The joys of AI

I recently downloaded two AI programs and tested them, to reassure myself as a writer and to compare their abilities. Claude first.

I asked it to write Winnie the Pooh in the style of Micky Spillane:

‘I pulled my battered stuffing out of the honey pot and brushed away the sticky crumbs. This was a dark trail that started with a missing slob of a bear and his pinched honey stash. I’d smelt this kind of case in the Hundred Acre Woods before—it reeked of desperation and the cheap, floral perfume of a twisted doe. Keeping my grip tight on my trusty pot, I prepared myself to confront the twisted stuffing-filled underbelly that lurked beneath the sickly-sweet surface.’

Then, Winnie the Pooh and Tigger in the style of Charles Dickens:

‘Twas the bst of times in the Hundred Acre Wood when the jovial, striped creature came bouncing into our presence, disturbing hat little peace a plum, aimless bear might find amid the melancholy trees. With vigour unchecked and exuberance unmatched, this orange nuisance did pest the tranquil soul relentlessly, until composure lay scattered like the honey pots and their viscous remains.’

Could it manage a Micky Spillane version of Miss Piggy and Kermit?

'The smoke-filled swamp joint went silent as the curvy pig in the low-cut sequins sashayed in. I tried keeping my focus on the piano keys, but it was no use. Her beady eyes locked on to me like aorp looking for a fly to snatch. I could smell trouble coming off her like fumes from a water treatment plant. Pulling my collar tight, I braced for impact.’ Still not too sure what an aorp is.

Or Wind in the Willows in the style of Raymond Chandler?

'I was a dark night along the river bank when the trouble started. A weasel in a worn coat tried to peddle some hot merchandise to a badger and his muscle. Across from the way, a toad with a shady past nursed his third pint, eyeing the scene like he was gonna make a play. I gripped my trusty walking stick tight. This wasn’t gonna end well for someone if it went sideways.'

Next I tried ChatAI with comparable requests.

Miss Piggy and Kermit in the style of Raymond Chandler"

In the dimly lit alley of obscurity, where the city’s shadows lingered like unwelcome secrets, I found her, Miss Piggy, a dame with a figure that could make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. She had a voice like screeching tires on rainy night  and a glare that could make a grown man tremble like a leaf in a hurricane.

Beside her stood Kermit, a frog with eyes that had seen too much for his own good. He had the look of a man who had danced with danger one too many times an knew that the next waltz could be his last. His words were as smooth as whisky on cold night, but there was steel beneath the surface, ready to strike if the need arose. 

They were an odd pair, Miss Piggy and Kermit, two souls adrift in a sea of troubled, clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors in a storm. As they stood before me, their face a mask of stoic determination, I knew that their story was far from over in this city of broken dreams.

And Miss Piggy and Kermit in the style of Charles Dickens.

 

In the heart of a bustling metropolis where the streets teemed with a cacophony of voices and the air was thick with scent of industry, there resided a peculiar duo—Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog. Miss Piggy, with her rosy cheeks and resplendent demeanour, cut a striking figure amidst the crowds, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of ambition and longing. Kermit, a humble frog of gentle disposition, stood by her side like a steadfast companion ever ready to lend his support.

Miss Piggy, with her dreams as grand as the mansions of the wealthy elite, aspired to rise above her humble beginnings and make a name for herself in the glittering world of show business. Her heart beat with the rhythms of the city, its pulse echoing the promise of fame and fortune that beckoned from afar. 

Kermit, a creature of simpler tastes and kind-hearted nature, found solace in the companionship of Miss Piggy, her larger-that-life personality a beacon of light in the darkest corners of the city. 

And to round it off a piece of art from Gen Craft shown above. The actual request was a picture of Miss Piggy dressed in a low cut sequinned dress and Kermit in trench coat and fedora in a noir style bar. Not too sure about the low cut sequinned dress, or whether I have anything to fear yet. A fun waste of  time? Oh yes. . . . The  Famous Five in the style of Dostoevsky, Biggles in the style of Nietzsche. Endless possibilities if there's nothing else better on TV.

