LEARNING BY JIGSAW

The faded box in the charity shop declared the contents in bold Roman caps: A Collector’s Wooden Jigsaw: Landranger Map Jigsaw Uyeasound Shetland. The added note recorded that this was an Ordinance Survey map. If there is one good thing left in Britain today, it is the mapping service. These maps are exquisite examples of clear communication of complex matters, at all scales. The jigsaw was purchased with the thought that one might learn more about this portion of Unst by having to not only study the parts, but also to locate them. One was concerned that the illustration on the box was illegible. It seemed to have been the map, but had shaded, smudged shapes scattered across it. Still, knowing something of the area, one assumed that there might be enough held as memory to guide one in assembling the pieces.

The box had been opened to reveal no other illustration, just a green bag with what one hoped contained all of the pieces. Once home, the fine print on the rear of the box was read; this was a Wentworth puzzle. I had just completed one of these a couple of weeks ago. This other jigsaw was a puzzle made form a picture of a traditional cottage in a snowy landscape. It came with the promotional blurb that declared that it was 250mm x 350mm when complete, with 250 pieces, which included 15 novelty pieces called ‘whimsies.’ These were shapes that related to the landscape and confused matters by including straight edges and unusual profiles in the internal jigsaw pieces.

One wondered if the map might have these special parts. Reading the faded text on the box cover, the text used almost the same words: novelty shaped ‘whimsies’ based on Ordinance Survey map key symbols. The thought occurred that this, along with no illustration, could make things tricky. One had discovered in the fist jigsaw that it had been cunningly subdivided. All corners had been cut from the corner intersection diagonally, doing away with the usual ‘starter’ pieces; and some of the edge pieces had, at times, been similarly taken to a point. Along with the inclusion of straights in the body of the jigsaw, and the ‘whimsical’ pieces, one could see that this map might become a real challenge; tricky: but it was started.

All the pieces were tipped out of the green bag into the box and the lid. The straight pieces were collected, and the remaining pieces were turned up; the assembly had begun.

Making the frame started in a very piecemeal fashion, with bits here, and bits there. In the meantime, looking at the parts, one could see distinctive reds and yellows, and dotted lines. These pieces were collected. Slowly patches of the map were assembling. One could read the names of the locations, so could make a rough guess at where the interim assemblies might sit in the frame. The problem was that the frame was incomplete, and there was no indication of the scope or scale of the map, just the final jigsaw size. It was titled ‘Uyeasound,’ which is in the southern part of Unst, but one had already seen pieces with ‘Gloup’ and ‘Baltasound Airport’ on them, which meant that much more than Uyeasound was included in this illustrated part of Shetland: the map must cover the northern tip of Yell and nearly the whole lower one third of Unst. This meant that the map included some areas that were not so well known, but the parts kept on going together.

The red and yellow roads of Yell were the first pieces that came together and actually linked up to a portion of the left hand border. The other red and yellow roads were those of Unst. These zones formed a backbone around which other pieces could be assembled.

While names of known places were constantly being discovered, the actual placement of these pieces had to be provisional as more was discovered about the jigsaw itself. One found that the task of assembling the jigsaw took over from any mapping education, with shapes, lines, and colours being analysed for matches rather than any geographical understanding being revealed as a clue.

The pieces did prove to be tricky, meaning one was constantly picking up parts and putting them back, and sliding assembled portions around once the size and scale had been discovered. It was not until the very end that the frame could finally be completed. The designers of this jigsaw had been extremely cunning in disguising the roles of what are usually distinctive parts.

The jigsaw came together as masses of land and sea in bits and pieces, with the distinctive lines of roads, tracks, and ferry routes being obvious guides to start with. The text in the lower right-hand corner was similarly eye-catching, and was abled to be assembled. Once the broader set of parts had been located, one could then use grid references revealed on some pieces to locate these otherwise anonymous bits of the whole.

The challenge continued right to the very last part. As more pieces were put into position, the piecing together of the whole sped up with a satisfying resolution. One came to understand more about jigsaw thinking than learning about the area. The only one thing discovered was that the northeast portion of Yell is a nature reserve.

Uyeasound, Unst, Shetland.

Now that the map is complete, it can be read in different ways. One can read it as any map, and discover locations and names; one can analyse the land massing; the islands; the graphic presentation; the jigsaw cutting; one can look for the ‘whimsies;’ and more. The whole task exercised a process that intrigued, being an amalgam of reading maps and completing a jigsaw, both of which are independently enjoyable, making this a truly pleasant and rewarding challenge.

It is interesting to note that the design process involves much the same strategy, discovery, surprises, and satisfaction as was experienced here.

