2012 Round Up

As the end of the year draws near we approach that time when journalists the world over start getting all retrospective and nostalgic about the passing of another 12 months. Whilst it seems like this is a reasonable enough tac to take the reality is that it is a quick, easy and lazy way to generate another week of output on the cheap; and who am I to argue with such a proud tradition? So here, having gone to absolutely no effort whatsoever, are a collection of some of the better photos from the blog over 2012. Some of them are taken from the most popular posts of the year and some of them are just ones I like. Normal service will resume in the New Year. Enjoy!

This is one from a post on how to incorporate textures into images, the photo itself is from Porto.

This shot of Tower Bridge could be improved by returning early morning when the sun would be off to the left and less harsh.

This close up of a leopard is from a post on abstracted animals.

Although the town itself is forgettable Tulum is one of the most impressive archaeological sites I've been to.

Chichen Itza, the second most visited place in all of Mexico.

This shot of a hummingbird is a bit out of focus but was the best I managed to get and the culmination of a lot of effort.

I just love the colour palette in this picture.

Sunset on the South Bank: heaven.

From the same post as above, once the sun had gone down we went to the top of One New Change for this amazing view of an icon of London.

This panorama of Mount Esja is quite beautiful when viewed blown up, even if I do say so myself.

This is one of Sue's favourites from our trip to Vietnam.

What Does Monday Taste Like To You?

I've been getting a lot of feedback over the past few days on last week's foray into the world of science. I've been relieved to find that it has been overwhelmingly positive on the whole and it's certainly brought a lot of new traffic to the blog. But nothing is ever perfect and I have also received some constructive criticism, which is always welcome. One such criticism was that I need to be careful of my tone, I mustn't give the impression, for example, that I think people who disagree with me on certain topics are idiots.

To be clear, I absolutely do not think that. There are any number of reasons why some people hold different views to other people and that they are idiots is only one of them. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of idiots out there but there are also lots of people who just haven't given any great consideration to many topics, or haven't had the benefits of a mainstream education, sometimes there are topics where the evidence doesn't clearly point in one direction or another and we just have to wait for more data to come in before we can be certain (this does not include ghosts or astrology), and there are also people who have grown up in a culture where they have been encouraged to think things which are not necessarily, shall we say, accurate? But when I write this I have a certain audience in mind. I'm not looking to convert true believers into atheists, I don't want to have to explain to someone why the apparent position of balls of plasma light-years away doesn't have an effect on the personality of humans on our rocky planet; I'm speaking to people that believe the Earth is billions of years old not thousands, that all life evolved from one common ancestor and that bacon sandwiches are awesome. My writing about photography has always been aimed at people who are interested in an honest portrayal of the natural world we inhabit and the societies we have created within that, I don't see my science writing as being any different to that.

One thing I will say is this; never take my word for anything I write here. Have a think about it, question it,  do your own research into the topic, ask yourself if it sounds likely and what mechanism might be behind it. I am more than capable of making mistakes, mistyping, or getting completely the wrong end of the stick. I would encourage you to take this approach whenever anyone tells you anything; always try to think critically, you'll learn a lot about the subject at hand but also about yourself and the people you interact with.

Having established as much, though, there is still a lot of scope for frustration and disagreement. My natural inclination is to focus on the detail of any given topic whereas other people might like to speak in broader, more general terms. Those people find my way of arguing to be overly narrow and pedantic whilst I find theirs loose and woolly to the point of being meaningless. But imagine you had another way of seeing the world altogether. What if you could smell colours or hear printed words? What if you could taste the days of the week and see numbers that people spoke to you? Such people do exist. They are called synaesthetes (SIN-iss-teets) and are affected by the condition synaesthesia. Literally this means 'joining of the senses' and it's actually a pretty good description of the condition. Some people will taste words; others hear colours; others will see spatial representations of sequences, for example, they'll see the numbers 1-10 running left to right in front of them, 11-20 will run upwards, 21-30 will be over their left shoulder and so on. Over 60 different manifestations have been reported.

When Franz Liszt first began as Kapellmeister in 1842, it astonished the orchestra that he said: 'O please, gentlemen, a little bluer, if you please! This tone type requires it!' Or: 'That is a deep violet, please, depend on it! Not so rose!' First the orchestra believed Liszt just joked; more later they got accustomed to the fact that the great musician seemed to see colours there, where there were only tones. One of my favourite physicists, Richard Feynman, is quoted as saying, 'When I see equations, I see the letters in colours – I don't know why. As I'm talking, I see vague pictures of Bessel functions from Jahnke and Emde's book, with light-tan j's, slightly violet-bluish n's, and dark brown x's flying around. And I wonder what the hell it must look like to the students.'

Whilst not all synaesthetes become legendary composers or Nobel Prize winners there certainly isn't any great cause for concern. Whilst seeing sounds and hearing colours can be distracting to young children initially it seems that the vast majority of those affected grow to use it to their advantage and consider it a blessing; if they've even realised that not everyone senses the world in the same way that they do, that is. Depending on the form the synaesthesia takes it can help with mathematics, time management, better memory recall and other such tasks. I'll try to explain how shortly.

