You need fire and ambulance service? Choose one.
In July 2012, a 2-seater light aircraft landed in a ditch, short of the runway at Newcastle Airfield, Co. Wicklow, Ireland. Fuel spilled into the ditch, but fortunately did not ignite. Although the plane was destroyed, the occupants were uninjured. If you’re interested, you can read the accident report here.
When the understandably distressed pilot called the number for the emergency services and was asked which service he required, he said “everything”. Not unreasonably, he felt that police, fire and ambulance services were all needed at the scene. Urgently.
When forced to choose, he requested an ambulance and the call was put through to the ambulance service.
25 minutes later, someone at the airfield made a second emergency call, this time requesting “Garda and Fire brigade”. Again, the caller was forced to choose, was put through to the gardaí, and was advised to tell them that a fire service was required.
Meanwhile, around half an hour after the accident Dublin Fire Brigade finally received notification of the crash by unofficial means (someone at the airfield contacted an acquaintance in a local fire station, and that person contacted Dublin). Dublin Fire Brigade mobilised a response, which arrived 20 minutes later. If there had been a fire, it would presumably have burned itself out by then, incinerating the aircraft and any unfortunate person trapped inside.
It seems incredible that such a flawed system continues to operate. If a plane crashes in a field somewhere, a single phone call should suffice to mobilise the immediate dispatch of ambulance and fire service to the scene.
The air accident investigation unit made a single recommendation:
[...]the Emergency Call Answering Service service
provider and the emergency services to consider putting procedures
in place which ensure that emergency calls related to air accidents are
notified immediately to all of the emergency services.
Unless and until that happens, an injured person trapped in a burning aircraft will be faced with the difficult choice, ”which service do you require?”
The feast day of St Nahi is on the 9th of August, and in times past the people of Blackrock, Co. Dublin would make a pilgrimage or “pattern” every August to a holy well associated with St Nahi at the base of the low sea cliffs at Seapoint, near Blackrock. The water of this well was thought to have miraculous curative properties for ailments and afflictions of the eyes.
The word “pattern” is used in Ireland to refer to a pilgrimage to a holy well or other location associated with a particular saint on that saint’s feast day. This word “pattern” is a variation of the English word “patron” or Irish patrún as in “patron saint”. Beside the well would often be found a tree covered with rags; the tradition was to soak a piece of cloth in the water and tie it to the tree. Some people believe that these devotional practices represent a continuation of a pre-Christian Celtic religion, to which a veneer of Christianity has been added.
This kind of folk religion was largely discouraged and suppressed by the official Catholic church from the 19th century. Although many holy wells all over Ireland remain active sites of devotion, the tradition is completely extinct in South County Dublin. In this part of Dublin (Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown), thanks to suburbanisation and other changes, there remains little trace of any of the wells, or at least none easily accessible to the public.
Today we set out to find St Nahi’s well. In Irish it is Tobar Naithí and it gives its name to Tobernea Terrace, off Seapoint Avenue. Tobernea Terrace is a row of grand 4-storey Victorian houses commanding a spectacular view out across the Bay to Howth. The well is on land belonging to the Scouts (29th Dublin Scout Den Blackrock), and the gates were locked when we arrived.
By sheer good fortune, however, while we were “scouting” for another possible way in, people started arriving and opened the gates. By even greater good fortune, when I inquired about the well, not only were they happy to invite us in to visit the well, but the lady we met was very knowledgeable about the well and its traditions.
The area is moderately overgrown, and the entrance of the tunnel leading to the well is not visible until you are very close. What we found was a large hole at ground level, partially covered by concrete. For safety, a sheet of wire fencing had been placed over the open part, and weighted down with blocks.
The tunnel appeared to be quite deep (to my regret, we had not brought a torch, so I couldn’t see how deep or wide it is). To my surprise, I could hear the sound of rapidly-flowing water, rather than the stillness I associate with well water. The run-off from the well forms an underground stream flowing under the sports field and the railway and emerging onto the foreshore. Thanks to recent heavy rain, this flow is probably more vigorous than usual.
From down here, the former line of the shore is very evident. Before the railway came through in the 1830s and straightened everything out, this piece of coastline must have been moderately dramatic, forming a small bay between the promontory at Maretimo (Lord Cloncurry’s estate) with its various follies and temples and the promontory at Seapoint with its Martello Tower. This inlet was cut off from the sea by the line of the railway and the resulting reclaimed land is now home to the Scouts den and playing fields.
