Wordle results are easily shareable: the link to do so translates the outcome of your game into the runes I described above (and of which you may be able to see some examples down there on the left margin of this page) from which it’s a simple matter to paste into your social(s) of choice. Twitter, in my case. There is an unspoken code of conduct between players in which there are no spoilers; and the tiles within the ‘share’ button hide all the letters of your guesses so, on viewing others’ achievements, you know neither the solution nor the letters which are no longer in play.

It is, ultimately, just a bit of fun although these days there’s not that much on the internet that’s ‘just for fun’.

Yesterday’s Wordle indeed caused a bit of a kerfuffle, as you might well be able to judge from my outcome screenshot below (and which will lead to some merriment among my language editing clients who are, at first glance, bemused by my question as to whether they want what Microsoft, rather loosely, calls ‘US English’ or ‘UK English’). Some were angry at the apparent misdirection which had led to their stats of solved puzzles being undermined, or at solutions being found in more goes than hitherto, as well as to the numbers of words now in play which do not exactly ‘favour’ UK players; others were more resigned about the clues this gives to the state of the world (and, you might think, ‘global Britain’s’ place within it).

Given that you start with a blank sheet of paper, the game is surprisingly easy to get right and I wouldn’t be surprised if my ‘completed’ stats (75%; based on two out of eight games not being completed (I’m not exactly an early adopter…): one the first as I put in any old nonsense to check how it worked; the other another early attempt where I had a 50:50 at go six and plumped for the wrong one) were not among the lowest of regular users. I did, however, spend a lot more time on this one than on the others. After go two, I knew the word had an ‘a’ in place two and ended with an ‘r’; word endings of ‘-ur’ are not that common; while not that many end in ‘-or’ either (depending, of course, on your dictionary) although there aren’t many other choices than these. I got lucky with go three (I was thinking of valorise – and don’t get me started there, either!) which told me it ended in ‘-avor’ but I still wasn’t thinking of the US approach to spelling, running through my options twice before plumping, with a fair degree of trepidation, for ‘favor’ (as there was nothing else it could have been).

The feeling of being let-down was present, although brief: ‘Josh’ is American so this sort of problem and these sorts of feelings simply wouldn’t occur. And, of course, all these games have to start with some sort of a dictionary – and therein lies a world of debate between users of English. I’m not complaining – keeping all this in the air for other people does help to keep me in work 🙂

In my case, I was more upset about the apparent misdirection: the .co.uk suffix in the website’s domain name had, for me, led to a non-thinking, automatic presumption of the use of ‘UK English’ on the site (although I also know that country code top level domains haven’t been restricted to the countries concerned for over twenty years now – and which process has made a bit of money for Tuvalu (.tv) and Montenegro (.me). Being ‘UK English’ myself, that sort of presumption comes anyway as naturally as ‘US English’ would to an American. Other languages wouldn’t have this sort of problem – and I can easily see versions of Wordle working very well at powerlanguage.de, powerlanguage.ro and powerlanguage.ba, for instance. (Well, maybe not .de on the grounds that there may well not be enough five-letter words around in German.)

But we are precious about our stats and our record and achievements; and about a presumption of simple honesty of those who deal with us, even if we are partnering with an algorithm of some kind. We don’t like being played for fools; and being led to agonise over a combination of letters that is really quite simple does make us feel foolish. There are also cultural values at stake here, too, in terms of the word choices: interestingly, today’s word (achieved by this writer in four goes) is, I suspect, likely to be achieved more quickly and more readily by users of ‘UK English’.

I always start with ‘raise’, by the way: it’s the word that makes the best use of the most-used letters in the English alphabet. Though whether those are the same most-used letters in five-letter words is a different question – and, perhaps, a job of work already being engaged in by ‘Josh’. (NB I can’t see any data privacy protocols around the site or which become apparent on first use and, like anything else, Wordle – for all its desire to get ‘humans’ talking around shared issues – is surely likely to be a data collection operation somewhere along the line.) Others might find more fun in starting with a word inspired by current affairs – party, for instance – and making connections that way. Going from ‘party’ to ‘slump’ (the Wordle from a few days ago) would have been amusing, even if we know that the day’s word of choice is not made by a human but by an algorithm with no interest in the current affairs of ‘UK England’.

Mobile licence fees: market value still not realised?

To close the year – as indeed I did on the last day of 2020 – this post constitutes the text of my autumn 2021 column for Stage, Screen & Radio – the quarterly magazine for members of BECTU, the media and entertainment union and a part of Prospect. The text, which focuses on a consultation on mobile licence fees launched in the summer by Ofcom, the UK’s communications regulatory authority, has been updated to account for the outcome of the consultation, while some links have been added.

Ofcom is consulting on new licence fees for 3G mobile spectrum. Here, we revisit a horror story and update it for our age.

