two faced gods

Berry picking today! The blackberries smelt like sugar, and I walked away with sticky hands licked clean. The berries were so large that they would burst on the vine in response to prying fingers. I'm given to understand that the wet start to summer gave rise to their size (usually, much smaller) and the recent spell of thirty plus degree heat has made them sweeter than they typically are. Which is all to say that along the dried up canal route where the bramble thickets grow finger-thick vines, and where people do not often walk, sticking instead to the field-side bramble where the pathways are, the fruit hung heavy and the air was intoxicatingly candy-sweet, which I have rarely known fruit here to be.

There are also plum trees about, dropping ripe fruit; you can tell where they are from a ways away in the canal, as the ground is stained red with the trodden remnants of plum and pit. This is my preferred bounty - I'd never been much for plums until I picked them off a tree and ate them that very same day, grape sized and flavourful with honey yellow interiors. Most of the fruit was too high to reach, and seeing that neither my friend nor I are particularly gifted with such heights as are appropriate for fruit picking, we have a mixed bounty of plums (some ripe and others to be ripened at home, which is a possibility that is not so with blackberries).

We also found sweetpea (we found it pretty) and what seems to be an escaped grape vipe with budding grapes; this has wound its way into the trees and though it is unlikely that we will ever be able to reach most of it, there's some low hanging fruit we'll be waiting for.

Hatfield House

Here is a country mansion tucked away into the green woods and whitewashed pathways of Hertfordshire. It is a confection of gilded ceilings and brocade curtains, of stained glass and chequerboard floors and wood-panelled walls; a pastiche of styles: Jacobean, Elizabethan, Tudor: there is a bedroom with pistachio green walls and canary yellow drapes styled after Chinoiserie; the gold-leaved ceilings of the long gallery are inspired of Venice; the old palace that sits besides is a prime example of medieval red brickwork from centuries past.

In former days that palace was the childhood home of Elizabeth I, and though it hosted all of Henry VIII’s children for a time, and was passed then down the Salisbury line along with the rest of the estate, it is Elizabeth that Hatfield is known best for. Each room carries its Elizabethan relics; ciphered letters, books, tapestries, but most famous of all—on the far side of the Marble Hall—is the Rainbow Portrait. 

Tudor paintings are rich with symbolism, and the portraits of Elizabeth I are textbook to the subject. The Rainbow Portrait is one such archetypal painting. In it a serpent coils around Elizabeth’s arm in a symbol of wisdom. The pearls strung around her neck symbolise virginity, for she was known as the virgin queen, as she would not marry and cede her throne to her husband king. Her gown is embroidered with eyes and ears—she sees all and hears all, in her kingdom—and though she was near seventy when this was painted, she is depicted with preternatural youth. In her hand she holds a rainbow, inscribed non sine sole iris: ‘without the sun there is no rainbow’, a message of peace and prosperity, though that to me seems a little more abstract an interpretation. 

Grant Museum of Zoology

The casual visitor of UCL’s zoological collections is greeted first by the most unlikely of exhibits: a jar of moles. It sets the tone quite well for the rest of the museum; quaint, antiquated and wonderfully memorable—from the cookie cutter shark jaws to the manatee skeletons, the microscope slide lightbox to the plastic toy dinosaurs affectionately kept behind glass and beside an ichthyosaur fossil, as if somehow the two things are equally prized. There is a low hum of chatter through the museum: even at its busiest, it is mostly empty—and there’s something to be said for empty museums with crowded displays, something cathartic and incredibly precious. 

Krka National Park, July 2024

Clash of the Titans – NGC 3256

Sketches of a Persian Ironwood, and Spring in Cambridge

Spring has sprung in Cambridge, and so I'm once again venturing out into the gardens and fields that surround me, equipped (as ever) with iNaturalist, my handy identification app. It is the season for Common Brimstone, an uncommonly pretty butterfly that is lime green, but looks neon yellow as it catches the sun – I had not thought the name appropriate until I saw a few of them flitting outside my window at midday, brighter than anything else in the sky.