It looks clear now that there is a tendency for synaesthesia to run in families but no specific gene has thus far been found. Also, it doesn't tend to be passed on from father to son and so there has been speculation that whatever genetic components are involved may be on  the X chromosome; however, 2 cases of father-son transmission have now been documented. To me this suggests that it is likely to be a polygenic disorder i.e. caused by more than one gene. Whilst this means there are more targets to be found the reality is that polygenic disorders are notoriously difficult to pin down; examples of well characterised polygenic disorders are rarer than unicorn tears. It should be noted that the form it takes isn't passed on, a mother who tastes colours might have a son who smells words - not a sentence I ever thought I would write.

How exactly this phenomenon comes about is not precisely known at present. For a long time it was thought that it was a simple matter of 'leakyness'; e.g. visual signals stimulating the auditory cortex. The electrical signals caused by stimuli that would normally be interpreted in one part of the brain were just spilling over into adjacent areas; but this doesn't really hold together as parts of the brain that become mingled aren't necessarily next to each other. It appears as though there are structural differences in the brains of synaesthetes; there is good evidence that they have more grey matter than the average and that there are more physical connections than the average between their neurons, not just between the sensory areas but generally throughout the brain. There is also increasing amounts of evidence that higher level brain function can be brought to bear on the phenomenon. New associations can be learnt and applied to previously unknown situations; for example, people with grapheme-colour synaesthesia (the most common form) can be shown an alphabet they have never encountered before, like the glagolitic, and learn a completely new set of links between colours and the symbols. This process can be both organic and directed and can happen in less than ten minutes. This would suggest that several separate systems are all involved in synaesthesia and is another excellent example of the plasticity of the human brain.

I mentioned earlier that being a synaesthete can have it's advantages, let's look at a few examples. Look at the picture below, try to look at the picture on the left first. Not very interesting is it? Just a whole bunch of 5s randomly strewn about. The picture on the left is a little more interesting, it is identical except that colour has been added. All of a sudden it is very apparent that it isn't just a mass of 5s on the page, there are also a few 2s thrown in. You would have eventually spotted that in the original picture if you'd had a good look at it, but it required only a fraction of a second in the next image (admittedly, as red and green were used, colour blind people will have struggled with this one). People with grapheme-colour synaesthesia pick up on the 2s far faster than the rest of us do.

So what practical applications are there for this? Look at this next picture below of some simple sums. We can all do these, they're at a pre-school level, but children tend to grasp colours before they do numbers and those children who also have grapheme-colour synaethesia will have an extra level of association to latch onto that will likely propel them to the head of maths class. If they learn to harness this to it's full potential then maybe that's one way how we get people like Richard Feynman. You may also imagine how Liszt saw the colours of the notes of his composition rising from the orchestra; if you also had an idea of the colours you wanted to invoke as you composed then this could potentially be an extra tool with which to fine tune the piece as compared to those of us who have to just listen very carefully.

The first reference I can find to synaesthesia was in 1880 by the legendary Francis Galton, so we have known about this for quite a while and as awareness of the condition grows it is now thought that as many as 4% of people could be affected, which sounds like a lot, but many don't even realise they are unusual. The question boils down to this: Is this an entirely new type of phenomenon in the brain or merely an extreme form of something very typical? This is a question that crops up time and time again in neurology and hopefully in many cases we will be able to resolve it as we slowly get a handle on what baseline brain activity really is, if there turns out to be such a thing. One final example, look at the picture below. One of these shapes is called Booba (stop giggling) and the other is called Kiki. Decide for yourself which is which. I know which way I went and I can be fairly confident of which way you will go; the jagged shape on the left will be Kiki and the more rounded one on the right will be Booba (stop it). That's how 98% of people assign them.

So is this a very low form of synaesthesia that we all share? Is it a phenomenon that is unrelated but gives a similar sort of outcome? Is it more of a cultural effect to do with the shapes our mouths and lips take as we pronounce the words Kiki and Booba (see me after class) and the way we associate them with the symbols in the picture? The answer is: we simply don't know. But I do know how we'll find out; through careful observation, rigorous application of critical thinking and leaving your preconceived ideas at the door: through science.

For more information on synaesthesia I have provided links to some of the sources I used. Google will also lead you to some of the support groups that exist like the UK Synaesthesia Association.

All images used with permission under the Creative Commons License

http://www.journalofvision.org/content/9/12/25

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/18550184?itool=EntrezSystem2.PEntrez.Pubmed.Pubmed_ResultsPanel.Pubmed_RVDocSum&ordinalpos=2

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/19028762

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glagolitic_alphabet

http://www.newscientist.com/article/mg20427393.800-is-synaesthesia-a-highlevel-brain-power.html

The City of Arts and Science: A New Beginning

I have a confession, and a grave one at that.

There was a time, not all that many years ago, when I used to believe in conspiracy theories. You know, like the JFK assassination and that the moon landings were hoaxes, I also thought there might be something to astrology, bigfoot and alien abductions; there was even a brief period when I was a 9/11 Truther.