SPIN & SILENCE: ON FAKING OUTCOMES

After dropping the wife off at her sewing course for the day, I decided to visit the blackhouse: we were on Lewis for a week. These ‘black’ places had been read about in Alastair McIntosh’s book, Hell and High Water, causing one to wonder just what these places were, and how they were inhabited: see – https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-arnol-blackhouse-place-culture.html. The illustrations and the text always left something obscure; something unclear; one needed to be there, inside, to feel the space and place, and to see its fabric. We had driven by late the previous day, the day of arrival, just to see the building, such was one’s intrigue; but the exterior was not enough. How did one inhabit these iconic shelters?

Arrnol blackhouse, Lewis.

After this visit, I decided to drive further south to the Norse mill. The signs led to a small parking area from which one could follow the track into the site of the mill. After turning the engine off, a huffing sound could be heard. Thoughtlessly, the noise was interpreted as being that of a windy day, with the wind gusting fiercely around, and buffeting static objects. On opening the door, the surprise was that it was so still; it was actually a cool day with a very light breeze that freshened up the body; but the gusting sound could still be heard.

Norse mills, Lewis.

Looking around, puzzled, the eyes locked onto a tall, white pylon nearby, and, on being raised, the slowly rotating blades of a lone wind turbine were revealed: the whooshing sounds matched the cyclic movement of the three blades. There were no ifs or buts; this wind turbine was noisy. The sound could be recorded on the camera’s video; it was no phantom whisper. One wondered why it came as a surprise to Shetlanders living near the large Viking wind farm sprawling across Central Mainland, that these machines were noisy: see The Shetland Times, 5 July 2024. Folk were saying that they would have to move away, such was the 24 hour nuisance described as two persistent noises: the swoosh of the blades and the whirr of the turbines.

Why is the fact that wind turbines are a noise nuisance never made clear, when, at the Norse mill on Lewis, it was so self-evident? The report in The Shetland Times tells us that the energy company is managing matters, and is constantly monitoring noise levels that are all within acceptable limits.

There are two matters here: self-regulation and the setting of limits. It has been shown repeatedly in many situations that self-regulation just does not work: the latest example is Boeing. One soon discovers that spin specialists - no pun intended - soon takeover to prove everything - anything - is fine. As for noise limits: one usually discovers that these have been set by the industry to suit its needs; and that the industry has funded research to prove any point it wishes to make: universities have a lot to answer for in their greedy grabbing at funding to promote research and improve reputations.

As an example of industry’s cunning, in Australia, it is reported that those involved in the motorcycle world make sure that they manage the rule making, and the noise limits that are set by regulation. So it is that one sees motor bikes weaving through, in and out of, and around traffic willy-nilly, all in accordance with the law, making deafening sounds that are all within the ‘acceptable limits’ set by the industry. Neither the ad hoc manoeuvring, nor the noise is acceptable to ordinary behaviour and well being, but these are all legal: “So stop complaining!” One is reminded of wind turbines that are promoted as being a few pin pricks on the hills - “You’ll never see them” - when they are disturbingly noisy, and do intrude rudely into the wonder of landscapes; but one is soon told to pull one’s head in; that these matters are just all otherwise because they are legal, established by a rational mind; a position that infers stupidity on the voice of complaint: something irrational. The jumble of meanings and logic creates a debater’s paradise.

We live in an era skilled at PR. We are sold wind farms on the premise that they are a few rotating structures standing fuzzily against the sky, that have very little environmental impact: “It’s all in the mind.” The great irony is that the contractors on Shetland use tiny spinning gizmos coloured like the German flag - red, yellow, and black, as if the birds might remember the worst of WW2 - placed across the grassy fields that the contractors have claimed, to chase away nesting birds. Nesting birds are a nuisance because they will hinder the progress of the construction programme. The obvious question is: if these little spinners can have such an effect on bird behaviour, what might the impact of the giant turbines be on bird life? The question is avoided while the answer is given: “No measurable or significant impact at all,” with supreme confidence that quashes all other opinion into random, irrelevant, personal whims and foolish fantasies: “Can’t you understand this?”

Then there is the reality of the infrastructure required to service and maintain the turbines. Kilometres of roads need to be built to get to the turbines, and kilometres of copper cables need to be installed to convey the power to the transmission lines. Then, once the wind farm is all connected, the power has to be transferred to the major substation, with the general statement sometimes being that underground cables are too expensive, in spite of any possible promise. On Shetland, this has meant kilometres of overland cables joining central Mainland to Lerwick, offering a different cluttered mess of frames and cables to litter the landscape. It is in these areas that one sees the mysterious spinning ‘German flags.’

