Tiverton town leat

COGGAN'S WELL

marks the termination

of the town leat

given to Tiverton

by Countess Isabella

in the thirteenth century

I was idly perambulating the streets of Tiverton, as one does, whilst Ali was shopping interminably when I came across this curious construction. After a little internet research I discovered that, if I were to return here during September, I could participate in an ancient custom rehearsed once every seven years.  I quote:

Perambulation of the Leat—9th September 2017

The Perambulation of the Town Leat also known as water-bailing is an ancient custom that takes place in the town of Tiverton, Devon, England, once every seven years. The event commemorates and claims the gift of the town's water supply in the 13th century by Isabella, Countess of Devon and involves walking the length of the watercourse to its source six miles away at Norwood Common.

The procession starts at the Town Hall and is led by the four individuals known as "pioneers" armed with pickaxes and sledgehammers whose job it is to demolish any obstruction found in the stream. Behind the pioneers is the Bailiff of the Hundred, who carries an ancient staff of office, behind him are the "Withy-boys" drawn from Blundell's School and Tiverton High School whose job it is to whip the stream with sticks – or withy-wands. Then come the police, the town beadle, the Mayor of Tiverton, his fellow councillors and lastly the general public.

The procession's first stop is Coggan's Well in Fore Street, the traditional  centre of the town where the stream emerges from underneath the road. Placing his staff in the water, the Bailiff of the Hundred claims the stream "for ever, for the sole use and benefit and as the right of the inhabitants of the town of Tiverton". Further proclamations are made at Castle Street, Townsend, Brickhouse Hill, Chettiscombe, the waterworks at Allers and finally at Norwood Common, where a plaque marks the actual source. The ancient route now involves negotiating walls, private gardens and making use of many paths that are not public rights of way, some of which must be cleared on each perambulation.

My perambulations had also taken me along Castle Street where a steam flows, somewhat incongruously, down the centre of the the road. It emerges from a culvert at one end and later disappears into another, presumably to reappear at Coggan's Well - as I now realise this is none other than the town leat in another guise.

Castle Stree

For those of you as ignorant as I was, a "leat" is the name, common in the south and west of England and in Wales (Lade in Scotland), for an artificial watercourse or aqueduct dug into the ground. See here for a fuller description or here for a video of the 2010 perambulation. And I found this photograph of the plaque:

Source of the town leat

Map showing the leat - the source is by the legend "Van Post"

The course of the leat is well marked on various maps (see above, or type "Tiverton town leat" into google maps or go here) where it looks like a natural stream. The source is at the top of my map just below the legend "Van Post". Maybe Countess Isabella aka Isabel de Forz or her cronies just diverted an existing stream. In any event she was quite a benefactor having her hand in many projects to improve the life of her subjects. And to be still remembered 750 years on must say something.

Isabella's paternal arms

One supposes that, having created the leat, she instigated a wholly practical system of maintenance to ensure that clean water would continue to benefit the town inhabitants of which the present day custom of perambulation is a caricature. You can find some interesting history here (search for "peramb") but regrettably it does not reveal details of the original practice.

Looking at what emanates from Coggan's well now, and empties somewhat unhelpfully into the drains either side, I am not sure I would want to drink it.

As for the withy-boys and their thrashing the leat with withy-wands, it is clearly a bit of fun as this next stock photograph shows, but the significance avoids me! A "withy" is a tough, flexible branch of an osier or other willow, used for tying, binding, or basketry.

Chettiscombe : Withy Boys & Girls

Knighthayes Court, which the leat circumnavigates, is a large house and grounds now owned by the National Trust - during this visit and at her request we drove Ali's mum around this estate and liked the novel use of a couple of fallen trees so I took some photos.

So, why all this fuss about a bit of history?  Because it tickled me. Because it is evidently important enough to the folk who live in Tiverton for them to perpetuate the tradition. And because it echoes thoughts I am currently struggling with, namely a realisation of how little of my so called "Christian" lifestyle is reality. Consider how the present day perambulation has morphed from what must have been the original maintenance to ensure flow of clean water. Doubtless if any major blockage was discovered it would still be dealt with but, otherwise, it is now little more than a game to be enjoyed for the craic, like so many other traditions now-a-days. As such it is harmless enough provided no-one imagines it is the real thing - and there's the rub. We "Christians" do imagine our liturgy is the real thing. If I were to empty my lifestyle of all the stuff I am now thinking is just a let's pretend game, I wonder if I would be left with anything real?