It's all very embarrassing for me to admit to this. Just thinking back to those times makes me physically cringe. It's mortifying. I mean, each one of those things on its own would be bad enough but to go in for them all? What was I thinking? Well; I wasn't thinking. I now think that the various beliefs I held stemmed from a combination of factors: a lack of confidence, lack of critical thinking skills, misplaced faith in charismatic people I admired, a hefty dose of anti-American sentiment, reluctance to take responsibility - it's so much easier to blame the universe if your life isn't working out how you want it to, so much easier than working hard and applying yourself. But the truth is that the universe doesn't give a shit about me and my life. It was getting along just fine before I turned up and it will continue to do so long after I'm gone.

The DNA molecules I analyse at work are somewhat smaller than this

Looking back, one of the things I find most curious about it is how I was able to compartmentalise my thoughts. I was an intelligent person with a degree in genetics and yet still I spouted all sorts of rubbish in my spare time. I wasn't a complete fool, though; there were areas of lazy, illogical thought processes that I managed to shrug off quite easily. Despite pressure to fit into the Catholic mould I found that religion never made any sense to me. The first time I read the bible was as a child, religion never made any sense to me. I would read about a miracle and just think: well, how could that have happened? Omnipotence isn't a good enough answer; if nothing else it's just plain intellectually lazy. The second time I read it through I just found myself getting increasingly disgusted with the level of self-contradiction and hypocrisy crammed onto every page. And it's not like it's even original, it's just a collection of poorly told myths and rip offs as brazen as the Bronze Age that spawned them.

L'Hemisferic

For the life of me I can't remember what it was that made me finally shake off these mental shackles; it wasn't any one thing, I think I must have just finally started using my brain. Of the myriad benefits of my awakening I think my favourite is that all the space in my brain that was taken up by the obscene mental gymnastics required for fallacious thought, such as thinking that the US government could conspire to blow up the twin towers when they couldn't even keep a Presidential blow job a secret, is now free to be filled with something altogether more exciting and useful: science.

I was always a science geek, even as a young child but, embarrassingly far into my twenties, I had allowed it to cohabit with too much groundless nonsense and ideology. In the years since I have consciously learnt as much as I can about the fallibility of human reasoning, about the ways our brain can fool us, the way confirmation bias influences us, logical fallacies and the importance of the scientific method as the only tool we have to actually know anything for certain. All through my childhood, and even in the depths of my youthful intellectual transgressions, science has always been the topic that has got me most excited. Any and all science, I'll read anything I can get my hands on; not just the stuff I'm really into like genetics, astronomy and particle physics. The other day I lost an entire evening reading about the geology of spherules. I'd never even seen the word spherule before but as soon as I did I had to know as much as I could about it.

The opera house; a cross between the heads of Megatron and the Stig

When I first set up this blog, nearly two years ago now, I had to come up with a name for it. Travel, Photos and Thoughts is what I came up with. I deliberately left the word thoughts in there knowing that there may well come a time when I wanted to talk about more than the places I have gone to with my camera. To an extent, that time may be arriving. Due to a damaged foot I'm not currently able to get about all that much and I have taken very few photos in the last few months. As I write this I'm supposed to be going out with The London Photowalk group that I have written about previously but I am unable to do so and it could be many months before that changes. Whilst I do have a bit of an archive that I can draw on it won't last forever and so I need a strategy. My plan is two fold; to try and explore my local area more so that I can keep taking photos, but also to expand my remit, if only temporarily. I don't know exactly how it will work yet but it'll definitely still involve pictures although they may be taken by the Hubble space telescope, the Mars Curiosity rover or a fancy electron microscope instead of me. Let's just see how it goes.

Giant space alien carcass?

Everything we know about the physical world - everything - we know through science. Combine that with our culture and the joy we find in the beauty of aesthetics and we have gone some way to identifying what distinguishes us from the rest of the animals, Art and Science. Which brings me, rather circuitously I grant you, to what was supposed to be the main thrust of this article: Valencia's Ciudad de las Artes y Ciencias. For nearly our entire history as a species we have been willing to move heaven and earth to move earth closer to heaven. For millennia, the pinnacle of human scientific achievement were the shrines we built to religion. The cathedrals of Europe, the pyramids of Egypt and Mexico, the temples of south east Asia; all required a massive amount time, effort, resources and scientific knowledge that was rarely applied to other fields of endeavour, excepting, perhaps, war. A century long building program would be embarked upon at a time when life expectancy was about 40 and no one would think this a strange thing to do. Although it all seems a bit mental now I, for one, am very pleased that they did because many of these structures remain to this day and are a long lasting testament to human creativity and ingenuity. But something I'm also very pleased about is that it is now not considered unusual to put a similar amount of effort and resources into the celebration of science and the arts; this is what has happened in Valencia.

For the 2,000 years that Valencia has existed the river Turia ran through it's heart, but the river was prone to frequent flooding and one particularly bad incident in 1957 left the Valencianos knowing that something had to change. They weren't messing about either, their solution was to move the river. The Turia now spills out on a flood plain to the south of the city and the long, wide, snaking riverbed was turned into a sunken 9km municipal garden filled with acres of parkland, athletics facilities, sculpture, children's play areas and fountains. At the far eastern end of this complex, just before it meets the Mediterranean Sea, is the City of Arts and Sciences. This comprises of many buildings, the highlights of which are the The Palace of Arts, which is primarily an opera house and incorporates one of the most amazing feats of architecture I have ever seen; L'Hemisferic, which is an enormous IMAX style cinema that envelops the viewers with a screen that seems to surround you; L'Oceanografic, home to the largest aquarium in Europe and some truly ridiculous fish tanks; and, my favourite, the Museum of the Sciences, an astonishing building with 40,000 square metres of space in which to demonstrate the diversity, joy and excitement of the world of science.