Cambridge, though not far removed from Hertfordshire in distance, sports an entirely different blanket of spring flowers; snowdrops and winter aconite as the cold first breaks, then daffodils and crocuses and squills forming blue carpets ringing old trees, and now as spring settles in, and the days grow longer and hotter, anemones and starflowers dot the green grass carpets. It is a floral scene against the twiggy umbellifers of Hertfordshire, younger fields to older woodland; no bluebells, nor cow parsely, nor forget-me-nots that occur in nettled margins besides the paths; only flowers, and ivy with its smooth, shiny leaves.

The Geol Wall, and a Geological Map of Sicily

First embroidery project since I've started my PhD, and it's volcanic (as perhaps might be expected from me). In red and represented by radial stitches is Etna, a favourite of mine, if only because of its associated mythos — Empedocles, a philospher of Ancient Greece, is said to have thrown himself into the fires of Etna to prove his immortality (he was a proponent of reincarnation, in his time), but the volcano spat out one of his bronze sandals and revealed his folly to his followers.

Of course, this tale proved wildly popular in later years, and was satirised by Lucian of Samosata, in whose dialogue Empedocles received a fairer fate, and was carried into the heavens by a volcanic eruption to live out the rest of his years (on the moon, sipping dew!)

In more recent times Empedocles of Etna has also been the subject of a particularly nice painting by Salvator Rosa (1615 – 1673) called The Death of Empedocles (below), and he has even given his name to the underwater Empedocles volcano off the coast of Sicily, where it was embroiled in further rather explosive drama in the 19th century (it emerged as an island in 1831 and was renamed Ferdinandea; multiple countries scrambled to claim it, almost causing a major international incident, before it disappeared again five months later and the name Empedocles was reinstated).

So in some ways, Empedocles was indeed immortalised (if only in volcanology). How fun.

Summer forests and summer fields; a walk.

Long evenings are yellow–bright in the west, and a dusty haze settles over the still–blue east. The flowers of spring have faded, giving way to a canopy of green; ivy trails down from the treetops, vines sprout fractal leaves that pale to lime at their shoots, and the chestnut candles have lost their blooms, coming now into seed: a series of spinose shells suspended on a chandelier; modern art in nature’s own writing. The sight is intensely nostalgic, for conkers were the currency of the playground in my childhood. Come autumn, perhaps I shall peel away those green shells again for old time’s sake, and retrieve the shining brown chestnuts within.

Glades of cow parsley with its twiggy stems and delicate white umbels are succeeded by nettle and hogweed; the former barbed and loosing strings of pollen to the June breeze; the latter unfurling from thick stems like some carnivorous plant out of the Jurassic, an oversized and uncompanionable cousin to cow parsley whose sap can burn the skin. Brambles encroach on footpaths, bearing white flowers on their wine–red stems; their thorns latch onto hair and skin and fabric all. Drooping branches from cherry–trees overhead dangle sprigs of fruit, which have reddened appealingly into something that might resemble a cultivated variety. (I pluck one from a tree, gingerly taste it. It is intensely bitter, and only a little sweet, though a cherry it unmistakably is. I decide to leave the rest for the birds, lest a combination of curiosity and red berries kill the proverbial cat.)

Forest opens into glade and meadow. I seek an orchard, signposted yet unmapped, and find myself walking through the bridleways of the Green Belt, besides trees and thickets and barley fields, pale gold and rippling in the breeze. Paths turn into shaded trails and the canopy arches overhead like a mosaic; crown shyness, that lets in slivers of dappled sunlight, which catches on the wings of buzzing insects. The tree line breaks and golden grain stretches out for acres ahead of me, sloping over the rolling ground. A lone tree stands in the distance; an oak, I think, though I cannot possibly tell. It has a certain romantic appeal to it; something about the endurance of this one tree amid the razed ground it stands on, a watcher on a hilltop, alone and forlorn as the yearly crop is cut down. Something quintessential to British countryside. 

Of course I never do find the orchard, though I only realise it when I return home: sweaty and darker already; skin scratched and hair tangled and giddy, almost, with renewal. Another day, perhaps—though perhaps these things are best left to whim over will; for me, the loveliest of found things have almost always been unlooked for. 

Whippendell Wood, Hertfordshire

Each spring the Whippendell Wood erupts into bloom, and a violet carpet surges about the vine-wrapped trees. Bluebells grow quite unfettered in this piece of ancient woodland, despite the golf courses that divide wood and park, and by virtue of sheer inconvenience (the hour's walk from town) the park-side of Cassiobury is the one more frequented. So on a Friday afternoon in the last days of April, the straight paths and winding trails through Whippendell are quiet and empty, and decorated by these tall, untrodden copses of blue.