Willand

Visiting Ali's mum again in Willand, Devon and fighting a man-cold. The sort that creates possibly literally litres of phlegm which still lingers a week on. With that and dreary weather I did less barefoot running than other times. My first included part of my favourite water meadows - one can hardly go to Willand and miss this, winter or man-cold or not.

First run 6.95 miles

The second included a bit of detective work to prepare for possible future runs should I return in warmer weather.

Second run 8.1 miles

Sampford Peverell footpaths

There are some interesting looking cross-country foot paths north of Sampford Peverell (a quaint name) which I want to explore. The A361 "North Devon link road" forms a barrier too dangerous to cross on foot, so I wondered how the marked footpaths managed it. Because it was drizzling and cold the whole time, and my body was not 100% either, I missed the possible crossing (a tunnel?) at the green arrow, but made it along the Grand Western Canal tow-path to the red arrow where I was pleased to see they had included a footpath by the side of the A361 as it crosses the canal.

I took a few photos which I relegate to the end of this post.

The third run took me across the Irish Sea with my S5 smart. With former GPS devices I have owned I have found it difficult to maintain a GPS fix without putting the device as close to the window as possible. With the S5 I was pleased to see it kept tracking even when I had the device on my lap from which position I could read an e-book. A rather satisfying short story Second Variety by Philip Dick. And strictly (or "properly" if you are a Swallow and Amazon addict) I was not running barefoot this time.

Tracking all the way

Maximum speed 381.64 mph, maximum altitude 7105m, total distance 225 miles. Rather better than my usual runs.

Grand Western Canal

First light (as far as my cameras was concerned) on the Grand Western Canal tow-path. I'm running on the verge because the path itself it too gritty. But the verge must have included some stinging nettles if my feet told me correctly later in the day. Note the dog walker in the distance. The walker is brandishing a flash-light, no surprise - strange that most folk can't see in the half light! But the dog has a harness with lights on it! An excellent idea.

Sampford Peverell

more canal

more Sampford

I like these lighting effects...

First bus (I guess) leaving Sampford

Goods train through Tiverton Parkway station

Path of former Culm Valley light railway

My last photo comes with a question should P or J be reading this. Doubtless they will recognise the location, close as it is to where they live. From the main road the former railway route is nicely paved with that solid white line down the middle until you get here. The path continues through brambles but soon becomes impassable to bare feet, and yet street lamps continue along it. My question is - does it now lead anywhere, or just come to a full stop at the boundary of this housing estate?

Most treasured possession

When I say that this is my most treasured possession, like saying yellow is my favourite colour, it is somewhat tongue in cheek. But some truth as well. Some might say it should be my wife but I am not at all sure that one "possesses" a wife. Semantics aside, for the purposes of this post I will maintain my ground.

Most treasured possession

What is it? It is a Rank-Strand Cinemoid swatch book, which I have kept all these years in a box that once contained a "2 MEG LIN L/S" potentiometer. Samples of what are known in the trade as "gels" and used to colour stage lights. The price "2/6" dates it before UK decimalisation in 1971. Back then my older sister had a friend who was involved in theatrical lighting and, besotted as I was with all things colour, I begged him to save me some Cinemoid off-cuts. He went beyond all I could have dreamed and acquired this book for me.  Cinemoid was introduced in 1960 - before that theatre lights were coloured by sheets of dyed gelatin hence "gels", but these could easily melt so had a very short lifetime. Cinemoid was made of acetate and was self extinguishing and came in a glorious range of colours. I saved pocket money to buy some sheets, and later was given a pile of off-cuts the remains of which I still have, closely guarded against the perils of community living. Of which, during one notable period, we could own only that which we could fit into our bedroom, and bedrooms back then were quite small and it was not unusual to return from a trip to find that the contents had been moved lock, stock and barrel to another location. And the movers were more interested in getting the job over and done with than with caring for one's possessions. 

with a colour wheel I made

In spite of this restriction I still have my Cinemoid swatch book and still, I am pleased to say, have my wife.

The Cinemoid brand now seems to have been superseded by Rosco and Lee and, I suppose, with RGB LED lamps there is less call for filters. In spite of this Cinemoid swatch books like mine are not so very uncommon and may be got on eBay for about 20 GBP.

I sacrificed parts of some of my swatches to made for example the colour wheel above. When spun this gave a reasonable approximation to "white".

I still love it.