The building is remarkable, it looks like something between a giant, pre-historic whale skeleton and the corpse of a gargantuan, alien insect. But all in white. I did my best to get a picture of this in all its monstrous glory but the temperature was in the high 40s. I'm not kidding, this was Valencia in August, we would go out for breakfast of a morning and be grateful it was a chilly 27 Celsius. In this sort of weather I burn in ten minutes, if I'm not careful, so I would slink from shade to shade like some sort of anti-lizard desperately eking out what little protection from the onslaught of the sun my Irish heritage could afford me.

Architecture on this scale tends to lend itself to the abstract

Inside, the exhibits are heavily weighted towards the interactive end of the scale and children certainly seemed happy to conduct their own experiments like good little empiricists. One large section contains a huge forest of the chromosomes 30 feet high as if it were an altar to the gods of karyotyping; there are the obligatory sections on space exploration and electricity and even one on the science behind Marvel comic characters. One nice touch was a sawdust-filled incubator that had a ready supply of chicken eggs so that, for those willing to be patient, you could watch a chick's first efforts in life as it forces its way out of its shell-bound world. Simple, but both exciting and inspiring in equal measure.

I think I could have spent the entire holiday just exploring these buildings, they certainly need two full days to do them any sort of justice; yet this is just a small portion of the city. Valencia has a large and vibrant Old Town that, itself, needs at least another couple of days of exploration to seek out all the hidden gems on offer, something I will likely detail in a future post. Until then, enjoy the science.

Mekong and Markets

One of the larger branches of the mighty Mekong river

It's been a while but there has always been one last part of my trip through Vietnam that I wanted to write about. 

The final leg of our journey was in the south of the country, basing ourselves in Ho Chi Minh City we went on a two day trip to the Mekong Delta. Known as the rice bowl of Vietnam this is a very fertile region, as most deltas are, the river having brought rich soils and other detritus along for the ride from higher ground. After more than 3,000 miles of meandering from Tibet down through south east Asia this mighty river, the 10th longest on the planet, fans out over 15,000 sq miles of the country (see this image from NASA).

Once you stray into the tributaries this is how the Mekong looks. For miles. Endlessly.

This is one of those environments where the people that make it their home live almost semi-aquatic lives; there is no escaping the river. It impacts every aspect of their being. Pieces of actual solid ground are few and far between, especially nearer the coast. Raising your family, your livestock or your crops presents even more challenges than normal. People don't have cars here, they have boats; they don't go for a walk, they go for a swim. They say there is a period of the year when it doesn't rain quite so heavily as at others, but this river never dries. Picture vast islands of bamboo growing straight out of the water and you'll have a good idea of how much of this landscape looks.

If you look through the little windows you can see that this boat is stuffed to the gills with cabbages

What land there is has been aggressively cultivated in the last two decades as the Government sought to change Vietnam's status from a net importer to an exporter of rice, and it worked. Every bit of solid ground I saw either had a building on it or a paddy field thus highlighting the age old struggle between man and his environment. Less people in Vietnam now go hungry than they used to, but the Mekong has suffered and is not as large or diverse an ecosystem as it once was. Where the correct balance is on this scale of survival I couldn't say. It's easy to argue that this ecosystem should be protected from man at all costs but I'm pretty sure I'd strangle a panda with a tiger's tail if it meant my children wouldn't starve.

A slow day at the market

This aggressive agriculturalisation of the landscape has led to an influx of people from across the land. Historically the Greater Mekong region of South East Asia has been one of net emigration as a large population has had to do battle over very few jobs. In recent years though, the region has become one of net immigration as the demand for labour has increased. As the population has increased so the demand on local resources has seen a commensurate rise; in a land as fertile as the Mekong perhaps this doesn't seem like such a bad deal; the land is very fertile and can support many. But if there's one thing that we humans excel at it's finding ways to ruin a good thing. The laws of entropy are fairly unbending on this one, ultimately something will have to give.

Eels for dinner, anyone?

On the upside, one thing that all these people bring with them is their culture. Traditionally the hub of any town is it's market place in the town square. But what if the place you live doesn't have enough land to put a town square on? Easy, simply make your market float, of course. If you visit the Mekong then you won't have to wait long until you see one of their impressive floating markets; it seems that everyone just turns up with a boat load of produce, they tie a few examples of said produce to a big, vertical stick so that you can see what's being sold at a glance and then they just float around each other bargaining goods like traders the world over.

This woman pumps air into the bowl to keep her crayfish type creatures alive

Can Tho is one of the very few, what we would call, proper cities in the Mekong; it has a large freshwater port and is the major mercantile centre of the region. The large market that the town plays host to has been covered over in recent years to make it a bit more tourist friendly and it's well worth a look. Asides from all the exotic fruits like lychees (which I could do without) and dragon fruit (which is delicious) they have a good stock of live animals that you can buy fresh for a bit of home slaughtering.