In the middle of July, Ofcom issued a consultation proposing new annual licence fees for mobile spectrum in the 2100 MHz range, commonly used by operators to supply 3G mobile services.

Readers may well recall – with a shudder – Ofcom’s original auction process, back in the spring of 2000, for 20-year licences to use this spectrum. At the outset, the auction was thought likely to raise around £5bn (a sum in excess of operators’ bidding models but which could still have been absorbed), inflated by a competitive bidding process designed by economists and based on games theory alongside huge interest in the potential of 3G spectrum to revolutionise our usage of mobile phones (then used for little more than voice calls and minimal data). However, it ended up raising some £22.48 billion after an exhausting process lasting nearly seven weeks. At the time, such a sum represented around 2.5 per cent of UK GDP – and could have built 400 hospitals.

Faced with the prospects of paying a similar amount per head in Germany in another 3G auction there, as well as elsewhere in Europe, the sheer unsustainability for the operators involved of financing such sums led – among other things – to a bursting of the telecoms asset bubble, economic recession and a delay in capital expenditure which put back the introduction of 3G services. Lessons were learned – but the process was a scarring one, even for those of us charged only with monitoring progress and analysing the potential impact. For members of the union working in the industry, the damage caused was both deep and long-lasting.

Just to put some perspective on such sums, inflation (as measured by the Retail Price Index) has risen by 78 per cent since then. £22.48 billion would now be worth some £40 billion – and, in 2021, you could probably get a working Covid-19 Track and Trace system for that.

Crisis

Ofcom’s regime was modified in 2011 in the wake of the banking-led financial and currency crisis and it is now, in 2021, proposing comparatively modest fees, ranging between £290,000 and £567,000 per MHz, depending on the type of spectrum involved, which will lead to annual licence fees of between £12.79m (for O2) and £25.58m (for EE).

These sums compare interestingly with the auction-led outcome which led to a total annual cost in excess of £1bn. Perception of the market value against which Ofcom is obliged to set the fees is associated with many things, not the least of which is that 3G has now been surpassed, with 6G likely to come on stream in the 2030s, and with EE announcing that it will switch off its 3G network in 2023 to support its 4G and 5G networks. Even so, the figures are starkly divergent.

O2 has some 24 million direct mobile customers while EE has around 32 million so the fees are unlikely to make much of a dent in consumers’ contract prices – they amount to around 53p/year for O2 customers and around 80p/year for EE ones. Neither will they make much of a contribution to public finances (Ofcom is self-financing on the basis of the fees it generates and the fines and penalties it levies, and it is a net contributor to the Treasury (p. 55)).

For workers in these and the other mobile operators, however, the impact is likely to be a little more significant. Ofcom is rather dismissive of the argument based on narrow economic considerations (consultation document, p. 33), but each pound of fees that mobile operators are forced to pay is likely to lead either to a reduction in capital expenditure or an increase in the never-ending search for efficiencies (or, indeed, both). Ofcom takes no view about the impact on workers, but anyone arguing that each £1 million of fees is insignificant has never sat in on pay, or other, negotiations with a corporate employer.

Workers and the operators for which they work might well be justified in arguing that 3G licence fees have already been paid in full.

Ofcom was – at the time the column was written – due to finalise the proposals later in 2021 with the fees to apply as from 4 January 2022.

On 13 December it announced a fractional reduction in the licence fees to £561,000 for paired spectrum and that it would consult further on unpaired spectrum – a very minor win for the operators with annual fees for EE and O2 now set at £22.44 million and £11.22 million, respectively (although, depending on the outcome of the further consultation, this may rise further). Ofcom continues to maintain that its licence fee proposal has no impact on investment (response, pp. 45-47) on the grounds that setting fees below market value’ would effectively amount to it giving operators an ‘unconditional subsidy’ (p. 47) – an argument which, in the historic context, demands a certain amount of chutzpah to deliver.

Sites of interest – a closer look

Saturday turned out to be a good opportunity to get in some Christmas shopping in Balivanich (bright lights, big city) – all still in the bags, BTW – but Sunday saw one of those days in which the sun shone all day alongside a remarkable absence of wind. It was also a day with a low tide – the lowest of the month, in fact – and in the middle of the day, too. So, too good an opportunity to miss to do two things – firstly, try and spot the remains of the submerged forest which, at least one source has it, can also be found at the headland; as well as test out the sites local to me on Rubha Aird na Mhachrach (Ardivachar Point).

About the submerged forest – well, nada. I did find a lot of heavily stressed rock usually buried by the tide and, of course, a fair bit of kelp, though. Local experts tell me that they’ve found nothing any time they’ve been here and it may be that sea action, and winds, have covered things up since 1985 (to when the source dates). But, also, the neapest of neap tides does go out a bit further than this, and so a future occasion might prove more rewarding.