Dated much earlier in Bailey history is the colour wheel in my next picture. My father made this, I suppose, when he was a boy - it is hand-painted with water colours on a card disk about 6" diameter made to fit a Meccano circular plate and the idea was to spin it to demonstrate that white light is composed of a spectrum of colours. From previous experience I know its "white" was not very, in fact more beige. But to prove the point I have mounted the wheel on a small d.c. motor and here you have the results.

My father's colour wheel attempt

Here it is spinning at speed

Slowing down

And finally stationary

For completeness I repeated this experiment using my own colour wheel with somewhat better results. This probably reflects on the better colour purity of Cinemoid filters compared with war time children's water colours!  You'll note also that my father has the traditional seven rainbow colours whereas I have the three primary and three secondary colours. Perhaps this says something about tradition.

My colour wheel attached to d.c. motor

Spinning slowly

Spinning fast the colours mix to a plausible white

Which brings me to my father's secret cupboard and another treasured possession. We children all knew about his cupboard in my parent's bedroom under the steps that led to the attic, attic of model railway fame on one side and my older sister's boudoir on the other. But to open the cupboard - this was strictly out of bounds. Although when suitably sure of not being discovered, I did occasionally peep in. I cannot of course divulge what was in that cupboard apart from to say that he kept his Meccano there. Which Pandora's box I am pleased to have inherited and is shown below.  It was at one time in its more distant past a canteen for cutlery, hence the blue lining inside.

My father's Pandora's box

Treasure inside the box

Smaller parts in the tray

I may have mentioned before the colours on a 56K-ohm resistor which was contributory to my choice of career, colour light signals confirming my love of railways, or the visible spectrum drawing me to loving optics, and so on. And yet if you ask people in the community here I think they would agree that I would be the last person to comment on or contribute to the choice of colour for walls, carpet or curtains. And this is not because I do not have opinions.

As a final reminder that this writer loves colour, I woke this morning to open the curtains (there's another potential blog post hidden in this action) and saw a blue dawn with the yellow moon setting behind the tree line. I did not think my camera would do it justice but the results are not too far from what I actually saw.

A study in blue and yellow

Cymbals

A while ago I mentioned the snare drum. It's not that I exactly dislike percussion but... Another case in question is the cymbal the use of which I noted, in our church praise recently, was particularly dominant. These remarks are entirely my own personal opinion which I feel at liberty to express this being my blog - it is not my intention to offend. For me the cymbal, sometimes called a splash and epitomised by the exclamation mark, should be used about as often as that punctuation mark is used in normal text. To use it every other beat is to me way OTT. Don't get me wrong: unlike the snare drum I happen to like the sound of a cymbal (of any size). I like pepper too, but prefer it to be piquant and in small quantities. Overuse of anything is like:

Looking at a fine cluster of the bubbles which hung above his head he thought how easy it would be to get up and plunge oneself through the whole lot of them and to feel, all at once, that magical refreshment multiplied tenfold. But he was restrained by the same sort of feeling which had restrained him over-night from tasting a second gourd. He had always disliked the people who encored a favourite air in an opera - 'That just spoils it' had been his comment. But this now appeared to him as a principle of far wider application and deeper moment. This itch to have things over again, as if life were a film that could be unrolled twice or even made to work backwards... was it possibly the root of all evil?  Perelandra 

An example antithesis is in Bruckner's seventh where there is a disputed cymbal crash at a major climax in the slow movement. The dispute is as to whether the composer intended it or was it imposed by one of his many editors. And even this lone cymbal crash sounds somewhat unnecessary IMHO.

Sausages and radio frequencies

What connections do radio frequencies have with sausages?  Quite a lot if you are an engineer and if you believe my story. Long, long ago, when I worked for the BBC Research Department, I was involved in developing a system to add data to analog radio transmissions. Having sorted out RDS on VHF (FM) the next challenge was medium and long wave (AM). And now all those years later the system is still in use though, as far as I know, only on the BBC long wave (Radio 4) transmission at 198kHz.  Most of the UK has Radio 4 long wave coverage from a single 500kW transmitter at Droitwich near Birmingham, with two subsidiary transmitters in Scotland to fill in otherwise weak reception areas there.  All three stations transmit on the same frequency and are now synchronised in phase.

If you are interested you can find out about the compatibility tests I was involved in by reading my report "Radio‐data: Mush‐area reception tests" here. To go into more detail would be a digression but I can hardly omit that my office companion at the time was also involved and also wrote a report.