That's a lot of lychees

It's difficult to imagine a river delta that just goes on for so long. I guess the closest thing we have to it in this country is the Fenlands; the unending flatness, the constantly waterlogged ground and ever present risk of flood. One of the things that I most remember the area for is that I finally got to eat some snake, snake curry to be precise. It was quite tasty, it sort of has the texture of pigs liver but a taste nearer to that of kidney. I recommend it.

My last photo here is one I have included because Sue really likes it. It's of her as she walks through the market of Can Tho. It has a nice simplicity to it but generally leaves me feeling sombre. Where is she walking? Why is she alone? As I took the photo I know that she was just trying to catch up to Eleanor and get out of the pissing rain but I guess that's the power of a photograph.

Land of Ice and Fire. And Rain.

The Land of Ice and Fire is how Iceland likes to brand itself, not entirely unreasonably either. It's home to many glaciers, including Europe's largest, and is the second most volcanic country in the world after Hawaii. But I would recommend, just for accuracy's sake you understand, the slight addendum of 'and rain'. In the days we were there it only stopped raining for 100 minutes; admittedly they were an amazing 100 minutes with some of the most crystal clear light and beautiful countryside I've ever seen but still. Now I know what you're thinking: the Welsh tourist board has already cornered that market, but I don't see why they couldn't come to some sort of mutual agreement.

When you live in a place where you're likely to spend a large portion of the year battling the elements it's always nice to know that at the end of the day you can have a nice hot bath and, thanks to another aspect of Iceland's extreme nature, Icelanders have a better deal than most. 14% of the surface of Iceland is covered by lakes, there are many underground reservoirs too and where these are found near to one of the many vents to the Earth's core that the country straddles the result is a vast aquifer of ready made bath water. You see, the mains water that gets pumped into Reykjavik isn't cold like ours but piping hot and so whereas we have to wait for the water to get hot they often have to wait for the water to get cold.

The reason Iceland is so geologically active is that it sits astride the mid-Atlantic ridge, in fact, worse than that, the fault line actually splits in two right in the middle of the country. This has resulted in there being more than 30 active volcanic systems in the country and one third of the total magma that has erupted to the Earth's surface in the last 500 years has been on this one island. In 1783 the Laki volcano erupted, and it was a real monster. The guy that told me about it said for me to look up the history of my country, or any country in the northern hemisphere, for that year and it would be mentioned; and he was right. That summer was known as the Sand Summer in the UK because the sky was changed to a pallid yellow from all the sulphur that was belched into the atmosphere. Ten thousand Britons were killed by the fallout from the eruption. One third of the population of Iceland were killed. Chilling statistics like that is probably why locals were all a bit nonplussed when their last major eruption was under way resulting in flights throughout northern Europe being grounded due to worries about the ash cloud. Apparently they found it genuinely amusing that people would get so worked up by such a small eruption and annoyed that the world seemed incapable of pronouncing a simple word like Eyjafjallajökull. 

A close up of the blow hole, so to speak, between eruptions. It smelt as bad as it looks.

All the poor weather we encountered meant that there was no chance of seeing the Northern Lights, which was a shame but not a surprise as I knew before we left that solar activity was low. Luckily, though, we did get to see the other main thing that I wanted to get out of the trip, whales. Minke whales, to be precise. These baleen whales are normally solitary but we managed to find two together that were presumably feeding on a ball of herring or some other such fishy goodness. The rolling of the waves and the lash of the wind and rain meant that the only vaguely in focus shot I managed to get was less than impressive but, for me, this particular encounter wasn't about photography, it was about seeing one of nature's wonders up close and personal. So although I didn't get a heap of shots of humpbacks breaching and fluking I was still more than pleased with my day.

When I'm away I now increasingly approach any new place with a view to how I'm going to represent it on this blog. What story am I going to tell? What are the key elements I need to photograph? What caption would fit here? And if I come up with a good turn of phrase I'll quickly note it down knowing that my awful memory will inevitably let it fall from it's grasp. But on this occasion I was content to just stand there trying to guess where they would surface next whilst simultaneously trying to dodge the increasing quantity of vomit puddles on deck and not fall into the briny deep. And there was a lot to dodge too, let me tell you; I hadn't seen that many people vomiting with wild abandon in one place since my last night out in Cardiff. Sue does not cope well on boats and, whilst she wasn't a contributor to the fish food being mopped overboard that day, she felt pretty rough the whole time we were out there but she manfully fought it all the way and coped extremely well. As we chugged back into the harbour she said that I have my 'roller coaster' face on. For those that haven't gone on a trip to Alton Towers with me this basically means I have a fixed grin on my face combined with a sort of wildness in the eyes that gives me an altogether unhinged appearance. This means I've had fun. The only slightly unsettling thing about the trip was that in the opposite berth to our whale spotting ship were two whale hunting ships; a stark reminder that these impressive creatures have no protection in Icelandic waters. The argument goes that they have been doing this for a thousand years, it's a part of their culture, why should they have to stop now?