I found both of the sites up on the Point pretty easily as a result of the accuracy of the SCAPE app when it comes to the sites’ GPS bearings. The first of these is a midden alongside some apparently structural stonework; and, secondly, there is a mound which ‘may be of archaeological potential’. As before, my comments below about this do need to be treated as those of an enthusiastic amateur and they may well be subject to a lesser or greater degree of revisionism at some future point.

When it comes to the first, I was looking only for a midden, having forgotten about the stonework (although the photos below – two different sides of the same thing – seem to capture (quite by mistake!) some of the latter). There is no evidence of shellfish or animal bones in the midden; but some interesting colours reflecting a solid bank of peat ash (the light brown colour at the bottom in the RHS photo) and what looks like some charcoal (in both) underneath the top soil (visible more again in the RHS photo).

Moving on further round the Point to the mound, this took me a little time to find because it is both quite small in terms of size as well as low to the ground. More of a molehill than a mound, really. Indeed, the GPS told me I was more or less on top of it (I wasn’t, quite) before I actually spotted anything. That doesn’t mean there isn’t an interesting story to be told here, though, and the more you look at the site, the more the details of the story that it is telling become apparent. As far as I was concerned, I found five interesting things about it:

1. the footprint of the site is larger than it first appears and by a simple assessment of its known dimensions. Partly, this is a reflection of…

2. … its shape, which is not round as might be suggested by the word ‘mound’, but elongated and which appears to have a ‘funnel’ at one end (see the next picture down). Think of a question mark with a mirror placed adjacent to the left hand edge. The elongated end might suggest the presence of some sort of entrance chamber. There is also a clear ‘ditch’ around the central heap. This gives the best clue to the overall shape as well as the potential presence of the ‘entrance chamber’ – and might also indicate walls, corbelling being a usual feature so as to minimise the need for roofing materials, structural timber being in short supply around at least the current coastline.

3. standing at the ‘entrance’ end, I spent some time debating the mound’s alignment on a compass. According to the app on my phone, it appears to lie on a bearing of 100-280 degrees (east-west being 90-270 degrees), so there is no clear compass-based alignment (it’s sort of north-east/south-west). My, very rough, assessment from a few years ago (which needs to be checked) is that the sun at the summer solstice sets at a bearing of about 320 degrees so there doesn’t appear to be any solstice-based clues as to the orientation.

However, looking from there directly along the mound, I then spotted what looked to me like some sort of marker, in the form of a grassy tussock now close to the cliff edge. The tussock was soft and yielding and it’s not obviously rocky but it did stand out. Sometimes a grassy tussock is just a grassy tussock, of course. Nevertheless, at one point in the year, I think the sun would set directly behind this marker and, perhaps, that was good enough for those who decided to located the mound at this point here.

It is, of course, at the ‘wrong’ end of the site, however – if sunset was the key then, from Maeshowe up on Orkney, where the sun shines through the entrance chamber to illuminate the back wall three weeks either side of the winter solstice, we would expect the mound to be the other way around. Thus, it is more likely that sunrise, not sunset, gives the key to the orientation; and also, given the earth’s tilt, a point towards the summer, rather than the midwinter, solstice. Checking that out of course means an early start. Hmmmm.

Is that some sort of marker I see before me? Note the low-lying nature of the mound.

4. Looking from that same position at the ‘entrance chamber’ end but in the other direction, i.e away from the site, there seemed to me to be a clear path (on what is now croft land), approaching the site at an angle of about 90 degrees (i.e. from the north-east; and, probably, in the direction the midsummer sun rises here). Interestingly, the ‘path’ appears to take a small turn more directly towards the ‘entrance chamber’.

Of course, the ‘path’ is at ground level now, whereas the site is clearly subterranean. It’s not so evident from the picture below, but it is also waterlogged – and it might thus be a sign of a drainage channel dug far more recently. However, water tends to lie in areas for a reason (of which drainage is only one); one of which might be the presence of a well-trodden path in times gone by or, indeed, a line of stones laid down to constitute some sort of approach ‘road’. Paths, once established, tend to persevere (‘reference required’). What may also be of interest is that the boggy area informed by the ‘path’ then turns along the line of the existing croft fence (upper centre right) before crossing the area occupied by the site of the mound to its west (to the right of the picture) – i.e. it skirts the actual site). We might also usefully wonder what would be the actual function of a more recent drainage channel laid at that angle, and at that point on the land.

And is that a path I see before me? The (rather strangely shaped) shadow cast by your photographer lies – deliberately – across what is more or less the centre of the mound)

5. To the north a few steps away lies a series of stones, stretching more than 1m in length, set at what is now ground level and ending at what is now eroded coastline. So, it’s reasonably significant in terms of size and might well be evidence of some sort of boundary wall, built either to emphasise the importance of the site in some way or, perhaps, to keep out animals. There is no such evidence of a wall on the other side of the site, however. It is all kinds of interesting that, if indeed this is a boundary wall in times gone by, it is mirrored by the presence of an existing, contemporary fence alongside; whereas there is neither wall nor fence on the other side.