Sea Dragons: A Study on Skulls

Three days and three drawings of the Mesozoic sea dragons, the aquatic counterparts to dinosaurs when they still roamed the Earth. These reptiles reigned over the vast ocean of Panthalassa when Pangaea still stood, and later the Tethys and the Pacific as new oceans opened and continents drifted apart, setting course for their current positions. 

The first, Temnodontosaurus platydon, is an ichthyosaur: a dolphin–like apex predator in the Jurassic that could reach some 12m in length. This genus fed on plesiosaurs and other ichthyosaurs, exhibiting highly derived characteristics such as fish–like forms, groove–grown occluding teeth, and homocercal upright tails. This particular species has the largest eyes found in the animal kingdom yet (extant or extinct), with the largest measuring some 26cm in diameter, and it receives several mentions in Attenborough and the Sea Dragon (a brilliant documentary, which I wholeheartedly recommend). This specimen currently sits in the Natural History Museum in London, found along the Jurassic Coast by Mary and Joseph Anning.

The second, Tylosaurus kansasensis, is a mosasaur: a snake–like apex predator of the Cretaceous which featured famously in Jurassic World, though its proportions were somewhat exaggerated. It is a common misconception that mosasaurs were the largest of the Mesozoic marine reptiles; indeed, that award goes to the ichthyosaurs (which could reach c.23m in length compared to the mosasaur’s humble 17m). However, mosasaurs were felled in their prime during the K-Pg mass extinction—the same that ended the dinosaurs—and so it could be said that given the opportunity, their fictional proportions might have been achieved with more time. The specimen is the holotype for the species, FHSM VP-2295, and belongs to a mosasaur that would have been 5.5m in length (approx. a large great white). It exhibits several bite marks and scavenging from sharks—see the Oceans of Kansas for more information (there’s a wealth of resources for all similar such things). 

Portrait of a Temnodontosaurus (and the many wonders of Ichthyosaurs)

Ichthyosaurs are my most favourite prehistoric creatures, overtaking even the formidable Tyrannosaurus rex and the not–so–gentle giants of Triceratops horridus. Occupying a similar ecological niche to modern day whales, ichthyosaurs and their sister clades (mosasaurs, plesiosaurs and pliosaurs) were the reigning reptiles of the Mesozoic oceans, where they persisted for over 150 million years.

Ichthyosaurs are strange creatures: ancient reptiles which bear strong resemblances to today's mammalian dolphins. This similarity is no mere coincidence, though it does not imply relatedness—ichthyosaurs and dolphins look similar because both were shaped by the selection pressures of the aquatic environment, and both followed similar evolutionary trajectories to reach their ultimate body plans (convergent evolution). This trajectory is predictable and directional; we've seen it repeating in various aquatic lineages (from whales to penguins to even polar bears) and we can broadly tell that things in the water are trying to become more fish–like again. And as for the ichthyosaurs—they ultimately overtook dolphins on this trajectory by having the most fishlike form, probably, since fish themselves.

Herculaneum Archeological Site: Part IV of the Vesuvius Edit

The archeological remains of Herculaneum, a town of Ancient Rome some 13km away from Pompeii. Among the star attractions number the Mosaic of Neptune and the House of Augustals — but my most favourite parts were the taverns, found on every street and in every corner, where great terracotta jars (or ‘dolia’) were set into the marble countertops, and would have hosted all manner of food and drink (and drink). On the walls of one such tavern was graffitied a Greek maxim: ‘Diogenes, the cynic, in seeing a woman swept away by a river, exclaimed: “Let one ill be carried away by another.”’ Which is just the kind of thing you’d find modernised in a pub bathroom and entirely hilarious, if I say so myself.

Plinian Columns and Umbrella Pines: Part III of the Vesuvius Edit

August 24th, AD79: Eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Pliny the Younger's writes a series of letters to the historian Tacitus, likening the shape of the volcanic plume to an umbrella pine, a long trunk that divided into branches at its crown:

“… cuius similitudinem et formam non alia magis arbor quam pinus expresserit / nam longissimo velut trunco elata in altum quibusdam ramis diffundebatur”

“… whose likeness and form resembled most closely a pine tree and none other / for it was like a colossal trunk raised into the sky, dividing into branches”.