Minke whales are known for the small size of their dorsal fin compared to their body size

More of a struggle was our next excursion where the plan was to spend the day going to Thingvellir, the seat of Iceland's ancient parliament the Althingi; a set of geysers, one of which is called geyser and is what every other geyser in the world is named after; and also the Gullfoss waterfall. The weather was absolutely appalling, incessantly, all day and it was particularly annoying for this last item on the agenda as it is one of the most impressive waterfalls I've ever had the good fortune to visit. I could have easily spent a whole day just photographing this one location but all that I could do was snatch a few hastily composed shots before my camera got saturated. The photo I've included here has rain drops on the lens and the sky looks miserable; it's a damned fine waterfall, though. I could probably say the same thing about the geyser; to really appreciate it you would need a nice blue sky to give some contrast to the vast, boiling jet of water that surges upwards every 4-8 minutes. As it was, in my photos, it just sort of blends into the background so that you can't really get a feel for the dynamism of the moment.

Before we set off on this trip there were several 'facts' about Iceland that I wanted to check out, like: Iceland has no trees; Iceland has no dogs; in any town there is only one shop where you can buy alcohol and it's run by the Government, and a few others. It turns out that only the last of these is true. Iceland does have trees but the rule of thumb is that if it is taller than a man then it is an imported species. The saying goes that if you ever get lost in an Icelandic forest then just stand up. And Iceland definitely has dogs, in fact it even has native dogs. When the first human settlers arrived the Arctic fox was the only mammal living on the island. That has now changed with the introduction of sheep, reindeer, rabbits and the inevitable rats and mice. A generation ago a farmer asked permission of the Government to import some mink so that he could farm them for their fur. The Government said no on the grounds that they might escape and overrun the country. The farmer continued to apply for years but the answer was always the same. Eventually the farmer died but then his son took up the cause and continued to apply. He commissioned specially built mink-proof cages from which there could be no escape and, eventually, the authorities relented and granted him a license. Within four days the mink had escaped and so they complete the list of mammals you can find in Iceland.

The lower section of the Gullfoss falls

I really enjoyed our time in Iceland. At times the weather had completely kicked our arse but it was always beautiful and always compelling. If it wasn't so damned expensive it would definitely be a regular haunt as it only takes three hours to get to and has lots to offer anyone that likes wild landscapes and a strong Arctic wind. At some point we were looking through our guidebook and it mentioned that Reykjavik is the northern-most capital in the world; I love this sort of thing. I like having things that I can tick off of a list, especially things of a geographical nature such as this. It can go on the list right under the other places I've gone like southern-most town, northern-most town, highest altitude town. As we were discussing this, and as we rapidly approach our tenth anniversary of travelling the world together, we decided to tot up all the different countries we had visited as a pair, ignoring ones we had gone to the one without the other. We were somewhat startled to come to a total of 25 countries, an eighth of the world's total. That's good going; but then we realised that at that pace it'd take 80 years to get them all done - the Ultimate List. Must up the pace.

Reykjavik

The reflection underneath is a bit spidery for my liking.....

Takk. That's how you say thanks in Icelandic; nice and easy. Every other word in the language, every single other word, is completely unpronounceable. You might be forgiven for thinking that there would be some slight similarities between Icelandic and English, they both have a solid Norwegian base to them from when  our two islands were colonised by the vikings in the last half of the first millennium; but you would be wrong. Very wrong. Icelandic is actually more like ancient Norse than modern day Norse is; due to centuries of isolation and a policy of actively coming up with words with an Icelandic root instead of borrowing from other languages it has evolved very little. As examples of the way they police their language: their word for computer translates as number prophetess; telephone is long thread; mobile phone is travelling long thread; and, rather worryingly, they have no word for interesting. To hear Icelandic spoken is, however, quite interesting. It has a fairly quiet and reserved tone to it, as do the people in general, but every now and then, out of no where, they throw in an exaggerated ook sort of a noise as if they're trying to out honk one of the local geese that populate the area in place of the pigeons you normally find in most cities. Imagine a drunk Welshman doing a Monty Python impression and you might be half way there.

Names, of people, are also a little unusual. Similarly to Russian they have a patronymic and matronymic system; basically you come up with a forename for your new son but his surname is already decided - it's his mother's name with son added onto it. Concordantly, the surname for a girl is her father's name followed by the Icelandic for daughter, dottir. To clarify, I would be called Jason Pearlsson, my wife would be called Susan Davidsdottir and SKY news correspondent Kay Burley would be Kay Satansdottir. Simple.

So it was that Sue Davidsdottir and I set off into this alien culture with aspirations of whale watching and a good view of the aurora borealis; sadly, we would only achieve one of these.

Reykjavik was first settled by Norse colonists in the year 870 and was called such because you can just about make out steam from nearby hot springs (Reykjavik means Smokey Harbour); the city, indeed the country, was mostly just a fishing and sheep farming outpost for the next several centuries and when the city received its charter from their Danish rulers in 1752 the population had grown to a colossal 167 individuals. The charter wasn't granted to the people themselves or some sort of mayor or ruler but to a corporation that was tasked with developing native industries with a view to improving living conditions of the indigenous population. Today there are 120,000 people in the city and 320,000 in the country as a whole and they are free to enjoy what is widely acknowledged to be amongst the best healthcare and educational systems in the world. This is probably in no small part due to the fact that 80% of the tax collected in Iceland is spent on those two areas alone. This, combined with the fact that they have no standing army, 100% of their power comes from geothermal or hydroelectric sources and a few other key indicators, has led to Iceland being rated the most peaceful country on Earth.

