When one of
the Relu projects came up with statistics for likely shifts in land use if we
all ate our recommended five a day, and mentioned the potential need for many
more polytunnels covering the south of England, the research received national
press coverage. There was plenty of
opportunity for outrage. Polytunnels are
a blot on the landscape as far as most Britons are concerned and they invariably
provoke protest and nimbyism. Yet still
the government urges us to increase our fruit and veg intake and most of us refuse
to feast on turnips all winter. What is
to be done? Last week I was on holiday
near Turkey’s Mediterranean coast and was struck by the large numbers of
polytunnels there. Acres of plastic
nestle alongside the beautiful beaches.
Tomatoes, cucumbers, courgettes and aubergines spill out of them and
onto the local and international market; Turkey is a net exporter of fruit and
vegetables. This kind of technology
extends the season very effectively and protects produce from weather and
insect damage. It provides the
perfect-looking, all-year-round ingredients we demand. Are there protests about these particular
blots on the landscape? Not at all,
because the land is generally owned by local people and each family may have a
small plot. Almost everyone in Turkey
still has a stake in farming and the rural economy. Using polytunnels is one way of maximising
their profits. So, perhaps this is a
boon for them and for us? Or are we simply
exporting our prejudices to poorer and less fussy communities? Climate change may alter this picture
completely, of course. Other countries
may no longer be able or willing to supply us, or they may find other customers
who can pay more for their goods, as China and India wield increasing economic
power. Will we then look more kindly
upon plastic monstrosities in our own backyard?
Only time will tell.
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
Friday, 13 September 2013
Confessions of a completer-finisher
Back at the beginning
of April I began a new job. This
probably hasn’t been obvious to many of my colleagues in Newcastle as I’m still
sitting here in the same office in the Centre for Rural Economy, in front of
the same computer screen. The Rural
Economy and Land Use Programme, which first brought me here to Newcastle
University in 2007, finally finished at the end of March, but I was fortunate
to be able to continue working here, mainly thanks to the Living With
Environmental Change (LWEC) partnership.
They wanted to establish a new LWEC series of Policy and Practice Notes,
drawing on the Relu experience, and they are paying a large share of my salary
so that I can produce the series for them.
Next week we expect delivery of the first three LWEC notes. I have been waiting for this moment for the
past five months and I can’t wait to hold the finished products in my
hands. It feels like a long time for the
writing, design and print of such brief, four and six page documents and the
completer-finisher in me has experienced a lot of frustration along the
way. I knew the task would be
challenging. LWEC is a much more diverse
programme than Relu, it involves a vast number of programmes, projects and
researchers across many disciplines.
Even so, I had hoped to have one or two notes out by the end of June. Looking back I can see how over-optimistic
this was. To begin with, talking to the
right people and persuading them that publications of this kind can increase the
impact of their research, has sometimes been quite a challenge. Getting first drafts, working on them and
passing them back and forth for comment, invariably takes up more time. On reflection, five months isn’t really so
bad, particularly as three will shortly be arriving together. Several texts are in various stages of preparation
and more numbers in the series should appear over the next few months. I also have to admit that the
time taken has probably resulted in a better product that we would have
achieved if the first note had come out
two or three months ago. Not for the
first time, I come to the conclusion a completer-finisher is not always such a
good thing to be. My inclination to see
the finished product can take over at times.
I’m good at meeting deadlines – but that can include the completely
illusory ones I create for myself. It’s
good to have colleagues who will sometimes tell me to take a breath and think
again, and not worry about getting things finished quite yet. That’s why I know that this new series isn’t just
my own achievement, and that’s why I like working here.
Monday, 26 August 2013
The Celtic tiger shows its wounds
I have just returned from a
few days in Donegal. Driving back
and forth between the Irish Republic and Northern Ireland I am always struck by
the casual lack of any obvious border between the two countries. The only immediate clue is in the sudden
change of style in the road signs.
Miles become kilometres, the iconography looks different. But as one proceeds through the
countryside there are other, more dramatic contrasts. Traditionally Ireland is a country of green landscapes,
agriculture and farmsteads. But
when I first visited in the early 1980s change was already in the air. Old farmhouses were being abandoned in
favour of spanking new ranch-style bungalows with running water and the full
complement of services, often built from the template designs in The Bungalow
Book. Irish rural settlement has
always looked different from the traditional village that is so familiar in
most of the UK. Homesteads tend to
be scattered rather than clustered, and there is little of the peculiarly
English rural romanticism with its cottage garden and roses round the
door. But these new Spanish
colonial style developments looked particularly incongruous. Although the houses themselves may be
quite grandiose, with pillars and stone ornaments much to the fore, the effect
is stark. These new builds usually
stand naked in their standard one third of an acre, without the softening
effect of any surrounding garden.