The red line on the map shows the line of the low cliffs representing the former shoreline. The location of the well is marked as a red dot at the base of the cliffs
At the top of the former sea cliffs can be seen the 19th-century stone wall of Maretimo, with its whimsical features like castle turrets. Now this wall forms the rear boundary of the houses of Maretimo Gardens.
There are a few other holy wells in the area. There was one in a field at Ballyman (St Kevin’s well), to which we were taken on a walk from school one day by a teacher called Brian Murphy. It would be interesting to see whether it still exists. There’s St Begnet’s well on the rocky shoreline of Dalkey Island. And there is Lady’s Well in the grounds of Carraig na Gréine, now the Sue Ryder foundation in Dalkey. The well was accessed by a long tunnel from the shore, which I discovered and entered when I was young, but not knowing its purpose I didn’t follow all the way up to the well. The story goes that the 19th-century owner of the house, Charles Leslie, had the tunnel built to allow the public to access the well without walking across his grounds.
A few years ago, I started making home-made cider.
It’s not hard to make cider. If you take some fresh apple juice and wait, it will turn into cider all by itself. You don’t have to add anything at all – just let nature take its course.
This approach, appealing in its simplicity and its lack of added chemicals, is how cider was made by mediaeval monks, and this is how I have made most of my batches over the years.
There are a couple of downsides though. The first is that, if you allow the fermentation to run to completion, all the sugar will convert to alcohol, resulting in a very dry and very strong cider (typically my cider is 8% to 8.5% alcohol, while commercial cider is around 5%).
The second problem is lack of consistency. The natural process will invariably produce an alcoholic drink that tastes of apples, but the quality will vary. I’ve produced some batches of cider that are absolutely heavenly, like bottled autumn sunshine, with wonderfully balanced flavour, clear golden colour and light effervescence. Other batches have been pretty awful and I’d be embarrassed to offer them to anyone else.
In 2012 I didn’t make cider. I was living in Japan and didn’t have access to apple trees, and my cider-making equipment was in storage back in Ireland. Much of my 2011 production was also in storage, and when I returned to Ireland it had matured beautifully. Of which more later.
Last week I started making my first batch of 2013. Here’s how I did it.
First, I picked some apples from my dad’s back garden. I took 16 kg of apples, which will yield about 8 litres of cider.
You’ll notice that some of the apples are scabbed or damaged. It doesn’t matter.
It’s not easy to get apples to give up their juice. The usual method is to use an apple press, where layers of chopped apples are wrapped in cloth, and tonnes of pressure are applied to squeeze out the juice. My colleague Conor has a press that he designed and built himself, which is capable of applying several tonnes of pressure, and is capable of delivering more than 0.6 litres of juice from every kilogramme of apples (more than 60% efficiency).
Conor’s process begins with running the apples through a garden shredder. Here, he and another colleague, Shane, are shredding large quantities of apples on an autumn evening in 2011.
The freshly-pressed apple juice is delicious; rich and full of flavour.
As you can see below, Conor makes a lot of cider!
Compared to Conor’s operation, my production is pretty small-scale. I don’t own a press, so I’ve evolved a very low-tech method.
First I mill the apples in our kitchen food processor.
The milled apple starts to turn an unattractive brown fairly quickly.
In some cider-making techniques, the milled apple is deliberately left to oxidise for a longer period to enhance certain flavour components. This is called “cuvage” and I have never tried it. Instead I press the apples immediately. It’s also wise to avoid prolonged contact with metal (other than stainless steel) as apple juice is quite acidic.
My method of pressing is quite unorthodox, but it works. I scoop the mash into a strong cloth bag, and I squeeze by hand. It’s a slow process, requiring patience. But I achieve an efficiency well over 50% (half a litre of juice per kilogramme of apples).
The apple pulp yields up its juice only gradually, partly because there are limited channels for the juice to make its way from the centre of the mass to the outside. You have to squeeze a little at a time, allowing the mass of pulp to rest and recover a little between squeezes, and rearranging it in the bag every so often.
The reason this method is reasonably effective (albeit slow) is that it’s possible to exert enormous pressures, comparable with those of a mechanical press, by the action of wringing cloth. In the past I’ve used cotton bags, and found the limiting factor was the strength of the material. This year I’ve been using sackcloth, with good results.