The most built up area in all Iceland; some of those buildings are as many as four storeys high!

Despite being the largest city in Iceland by quite some distance Reykjavik has maintained the feel of a sleepy fishing town. The picture above is from the top of the Hallgrimskirkja cathedral looking west towards the harbour over the most developed part of the city but it looks more like a leafy suburb. As they have chosen not to build upwards it does mean that the urban sprawl continues for some miles east and south and is beginning to swallow up what used to be smaller satellite towns in the same way that Copenhagen and Oslo have done.

The panorama below is of the far side of lake Tjomin which nuzzles up against the side of the Icelandic parliament the Alþingi, pronounced AL-thing, the oldest parliament in the world at well over 1,000 years old. I like the contrast in the leaves of the trees as they begin their journey from green to brown through yellow and red. It also nicely highlights the degree of variation that is to be found in Icelandic architecture; it's quite unusual to find two buildings next to each other that are the same and this makes walking the streets of the capital all the more interesting. This is in stark contrast to the unrelenting tedium of new, suburban developments in the UK where conformity seems to be the order of the day.

I really liked Iceland. As soon as I stepped off of the plane and saw the bleak, rugged landscape and felt the icy wind bite I knew that I was going to enjoy this rough, harsh country. When I go on holiday I prefer to see mountains and ice over sun and sand; I like to feel that at any moment the weather could turn and you'll be hit with a storm that makes even getting something to eat an ordeal. This is just as well, because this is what we got. Our first day was wet, cold and blustery; pretty bad weather-wise. From bad it turned to brutal as winds reached gale force and the rain got heavier and heavier so whilst I enjoyed doing battle with Iceland and its weather it did mean that photography opportunities were few and far between, not if I wanted my camera to avoid a soaking in any case.

In my next post I'll describe the trials and tribulations of sightseeing in a country that is the second most volcanic in the world and sat between two of the roughest oceans we have. For now I'll say that there was a brief moment of respite; for two hours on our final morning in Reykjavik the rain stopped, the wind dropped  and the clouds parted. For two hours the sun shone through and gave me some of the most beautiful, crystal clear light I have ever seen. When I saw how things had improved I instigated a desperate rush around the city revisiting the key landmarks that we had been perusing under much less favourable conditions for the last few days. Even though it was almost noon the sun was still very low in the sky as we were only a degree or so from the Arctic circle. For the shots of Mount Esja and the Sun Voyager sculpture the light also happened to be coming in from the side and so was perfect for giving depth to the mountains. I am very happy with the panorama below, it is well worth looking at on a big screen and I foresee a canvas print of it on my living room wall in the not too distant future.

Click to enpanaramatudinate

Starry, Starry Night

First of all, a spoiler. The last photo in this post is a very special one. It's not one of mine and in of itself it is unremarkable but its importance can't be understated. More later.

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At bloody last. For over one and a half years I had been waiting and I was finally going to get a chance. For 18 months I had been waiting to be in a rural location with a clear, cloud-free night. My goal was to take pictures of the stars and so I needed to be somewhere rural so as to avoid light pollution and I needed it to be cloudless for, well, obvious reasons. 

I am passionate about stars and the cosmos they sit in. I read more about physics, and astronomy in particular, than any other topic; more than the biology of my day job and the photography of my spare time. Asides from their preternatural beauty I love that they give up so many of their secrets simply by our study of the electro-magnetic radiation they give off; of which the visible light we can see is but one segment.

Within about 17 minutes of the Big Bang nearly all of the matter and anti-matter initially created in the universe had annihilated each other and left only hydrogen (75%) and helium (25%); all the other elements of the periodic table, which today make up about 2% of the matter in the universe, was created in the extreme conditions found inside stars where the intense temperature and pressure literally fuses protons together. What this means is that every single thing you can see is made of atoms that were created in the inferno of a star - we are all made of star dust.

In my first two photos here I have tried to capture the Milky Way, running top to bottom through the centre of the picture, with mixed success. The first one probably shows it most clearly but the exposure was a bit on the long side (188 seconds) so the stars are starting to move; they're in an awkward stage where they're not in sharp focus but they're not drawn out enough to be a proper star trail so it just looks a bit blurry, which isn't great. But I do like the garden being in the bottom of the frame as it gives the shot some context and sense of scale. What did surprise me was the orange glow in the lower portion of the sky, there was no hint of that with the naked eye. It looks as if I'm still in London and there is a city's worth of light pollution just around the corner but the nearest street light was about half a mile away in a small village, the nearest town was over 4 miles away; and yet there is still so much light pollution.

I tried to address the glow with the second picture by not including the horizon and pointing the camera straight up into the sky which seemed to do the trick although the exposure, again, is a little too long at 147 seconds.