On the whole, I think this is a more important site than is superficially evident from its size alone. Some parts of the above – quite a bit of it, in fact – are the product of imagination; and that has its place, too, in archaeology which, substantially, looks at the evidence available and seeks to use that to tell a story. Looking at the hard facts: the site remains fenced off to the most direct route of public access, so is not particularly accessible; the site appears not to be currently maintained as croft land (whereas access to the shoreline – for seaweed, salvage and fishing – would be an important part of crofting rights); and drainage seems to flow around the site, not through it: which might either be by accident or design but which, in either case, might also be the product of continued maintenance down the centuries.

There are also, I think, some features which make the site worthy of some note. Given that it is quite difficult to spot (other than to a trained eye), and given the nature of the development of SCAPE’s ‘sites of interest’ (which is of community origin rather than the product of miles upon miles of serendipitous tramping up and down the coasts of these islands), it’s selection as one such site is likely to reflect a level of community awareness of it as the location of something in some way sacred. That might be drawn from some kind of folk memory or it might be the product of actual routines and customs handed down from generation to generation. And about which, at this point in the life of Ardivachar, a decision might need to be taken in respect of future generations. When the current outbreak of Covid-19 permits, it would be well worth me catching up with my long-established neighbours in the township!

Sites of interest – a desk-based view

This week’s archaeology lecture was led by Tom Dawson and Jo Hambly, of the SCAPE Trust who introduced their work on coastal sites of interest around Scotland other than on the western isles, including on Shetland, Orkney, St. Andrews, Wemyss Caves, on the Fife coal coast, and Eyemouth; and also their app identifying sites of interest around Scotland. SCAPE – standing for Scottish Coastal Erosion and the Problem of Erosion although, like a lot of organisations, the acronym probably means more in terms of branding than the words which make it up – is based at St. Andrews and works with Historic Environment Scotland on issues arising from Scotland’s coastal heritage. As a result it takes a keen interest in issues connected with erosion, rising sea levels and climate change; and many of these projects can be picked up via the SCAPE website.

All of which of course means it has a lot to discuss when it comes to the western isles, not least around Baile Sear, where we are doing some fieldwork, and when it comes to the issue of the sinking of the land. While mainland Scotland is rebounding following the compression of the land during Ice Age, when Scotland was covered by glaciers up to a kilometre thick, there is no such ‘trampoline’ effect out here since the glaciers were not as thick; in contrast, the land is sinking – and it’s not under the weight of all those scheduled monuments either:

I spotted this map, which is focused on Harris and Lewis, our neighbours to the north, and which cuts off the bottom of South Uist completely, on the Twitter feed of Mark Rowe. Each dot represents a scheduled monument and the map – which is of uncertain origin, although it seems to have been compiled by the County Archaeologist for the Western Isles Historic Environment Record – shows a quite remarkable amount of known history (even if it’s of the ‘known unknown’ type). Mark Rowe writes the Outer Hebrides guidebook for Bradt Guides, and he notes that between the first and second editions of the guide, between 2017 and 2020, the number of identified sites across the western isles increased by 3.8%, to 13,348 (an increase in terms of number of nearly 500).

Part of this increase is likely to reflect an increase in interest in archaeology (read on…) – but it’s also likely to reflect the fact of coastal erosion – from wind and wave alike – which is making sites apparent where they were not before and which is, of course, also jeopardising them, too. There are slips and slides in sites of interest not only because of the natural sinking of the islands as a result of the sheer density of the gneiss supporting it but also because of tides and sea surges and of the action of the wind in shifting vast quantities of sand from one place to another, resulting in structures buried for centuries under deposits of topsoil and grass starting to become exposed but in danger of slipping out of our grasp in terms of comprehension as there simply isn’t enough time – or enough resource – to get to grips with what is there. This is very evident at Baile Sear – the rocks to the centre-right of the picture on the face of the dune, which I took on my last visit the weekend before last, seem to be structural and to have slipped down the fall line from further up: they’re not there by chance.

A phenomenal amount of work went into the development of SCAPE’s sites-at-risk app, both from the experts from SCAPE and from local expert archaeologists but, as importantly, from local communities who have knowledge – and sometimes folk memories – stemming from the practices and customs handed down from generation to generation in what was a largely static population (around, for instance, the sites of C19 and C20 middens no longer in use). But there are (at least) two problems: one is that coverage is likely to be patchy; and the second is that, where sites of interest and which are at risk have been recorded, that information quickly dates if it is not maintained while sites may be lost where a need for maintenance has not been spotted as a result of the site not being visited on a regular basis.

Which is where the community comes back in. Building on the interest which sees people turn up to archaeological events and digs out of curiosity, as well as out of a desire to contribute their own knowledge and awareness, information can be gleaned which means that apps stay relevant and useful – as long as the people using them know, at least in general, what they’re doing (and as long as the information submitted is moderated – which it is when it comes to SCAPE’s app).