Back to the subject: to carry out these tests we had to replace the 198kHz frequency source at Droitwich (and later at the other two stations) with a rubidium standard followed by our experimental phase modulation equipment. And this of course involved a visit to Droitwich and getting the inevitable tour where I heard the story.

The partial null I found at ~ 4300MHz

I must digress to explain a principle. Just days ago (which was what brought all this to mind) I was testing a radio receiver operating at microwave frequencies (around 4GHz in fact) and, on performing a frequency sweep, observed that there was an unwanted partial null at around 4300MHz. At radio frequencies (RF) electricity has behaviour which appears strange to those of us brought up on battery and light-bulb circuits. Signals have to travel along transmission lines and any discontinuity in impedance causes reflections just like what happens after jiggling a taught rope anchored to a building so that a wave propagates along it and is reflected at the wall. Add another wall the other end of the rope and the reflection is reflected back to combine to give stationary waves, the things that violins and guitars are made of. And transmission lines when mismatched.

The likely culprit

I found out the propagation velocity for the particular transmission line (called a co-planar waveguide) that I was using and thus calculated the distance that a reflection might result in a null and this turned out to be 10.6 mm and thus I was able to identify the likely culprit as the transmission line between the marks '10' and '11' on the ruler in my picture. Whilst tuned to the offending frequency of the null I lightly pressed my finger at this location and, hey presto, the null disappeared. I then tested to make sure in other locations the application of my finger was relatively benign. This, then, is the classic RF finger test. The human finger acts like a capacitor and resistor and thus affects the RF circuit it is close to or touching. A frequency null is very sensitive to the exact electrical properties (capacitance and inductance) of the circuit and thus even a small change can have a significant effect. And a similar effect is used by one and all when navigating on our smart phones.

Stock photo inside the Droitwich station

Back to the BBC station at Droitwich - if you'd like some history about the place see here. Inside the transmitter building there were and for all I know may still be rows of windowed grey cabinets. These contained parts of the transmitter circuits which included water cooled valves aka vacuum tubes for example as in the stock photo below.

Stock photo of a water cooled transmitting valve

The story, that I was told on that tour, goes that a former engineer was making adjustments in one of these cabinets to diagnose or fix some maloperation which might have been RF instability that manifested as distortion or some such. The engineer found that when he placed his finger in a particular location the problem went away, but it reappeared as soon as he removed his finger. After making various circuit changes to emulate what his finger did to no advantage, he eventually gave up the bitter struggle and went to the canteen to procure a sausage. And of course after wedging said sausage just where his finger had been the problem was solved.

Later the engineer's senior, whilst doing his rounds, noticed the sausage and the rest is history. I have often pondered what happened to that sausage. It can hardly still be there.

Doctors and Dentists

As a child there are other children and there are adults. Excepting parents and very close relatives, for children most adults are off the radar. But there are exceptions.

In Alresford when I grew up there were two doctors. My parents generally frequented Dr. Leishman, the older and more serious of the two. Leishman is an apt name for a doctor - it is "the Scottish form of the name "Leachman" or "Leechman", from the Old English "laece", leech, and "mann", servant of the physician, hence, someone who used leeches in helping a physician, to cure somebody." Doubtless he must have been involved in the matter of my tonsils removal but what I remember is having jabs and an embarrassing appointment after I had, in great fear of loosing my manhood, reported to my father a swelling on my penis. By the time the doctor inspected me all was well and I remember he then took my father aside out of my earshot. What passed between them I shall never know but for ever after I have honoured them because nothing more was ever said on the subject. It taught me a lesson which I have often sought to apply that discretion is the better part of valour. Of the other doctor, Riley by name, I only remember as being a younger man.

There was a master at school, a good teacher who I respected and who knew how to keep order. But then in those days there was such a thing as the cosh. He once gave me a taste of it, I think he was making an example of me and he didn't hit too hard, more as a warning maybe. Maybe not. He taught maths and games. After games we all had to strip and use the communal shower - when younger this involved running through it as fast as possible so as to avoid getting too wet. Only in later years did it occur to me that a shower could be pleasurable. The fact that we were all in various stages of undress didn't particularly bother anyone - it was just the way it was. On one occasion the said master came through the boys' changing room just as I had returned, still wet, from the shower. He picked me up by the shoulders and shook me vigorously up and down. Apart from a slight annoyance at being picked on I thought no more about it until more recently when I have wondered if there was anything sexual in it. Even if there had been I would not have, either then or now, wanted to accuse him and I do not believe it did me any harm. But I guess it might be the closest I have ever got to being molested.