The picture I was most pleased with was this next one, which was the first I took. I ended up taking five photos in all over the course of an hour starting at about 3am. Given this was my first attempt and, if I'm honest, I was quite drunk, I think it's not too bad. This was a long exposure of just over 9 minutes and so that nasty orange glow is back but this time the stars have moved enough for it to give a proper star trail effect. Next time I'm going to see if a soft ND grad filter will help with the orange cast at all. I deliberately aimed at Polaris to get a pin wheel effect; Polaris remains motionless in the centre and all the other stars have an increased degree of movement as they radiate out. What I really like about this photo is how the long streaks allow you to see the actual colour of the stars for what they are; very few are white, most of them are blue or a yellow/orange colour which you just can't make out with the naked eye. If you're reading this on your phone then you might struggle to make out the detail, I recommend having a proper look at home on your laptop (does anyone still have a desk top these days), click on the picture to engalactify it.

Overall I was quite pleased with how the session went, I learnt a lot. Hopefully I won't have to wait so long for my next chance to refine my technique. Next month we are going to Iceland and if there are clear skies then there will be a decent chance of seeing the aurora borealis so no prizes for guessing what I'll be blogging about in October.

I'm going to end this post with that special photo I promised you. It is a photo taken by a machine and inspired by one of my personal heroes. The machine was the Voyager 1 spacecraft, the person was Carl Sagan. In 1990 the primary mission was over and he finally persuaded NASA that this was an important image to try and get. NASA were reluctant as they would effectively have to point the camera at the sun and they were afraid it would fry it and, also, there was no scientific merit in the endeavour. Sagan knew better, though. You can see the Earth halfway down the brown streak on the right hand side. It is a pale blue dot (as this photo is now known) only  0.12 pixels in size; the streak itself is lens flare from the sun. This photo of our planet was taken by a man made object from 6 billion km away. Think about that; it's amazing. We did that. I'll let Dr. Sagan close up.....

'From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it's different. Consider again that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.'

Dr. Carl Sagan

Pelicans

The blue buoys in the background are markers for an oyster farm

Here is a set of images I took nearly three years ago now of a pair of pelicans coming in to land. My wife and I were in a small boat off the coast of Swakopmund, Namibia and the pelicans knew that if they came and said hello they would be rewarded with a few choice mackerel. Taken together the three images give a great sense of the grace and control these birds have as they come in to land, but, we almost missed the opportunity all together....

The town of Swakopmund, (one of my favourite place names of all time, right up there with Saqsayhuaman and Fingringhoe) can be found about half way up Namibia's long Atlantic coast line almost directly west of the capital Windhoek. It's a curious little town, a bit like, I imagine, stepping back into 1970s East Germany. Not in a Stasi, Eastern Bloc kind of way but in a way that brought to mind what Germany might have been like without the burden of mass industry and high technology. You see, during the Scramble for Africa we got South Africa, Egypt, the Sudan and others; Belgium got what is now the DRC; the French got much of the north west of the continent and Germany got a portion down in the south west of Africa which they called, with typical Teutonic imagination, German South West Africa, now known as Namibia. The result of this was a little slice of Bavaria in the desert on the opposite side of the world.

Streets in Swakopmund have names like Nord Ring, Heuschneider and Mittel Straße and it couldn't be easier to find a cold, European style beer and a stein to drink it out of. Nationally, one third of white Namibians speak German and this proportion is thought to be higher still in Swakopmund. So, pretty German, then. It was for this reason that we were rather worried that we were going to miss our boat trip as Germans don't tend to be keen on tardyness. You see, we were under the impression that we were going to be picked up from our awesome accommodation and taken the 20 miles or so down to Walvis Bay where the trip began; but more than 20 minutes after we expected to be picked up we found out that we were going to have to make our own way there and average a mile per minute in the process. We were on a driving holiday, doing a lap of Namibia and so we had our own wheels but this was still less than ideal. We covered thousands of kilometres on that holiday and more than 90% of it was on gravel roads; luckily this little stretch was 100% lovely black top.

With Sue doing her best Jensen Button impression we made it. Just. But it cost us some light ribbing from the boat load of middle aged German tourists that seemed to punctuate our way around the country, Namibia being quite a popular tourist destination for our Germanic cousins. The main point of the trip was to see the enormous Cape Cross seal colony and, if we were lucky, dolphins; we knew the pelicans would be there but we didn't give them much thought. As we saw them come gliding into view though, through the early morning mist over a perfectly still Atlantic, they had an undeniable majesty to them that let me easily capture a great little series of images.

Another highlight was when a, presumably semi-tame and well rehearsed, male seal climbed up the back of the boat and onto the deck. Now, we were not on a large boat, she was only about 20 feet from bow to stern so to have a 9 foot seal weighing a third of a ton lumbering about was, I admit, a little disquieting. All of a suddenall the human cargo had to pin themselves to the side railings to give this behemoth room to, well, generally stink the place up. If I'm honest, my lasting impression of this encounter nearly three years on, once you've got used to the enormous size and very pointy looking teeth, is that seals really, really stink of fish. I guess he was quite cute in his own way, and he certainly seemed to appreciate his free breakfast.

The last picture I'm going to show you from this trip was one I caught on the fly, so to speak. It still cracks me up every time I see it. I would say that this shows pelicans looking slightly less graceful than in the previous photos and if you look carefully you can just about see a fish below it's beak that had been thrown for it to catch.