There are, on the SCAPE map, around a dozen sites of interest within a half-hour walk of the front door of my bit of the north-west corner of South Uist (and including one right on my doorstep, which is likely to account for the large quantity of shells I dug up when digging the garden back when the days were a bit longer than they are now). There are likely to be more than these – including the remnants, on this side of what is now the bay, of the submerged forest on the southern shore of Benbecula that I noted in last week’s post. Some of these are mounds, some are middens, some are wheelhouse sites, some are where human remains have been discovered and some are where bodies have been buried in some rather interesting ways. None seem to be of a particularly high priority – or, at least, they were not when the app was first compiled. But now – who knows?

I had hoped to get out today to check out a few of these, test my own developing skillbase and make a contribution; but a morning spent getting boosted (yes: please do it, folks!) and an afternoon looking out at darkening skies and falling rain has meant a focus on some desk-based work instead making sure I kow what to do out there in the field. Maybe tomorrow is the time for action (to fuse my 1970s/1980s mod bands) – although #SaturdaysForThePast does have a bit less of a ring to it 😉

Book review: Downsizing

The title here is not so much comment on his career subsequent to his resignation as an MP just prior to the 2019 general election (and when his seat went to the Tories) as a reference to the conscious battle against weight gain which Tom ‘Two Dinners’ Watson engaged in subsequent to a diagnosis of Type 2 diabetes in 2015. It’s an engaging and easy-read account of a typically resolute and determined (though not without a recent setback) fight to cut down on the intake of sugars and processed foods which contributed in a major way to his obesity and to real fears for his health.

His chosen vehicle for this – despite the pull quote on the cover from Michael Mosley, who is more associated with a (very) low calorie intake and a balanced, Mediterranean-style diet – was the ‘keto’ diet, a controversial way to weight loss via replacing all carbohydrates with fats and proteins, allied to ‘bulletproof coffee’ (whose origins Watson is careful to attribute correctly) and an exercise regime. Watson correctly asserts that everyone is different and that he can only report on what worked for him – and it clearly did: losing eight out of nearly 23 stones does indeed leave him a shadow of his former self and on this Watson should be congratulated, alongside his account of the resulting improvements which he has experienced in terms of his concentration, fatigue and responsiveness.

For all the easy-to-consume nature of the writing style, the tone is evangelical, proselytising even, in connection with the benefits of the keto diet (and, let’s not forget, the associated exercise regime which has him doing workouts in a park, attending a gym and, eventually, cycling, hill walking, kayaking and running) which can, at times, read a little like the script of a committed, and now enthusiastically clean, convert. Well, he is one such, of course. But a keto diet clearly works for others, too; and Watson is no doubt right that doctors need better guidance (and training) in recommending weight loss programmes which focus on individual needs and which puts ‘one size fits all’ programmes completely to one side. Personally I’m not convinced that a ‘hit list’ of ‘banned’ foods is a healthy way of improving our relationship with food and, as a committed beer drinker (and bread maker), neither do I think that carbs are ‘the enemy’. I also worry that a diet high in fats – for all the admirable desire to save the NHS from vast amounts of spending on the health problems which are related to obesity – is building up future health problems (and therefore spending) of its own. But then, I’m not really the core audience for Downsizing; I’ve always been blessed with a fast-acting metabolism and I’ve never been a fan of sugary fizzy drinks, takeaways and convenience food. Neither, it seems, do I have a particularly addictive personality. But, it seems, diet is one of those areas which absolutely commends itself to subjectivism and there is, therefore, little point in me substituting my views for those of others. If it works, it works (and we need to take the long-term into account in judging that) – and fair play, too.

This is not a political memoir – Watson provides little comment on any of the developments in UK politics since 2015 other than in how they form the general background to his desire to lose weight and in his achievements in doing so; and he throws few bones to those searching for political comment about his relationship with the Labour Party and specifically with Jeremy Corbyn. For the truly committed he does, however, contribute an amusing anecdote about a remark thrown his way by a member of the public who spies him engaged in early morning boxing sessions in a public park; while Len McCluskey, now retired as leader of Unison, is on the end of a laugh-out-loud line which references his negotiating style.

For all that the book focuses on Watson’s weight loss, this is not a diet book and it does, for the whole of its final one-third, address some of the core related policy issues to obesity and public health spending. As you might imagine, Watson – and his (uncredited, though not unacknowledged) co-writer – is very good on the policy stuff around the food lobbying industry and in his attempts to get particularly the manufacturers of high-sugar foods (‘Big Sugar’) – Kellogg’s, Coca-Cola, Pepsico and Unilever come in for special mentions here – to pay a share via a ‘sugar tax’ of the costs of the addictions that their foods and beverages have created in people; and to prevent high-budget branding and marketing programmes from such companies not least when they are targeted at children. There are some powerful vested interests here and Watson deserves credit for taking them on, not least in a ‘naming and shaming’ style in a book of this type. He is also very good at seeking to ally trade union principles to the cause of giving the millions of people in the UK with Type 2 diabetes a voice in his desire to achieve his earnest goal of ‘remission for all’.

