Camera on head

When I was having a pint with the Transport Geographers I asked if I counted as one of them if I would help out one of the other human geographers with a research project on the perception of Plymouth and its traffic by cyclists. The answer was yes! And lo and behold: a few weeks later I was indeed festooned with a third eye on my bicycle helmet. For three days it went everywhere I went. I must have shot quite some footage for Paul, the mastermind of this project. He interrogated me afterwards, on things like if it feels vulnerable as a cyclist in Plymouth traffic, and if yes then when specifically, and what could be done to improve cycling conditions, and all that sort of things. I hope my insights are of use! And outweigh the recorded traffic offences, the endless footage of bicycle locks being done and undone, the inherent neauseating wobbliness of the footage, and the half-conscious singing on the bike...

Time for repair continued

I have no idea how I managed to dislodge the entire front of my until then waterproof camera. But I had evidently done it! Which rendered the camera not particularly waterproof anymore, but it miraculously still worked. So I wanted to try to fix it.

I had figured I could make brackets that would snugly fit around the camera, and drill holes in these, for nuts and bolts; the bolt to keep the nut in place, and the nut to fit into the hole of the allen key-headed screws that were supposed to keep the plate in place, but didn’t. That way you could tighten the plates together a bit extra with the bolts, and the brackets would not fall off. It sounds straightforward and promising! But it would still be somewhat of a challenge.

I have the same problem here as I had in Amsterdam: I live in the middle of town, and my neighbours wouldn’t really appreciate my hammering away (I figured I’d make the brackets of brass rod, hammered flat at the ends). But there was a tin smelting weekend coming up; nobody would mind some hammering there! So I brought a gas torch, a hammer, pliers, a pigmy vice, a metal saw, brass rod, my dremel, nuts & bolts, a tiny screwdriver and the hapless camera.

The miniature tool one needs for such an exercise: mini-hex key, screwdriver, drill bit, nut and bolt

I found a corner where I could mount the vice, and I set off hammering the heated brass rods flat and bending them into shape. It felt even more like a miniature echo of the real world; the men had a furnace that could melt inch-sized rocks, while I was heating small bit sof brass in the modest flame of a cute little gas torch... Anyway; it went fairly well! Then I should drill the holes. For that one needs electricity. I looked around. And at my continental plug. And then I stopped looking around. I had forgotten the adapter plug! That meant no holes.

The bolts cut to size

Upon arriving home I could wade through the adapter plugs, so work could recommence. And it wasn’t that easy! The brackets have to fit exactly around the camera plus the nuts. And you have to get them in place without breaking the very thin screws. But in the end I managed to just break few enough to get the job done!

The finished product!

The next step was soaking the whole structure in water and seeing if it still worked. And it did! There was some water in the battery compartment, and I have to work on that, but the interim results are promising! I now have one old battered camera for the real grimy trips, and one pristine shiny one for those that are only wet. And I got to faff with small tools again!

Teaching

Every year I get to talk to Roland about my personal and professional development. That doesn't sound too interesting, but as a matter of fact it is. Last year we discussed what needs to be done to patch up the weak parts of my CV. We had all sorts of splendid plans, but lab work got out of hand, and not all of it happened. But this year we have another chance. And now things are moving!

One thing that is conspicuously lacking on my CV is teaching. In Amsterdam we didn't have enough students to accomodate teaching for all staff. In Norway I worked not at a university, but a research institute: we hardly had any students there. And here in the UK I am on a research only contract. But that contract allows room for personal development. In other words: I can teach in that time! And this time it will happen.