The solid residue after squeezing is called “pomace”. More sugar can be extracted from this by a process of rewatering – adding water and pressing it out again, adding the resulting watery “juice” to the first pressing. I tried this once and did not find it very successful. I have no shortage of apples, so if I want more juice I can just press more apples.
This is my first 5 litres of juice.
It’s important at this stage to know how much sugar is in it, so I take a sample and measure its specific gravity.
The specific gravity is measured using a hydrometer.
According to the hydrometer, the juice has a specific gravity of 1.05. This is fairly low considering the hot dry summer we have had. It corresponds to a sugar content of around 11% and an eventual alcohol content of around 6%.
At this point, I set aside some of the juice for drinking. But it must be drunk promptly as it can’t be stored (unless pasteurised) – it will start to ferment and if kept in a closed container it will explode.
At this stage, we have a choice to make. We can either add a sachet of yeast or allow natural yeasts to colonise the juice.
Buying yeast from the shop means that you get to choose which species and strain of Saccharomyces will carry out the task of fermentation. In this case, you may wish to kill any other organisms first by adding sulphite tablets, and then add the yeast of your choice. I prefer not to do this.
The air is full of yeasts just floating around. The surface of the apples is also probably well-stocked with yeast. So you don’t have to add any yeast at all – just wait and fermentation will begin within a couple of days.
At this stage, the activity of the yeast and the production of carbon dioxide help to protect the juice from contact with air and bacteria.
(Incidentally, I always find it amusing that I go to great trouble to clean and sterilise all the vessels, implements and tubing I will use for cider-making, only to add large quantities of completely non-sterile apples!)
Once fermentation started, I siphoned off the juice into 2 demijohns (one-gallon glass containers) and fitted them with airlocks.
While the juice is very cloudy at this stage, it will gradually clarify as solid material settles to the bottom of the vessel. However I decided to depart slightly from my purist approach and add one chemical: pectolase. This is a pectolytic enzyme that improves clarity by removing “pectin haze” from the liquid.
Now the two vessels are bubbling away in the kitchen – glug…glug…glug… – about one bubble every two seconds. It’s a cheering sound, and if I leave it there it will be completely fermented within a few weeks. However it will be harsh and barely drinkable at that stage; only through a second stage of “malolactic” fermentation will it gradually become mellow and tasty.
In any event, I don’t really want it to ferment too fast. I’ve found that a slower initial fermentation leads to a nicer cider, so I would like to move it to a cooler location, possibly even an unheated shed where it can ferment over the winter. Even if the temperature drops so low that the fermentation stops – about 4 degrees C – the yeasts are not dead, merely hibernating, and will come back to life when the temperature rises again in spring.
As the cider ferments, the yeast will convert the sugar to alcohol (and carbon dioxide) and the specific gravity will gradually reduce.
At some point I will have to decide whether to stop the fermentation (resulting in a sweeter cider with a lower alcohol content). This can be done by dropping in a sulphite tablet to kill all the yeast. I have never used this method as I prefer not to add chemicals, and some people report that sulphites give them headaches. Another possibility is simply not to feed the yeasts. In addition to using sugar in their normal metabolic process, yeasts need nitrogen in the form of amino acids to grow and reproduce. As these are in short supply in apple juice, the fermentation may come to a natural stop due to insufficient nitrogen. This method is unreliable, to say the least.
I’ll post again with progress reports over the next few months.
Author focus on PJ Connolly (aka my father) whose debut novel is coming out later this month
Originally posted on Trace Literary Agency:
PJ Connolly is on the point of publishing his debut novel, The Priest’s Wife, in his mid-seventies!
So why did he wait so long?
Sensory scientists refer to a phenomenon called “sour-bitter confusion”. This mainly affects English-speaking subjects, who have a tendency to misidentify sour tastes as “bitter”. Sour tastes are associated with acid such as lemon juice, vinegar or cooking apples. Bitter flavours are typically associated with alkaline components in foods such as strong coffee, dark chocolate, beer, some salad leaves (radicchio) or green peppers.
Reliable reporting is of concern if for example you are a food scientist testing new flavours or carrying out market research; you want to be confident that you know what a tester means when they say “bitter”.