And yet, for all the desire for a policy-related outcome to the problems of diet and sugar addiction in particular, and for all the desire to give leadership to people who do absolutely need a voice when faced with the necessarily isolating circumstances to which shame (of weakness, of body image and of fault) is a major contributor, Watson’s decision to step down from parliament in 2019 necessarily reduced his influence over policy and his potential to provide people with that voice. Downsizing, indeed.

There are few clues here as to what led Watson – still not yet 55 – to resign his seat and, apparently, his political career. It’s not as though as he has given up interest in policy development: he currently chairs UK Music which is engaged with the righteous battle to #FixStreaming; and, while his website might currently suggest he is short of a role or two other than in podcasting, a lot of that might well be explained by the arrival of Covid-19 which has had a lot of us on hiatus for much of the intervening time since the back end of 2019. Scrutinising Downsizing for a few between-the-lines clues, I suspect the decision to retire from being an MP has much to do with a quite literal desire to ‘spend more time with his family’ – that curse of politicians – as well as the more evident fearful, personal recognition that a stressful role in frontline representative politics is likely to have played a major role in robbing him of his health as it did with his friend, Labour leader John Smith, before him; and, perhaps, of robbing him of his relationships.

Who knows what the future holds for Watson – and that no doubt includes Watson himself. But I ‘wouldn’t rule out a return’ to party politics once he has satisfied himself that his weight is fully under his own control and once his children, quite naturally, are happy to be spending a little less time with their Dad. ‘Big Sugar’ still needs controlling – and that may well need to be driven by someone whose considerable energies are no longer fuelled, as they once were, by its products.

Right there, under our feet

It’s been an interesting week for archaeology what with Milly, a 13-year-old, discovering a horde of Bronze Age axes in Royston (on her third metal-detecting trip, natch); and publicity arriving for a very well-kept secret find, in a farmer’s field in Rutland, of a Roman villa complex with a mosaic depicting Homer’s The Iliad. Both go to prove the old adage that you never know what’s under your feet – and that probably every grass-covered hillock in otherwise broadly flat ground is likely to be of potential archaeological interest.

We do have Bronze Age – up to c. 800BCE – finds out here on Uist although Iron Age ones, i.e. from the era immediately following the Bronze Age, are more common. The Romans, of course, never made it this far in their conquest of these isles – to them, the western isles were ‘here be dragons’ even if they weren’t quite ultima Thule – so there’ll be no villa complexes or mosaics out here and, probably, neither any evidence of underfloor heating (although certainly people of that time knew how to heat stones for a variety of purposes).

This week’s course featured a terrific lecture from Dr. Emily Gal, of UHI, reflecting on the relationship between archaeology and the paleoenvironment: how climate change influences what we now find on archaeological digs and how humans somewhere way back up the line responded to climate change; and how to interpret meaning into the evidence we find in the ground (via plant matter, insects and ‘remains’ of all types imaginable). It was quite mind-blowing to discover that the western isles are literally sinking, as a result of geological factors, whereas much of mainland Scotland is still rising: the ice sheet was much thinner here, but up to one kilometre deep on the mainland. The consequence is that, whereas there is still a kind of ‘trampoline effect’ on the mainland, with the earth’s crust rebounding upwards after the release following its suppression by the weight of all that ice, there is little or no effect here and, in fact, the key is movement in the other direction caused by the dense weight of the gneiss which forms the bedrock of these islands. This is not to say that sea levels are not rising on the coasts of the mainland too – they are, especially on the east coast, and at a rate of knots.

The outcome of the sinking of the western isles is nothing particular to worry about – the rate here is about one metre per millennium – but, on top of human-influenced climate change, it does raise the question about what evidence we can find for how people previously interacted with the changing climate: how they tried to respond to it and the mobility issues that inevitably arise when things get a bit too hot for survival, and human growth, right here.

The follow-on issue is one of how Uist would have looked in times gone by. Probably, it was about twice the width it now is, extending the latterday coast out into the Atlantic by as much as 14km. The Monach Islands (that’s the little tilde on the map to the right, lying out to sea between Benbecula and North Uist), and now uninhabited, was still connected to North Uist by a land bridge as recently as the 16th century. Furthermore, the ‘long island’ probably therefore was indeed one long island, stretching from what is now the Butt of Lewis (Rubha Robhanais) and reaching down probably to Barra and, perhaps, even further south. Certainly South Uist was joined to Benbecula with the bay between the north-west tip of South Uist – where we now live – and Benbecula being actually previously constituted of one freshwater, inland, lake before being swamped by the sea. There is evidence of a wood existing on the edge of that expanse of water, now constituting a submerged forest on the current southern shore of Benbecula and, apparently, there is some similar evidence here, too, as well as on the small island of Gualan slightly further east to us though that needs to await the next spring tide (and good weather!) for an exploration (and, perhaps, a photograph should I be able to find anything). That’s next weekend, by the way. (Weather not guaranteed.)