One is never told the full implications or the impacts of these developments until necessity demands, and then one is challenged with the rude response that tries to make idiots of us all: “What! How did you think the power was going to get there?” and “How did you think these turbines would stand up without huge footings?” “How did you think the turbines would be serviced?” etc. The brazen propositions are designed to shut the critic up. “What! Did you expect turbines to be silent?” “We cannot help it if few birds are silly enough to fly into the blades.”

And so it goes on: the proposition that the turbines should never have gone in, is never entertained. It is all a true muddle that uses spin and psychology to befuddle those who complain about the reality that was experienced at the Norse mills: turbines are noisy and do have an impact on place. The efforts of those in favour are all directed at overcoming this reality, both before and after installation. ‘Fake’ has become a word to fuzz and confuse everything these days, but it does appear to describe the efforts of an industry seemingly hell-bent on telling everyone that there are no problems with turbines other that in the minds of those who believe there are or might be: “You’re the problem.” There’s nothing that cannot be ‘managed.’

One thinks of the Grenfell Tower disaster with the flammable cladding. Years ago, when the cladding product used on this tower – or one similar to it - first came onto the market with stunningly beautiful brochures and a choice of bright new colours, I was told by the firm selling the product that did not support combustion, and with independent tests to prove this, that this new product did burn readily; that one had to be careful about how and where this material was used. If I knew this, then many more did too; yet the product has been used across the world; it was cheaper, and looked the same as the cladding that didn’t have the problem. We now know much more about this ‘more economical’ sheeting, and are finally acting on this knowledge, and discovering just how costly it has proved to be, both in money and lives. It is a shame that the ‘blind eye’ and ‘deaf ear’ was turned to matters for so long.

If this can happen with cladding, then it is easy to see how wind farms and motor bikes can disturb the world without anyone trying to stop the seemingly irresponsible silliness that ignores life, safety, and ordinary well being and its simple delight. What should one do? We might choose to act sensibly only when disaster strikes; but why should one have to wait for these problems to be revealed? We need to learn more from the Grenfell Tower fire.

Lingering behind this turbine experience is not only the current situation of noise and landscape concerns, but there is the future to consider too: what is the real cost of removing these structures and infrastructures once they reach the end of their usefulness? Who will pay for this? Words assure us that everything is fine; that this has been appropriately ‘managed’ – but does this matter involve a problem that has yet to be revealed too; to be attended to later only when the reality hits home?

28 FEB 25

NOTE

Shetland decommissioning

An interesting article in ABC News (Australia) that reports on the unexpected costs of decommissioning wind farms, raises a matter that the Shetland Islands Council (SIC) might find disturbing. One hopes that the enthusiasm for turbines has not blinded the SIC to this reality that, for it, could involve multi-millions of pounds. Has the cost of reinstating McDermid’s ‘naked hills’ ever been accurately calculated?

APOPHENIA & BROCH RESEARCH

It had been begun previously, but had been put aside with some frustration. The Shetland Amenity Trust publication of 2008, Tall Stories? 2 Millennia of Brochs edited by Val E Turner, Steve J Dockrill, Rebecca A Nicholson, and Julie M Bond, was purchased because of the subject matter. It is a collection of papers prepared by broch researchers, writings that began as a conference in Lerwick in 2000. After the first attempt to read what turned out to be academic texts, one discovered that the strict format of research rules and the narrow analysis of specialisation stifled the easy read with a stilted formalism that delved into specific detail in a most annoying manner that seemed to ignore the real issue of what a broch was.

Oddly, the expert research seemed to always spin around the core substance of the subject and stray off into a self-perpetuating complexity that looked like an indulgence. The book was put aside with some exasperation, while one’s own thoughts on brochs were explored in various blogs that attempted to grasp and understand the core issues – the reality of the broch; the broch as part of life.

After deconstructing the John Stewart text on brochs, see: https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2025/02/on-fanciful-cliche-broch-visions.html, the bold title of the Turner broch book was noticed in the set of spines on the bookshelf. The original indignation had been forgotten; the book was taken out with a renewed enthusiasm, the papers were perused, and the reading began. It took no time at all to rediscover the original frustrations. The desire to have the broch clarified as a building with an everyday function was constantly left lingering as detail after detail circumscribed what seemed to be the core issue. Precise, formal analysis of intricate, itemised descriptions that touched on assessments of optional variations, complete with references, all seemed to indulge in a formatted approach that appeared to accept the physicality of the broch without question. Only Ian Tait’s paper seemed to involve the reality of the broch, but this was its destruction. Why did the broch’s construction and its functions not capture any researcher’s attention?

