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.

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.    

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.

What’s a food policy council anyway?

 

What’s a food policy council?  I couldn’t have begun to answer this question before attending the Food Policy Council Workshop organised by CRE and NIReS this week.  I now feel that at least I know what it could be, though I also learnt that these bodies appear in lots of different guises in different places and may want different things. 

The one-day workshop was divided into two segments: the morning local and regional, the afternoon national, and we had some expert guides during both.  Mark Winne and Pam Roy, who led much of the day, both have many years of experience in the politics and practice of food policy councils in North America, where the concept originated.  Collaboration seems to be fundamental to these organisations and the sharing of knowledge throughout  seemed to be an appropriate reflection of this. 

Food is, of course, fundamental to all of our lives.  The food magazine that carries the strapline “For people who eat” makes me laugh at its self-conscious joke every time I see it.  Some of us may be more obsessive foodies than others, but, whether we regard food as fuel or as one of the great pleasures of life, we all have to eat to stay alive.  Those of us living in developed countries are generally more privileged in our access to enough food, and in the vast choice available.  And yet, there are still those who are not able, for whatever reason, to ensure they eat a healthy diet.  Obesity is a major problem, particularly in deprived areas.  We were told that in Newcastle nearly 15% of children entering school reception classes are obese.  The statistics on poor health and early death mirror areas of poverty and deprivation.  Is the loss of skills a major factor that leads families to rely on unhealthy processed food?  Certainly many people seem unconfident about basic cooking.  Many of us say we like to eat local food, particularly those of us who are more comfortably off and able to make choices.  We like local produce because it’s fresh and it has a low carbon footprint.  And yet 75% of the food we eat in the North East is imported, while we export 75% of what we produce here.  Given that the Taste Club initiative that aims to promote local food has 7,500 members who profess an interest in local food, that seems to open up huge potential for new food and drink enterprises in the North East.  But small producers need to be able to break through, and it is difficult for them to compete on price with large supermarkets.  Faced with the goods on the shelf we still opt for cheapness over quality.  Is this an inevitable consequence of the market economy?  What about the huge buying power of the public sector?  Healthy eating should be a paramount concern when we are feeding school children and patients, but purchasers are often forced into lowest price deals. These are all issues that concerned people attending the workshop.  Many are already involved in projects and initiatives that tackle specifics: setting up community gardens and allotments to promote vegetable growing, providing education in budgeting and cooking cheap but healthy meals, running coops that buy in bulk and can afford to sell more cheaply in the community.  These are all immensely worthy ideas.  But a food policy council aims to take this kind of thinking to a different level, to influence the way in which local and national government exercises power.  Drawing on the experience of our experts, it is obvious that there are some important principles that need to apply: justice, equity and sustainability are key.  Partnerships are essential, and must be inclusive, looking beyond the purely urban to include rural food producers as well as consumers.  If Newcastle University could be involved, this would be in line with our aspiration to be a civic university, rooted in the local community.  Newcastle City Council is a key player and is already in the process of preparing its Food Charter, so perhaps we already have a step in the right direction.

Big momma is watching you

I clicked onto the Newcastle University website today to find a pair of rather malevolent eyes looking into mine.  I was inclined to close the browser immediately.  Those eyes made me feel distinctly uneasy.  But I was interested to see that they related to some research carried out by Professor Melissa Bateson and Professor Daniel Nettle of the Centre for Behaviour and Evolution at Newcastle, and Ken Nott of the University’s security team.  Bicycles are regularly stolen from racks on the University campus, but by putting pictures of eyes and short anti-theft messages above the racks the researchers found that they could reduce the number of thefts by 62%.  Unfortunately thefts from racks that were not “guarded” by the disembodied eyes went up, suggesting that the thieves had moved elsewhere, presumably to an area where they didn’t feel they were being watched.  What would have happened, I wonder, if all racks had sported these off-putting glares?  Perhaps the bicycle thieves would have overcome their scruples and got out their bolt-cutters anyway.  But the research is interesting, not only for its potential effects on crime, but because it highlights our reactions to eyes, and the wider importance they have for us as human beings.  It surely can’t be coincidence that the panda, with its eyes so clearly emphasised by black markings, is such a popular image for conservation?  Big-eyed creatures such as bush babies are generally regarded as being particularly cute and owls, with their clear, forward-looking gaze, also seem to strike a chord in a way that other birds do not.  Human babies have eyes that are disproportionately large and we know that eye contact between mother and baby seems to be important.  It promotes the attachment without which a baby may not survive.  It seems then that being looked at can be reassuring as well as threatening.  So why is that stare from above the cycle rack so threatening?   Are the thieves perhaps worried that it might be their mum who is watching when they steal that bike?