This was the first account of such an eruption, hence the eponymous ‘Plinian’ eruption style. In addition, the scientific reasoning Pliny gave was remarkably sound; said he:

“…credo quia recenti spiritu evecta, dein senescente eo destituta aut etiam pondere suo victa in latitudinem vanescebat…”

“… [the cloud] I believe was carried upwards by its initial energy, then, as it grew was deprived of this energy and was dissipated under its own weight, spreading laterally…”

Vesuvius and the Eruption of AD79: Part II of the Vesuvius Edit

After noon on the 24th of August AD79 began an eighteen–hour eruption that would obliterate Pompeii, city of Ancient Rome, as well as Herculaneum, a port–side town some 13km away. Vesuvius had awoken: the precursory tremors that had shaken the land for days prior had gone unheeded, for such tremors were common in this region of Italy — and given the long period of inactivity that preceded this eruption, the people of these Roman settlements did not know Vesuvius to be a volcano, nor did they know that these tremors were quite literally portents of doom, signifying magma movement into shallow crustal reservoirs (as volcanic swarms are common precursors of eruptions).

The AD79 eruption of Vesuvius was bipartite, having first a Plinian phase, and then a Pelean phase. During the first phase, Vesuvius produced a column over 30km high that spread out into an umbrella cloud, raining pumice and ash down over the surrounding regions. Pompeii received the brunt of this airfall due to the prevailing wind direction, which dispersed volcanic material to the south–east of the volcano and buried the city. This stage lasted some seven hours, and many of Pompeii’s inhabitants were able to flee, carried to the safety of Misenum by boat. Still, an estimated 2000 of 20,000 people died; those who chose not to leave, were unable to leave, or were buried by collapsing buildings, which caved under the weight of the volcanic ejecta. The calcification of ash preserved the hollows in which their bodies once lay, and these hollows were infilled with plaster by archeologists to extract the impressions of these forms.

Vesuvius in Painting: Part I of the Vesuvius Edit

Vesuvius: the most–painted volcano in the world, which during the peak of 18th century romanticism was the prime subject for a number of artists, including Dahl and Wright and Turner. During this time, it was an educational rite of passage that young, aristocratic Englishmen would embark on the ‘Grand Tour’ across Europe in order to learn of art and culture — in particular, of the much–vaunted Greco–Roman societies of antiquity, which by Victorian times were considered to be the ‘ideal model for Britain’ (and all the more after the discovery of Herculaneum in 1709 and Pompeii in 1748; catalysts for neoclassicism). 

The Derveni Krater (4th Century BCE)

My favourite article within the Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki: a finely metal–worked bronze urn for the mixing of wine and water (and the best preserved of its calibre for the time). 

The display gives the following explanation: 

“On the vase’s obverse is depicted the sacred wedding of the god and Ariadne. The couple is seated on a rock, and the naked Dionysus has placed his leg familiarly on his wife’s thigh. Ariadne, holding her veil aloft, gazes at her husband in a characteristically bridal gesture. A panther, the animal sacred to the god, stands behind Dionysus. Surrounding the couple are the god’s followers, maenads, some carried away by their orgiastic dance, while others sit atop the shoulder of the crater. Mythical figures, tame and wild animals, vine and ivy branches, all adorn the vessel’s surfaces.”

I don’t know much about archaeology, being principally a geologist, but what I lack in culture, I make up for in appreciation (so I’d like to think, anyways). Pots of the greco–roman variety are a particular love of mine, and I’ve amassed quite the touristic collection from my mapping project in Santorini—so this particular krater hit upon a pre–existing weakness for the things, let’s say. Even so, of the hundred odd pots in the museum, this was the one I liked best: there is something about the cast figures and the detailed vines and the positioning of the thigh, all wonderfully rendered in the dull gold of metal. Hence—a favourite, and one to be stored away in the small mental repository I have for suchsame archaeological artefacts (to be brought out on a rainy day, ere so often when I am mistaken for an archaeologist—a surprisingly common occurrence for geologists, I have found).