The sour-bitter confusion was first identified in a 1967 paper by Meiselman and Dzendolet at the University of Massachussets. When asked to taste samples representing the 4 “basic flavours”, 28% of their male subjects, and 10% of the females, described the sour stimulus (HCl) as “bitter”. This tendency persisted even when the subjects were corrected. Amusingly, the researchers concluded that the sour-bitter confusion may be “the gustatory analogue of abnormal colour vision”. In other words, that those subjects had a taste equivalent of colour-blindness.
Follow-up studies such as O’Mahony et al. (1991) also highlighted a tendency to describe the sour stimulus (in this case, citric acid) as “bitter”, and offered a number of suggestions as to why this might be the case.
The most parsimonious explanation seems to be a linguistic one: that many English speakers simply regard “sour” as a subset of “bitter”. And this may not be so unreasonable. Consider the universal and involuntary reaction to either a strong sour or a strong bitter flavour; your mouth puckers up, saliva is produced, your eyes water and narrow or even twitch. (This is an avoidance reaction to a potential poison.)
Consider also how we apply the term “hot” or “piquant” to a wide variety of foods, from horseradish and mustard to ginger, from garlic to black pepper and chillis, chemically dissimilar but provoking a similar subjective response.
Another consideration is that, as children, we have very limited exposure to bitter foods. We quickly understand “sweet”, “salt” and “sour” because we encounter these flavours from early childhood, while we are learning our native language. We also learn the word “bitter” but, in the absence of bitter foods in many childhood diets, it is not surprising that many of us fail to associate the word with its correct referent. (There are good adaptive reasons for us to avoid and dislike bitter flavours, especially in childhood, as bitterness is a hallmark of highly poisonous alkaloids found in plants such as nightshade or hemlock.)
One other factor that I think is important in creating the sour-bitter confusion: in some English-speaking countries there is a popular drink called “bitter lemon”. This may be one of the most common colocations of the word in the English language (along with “bitter pill” and “bitter medicine”). While the name of the drink in fact refers to the combination of quinine (bitter) and lemon, it creates a strong association in the minds of English speakers between bitterness and the flavour of lemon juice.
Later, as we encounter (and perhaps acquire a taste for) bitter foods such as coffee and beer, the scope of the word expands to include actual bitterness as well as sourness.
It is as if we had learned colour words in an environment with limited examples of the colour “green”, but there was a well-known product in our culture called “green sky”. We would have a good understanding of the meanings of “red”, “black” and so on in our culture, but may grow up thinking that “green” was basically another word for “blue”.
And of course, in other languages, “green” may well be another word for “blue”; the semantic boundaries of colour words are not determined by any physical reality but are entirely culture-dependent. (Interestingly, Berlin and Kay’s famous monograph on basic colour terms was published in 1969, 2 years after Meiselman and Dzendolet identified the sour-bitter confusion). Latin and Homeric Greek had no word for “blue”; Russian has two words to distinguish different types of blue, but no word that covers all the shades we would call “blue”; Japanese may call “blue” some shades that English-speakers refer to as “green”; in old English the word “red” would include colours that we now think of as orange, not red (what colour is red hair?); Finnish has no native word for purple, and so on.
So why should we expect flavour words to have consistent boundaries across different cultures? Perhaps because the basic flavours correspond to a physical reality in a way that basic colour words do not? Are there not 4 different kinds of taste receptors for the detection of salt, sweet, sour and bitter, each arrayed in specific zones of the tongue?
Apparently not. The familiar “tongue map” is a complete myth. And in a 1996 paper entitled “Are there basic tastes?” J Delwiche argues that the idea that there are 4 (or 5—see footnote below) kinds of taste receptors, each corresponding to a “basic taste” is equally unfounded and lacks scientific value. It has been unwittingly perpetuated over the years by researchers using pure samples of each of the 4 putative basic flavours as a fundamental tool of their trade. The unquestioned assumption that there were exactly 4 basic flavours led researchers to use a limited set of stimuli, and to require their test subjects to report their subjective experiences in terms of salty, sweet, sour and bitter.
Finally, there is some etymological overlap; the English word “acrid” (bitter) is derived from Latin acer (“sharp”); the same word acer is also the origin of the French word aigre meaning “sour”, which in turn gives us the English “vinegar”.
So, in conclusion, if some people use the word “bitter” to describe the flavour of lemon juice or vinegar, who is to say they are wrong?