Poetry, algebra and creativity

Does anyone else still read the Liverpool poets?  The Mersey Sound collection was published by Penguin in 1967, and for years afterwards it seemed as though everyone I knew possessed a copy.  When I took “O” Level English in 1972, Adrian Henri’s “In the Midnight Hour” even turned up as the unseen text.  We were all thrilled by this at my school, as we didn't think people like teachers and examiners had ever heard of such radical writers.  When, in that most intimate sign of commitment, I shelved my book collection side by side with my partner’s, we realised we now possessed two copies of The Mersey Sound.  We were married a year later.  In many respects the book seems stuck in a very specific era, but particular poems from the collection still pop up regularly in my brain.  Today I was thinking of Brian Patten’s “Prose poem towards a definition of itself”.  In particular, the line: “On sighting mathematicians it should unhook algebra from their minds and replace it with poetry; on sighting poets it should unhook poetry from their minds and replace it with algebra” resonates.  Interdisciplinarity hadn’t been invented as a term, and would have seemed novel as an idea, when Patten wrote his poem, but this is a line to prompt that kind of creative thinking.  It also encapsulates a notion that I believe in absolutely: that being bounced out of our normal rut, having our expectations circumvented can be peculiarly inspiring.  I’m always pleased when colleagues ask me to help them prepare presentations.  I’m easily flattered and it gives me a chance to proselytise.  I rail against the ghastly powerpoint presentation, urge them to surprise the audience with a poem when they are expecting algebra, to illustrate a quatrain with quadratic equations. Why?  Because, if they do, theirs will be the presentation that the audience will remember, it will be an island in a sea of indistinguishable bulletpoints.  Persuading academics, or indeed any professionals, to take this dangerous plunge is often difficult.  They would rather be unmemorable than risk looking foolish, particularly in front of their peers.  Sadly, it’s a fear that most of us learn early on.  But sometimes risks really are worth taking.  The Liverpool poets came in for some vicious sniping and criticism from the literary establishment, but few would now deny that they were part of a hugely influential cultural wave being surfed so spectacularly and creatively by The Beatles.  And, unlike most poets, they sold an awful lot of books: two are still sitting on the bookshelves in my house.

Do ecosystem services belong to Green Van Man?

The other day I asked my husband what he thought "ecosystem services" meant.  He's accustomed to me asking him odd questions so wasn't thrown by this.  After some thought, he suggested that it might be an eco-friendly plumbing firm.  He thought they probably drove around in a green van, pumping out blocked drains.  Of course he wasn't surprised to learn that "ecosystem services" is more likely to be found in a scientific journal than in the yellow pages.  He had probably realised he was, once again, acting the guinea pig in a communications experiment.  But I wasn't entirely surprised either, to hear his response.  Every profession uses jargon and it can be a useful shorthand, but it also acts as a barrier to exclude the non-expert.  Ecosystem services is an expression that, I suspect, few people outside academia or policy making circles have come across.  So I tried to explain to my, probably not terribly interested, spouse, what it really means.  This took a long time and I'm not sure I really got the message across.  Ecosystem services covers so many of the vital functions that land provides for human existence: food, water, carbon storage, leisure, biodiversity, just for starters.  Our demands increase all the time.  Explaining this concept takes a lot of words, far more words than the two in that short phrase.   As a science communicator,  I always shy away from using jargon, and if it creeps into my writing I regard that as a failure.   But sometimes jargon does, after a while, stop being exclusive and become mainstream.  As a colleague pointed out to me, "biodiversity" was an unfamiliar term until quite recently.  He remembered a time when most members of the public, and even farmers, would not have known what it meant.  Now every farmer can discuss the biodiversity on his or her land, and it saves a lot of long explanations.  Acronyms may become familiar in a similar way.  I have sat in meetings where every other word was an acronym and felt totally baffled.  When I worked in the health service, patients often complained, with good reason, about feeling excluded by acronyms, and we worked hard to eliminate them from information leaflets and other resources.  Then, one day, someone complained about the acronym "NHS" and that stopped me in my tracks.  Is there anyone in the UK who isn't familiar with this shorthand?  Should we stop using it simply because it is an acronym, or accept that it has become a handy way of referring to this public service?  I think most people would incline to the latter view.   Would it be similarly blinkered to avoid "ecosystem services" forever?  This is a dilemma that I am still struggling with at the moment.  My instinct is to avoid it, but I accept that I may have to revise my opinion over the next few years.  Of course, if I see a couple of plumbers driving round my neighbourhood with "Ecosystem Services Ltd" painted on the side of their bright green van, that's really going to complicate things.