In case you wonder at my accolade "good teacher" - there were plenty of bad ones! I do not mean morally bad (how should I know their morals?), but bad at teaching. And so it came as a pleasant surprise to be taught by someone who could both keep order and instill interest.

We had numerous RE teachers of various abilities but one stands out. I cannot remember his name but he was a sincere youngish man and I respected him. I remember him reading so very passionately David's lamentation over Saul and Jonathan "The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!" and explaining to us pagans how much David must really have loved these his enemies. On another occasion the subject of sex came up and I remember him informing the whole class how the act of sex was the most beautiful and pleasurable expression between man and woman and that we should be careful to cherish it as so.  Such remarks do not go unnoticed.

Mr Hutchins was our family's dentist. His surgery was in Jewry Street, Winchester and he was stout. Very. As a child I remember wondering how he could possibly get close enough to my mouth without his stomach getting in the way. Or, however did he tie his shoe laces up? I used to suck my thumb (my parents did not approve of pacifiers). They had tried all sorts to stop this habit including that bitter stuff that gets painted on, whose taste I rather liked. And then on one visit Mr Hutchins told me I had to stop sucking my thumb otherwise my teeth would be crooked and, just like that, I stopped and never did it again. If only the same resolve could touch my other bad habits! On another occasion I had four extractions to make room for other teeth (so they said) and this involved gas as a general anaesthetic. I suppose I was "out" for only a few minutes. I remember the rubber smell of the face mask and the fast, furious and intense dream which followed, featuring a sort of octagonal gallery or tower in which I think I was being chased around and around..

Mr Gregory was our family's solicitor and another notary in my life. He was, I suppose, the author of the present-day Dutton Gregory Solicitors and, to me, he was the epitome of the ideal professional citizen. Back then I remember his habitual performance of O Holy Night at the Alresford Christmas-around-the-tree celebration, to the accompaniment of my father on the piano. Later it would be he who drew up wills for both my mother and father.

Barbara was a friend of the family, I suppose in her twenties when I was very young. Oft times I was sent to the kitchen in disgrace, because I hadn't eaten everything on my plate. Strange that few parents require this of their children now-a-days. She would come and rescue me, help me to finish what had by then become cold and glutenous, perhaps she even ate some herself. Clearly an angel. When asked (at that tender age) whom I might marry I vehemently decried the idea but conceded that if I were forced it would be Barbara.

Mr DCF was the chief elder at the church I grew up attending. To me he was the ultimate, all-knowing, could-do-no-wrong, Godly man. I have since learned, after bitter experience, how dangerous it is to set anyone on a pedestal like that.

Miss Wellman was one of my Sunday school teachers. She was aged, a dear, had white hair and I remember her for her gentleness towards us children. I suppose I ought to be able to recall some of her lessons but I regret I cannot. I only have a vague recollection of being herded from the church sanctuary to a nearby office where the lesson was conducted.

Joe Bush was the local itinerant youth evangelist. He was an older man with white hair and gentle yet severe in principles, and loved by all. He held tent crusades throughout Hampshire and sometimes preached at NFC. I remember one occasion when he came up to talk to my mother after the meeting and turned to me and earnestly encouraged me to respect her. I hadn't been aware that I didn't but I took that instruction to heart for I deeply respected this man.

I have spoken of EW aka the whirlpool elsewhere. I could mention my best friend's parents, his father never resting but always out gardening, his mother's most excellent chipped potatoes and fried fish, his grandmother's licking her knife then dunking it in the tomato ketchup bottle. Or my other friend's parents, father who I reckoned could make anything mechanical, his mother's spaghetti dish that I liked so much - in which the tomato sauce was reduced to solid bits which stuck to the strands of pasta. And the fat and thin Miss Curtis's. And here my roll-call is degenerating a bit like Hebrews 11: And what shall I more say? for the time would fail me to tell of...

Desert Island Films

On the BBC News website a few days ago I read with some disgust the editorial So long, 3DTV. Whilst some of what David Lee says may be true I will ardently defend all things 3D in spite of what he calls "plonker" glasses and mild eye strain. 3D technology was around long before my birth but went out of fashion after the war maybe due to the activities of a 1910 version of Mr Lee. There are some very passable 3D photographs from this era on display at Russborough House just down the road from us. Ever since my childhood I have longed to watch a 3D movie and my lust was not properly satisfied until 2009 when I saw James Cameron's awesome and archetypal Avatar in the cinema.