Footnote: 4 basic flavours or 5? Or more?
In the mid-1980s it was announced to the world that a fifth basic flavour had been identified, and that it would be known by the Japanese term umami. The unfamiliar name and the tone of the reporting made it seem like something exotic or obscure, something that perhaps would only be found in Oriental cuisines and might be difficult for western palates even to distinguish. Nothing could be further from the truth. This “new” flavour is nothing more than the characteristic savoury flavour of meat broth, mushrooms or parmesan cheese, familiar to people in every culture literally from our first taste of mother’s milk. It was like being informed of the discovery of the colour yellow.
Can we expect further announcements of additional basic tastes that are familiar to most of us, such as the harsh taste of strong tea or rhubarb? The “cool” taste of menthol? The Japanese wikipedia article on taste has a short section on 6番目の味覚—”the 6th taste”; a flavour receptor for calcium was identified in mice in 2008 (but not yet demonstrated in humans). Or is the whole concept of “basic flavours”, one corresponding to each type of receptor, an oversimplification with little relevance to how we actually experience food and drink?
Just across the river from Ottawa is the city of Gatineau, Québec. Looking across the Ottawa River from Gatineau, the view of the city of Ottawa is really breathtaking.
In the foreground, you can see Jacques Cartier Park and the Alexandra (interprovincial) Bridge. Behind that you can see the Chateau Fairmont Laurier hotel and Parliament Hill.
If you ask a Canadian person, “what is the only bilingual province?” they may unthinkingly say “Québec”. But it’s a trick question: Québec is officially monolingual French. (The correct answer is New Brunswick.) While Ottawa is in Ontario and mainly anglophone, Gatineau is very much a French-speaking city.
Although Québec is French-speaking, North American French is not exactly the same as the French spoken in France. For example, a corner shop is known as a dépanneur, which must seem a little odd, if not comical, for French people.
On the other hand, in Canada liqueurs means soft drinks (and in English-speaking Canada, they call soft drinks “pop”).
And while French stop signs say “Stop”, in Québec they say “Arrêt” (which sounds altogether less commanding and more like a simple statement of fact).
Most surprising to me was to hear bienvenue to mean “you’re welcome” (in response to merci—thank you). The first time I heard this I was really taken aback; it seemed to me like the kind of elementary error that results from over-literal translation of an English idiom. But I quickly learned that in North American French, this is normal and correct.
The accent also takes some getting used to. For example, “ti” is pronounced like “tsi” - septSième instead of septième, and “tu” like “tsu”. Dessert sounds (to me) something like dessart. And nasal vowels are all shifted - vin in metropolitan French has the same vowel as the English word “van”; in Canada it sounds more like the vowel in the North American pronunciation of the English word “van”.
One of the highlights of Gatineau is Gatineau Park. While one corner of the park reaches down near to the city’s downtown area, it is a vast area of forest, lakes and rolling hills that stretches for 50 or more kilometres into the wilderness to the north-west of the city. Wild mammals living in the park include black bears, wolves, fishers, otters, beavers, chipmunks, moose and white-tailed deer.
On a visit to the park today we perused a leaflet called “black bears and you” which reassuringly points out that the chance of being killed by a black bear is less than that of being struck by lightning. Well, that may be true on your daily commute or in the office. But once you walk into the forest where the bears live, I suspect the odds swing markedly in the bears’ favour. Anyway, there was good advice for managing black bear encounters (don’t play dead! Look big! Make noise! Retreat!)
In the end we did not meet any bears or wolves on our walk around Pink Lake. This was probably due, at least in part, to a very loud group of schoolgirls walking the trail ahead of us, whose incessant screeching laughter and rendition of One Direction songs presumably frightened off (or deafened) any wildlife within a radius of several miles.
So in the end we saw no wildlife apart from a lone chipmunk, cowering under the boardwalk and probably traumatised, and a turkey vulture riding the thermals high overhead.
We didn’t get a picture of the chipmunk, but here’s a cute little guy we saw a few days ago in Burlington, Ontario.
However, in Jacques Cartier park in front of our hotel (called after a Breton explorer whose home we have seen in Saint-Malo) we were able to see black squirrels and groundhogs. They’re pretty tame.
On our way back from dinner this evening, we had another reminder of French culture in North America; a game of pétanque in a nearby park.