If anyone fancies trying my last two suggestions, please let me know the results :) 

 

Better than fermented socks

Distinctive is a suitably neutral term, I think, so let it be said. I have drunk several distinctive wines in my time. One, deep in the past but never forgotten, was an Israeli wine bought in Tescos. It tasted like fermented socks. I can even specify the colour: blue. Blue woollen socks. 

My most recent experience is a bottle I bought a fortnight ago.

Bells rang from the start, but I was seduced by the price. I mean:

 Apothic?

Untamed and Unbound?

Plush and Jammy?

Plush I associate with soft fabric or something upper class. In my limited dealings with the upper class I’ve never heard them extol the virtues of jammy wine. But it gets worse on the back of the bottle.

The wine was apparently inspired not by a reputable vintner but a clever little blackbird, and here the imagery becomes even more confused: plush and velvety – fabric then, but one that soars on the lips. *

It crossed my mind the ‘copy’ might have been produced by A I in which case a skilled copywriter has little to fear, at least for the moment. But why the name: Apothic?

On a related website, I learnt that Apothic Red Wine can be traced back to the ancient Greek and Roman practice of blending different wines together to create ‘a unique taste profile.’ Hardly Catullus but perhaps Californian.  The practice was known as apotheca and supposedly created more flavoursome and complex wines. Perhaps Scottish distilleries should take a leaf from the apothica book ie extol the virtues of  cheap ‘blended whiskies’ at the expense of the ‘single malt.’

The website was replete with virtue. Apothic, a subsidiary of Gallo wines, is committed to ‘responsible and sustainable measures’ – ‘environmental stewardship’- ‘bold leadership.’ But what did it taste like? 

Alcoholic Ribena, a perfect match for Sticky Toffee Pudding and Eccles cakes. It’s fair to say it didn’t soar on my lips. Spluttered perhaps. The ancient Greeks and Romans were also partial to diluting their wine with seawater.  Perhaps I shouldn’t be giving ideas to vintners in search of profit. 

* Soaring from the lips 

Here is one reviewer trying to restrain his enthusiasm. It must be said though, my wife quite liked it. Each to their own, as they say.

Hidcote and the ambiguity of man

The lane leading to the enchanted garden.

Hidcote Manor, in Gloucestershire, had been part of the Bradenstoke Priory estate, which in turn was based in Wiltshire. It reflects how wealthy the medieval church was and why Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries in 1539. In the C17th  Hidcote became a farmhouse and in 1907 was sold to Lawrence Johnston, son of the fabulously wealthy American socialite Gertrude Winthrop; for her, £7,200 was but a drop in the ocean. 

As a youth, Lawrence Johnston had drifted across Europe, somewhere along the way becoming a Catholic, falling in love with France, and Edith Wharton, and becoming at last a naturalised Englishman. He joined the Imperial Yeomanry to fight in the Boer War (no record though of him ever meeting my grandfather, Sergeant John Keyton). 

                                                                   Lawrence Johnston

After the war, he tried a spot of farming in Northumberland before settling in Hidcote with a domineering mother. There, he developed a grand passion for gardening, later scouring the world for new and exotic plants. His motto was always ‘Plant only the best form of plant’ and ‘Plant thickly’ on the principle, presumably, that nature hates a vacuum and would otherwise fill it with weeds. 

When World War I broke out in1914, he joined the Northumberland Fusiliers, was wounded, gassed and once mistakenly left for dead on the field. 

                                                     Johnston with his team of gardeners 

As soon as the war ended, he returned to his beloved Hidcote and spent so prodigiously his mother, who held the purse strings, left his inheritance in the hand of ‘trustees’ so in a sense he remained a dependent for life. 

We were there on a bright March day when only hellebore, daffodils and magnolia were in bloom. As the video at the end of this post will show, it is heaven on earth in Summer and Spring. We just glimpsed it's architecture

Did a giant crow take a bite  out of that house?

In 1930, and now in his sixties with a gas damaged lung, he toured western China in his search for new and exotic plants. Accompanying him was George Forrest of Edinburgh Botanic Garden. It was an unhappy partnership. Johnston fell ill and Forrest developed an active dislike of him: 

‘Had I raked (the entire country) with a small tooth comb I couldn’t have found a worse companion than Johnston…Johnston is not a man, not even a bachelor, but a right good old spinster spoilt by being born male.’ 