The lecture was succeeded the following day by some field work on Baile Sear – just about visible on the map above as the island between Benbecula and North Uist and close to the shore of the latter – where the class was engaged in some photography and some ‘cleaning’ (gentle scraping; no gouging) of sections of the exposed midden (tip site), largely to expose the different colours signifying how the midden was composed. Here’s a couple of small (unofficial) photos showing ‘my’ section: check the band of red (peat ash) against the lighter colours of the windblown sand above; and, lower down, a protruding bit from a darker section of soil which, after a bit of more cleaning, revealed itself as a shard of pottery, with a pleasingly curved shape and, at the top, a clear rim. Elsewhere in the midden there are animal bones and a few scattered shells although not as many of the latter as elsewhere in the locality.

I’ve tramped over these dunes above this site a few times and, while the exposure of the midden is not new – it dates back now a few years when a hurricane lead, amidst human tragedy, to a 50m section of dune being lost in one night – I’ve never known what was there, underneath. Or, to be fair, and to my shame, given it too much more than a passing thought. But that small shard, readily exposed to my fingertips, is at least 1600 years old and there may – just may – be a lot more of interest underneath the machair. People lived here, died here and are, perhaps, buried here – in what was not an isolated manner of existence but as part of a sizable, probably noisy, jostling community and, judging by the size of the midden, a successful one at that. Perhaps that piece of pottery was an ordinary household item broken in the course of every day living – or perhaps it was used to lug a load of shellfish to a celebration of some kind. Perhaps it might even have been broken as a part of that celebration. Now, that evidence of existence lies on the coast and is exposed not only to the mighty Atlantic and the winds – but back then? Quite some way inland, perhaps even sheltered from the wind in some way, with people making their existence not just from the sea but from the land all around them.

All is really speculation – we just don’t know, at least at this stage – but, after all, what is speculation other than the product of evidence, and an informed ability to interpret, set alongside a free running imagination?

Ancient monuments: protect and survive. Or not?

General warning: this post constitutes some unusually early thoughts and may be neither accurate, reasonable nor fair. But please read on. And let me know if I’m wrong!

This week’s archaeology course lecture – they’re on Fridays, hence #FridaysForThePast (sorry!) – was led by Dr. Rebecca Rennell and, around a series of interesting slides on understanding the erosion of heritage sites on Uist, there was a fascinating discussion within the group on the issue of the extent to which sites close to the coast and subject to erosion can, or should, be protected.

The discussion was with reference to Dun Mhulan (Dun Vulan), a broch site on South Uist of which more in a minute. Brochs were monumental structures erected on coastal locations on the west of Scotland and across the western and northern isles somewhere between 1BC (possibly earlier) and 3AD (possibly later). With a double skin wall, giving space for access to chambers and galleries and to the upper floor(s), they stood perhaps up to 20m tall and were used for – well, we don’t actually know. Smokehouses for preserving food, possibly; as stores, possibly; as defensive structures, unlikely; as symbols of the wealth and organisational ability of a community, quite probably; as waymarkers for those travelling on the highways of the sea – almost certainly although that’s equally very unlikely to have been their major purpose. Here’s a couple of snaps I took precisely ten years ago of probably the best remaining example of a broch, up on Mousa in Shetland, which has been preserved fairly intact. The one on the left shows the broad dimensions and the general setting – those smudged specks at the top are indeed people; the one on the right shows the double skin wall and stairway access (grilles and framing may not be original features):

Aside of a bit of care and maintenance over the centuries, this is not a reconstruction. The reasons why the broch here has survived in such good condition are likely to be several: Mousa is a small, now uninhabited, island located only a short way off the mainland of a small island archipelago (that is the Shetland mainland to the right centre); and, crucially, it’s sheltered by a small hill to the east (the left) and, though it is itself on the west side of Mousa, it is protected (at least from sea surges) by the mainland. Consequently, much of the force of erosion is not focused on the broch itself; and, equally importantly, there are not a lot of people around requiring its stones for their own structures. Both of these are, of course, mutually reinforcing factors.