I have already been teaching individual master- and PhD students; I did my best to support Emily, and I collaborate lots with Rob, but neither of these is or was officially my student. I now have a master student: Steffie, together with Rob; she applies Rob's methods to my sediments. And all of that is highly enjoyable, and I have reasons to believe the students in question appreciate(d) it, but this is evidently the best and easiest part. All these people are very intelligent and motivated, and they do research similar to mine. Teaching slouching undergraduates who only want to glare at Facebook while you try to tell them something is the other side of the equation! But a proper academic should be able to cover that entire swath. And I should grow up to be a proper academic. So it has been agreed on I will go on some fieldwork or other with the students, and I will get a tutorial group. And in order to deal with that properly I'll enroll in a teaching course in September. Altogether that would be a bit much, so probably some of this will be moved to the next year, but things evidently are moving. Excellent, but somewhat scary too! And one way to find out where on the scale of motivation and intellect these youngsters will reside...

I think it's a bit like skiing down Kjølen. The trick is just going to the top, knowing there is only one way down. And then you'll have to learn of your feet! Bring on the students. I made my way down that tricky slope, and I trust I'll manage with students too....

Watching rocks melt

In the southwest you can hardly walk a mile without bumping into an old chimney belonging to some mine. Quite often a tin mine. The dumps with mine waste are still there, the rivers are full of alluvial ore, and there’s many people around still who have in the past earned their living with it. And some people keep the dream alive. One of these people is Neil.

A whole bunch of tin nutters would gather somewhere near Truro to smelt a lot of the ore they would have gathered and crushed over the months. And I tagged along. Smelting needs a photographer!

We arrived the night before, and were greeted warmly by Bernie, the host. It’s his furnace on his land that would be used. But not yet! The evening was for wine, food, catching up, and watching a DVD with footage of Levant mine. And then bed early; the next day would be a tough one!

The plan was that the men would smelt for at least 12 hours, and I don’t stay fascinated with such for that long, so I had brought all sorts of things along. My first priority was trying to fix my old waterproof camera. I’ll report on that later! I also brought my laptop, three books, a set of articles, running kit, and some more to keep me busy. Before the furnace was hot for the first time I was done with my camera.

Neil does some last ore or anthracite crushing

Through the hole in the furnace you can see the red hot crucible with the glowing froth. Pic by Neil

When the ore is molten it can do with some stirring... 

 The frothy melt is quite viscous

Looking down the furnace can make you look like this...

The furnace takes a crucible with about a kilo of ore and anthracite. A flame fed by an enormous gas bottle heats the whole thing up until the ore mix is a bright orange, radiant, frothing boiling mass. When the frothing recedes the tin crucible can be taken out, and the tin poured. It’s very photogenic!

First the tin comes out...

...and then the slag...

...which is very photogenic...

...QED! (Pic by Neil, evidently)

One then has to separate the tin from the slag, which involves some hammering.

The tin is then re-melted in a ladle in the flame above the furnace.

This picture proves I was really there! Pic by Neil

The slagless tin can then be cast into ingots

Every crucible fill needs about an hour, so there’s a lot of dead time involved. In between smelts (which I was good at missing) I got blogging, data editing, book reading and all sorts done. Very useful. At some point I even went for a 1.5 hour run. That turned out to be a bit of an obstacle course with stepping stones, dense vegetation, clamorous peacocks, disappearing engine houses and appearing reservoirs, loud dogs, cute dogs, confusing road signs and English/Cornish confusion, but it was a good run!

At the height of the day there were ten people; among them even the former exploration geologist of Geevor mine. I was a bit humbled! But they were all lovely people. But when I got back from my run it was only Bernie, his wife Julia, Neil and me. And the men smelted on into the evening, getting more and more bold in doing so. Normally one would only smelt crushed ore; that way you can get all impurities out. But in the end they were smelting inch-sized beach pebbles with ore in them. And got away with it! So yes, some may spend their Saturday watching paint dry, or watching grass grow, but I was watching rocks melt. Meanwhile the pictures got better and better with the fading light; a red hot crucible is best after dusk!

Can you melt entire pebbles in such a furnace? Pic by Neil

Yes you can...

And even bigger ones! Pic by Neil

But your slag gets very silicic.

And then the sun set!

A glowing crucible is prettier after sunset.

It looks positively menacing if you ask me.

This picture was taken without using the zoom. Not necessarily good for your camera...