There may be some grass if you’re lucky; that can be zipped over with a
ride-on mower. Whole estates of
this kind, often brightly painted in blues, reds and greens, create the
impression of a giant Toy Town.
During the days of the Celtic tiger it was a pattern that became ever
more prominent as spare money was poured into new houses and second homes. Some of the old farmsteads were renovated
and became holiday cottages; others were left to disintegrate. But then, along with its European
neighbours, the Celtic tiger faltered.
Bungalows have been abandoned at every stage of construction, as their
owners were hit by the recession.
No doubt Northern Ireland has also suffered, along with the rest of the
UK, but the wounds in the Republic seem much more obvious, a stark public
display of the uncomfortable and sometimes tragic personal consequences of a challenging
economic situation.
Thursday, 1 August 2013
Tell me a story
For the past
three days a number of my colleagues from the Centre for Rural Economy here in Newcastle
have been in beautiful Florence, at the European Society for Rural Sociology Congress. Of course I’m not at all envious (well, only
a little). Neither do I mind helping my
colleagues prepare their presentations for such events. In fact it’s something I really enjoy
doing. But I do wonder why it is that
we assume academics will automatically possess the necessary skills for
communicating their research to an audience, and why they are so rarely that able
to draw on the assistance of communications specialists. One of my colleagues, who had better remain
anonymous, told me recently that preparing powerpoint slides used to be so much
easier because he would “simply paste in chunks of text from my research papers”. It’s harder now that I have shown him the
error of his ways apparently. He is very
much the convert. Solid bullet points of
text are out while visual images are in, and I think he would agree that the
audience tends to be more attentive as a result. Finding the right picture is often
challenging, but sharing the results of research should be about telling a
story, and pictures can help to convey that story by adding a visual dimension. I have written before, I know, about the
importance of stories in communicating research, but this has been very much in
my mind recently. I am currently reading
“The immortal life of Henrietta Lacks” by Rebecca Skloot, a book that I had been
intending to tackle for some time. I
wish I had got around to it sooner because I can hardly bear to put it
down. Reviews have mostly been full of
praise, but I have also read a few critical comments, particularly on websites,
and possibly from academics, that suggest this is not proper science
writing. I have seen it called “science-lite”. I couldn’t disagree more. Skloot manages to involve the reader in the
lives of Henrietta and her family and make them real, while at the same time conveying
the complex technicalities involved in creating the Hela cell line. This important development, that facilitated
so many different medical advances, couldn’t have happened without that
individual and her personal story. I have
no qualifications in biochemistry and yet I feel that I understand much more
about cells and their biology from reading about Henrietta Lacks. I don’t think that using human stories or
pictures in any way undermines “serious” science, and I wish that academics
were routinely given more training and support to help them convey the
fascinating tales that they have to tell. We would all be the richer if they did.
Thursday, 18 July 2013
What makes a cow happy?
During our recent holiday in France I was struck once again by the numbers of cows we saw grazing in woodland in the Aude. It’s a scene that, for me, represents the rural South of France. These cows look so Gallic that I think they must “moo” with a French accent. They seem to wander freely, often wear bells, and create an attractive picture of rural content and traditional farming. Many years ago, when I was studying the Neolithic in Britain, I read that there may be evidence of branches of trees being cut down to feed cattle in these early farming societies. Wild cattle are natural forest dwellers and will certainly feed on leaves if given the opportunity. I also had a vague idea that cattle are supposed to be good for woodland, breaking up matted undergrowth and depositing dung that fertilises the soil. Keeping cattle in woodland, therefore, seems to provide a win-win situation: good for the trees and good for the animals. So why is it common in other European countries but seems rare in the UK? A brief investigation revealed some interesting work by Forest Research. Their survey concludes that there are, in fact, some areas of woodland being grazed by cattle throughout the country, with higher concentrations in the south of England, Cumbria and the north of Scotland. Land ownership seems to be behind the pattern. In the case of Scotland and Cumbria the practice represents an unbroken and continuing tradition in privately-owned land management, and is driven by the need for production. Conversely, in the south of England it is used mainly on land owned by non-governmental organisations such as the National Trust, whose main aim is conservation. In either case there does seem to be a dual benefit that draws on traditional land management practices. I imagine that a couple of hundred years ago the trees might have been coppiced to produce a crop of poles for hurdles or for firewood. A colleague in CRE who is carrying out research on permaculture agreed that keeping cattle in woodland could certainly be included under that heading as a sustainable practice that works with nature. It’s not an intensive production method of course. Too many cattle will ensure, in time, that there are no new trees, as the animals graze off new saplings. But the trampling caused by lower numbers actually seems to create spaces for new plants to germinate and grow. It’s a satisfyingly idea and creates a pretty rural scene. Does it do anything more? Above all, it prompts me to question my assumptions about farming and the countryside. Arguments about intensive production methods, such as mega-dairies have even been aired on The Archers over the past year or so. Most of us prefer to see cows grazing in fields rather than shut away in sheds all year round. But is it even natural to give a cow a field in which to graze? We might prefer it in landscape and aesthetic terms and we may conclude that the cows prefer it: anyone who has seen cows leave their winter accommodation in the spring would be hard pressed to deny that they enjoy being out in the fresh air. But I think it’s also worth remembering that any farming method represents a means by which we reshape the natural world. Given a choice, perhaps what those cows would really prefer would be to retreat into the forest and eat leaves as their ancestors did. Though, of course, we have also shaped the modern cow into a very different creature from its ancestors.