Here, in comparison, is Dun Mhulan, in a photograph taken by Howard Fenton: and see also, for a bang up-to-date 3D model, that taken by Smilemaker (Simon Davies) just last weekend, following the lecture:

The site transparently doesn’t have Mousa’s advantages. That’s the Atlantic to the right (i.e. the west) and there’s no shelter from the winds, from whichever direction. Erosion hasn’t just knocked things down, it has also created a lot of infill – the stones on the ground at the entrance way (lying at just about twelve o’clock in the picture) actually form the lintel of the main doorway so a lot of the original action is below what is now ground level. The wall on the Atlantic side is a rebuild, buttressed by a concrete apron put in place in the mid-1990s at the same time to provide some support for the site but which, as can be seen from Simon’s 3D model, has already had to be supplemented by gabions not least since the concrete has been cracked – presented with an angled concrete barrier, the Atlantic has simply gone around the sides (illustrating the issue of measures taken with preservation in mind frequently leading to problems somewhere else). Furthermore, brochs were often built on islets – the left hand side of the picture shows what is actually a saltwater lagoon, but this was originally matched by one to the right which has now been lost to the Atlantic – while that is also the sea to the upper right, the site being on a small promontory (the broader location is well illustrated in this shot, which also highlights that the sea at the upper right in the above picture is held back from swamping the lagoon by a thin bar of shingle). Dun Mhulan is extremely open and thus it is extremely jeopardised.

It would thus be a mistake to say that the future for Dun Mhulan is uncertain because, actually, we can be fairly sure that, at some clearly unknowable point in the future, it will be inundated. And perhaps we’re only one major storm away from that eventuality: at Baile Sear, up the coast off North Uist (and the focal point for our field work), the significant hurricane of 2005 saw 50m of coastline lost in one night.

The dilemma facing archaeologists, and the local community, is therefore well encapsulated by Dun Mhulan: it’s one of striking a balance between preservation and excavation. Or, as the professionals say, ‘preservation by record’ since excavation, depending on its precise focus, is likely destroy a site completely but that, in the process, a clear picture will be drawn up of how the site was used and developed. In conjunction with modern technology, preservation by record becomes an issue of how sites can be presented, sometimes reimagined by informed guesswork but used to educate ourselves not only about the building techniques and the creeds of communities in the past, but also how they confronted climate change (much of what we don’t know about brochs centres on why they fell into disuse and were abandoned). Interestingly, key sites can indeed be relocated to places where they can be better preserved and presented – see the example in the previous link about the Meur Burnt Mound, on Sanday in Orkney (also referenced here) – and in support of community heritage (and, let’s be frank, tourism) initiatives.

So, if we cannot protect Dun Mhulan against coastal erosion, rising sea levels and all the rest of the impact that climate change is having, the question remains as to what can be done with it. Legally it is a scheduled monument, which complicates things a little – scheduled status, whose aim is to preserve sites as far as possible in the form in which they passed to us, is extremely important; but, equally, scheduling paradoxically means that action can’t be taken either so that we can learn from sites. Given the level of threat to Dun Mhulan and its general low-key nature (its level of exposure means that interpretation boards, which don’t currently exist, are likely to have extremely short lifespans anyway), as well as the availability of other broch sites, including in the western isles, offering a better representation of shape, form and structure, I do wonder whether our interests might be better served by re-excavating Dun Mhulan (some work was carried out in the 1990s, before the apron was installed), possibly in conjunction with a Meur-type relocation, so as to capture as much information as possible from it so we can learn. Perhaps the site’s major value could lie in telling us more about how these unique and enigmatic buildings were used, how and why they came into being and why they were abandoned. Or, with a nod to the tenets of academic research, at least about how this one particular site was used.

As ever, the availability of resources is likely to play a major role in determining whether this could happen (excavation is of course costly); or whether, by taking no action, we are playing instead a game of risk with our chances of learning. It seems to me that, in the face of coastal erosion our choice when it comes to such exposed sites is either to try and preserve by record; or else being faced with the reality that we haven’t preserved at all.

Archaeology and coastal erosion in Uist

Have just enrolled on this 10-week course starting in a week’s time; and I’m really looking forward to some pre-course field work taking place tomorrow up on Baile Sear – an island off the west coast of North Uist which experiences a pace of erosion which is almost visible. I haven’t been up there for around five years now and I’m interested (and rather full of foreboding) to see the amount of change that has taken place in that time. I’m hoping that the course will give me a greater understanding of climate change and its role in shaping the islands on which I live; and the lives and the opportunities of all of us who stay here.

The pre-course field work is based on a drone study of the archaeological remains eroding from the coast, which is being led by Ellie Graham, a PhD student from Aberdeen.

Just hoping that the rain, which is in the Met Office forecast for tomorrow morning, alongside some rather changeable weather, holds off – making judgments and recording observations through wet glass(es) can be a bit of a challenge…

The course is likely to be quite intensive while holding down the (freelance) day job, so blog activity might be a bit more rare over the next period. Will be trying to post some materials and some thoughts up here as the weeks go by, though. This is my first time in a learning environment for quite some time and, on this side of the learning room as opposed to the other, for quite a bit longer. There were archaeologists in my last employment and I really wish I’d come across a few more of them while I was there.

Anyway – wish me luck!