After the last smelt everybody was tired, and we ended the day with showers and drinks. A successful day! The men had smelted more than 3 kilos of tin... who would have thought that AD 2011!

Neil and Bernie proudly present the ingots. This even isn't all of it; notice the picture was taken when the sun hadn't set yet!

Virgin mine

I had been only a few tens of metres away from it, and I had no idea it was there. A virgin shaft! When I least expected it I got a text message from Lionel, inviting me on an alternative trip on the Tuesday night. I intended to skip that week’s normal trip, as I had only recently visited the venue, so I was easily persuaded. And after having braved Dave’s quite justified accusations of running off with another man I arrived on the scene. Soon also Lionel, Finbar and Rick appeared as well.

Lionel showed the way. Indeed, a deep gaping hole! We faffed a bit rigging it; the first time is always the slowest. And then we were off! Lionel first, of course, and then me. And we found a mine with no sign of earlier visitors! No footsteps or any other sign.

 There was some impeding vegetation around the shaft we needed to clear. Finbar is the kind of guy to have devices to do so, and Lionel here shows one can present a billhook with military pride.

We explored every accessible bit of it; it wasn’t much, but we were very chuffed with it anyway. It must have been bigger; there was one collapse that blocked off who knows what. And there were several spades and such appliances, and the floor was covered in strange blobby structures. And all of it bright orange.

The top of these timbers clearly show where the roof has been!

Rick and Finbar all kitted up for ascending back to the surface

We then had to leave. It was slightly tricky to get out of the shaft, so we decided Lionel, who can look after himself, would go first, and then the gentlemen who weren’t so fond of rope work, and then me. I thought I’d take some pics while the men ascended, but Finbar struggled a bit with the rope which didn’t feed through his jammer, and Rick announced he would not enjoy the ascent and moan and groan all the way up, so I decided to stay at the shaft. Finbar conquered his jammer, and Rick indeed made a most sonorous ascent, but by then it wasn’t particularly early anymore. But we needed a pint anyway! To celebrate this deflowering, and as well that we all got out. I hope we find more of this terra incognita!

Real run

An ankle that can cope with 25 minutes of running in town can cope with a serious run on Dartmoor! Neil wanted to do yet another run on the old railroad, and I wanted to have a look around in one of the quarries it runs past. And that combined well.

We started at the point where the old railroad starts to be publicly accessible, and about 5 metres onwards I was panting and feeling weak. One month out of business means the entire shape you built up is gone! But I dragged myself along. It helped it was a beautiful day.

Me still looking acceptably dynamic in the beginning

Lagging behind

After five miles Swelltor quarry saved me. I left Neil, who immediately doubled his speed, and walked up the hill. The railroad loops around the quarry, so I knew I would catch sight of him on the other side. And indeed! Some pixel-sized runner appeared, and disappeared again after the next curve.

Small runner in very large world. The background, by the way, is formed by Foggintor Quarry.

I had a look around in the quarry: a reasonably sized one on the hilltop. I came in over the side, but when I came out through the entrance I suddenly stared into an abyss. What I had walked around in was only a small auxiliary quarry! The real deal was below me. Impressive!

The top part of the quarry, which I initially mistook for the quarry proper

I scurried around the edge, over finger dumps, past ruins of buildings, along the former branch of the railroad that allowed the quarry to dispense its granite blocks, and on which some blocks intended for London Bridge are still lying around, and into the actual quarry itself, with its swampy entrance, and by then I thought I should go and have a look if Neil would have appeared again. He would run all the way on to Princetown and then back. To my surprise I caught sight of him as soon as I returned to the path: he had already rounded the last loop, I was only just in time to rejoin him. Our timing was impeccable!

The actual quarry!