Friday, 5 July 2013
Abroad thoughts from home
I have just returned from a holiday in France. They do things differently there. We were dining in our hotel in the charming
village of Alet-les-bains, in the Languedoc-Roussillon
region
when an English couple at the next table asked whether they might have a glass
of champagne as an aperitif. The waiter
was polite but unequivocal. No, this was
impossible. Why? Because we were not in Champagne. Glasses of Blanquette de Limoux, the local
sparkling wine were, however, forthcoming.
The English customers were quite obviously bemused. They had simply been seeking a sparkling wine
when they asked for “champagne” and had no intention of causing an
international incident. But the French
take regional food and wine extremely seriously. For them, eating locally is not about food
miles or carbon footprints but about tradition and being true to the
terroir. It is self-evident to them that
the food and wine from a particular region go together, and who could argue
with the matching of cassoulet with the fruity reds of Languedoc where it originated,
or mineral-tangy Sancerre with goat’s cheese from the same region. That isn’t to say that French wines can never
be drunk with other foods of course. Alsace
wines complement spicy dishes from across the world, and wine producers are
keen to sell beyond their regional and national borders. At the same time there is still a deep sense
of locality and a desire to consume local produce in France. Perhaps it is because even now very many
French people, even if they are living in cities, still have a sense of rural
roots, of family who produced this food and wine, just a couple of generations
ago. It is something we have generally
lost in the UK. This is not just true
for France, of course. My colleague at
the Centre for Rural Economy, Menelaos Gkartzios, has been investigating these
rural roots in his native Greece, and researching the phenomenon of urban dwellers
migrating back to the countryside in response to the economic situation. Many are taking advantage of the family
networks that are still strong in southern Europe. In Britain we are not, at the moment, in such
dire straits. If we were we would not be
able to return to the countryside as an escape from unemployment and poverty. Here it is more often the refuge of the well-off
retiree. Perhaps the loss of a sense of
local food identity goes along with this.
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
Connections at our fingertips
Most of
the work that goes on in the Centre for Rural Economy involves the brain rather
than the body. You might hear
conversation, the tapping of keyboards, a kettle boiling, a clatter of cups. We connect via spoken and written words, using
all kinds of communications technology, or meet face to face over cups of
coffee. We may move books and papers
around, but none of this requires a great deal of physical effort. So when Claire Pençak, who has been our
artist in residence over the past year, came to talk to me as part of her evaluation
of the residency, I wondered why I hadn’t taken more advantage of her presence
in CRE. Claire uses choreography and
visual art in her practice, while I use words.
Suddenly the idea of bringing these together to consider “connections between
choreography and social science” seemed like a really interesting idea. I always favour the surprise element in any presentation
or event so this was an opportunity to shake my colleagues out of their expectations
about what a seminar is. We decided that
this seminar wasn’t going to be about brain work alone. Claire and I devised a very simple
format. I asked the participants to
write down three words about connections.
Then, without sharing these, everyone took part in a choreography
exercise, led by Claire. We worked in
pairs, balancing bamboo canes between us.
The trick of is to learn how your partner moves, to push forward and
give way in time with one another. In
doing so, each pair keeps their bamboo canes aloft; if one person exerts too
much power or fails to respond to their partner, the canes fall to the ground. Then, when we had (more or less) mastered
this, everyone in the workshop worked as a group to balance the canes between
them. It’s a fascinating exercise in
respecting others’ space while working together to achieve an objective. Afterwards everyone wrote another three words
about “connections”, and shared both sets of words with their colleagues. It was interesting to see how this second set
of words was subtly different from the initial thoughts: words such as “peace”
and “friend” and “interdependence” and “reciprocity” appeared rather than “email”,
“buses” “wires” and “links”.
Finally,
everyone wrote a few lines on the theme of “connections. This is one example:
Sensing the direction
through new pathways
knowledge at our
fingertips
yet poles
apart.
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