Avatar and the floating islands of Pandora

My first taste of proper 3D photography was at my parent's church. By "proper" I mean full colour stereoscopic and I thus exclude those red and blue glasses which did no more than tease the desire. Of course I'd love true immersive 3D like holograms and some virtual reality provide but, so far, this technology is not available to the masses. Some visiting missionary brought with him a slide show. Generally these were only marginally more interesting than a sermon but on this occasion the slides were 3D! Of course I made it my business to suss out the projection equipment which, I found, was more or less two projectors side by side Siamese twins style, projecting two separate 35mm stills. I understood the polaroid principle well enough although whether it was circular polarisation as is now used I know not. We were all issued with polarising glasses and - wow! I can still see in my mind one slide in which there were flowers in the foreground which literally flowed out of the frame of the screen and towards the audience.

A film (or any other experience) that ranks high in my pecking order is one that I would gladly enjoy twice, thrice, perhaps any number of times and, when asked after watching a film whether I enjoyed it or not, you will get very little response from me if it was good. To put into words anything so wonderful would be travesty, sacrilege, deprecative. The principle applies equally to 2D as well. The multiple viewings must be suitably temporally spaced else it might amount to over-indulgence: a first slice of strawberry cheesecake delights but the second too soon after might make one feel sick.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

I know folk for whom the cinema holds little or no pleasure but, for me, a good film on the big screen is hard to beat. I recently took my grandchildren to a theatre performance of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I was very well done and the boy and girl actors were very endearing but it did not compare to the 1968 film version.

My parents held out against TV until I was a teenager and, even then, watching was restricted. Colour was in its infancy: we settled on the cheaper and more reliable monochrome. Likewise going to the cinema or theatre was both a rarity and a treat, and it has remained so all through my life. There are things that I love doing but that does not necessarily mean that I indulge myself in them. There are other people to consider and, we are told, God watches all. In spite of these restrictions I have managed to watch a number of films of which the following have stood up to my test of time. You might detect a common denominator.

Julie Andrews

Many folk today, especially youngsters, pour scorn on The Sound of Music but I have to say I loved it and would gladly watch it many times more. I love the mountain grandeur and the music, and I will admit that I kind of fell in love with Julie and I remember my father cautioning me of this folly.

Mark Lester

My mother took me to see Oliver (1986) in a large cinema in Southampton. Of all the musicals I have seen I think Oliver ranks the highest. Although it was disappointing to hear, more recently, that Mark didn't actually sing any of his songs! One particular "wow" moment was experiencing surround sound wittingly for the first time as Oliver and the Artful emerge from a narrow side street into the open square in front of St Paul's.

Mowgli

The 1967 cartoon version of The Jungle Book met the test. I have watched this film many times and still enjoy it. And yet the sequel I have seen only once.

Polar Express

We watched Polar Express (2004) one Christmas on DVD. It was the first entirely animated film in which the characters were sufficiently human to instil an emotional response and thus another archetype for me.  I discovered that it might be possible to fall in love with a virtual avatar! Surprisingly for a staid establishment, the IET publishes some interesting thoughts here in an article "Love and sex in the Robotic Age". And anyway (back to Polar Express) as I have mentioned elsewhere,I loved the railway theme particularly where the train leaves the track.

Neel Sethi as Mowgli

I've only had the chance to watch Favreau's excellent 2016 version of Jungle Book in glorious 3D once, but I reckon it meets the test and I look forward to a sequel.

Magnificent set in Hugo

Some while back I posted my approval after watching Martin Scorsese's Hugo (2011, ) and later alluded to its making. I have watched this film several times though regrettably not in 3D, and regard it as an artistic masterpiece and also amazing acting by Asa Butterfield speaking of whom his The Space Between Us (2017) looks like it might be worth testing although some reviews are rather damning.

In all it seems I am an incurable romantic.

Thou shall not tempt update

I said I would post again if I heard anything new. I have seen a few updates from the boy's family since I posted my heart-felt cry - updates about various hospital appointments and such like - but today's update was different, different enough to raise my hope. And hope is a precursor to faith and faith to healing.

Apparently the family had expected treatment to start directly but it now looks like it will be delayed maybe four months. In itself this doesn't sound hopeful but wait for it... The boy himself, when he heard this, declared "it gives God more time to do the big miracle of healing!" and on reading this my heart leapt and tears started to well up. I say, if God in heaven listens and I'm told He does... I say, take note of what that boy has said and for Your Name's sake answer his and our cry.