The skyline

The old branch of the railroad, where the position of the sleepers can still be seen, with some concomitant ruin

The ruin of the blacksmith's shop

Neil, by this time, was tired and boiled, so we drank all the water I had with me, and only ran back to the road, which is about 2.5 km before our starting point. There Neil considered both fainting and vomiting, but miraculously decided against both. It’s a long, long way from Dousland to Princetown via that route, and not taking water when it’s a sunny day is asking for trouble! But we walked into the sunset and made it home without problems. I was glad I had done my first post-marathon proper run (all in all 8.4 miles is not bad), and Neil had wanted to challenge himself and had succeeded like mad! And now I had finally seen that quarry, which is not easy to reach...

Testosterone fun

If you want to have some politically incorrect, petrol-smelling fun on the water, then make sure you date a bloke who has a brother who has a powerful boat! Neil's brother in question had invited us for some blasting around, but when the day approached he realised he had no time to join us. So quite unwisely he kindly delivered his 150hp boat into the hands of Neil, his daughter and me. And after some instructions on how it actually works we were off, into the estuary, and we wouldn't be back for a while; only in a 4hr window around high tide can you get far enough into the estuary to deliver it back...

John gets the boat

We calmly sailed down the estuary, and when we hit open water the accelerator got busy. Neil likes fast machines and tested its maximum speed. Which is very fast! Being the emancipated/irresponsible bloke he is he gave us a go as well, but somehow that never lead to maximum speeds. But it was fun! Trying to stay in the nose of the craft at high speeds when it jumped and dashed and sometimes got airborne, without hurting yourself, is an interesting challenge.

 Treehugger outside her natural habitat

We sped around a bit, taking pictures of cliffs we had never seen from this side, and then found ourselves a beach to have a picnic and some waterside frivolity. Neil initially wanted to just beach the boat, and leave after the incoming tide would release it, but after I gave an impromptu lecture on the time scales involved we decided to moor it where it wouldn't run aground very soon. However, beach fun can get quite distractive, especially with a hyperactive seven-year-old involved, and before we knew it the boat got beached anyway. And it's a heavy thing! We were lucky to be stumbled upon by two lads looking for someone, who were willing to help push. And in the same spirit of spontaneous kindness we gave two other beach visitors a small taste of what that boat can do. They loved it!

How to get a seven-year-old into a boat without a gangway?

We raced past the breakwater, with lighthouse and fort and all, and past the intercontinental ferry, and past the Hoe and Drake Island, and then the boat lost power. Quelle surprise! Time to get some fuel. We seemed to have gotten through the best part of 60 litres of petrol already. That boat makes my coughing old car look like the most fuel-efficient vehicle ever! Fuelling could also have been a chance to pick up one of Katy’s friends, but that plan fell through.

 The Plymouth waterfront seen from the water

Refuelled we went up the Tamar to admire the bridges. That way we also got a nice view of Royal William Yard. And the boating got sillier. Why let your daughter steer unhindered if you can instead tickle her and jocularly pretend to throw her overboard? We did some more racing past the breakwater, but then the boat started to lose power more and more often. We had just gotten a full tank! That couldn’t be it. After some considerations we decided to head back, even though we would be back too early to drive all the way up the estuary. Better to have to wait a while than to drift helplessly onto the Atlantic Ocean.

Royal William Yard, again

When we phoned John he told us to meet him at a mooring place some distance down the river. We then had a crew shift; Neil took Katy to the pub where we had started, and I joined John in the quest for the engine problem. It probably was a classical one; we had burnt all the oil. Easy to do something about! So we made it to shore where John would get some oil and his little daughter. He suggested he and Neil would drive the re-oiled boat back to where we had met, and where John’s bike still was, so Neil could ride the bike home while John would go back to open sea and test if there was anything else wrong with that boat aside from the oil issue. Neil saw the flaw in that plan: that would leave me with two little girls! And, I may add, away from a bicycle. So I swapped places with Neil, which meant Neil got the kids and I got the bike, and John got the chance to find out his vessel was fine (which it was), so everybody was happy. But then it had been a long day, and we decided to go back to Plymouth. I would later find out I had made the classic mistake of not protecting myself from the sun, lured into a false sense of safety by the cooling wind, and I would still feel boiled 24 hours later, but it had been worth it!