Fojut’s paper looked promising, but while it delved into the precise details of the quantity of timber needed for a roof, (assuming there was one), it was careless about other realities like the engineering, and the flow of water. Like the other researchers, Fojut seems to become an ostrich with his subject, burying his head in his singular matter of interest and all of its specific detail, irrespective of other realities.

If we are going to discover more about brochs, we need to engage in a comprehensive understanding that specialises and articulates with an open, inclusive mind intent on integration. If this has to be done by using methods considered ‘unacademic,’ then so be it. We cannot have method driving process and understanding, and outcomes.

One gets the impression that the authors of these papers belong to a private ‘broch,’ mate’s club that has its own secret set of rules for precise communication; that one cannot write fluently and clearly about an enquiry, but has to turn the research into a tedious process of stifled, referenced logic that treads its own path into a unique reveal shaped by the rules of the game. This rigour has such an internal intensity that it easily ignores simple, everyday positions and propositions that might readily transform the result of the thoughtful technique of required recording that circles around proof, while ignoring what can be called ‘common sense,’ for want of a better phrase for this state of mind, knowing that it is neither common nor immediately sensible; (as in able to be sensed). The silent excitement of the tracking of ideas seems to drive the hunt on regardless of potential obstacles that the process leaps over with a distracting, but admirable elegance.

So it is that we get in-depth discussions on the word ‘broch,’ what it means; its origins; what it refers to; its general use; its location; its context; its fields; its roof, or not; its interior, or not; even its demolition: its actual, everyday reality and function is danced around obliviously. The stair is ignored; the method of construction is glanced over; it is as though everything starts with the ruins as the given, and goes on from there.

It is strange, because one of the nicest paragraphs about broch living was written by Armit in his Towers of the North; see - https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2016/09/how-architecture-shapes-and-moulds.html:

For the inhabitants, too, this would have been a remarkable place, revolutionary perhaps for people whose parents and grandparents most probably farmed independently from scattered farmsteads in the surrounding countryside. This was a closed community. You either lived within the walls or you did not. There was no middle ground. It was a place where people's movements and actions could be watched and controlled, and where social norms would be hard to break. Only one path led in and out; the houses shared common walls, and were often simply subdivisions within a larger building. Entering or leaving the village would have taken on a processional quality, passing the doors of neighbours, squeezing past others on their way home or out into the fields. This was not a place to keep secrets. The comings and goings of each inhabitant and family group would have been obvious to all. It was a sheltered, covered, protected environment, but one where common values, communal lifestyles and co-operative ventures would have been hard to challenge.

Ian Armit Towers in the North The Brochs of Scotland The History Press. Gloucestershire 2003

p. 105-106 (on the broch village at Gurness in mainland Orkney).

It is this type of understanding/enquiry that needs to be made more explicit in all its detail, matched and mapped to a broad canvas, assembled like the border of a jigsaw into which all of the other research can be tested for its fit. Without an overall empathetic perception, to continue the analogy, we are left with a set of bits and pieces being assembled in the hope that they might be parts of the same jigsaw.

One has to be beware of the human facility to read patterns into situations, the desire to order circumstance when nothing might be there. Consider Robyn Williams explaining why he believed Doris Lessing had chosen a particular passage to read to her audience. Williams pontificated that it had to do with the idea of the story as a parable, holding the message that the effort to try, and try, and try again might be worthwhile, desirable for success. The story was about the dung beetle. Lessing replied bluntly that she had chosen to read this particular short story because of its size; she had only a fixed time available to her for her presentation.

Might brochs be on their sites because these locations might be easier to defend rather than seeing them as aggressive, ‘military’ lookout sites? Might they be near water because, again, this fragments and frustrates the attack, making the defence more manageable? Or might it be for the fishing? There is a name for pattern reading like this: see – https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2011/02/chance-and-design.html:

Apophenia (Wikipedia) -

Apophenia is the experience of seeing patterns or connections in random or meaningless data. The term was coined in 1958 by Klaus Conrad, who defined it as the "unmotivated seeing of connections" accompanied by a "specific experience of an abnormal meaningfulness".

For the reading of meaning into forms, the word is Pareidolia: see also - https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2024/11/pareidolia-cave-painting-theory.html

We have to be careful with our enthusiasm for a subject. The question that needs attention is not only what the broch might really  be, but, if these sites were important to defend, why might this be so? One proposition has been explored in: https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-broch-its-intramural-stair.html and https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-broch-symbol-place.html.