The Swarm has Landed

 The mysteries of the bee reminded Hardy that nature and space were eternal: we can approach and admire, but never fully understand…

“THE Weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year. It was in the latter part of June, and the day after the interview with Troy in the hayfield, that Bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a swarm in the air and guessing their probable settling place. Not only were they late this year, but unruly. Sometimes throughout a whole season all the swarms would alight on the lowest attainable bough — such as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple- tree; next year they would, with just the same unanimity, make straight off to the uppermost member of some tall, gaunt costard, or quarrender, and there defy all invaders who did not come armed with ladders and staves to take them.

This was the case at present. Bathsheba’s eyes, shaded by one hand, were following the ascending multitude against the unexplorable stretch of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy trees spoken of. A process somewhat analogous to that of alleged formations of the universe, time and times ago, was observable. The bustling swarm had swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze, which now thickened to a nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough and grew still denser, till it formed a solid black spot upon the light.”
Thomas Hardy, ‘Far From the Madding Crowd‘, Chapter 27

 

One sunny afternoon a few years back I was out on a bike ride with a couple of friends from the GBMCC. We went tazzing merrily round Derbyshire and Staffordshire, stopping off at a rustic crafts centre for tea and cakes. Simon remarked that it was too warm and proceeded to pull down his leather trousers, revealing a pair of baggy blue shorts.

After we had finished our snack he adjusted his dress and picked up his crash helmet ready to get back on the road. But before putting it on, he glanced inside and paused. ‘Good job I spotted that one’ he said, gently brushing out a dark-brown bee. The insect crawled unsteadily around for a few seconds before drifting off into the sky.

Only later that day did I remember the concert I had attended several years earlier, at which a small band of players (recorder, lute, and viol) had performed some John Dowland songs, including his poignant setting of ‘A Farewell to Arms’. 

A Farewell to Arms

HIS golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d;
 O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d,
But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.        

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;
And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.             

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,—
‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’
Goddess, allow this agèd man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.        

George Peele, 1556-96

In 2016, China exported 32,000 tonnes of Imidacloprid …

See the source image

A few of the Manchester Bee sculptures:

 

“Whether we consider the gathering of pollen by bees and the subsequent production of honey within a hive, or the communal gathering of initiatic wisdom by the ancients at Eleusis, we observe a powerful symbol for the distillation of spiritual energy. Partaking of this energy is transformative, leading to psychological and spiritual regeneration. The goddess, the priestess, and their sister the bee unite as emblems for this vital human activity—one that leaves us pure, ever-new, and reborn.”
The Eleusinian Mysteries  and the Bee, Julie Sanchez-Parodi, S.R.C.

 

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Newtown Synthelix

penryn ticket

You know that England is surrounded by water; and thus while we have good sailors and good ships, we shall never fear the invasion of any foreign enemy.” (William Martin, ‘The Adventures of a Sailor Boy’, Gall & Inglis c.1895) 

I opened the book (Adventures of a Sailor Boy) and a train ticket fell out onto the floor. Until then, I had forgotten all about Penryn. There were a few scattered memories; catching the early-morning train to Truro, or wandering round the city and seeing buskers in black suits and bowler hats, playing old Beatles classics on a double-bass and six-string guitar. As the weeks rolled by, the mornings gradually became lighter. I remember one morning the train paused for a signal outside Truro; as it started up again, we rounded the curve and saw the city swathed in fog, with the three spires of the cathedral suspended in a formless blank arena.

I was very excited to be offered a second meeting, so I bought a new suit and had a very expensive haircut in preparation. When I arrived, however, I was greeted by the same two people who had interviewed me previously, and who asked me many of the same questions. I was disconcerted by this. At the end, they said that they wanted to offer me the job – if I was interested. Of course, I said, just let me know when you want me to start.

I ran through Truro and went to have a celebration lunch in The Globe pub; exceedingly good fish and chips, with home made tartare sauce. The jukebox was playing a selection of random hits; ‘Good Enough’ by Dodgy seemed to embody the radiant optimism of the day. I could imagine myself spending every evening here after work, drinking stout and eating pork scratchings and staggering home in the company of two young engineering students.

