The Severn Bore

This weekend has seen the highest tides in the Severn Estuary for 19 years, with dire predictions (thankfully unfulfilled) of flooding along the coastline. Spring tides also bring a special bonus in these parts, and the Environmental Agency were predicting a 5 Star Severn Bore on Friday and Saturday mornings – all the encouragement I needed to get up early and spot my first bore.

The river was shrouded in mist as I drove to Newnham at 7-o'clock on Friday morning. The bore wasn't due until 7.51, but I'd expected there to be quite a crowd there and wanted to give myself plenty of time to park at the quieter end of the town and stroll down to the river bank.

Once there, I joined a group of hopeful onlookers, including a veteran bore spotter, who hoped that this Cornish lass - more used to waves crashing onto Fistral Beach - wouldn't be too disappointed with today's sight. I assured him that I wouldn't.  As he took a photo of me, he explained that the size of the bore doesn't just depend on the height of the tide; the volume of water coming downstream, wind direction and tidal surges all play their part.

At times, the mist almost totally blanketed the river and I could only just make out a group of surfers as they chose their spot to catch the wave.  Then, thankfully, the mist began to lift.  Five minutes later than predicted, a distant roar heralded the bore's arrival and I had my first glimpse of the famous wave.

Closer and closer it came, and finally - as it passed between me and the rays of the morning sun, I snapped this photo.

I admit that, as waves go, this was hardly a big one, but as a tidal phenomenon it was well worth the wait. Indeed, I'd already made plans to return to the river on Saturday, this time with my family.  

Several people had told me that the bore becomes more spectacular as the river narrows, and Wikipedia informed me that Minsterworth was best of all.This time the sun shone brightly and the crowds were enormous, so much so that we struggled to find a good parking place.  Thankfully, I was able to squeeze Bluebell into a lay-by on the A48, only a few minutes' walk from the river.  We chose our spot on the grass bank... and waited. Again, about five minutes later than predicted, the bore came into sight, but this time there was no wave and none of the waiting surfers got their hoped-for ride. Still, it was fairly impressive.

The Bore approaches...

... and SPLASH! arrives.  

For reasons that I've been unable to fathom, Blogger won't show the critical moment of the splash and has suppressed the sound.  I'll keep working on it, but here's a short clip...

Two more daytime 5 star bores are due this year, on March 21st and 22nd, plus several 4 star ones. I'm tempted to return to Minsterworth to see whether the wave breaks on these occasions — as it may be seen doing on a few YouTube videos.

The end of a desktop era

I think it must have been about 1978 that I got my hands on what would now be called a 'desktop' computer — a Southwest Technical Products machine, imported by the company for whom I worked from the United States.  It had a Motorola 6800 microprocessor, sported an earth-shattering 16k of memory and ran an operating system called FLEX.  A couple of us in the Development Section became so interested in finding out how it ticked that we often ordered beer and sandwiches from the Head Office canteen and worked long into the evening.  Thus it was that we taught ourselves the intricacies of ROMs, RAMs and machine code. I well remember our joy when we successfully reprogrammed the character EPROM, sacrificing the '}' symbol so that we could have a little man walk across the screen!

I regularly took the computer home each evening and weekend to impress my family, in particular my elder son (then aged 6) who quickly became enthralled with a floppy disk of games that I'd programmed. Returning to school one Monday, he wrote about it in terms that must have completely baffled his teacher.  

On Satday I had a computer.

The disk I had was Basic Games

and to get to cat I had to go to dos.

The last line explained that, in order to catalogue the disk ('cat' in the FLEX language) he had to exit Basic and return to the disk operating system. Impressive! Remember, he was only 6 and this was at least 3 years before any of his friends had Sinclair or BBC computers.

I can claim, therefore, to have had a desktop computer at home for the past 37 years – and one of my own since 1987, when I bought an Amstrad PCW8256.  However, that era drew to a close last week, when I gave my trusty Dell computer to my cousin Jan.

Last Thursday, Jan and I set off for PC World in Gloucester to buy a nice new laptop.

I have to say that the salesman was most obliging.  I wasn't sure whether to fork out for a touch-screen laptop or settle for a conventional one, so he quietly watched as I played around with an up-market touch-screen model.  "Yes," I declared, "touch-screen is for me, but not that one.  Do you have the HP 15-G091 that's on your website for £350?"  It wasn't on display and he didn't think he had one, but a few minutes later he appeared with it in his hand.

"Now, madam, Windows 8.1 is very different from the Windows you're used to and quite tricky to get used to. For just £6.50 a month you can have all the technical support you need." I toyed with telling him that I'd managed every version since Window 3 without help, but resisted the temptation and politely declined.  "And we strongly recommend McAffee virus protection for £20."  I smiled and explained that AVG Free had never let me down. "These companies aren't daft," he explained. "They won't give away a product that's as good as one you pay for."  To his visible disappointment, I remained unmoved. "Then how about Microsoft Office for £40?"  Again I smiled benignly and declared my preference for free OpenOffice. Gracefully, and most professionally, he capitulated.  In this woman he'd met his match!

So now, in place of my faithful old desktop computer, I have a shiny new laptop. I spent the first couple of days stripping out all the junk applications that Hewlett Packard thought I would love, then installing my own stuff. Now it's all working sweetly and I'm very pleased with my purchase.

Did I master Windows 8.1?  I'll leave you to guess.

Old Land of My Fathers

Yesterday I watched (on IPlayer) the Six Nations rugby match between Wales and England.  What a match! But before it started, as you probably know, the national anthems were sung.  And as the stadium resounded to the sound of Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau (Land of My Fathers) there were tears in my eyes.  Surprising, you may feel, since I'm not Welsh and was not disappointed that England won the match.

This burst of Celtic emotion is easily explained.  Since Evan and James James wrote Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau in the 1850's, it has been adopted by Bretons and the Cornish.  The Cornish version is Bro Goth agan Tasow and I'm rather pleased to say that I can sing along to the chorus with just an occasional glance at the words.

Kernow! Kernow, y keryn Kernow!

An mor hedre vo

yn fos dhis a-dro

'th on onan hag oll rag Kernow!

(Cornwall! Cornwall, we love Cornwall!

As long as the sea may be

as a wall around you

we are one and all for Cornwall!)

Crackington Haven

So how did it feel, returning to the 'Old Land of My Fathers'?

Well, the weather was decidedly un-Cornish! They get a decent fall of snow down there about every 5 years and we chose the day. As we drove between Launceston and Otterham Station on Monday morning it snowed heavily, and there was still the occasional flurry as we walked the Coast Path in the afternoon.

The following couple of days were much brighter, though, as we revisited the coast between Boscastle and Bude.  Idiot that I am, I left my camera at home again, but these photos, taken on my smartphone, hopefully sum up the beauty of the place.

Boscastle

near Crackington Haven

The Bude Canal

The view from our rented 'home'

Back to the big question.  How did it feel?  Well, the coastal scenery is lovely, but I now realize that it's the people I miss the most.  I've been told that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.  Rubbish!  Cornish humour is all sarcasm — listen to Jethro if you're in doubt — and it's wonderful.  A Cornish person may look you in the eye and insult you, but they don't mean a word of it.  Their grin betrays it.  We got it from the bus driver who took us to Boscastle, it abounded in the pub at Wainhouse Corner... and I gave as good as I got!  Not once did I feel like an emmet (the name the Cornish give to visitors).  Yet as we walked through Bude, then up the canal path to Marhamchurch, it no longer felt like home. The Forest of Dean is my home now, and it's nice to be back.  

But I'll always be Cornish!