In breaking news, Stuart the hedgehog solves the small girl's plight.
My first stop was four days at the University of Hertfordshire in Hatfield, just North of London, for the Conference on Artificial Intelligence and the Simulation of Behaviour. The theme was Social Intelligence and Interaction in Animals, Robots and Agents. There were nine symposia and I went to two: Memetic theory in, and emergence of artificial systems and societies; and Emergence and Evolution of Linguistic Communication.
I never know what to expect at these conferences, which I go to to get the inside scoop on this field, but this conference proved to be truly outstanding in many ways.
What is the field? When van Leeuwenhoek brought the microscope to the attention of biologists in the seventeenth century, a whole new world was brought to light, and endless useful new discoveries ensued. The modern computer, with high speed iterations, simulations, and models is serving a similar function in elucidating processes behind life, evolution, complex systems, social interactions, economics... actually, just about every dynamic system. Just ten years ago computers were mostly used for word processing, spreadsheets and business databases, and mostly still are today. But with advances in design, networking and software, they are also now coming into their own as a research tool accessible to any scientist. This has been my hobby for the last decade. I'm like a kid with a new toy.
We entered into the Great Hall with a high vaulted oak & chestnut timber ceiling and long tables set for dinner. It was a scene right out of Harry Potter's hat-choosing ceremony. As we entered, serving wenches gave us a glass of mead, and I informed her that I was in Gryffindor.
Throughout the whole dinner, actors on a raised dais at the head of the hall played Henry VIII and his court, and took us a rambunctious historical tour of the house. We were roundly encouraged to quaff heartily (none of this mamby-pamby designated driver nonsense), bang on the table, and sing. We sang the traditional English folksong Greensleeves, which evoked a palpable feeling of awe, sending chills up our spines, like you might get during a rendition of Auld Lang Syne.
Re-enacting an old custom, some of us were chosen to obtain salt from the king for our table. I couldn't resist getting into the spirit - "Your Majesty, I bring glad tidings. The pope is dead!". And just to mention - to get to Hatfield from London you catch the train at King's Cross from platform 9 or 10. And sure enough, there is Platform 9¾ with a luggage trolley disappearing into the brick wall.
Contrary to popular myth, pot isn't legal in Amsterdam; it's just that it's tolerated (I saw some folks smoking out in the streets quite openly), and licensed sale in small amounts (a maximum of five grams/transaction) is ignored and the supervised 'coffeeshops' being ignored require a City Council licence (which is displayed in the window as a half green, half white square decal). The coffeeshops post their menus, and will gladly show you their various buds from behind the counter. Astute observers will notice the time and date in the coffeeshop photo.
I was treated to haring en paling from roadside vans raw herring and smoked eel. The herring was a six-inch strip sprinkled with diced sweet onion, and a pickle, which you ate with a toothpick, and the eel came in a roll. Yum! Better than sushi. I had it for lunch every day. That and the bicycling keep all the Dutch women stunningly beautiful.
On the plus side, since a lot of the technology is sufficiently new, it's still experimental, and free. I chatted to Gene on the West Coast from the London to Brighton train using their onboard wireless test set-up, which is free until July.
Well, six years ago, a fellow discovered that his true father was not the father he grew up with, but a 'John Smith'. Based on a few tenuous leads, he rummaged through parish records and county registers, hampered by the endless entries for John & Marion Smith. Eventually, he did find out where his father worked and followed his career through the various companies (in film and cartoon animation). He also rafted down the same river, last year, culminating at the burial plot in Vancouver. More clues and bits of family tree filled in, as previously some of us had scratched our names into the gravestone.
Finally, just a few months ago, he traced our family to Brighton, and made contact with my mum and sister. Me and Holly spent a day with him and Sue in Oxford. It's quite an unfolding and continues.
Andrew gave us a tour of Oxford, including Jesus College where he did his M.Phil. Jesus College was founded by Queen Elizabeth I in 1571, and attended by TE Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia). The colleges (as in Cambridge) are old and beautiful, but impressive as they are very much working buildings.
Andrew got us up at the crack of dawn for May Morning when the Choir sings the Hymnus Eucharisticus from the Great Tower of Magdalen College. Since the event is so popular and the streets are packed, we punted on the river. Students, who'd been partying all night, jumped by the score from the bridge into rather shallow water. So many were injured (cut feet and broken ankles) that it made the headlines the next day. At 6am the throngs quietened, and beautiful songs emanated from the tower into the cool early morning air. We then continued upstream for a strawberry champagne breakfast on the bank.
All this takes place deep in the Suffolk countryside, east of Cambridge. The country roads are like an asphalt carpet unrolled across the fields and streams and then sunken down a few feet. They're barely one car-width wide, with green grassy banks and occasional passing places, though you're more likely to encounter fat pheasants and foxes wandering around than other cars.
I went to nearby medieval Lavenham for lunch; the streets are lined with Tudor cottages. In the tearoom the lady behind me complained to her friend, "My mother talks as if the Normans were here 20 years ago". And an old lady told in great detail how Hearst had bought one of the local timber ceilings for his castle (1920s), but the owner managed to reacquire it when Hearst's fortune declined (1940s), but it couldn't be reinstalled as the original building was too fragile. Strong with a sense of history are the natives.
Many years ago a college friend, visiting Notre Dame Cathedral, wondered what was under the carpet at the head of the nave. As he peeked under, a deacon virtually rugby-tackled him to the ground, to prevent him seeing the oh-so pagan signs of the zodiac in a catholic church. So I was quite excited on seeing a small patch of carpet in front of the alter at Lavenham church. It concealed a small rectangle crudely cut into an otherwise pristine diagonal-tiled floor, containing two brasses, an inscription and a baby, who it turns out is, uncontentiously, son and heir of Sir Symonds d'Ewes, Lord of the manor, 'snatched away out of his miserable life ten days after his birth' 1631.
The wedding began after lunch with the ceremony presided over by an interfaith minister, and continued with dancing, dining, and gadding about on the Green. Folks came not only from all over (John's family from Canada) but also from the distant past. I instantly recognised a number of Naomi's friends from over 30 years ago, but didn't know others, who I'd apparently known, even after being introduced.
But we do seem to make a small dent in the force. Bopping around Manhattan we had many unlikely encounters, running into people in the streets her brother, her old boss, an old school friend. Last year, I mentioned I'd like to see George (whose New Year's party I passed out at) and suddenly there he is coming down the sidewalk. As we passed a Broadway play, the stage door was flung open, practically bowling me over, and out came the star of the show, who apologized profusely (we didn't go to see it). And then just on the offchance, we went to see if we could find a friend of Holly's amongst 600 interns, and she walked right up as we entered. Timezone does not seem a factor. Last year I met a friend of Cleavon's in the Bay Area. Then last week while crossing London by Tube, she saw me standing on the platform at Notting Hill Gate, minding the gap. She was so in disbelief, she called Cleavon to verify that I might actually be in London, but by the time he did, I was on the tube to High Street Ken.
The End |
Notice at the bottom of a sign in a Cambridge bookshop
NB Please do not cast spells on members of staff. Your cooperation is appreciated.