Sometimes I would find one of my workmates on the same early train; we chatted about random stuff, and a woman leaned across from the other side of the aisle and asked ‘are you talking about aphasia?’ So they embarked on a long eager discussion of stroke recovery programmes.

I had moved down to Penryn in November 2009 to start work at a firm called Newtown Synthelix, a small company which produced modified textiles. We spent most of our time (when not doing research or testing) correcting customers or journalists who had carelessly uttered the phrase ‘artificial leather’.

The boss asked me to check the viscosity of a sample using a DIN 4 flowcup. ‘What temperature?’ I asked. ‘Oh, just use room temperature, we never check that.’ I wanted to point out that I had made careful studies of the viscosity-temperature response in water-based coatings, and identified the peak at thirty-eight degrees.

Also asked me to have a look at a formulation for a new textile finish which had been causing stability problems.  I pointed out that the white spirit would not be able to properly dissolve the cellulose-butyrate resin. Replaced the WS with 3:1 X2/MIBK, got beautiful glossy finish. When I presented the results he said, ‘Oh, that project’s been put on the back burner now…’

Towards the end of my second week there, when I was cleaning up some equipment and labelling the kegs of polymer suspension, one of the senior QC officers wandered into the workshop. ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Fine…just getting this stuff out of the way.’

He looked around nervously. ‘Erm…how long are you with us, then?’
‘Oh, about twenty years!’ I laughed at this odd question. He looked puzzled and went on; ‘But we were told that you were just here as a placement student.’

I shrugged. ‘Dunno…nobody has ever mentioned that to me.’

‘Thing is’ he went on, sounding more and more annoyed ‘We’re not sure what you’re actually doing here. I mean, you don’t have any friends or family in the company. We’ve all got cousins or nephews who are waiting for a job to come up, but you just walk in here out of nowhere.’
‘Well, I thought they needed someone with serious technical expertise.’
‘Yeah, but no-one knows anything about you…are you on a witness protection programme, or have you been given a new identity?’

I put down the scouring pad and started to pull off my latex gloves. ‘Look, I had two interviews before coming to work here. The managers have spoken to my former employers. They’ve done credit reference checks. I’m here to perform a job, which I think is going fairly well, so far…’

This encounter left me rattled, and I began to make random notes about what I thought were possible areas of improvement that I could mention at the next staff meeting. These included:

Office space – too small and crowded. No textbooks about relevant issues. Outdated company brochures from suppliers. Raw mats listing is completely random and includes just the SG and price details.
Colour standards file also completely random, no differentiation into colour or technology type. There is no easy way to track down a specific product.

Solvent dispensers – eight hosepipes all mounted next to one another, difficult to fill out two neighbouring solvents at the same time. Control panel has only one ‘OFF’ switch which kills all the pumps together.
No training available on the colour computer or the ordinary PC. The colour computer system uses only fullshade and one reduction, not five.
Contract says “You will not be entitled to any holiday during the first year of service.”

Journal Entry, 27 Feb 2000: Last night went to Jailhouse for the first time in ages and found it redecorated. Where there were black walls there is now Leonardo-sketch parchment wallpaper with faux-marble paintwork.
And the sturdy black steel bars through which drinks were served have been replaced by an elegant gold arch with token slender bars. No more post-industrial matt-black grunge in the toilets, either!

 

 

 

O Billy Clarke

 

 

O Billy Clarke, where did you go;
Did your adventures carry you
To far-off lands where pagan statues
Towered over sun-baked plains?

O Billy Clarke, did you look good
In uniform, upon the Bridge,
And squinting at the undiscovered land?

I’m guessing you were twenty-six
When war broke out; by then, you
Would have made your mark. A
Pretty wife and two scruffy kids

You watched the cricket; played
Dominoes and cards down at the pub
With all your mates. Flat caps,
Moustaches and brown ale
Defined the span of what your life would be.

Did you return, O Billy Clarke
To find a land you didn’t recognise?
Where pagan idols sat in darkened rooms
And dreamed of going home to sun-baked plains.

Perhaps you never made it back. You might
Have stayed out there and made
The kind of future for yourself
That Britain wouldn’t even let you dream.

Somewhere in a box
Up in the dusty attic of a pub, perhaps
There are some things that once
Belonged to you. A pipe, a pack of cards,
A book about a sailor boy. We’ll never know
Just how your life unique turned out to be.