It's an odd comment to make of a man who fought in two wars, was badly wounded and in his sixties embarked on a hazardous expedition to China, and yet, how do you define a man?

 

 

How do you define a man? I was struck by this on entering the men’s toilets in the Hidcote estate and encountered the unexpected. Instead of the tacky but  perhaps more traditional machine dispensing Durex with their lurid logos and names, I came across this.

Were they expecting a charabanc?

I have no idea whether these were also on offer in the women’s toilets but at the time I paused and wondered what Lawrence and Gertrude would have thought,  and whether such a thing would be permitted in the Garrick Club presently under siege?

But back to the indefatigable Lawrence. By the 1940s and with Lawrence Johnston well in his 70s, he began to think of his future and that of his garden. After much hemming and hawing the National Trust was persuaded to acquire it in 1948 and have kept it ever since. 

A longish video but well worth watching especially on a gloomy day. Around 19.40 -- 20.20 mins in you'll see the formidable Gertrude and imagine her views on present cultural mores 

Forget Cheese and Onion. The future is ethically made crisps.

 

Last week we stayed a night at the Bear Inn at Rodborough. Built in the late C17th it later became a popular coaching inn, and derived its name by the fact that bear baiting once took place in its grounds. 

The Inn has been greatly extended since the C18th but it still has a Dickensian vibe standing proud on Rodborough Common. 

 

This bear presently guarding the foyer seems content enough, albeit quiet. 

Inside, the inn is quirky with its corridors and unexpected rooms, but all was not well in the kingdom of Mike. There were no fires—hearths and unlit logs, but no fires. Worse the beer was cloudy. The first pint, a Stroud brew, was cloudy but drinkable. The second pint, pale ale, was also cloudy but tasted foul. This time, I did complain and the beer was replaced with a crystal clear Japanese lager. 

But this isn’t the point of this particular  blog. Sitting  in one of the rooms with a fireless fire, I found myself reading an empty crisp packet. My kindle had run out of charge, but the crisp packet proved more than a substitute. I wasn’t so much reading about a packet of crisps, but a mission statement delivered with evangelical zeal. On finishing it, I felt like standing up and bellowing Hosanna!

This was a far cry from the early days of the crisp industry and the cutthroat wars of the 1970s and 80s.

My first introduction to Smith’s Crisps was the factory scrapings sold in one penny conical bags at a nearby sweetshop. Grease with a crunch and not a hosanna in sight—nor any notion of the origins of Smith’s Crisps. 

Frank Smith, born in 1875 started his crisp business in the garage of the Crown Hotel in Cricklewood. His wife, Jessie did all the peeling, slicing and frying whilst young Frank went pottering around  London in his horse and cart selling them. Within a year he was employing twelve full time staff and in 1927 had opened a factory in Brentford. 

Mission statements had no place in Frank Smith’s world. His crowning act of genius was the little blue bag of salt in every packet of crisps. This encouraged pubs to stock them for they increased both thirst and beer sales. 

By the second half of the C20th, Smith’s had serious competition—most particularly, Golden Wonder and Walker’s Crisps. Other than their product, they had one thing in common, a pathological eagerness to sell their crisps anywhere and to everyone. Not for them the namby-pamby selling point of only selling their crisps to those worthy of eating them. The crisp wars had begun.

Golden Wonder’s chief claim to fame was their cheese and onion crisps in 1962. Unperturbed, Smith’s hit back at them with their claim to have introduced chicken flavoured crisps the year before. But now Walkers entered the fray with their smoky bacon crisps and chipsticks, followed by roast chicken, and beef and onion flavoured crisps. In every war, there is misinformation, truth suffers as do ethics. Walkers, I'm looking at you. (British Made Chips, look away. This may offend you). 

Smith’s ended up being absorbed by Walkers, and Golden Wonder went into administration in January 2006.

I finished off my ethically sourced crisps and left the still  fireless room. I’m sure British Made Crisps have a future. After all, in the UK we consume ten billion packets of crisps or a hundred packets per person a year. And ethically made crisps, must surely have a more pleasing taste?

Black Vaughan

Herefordshire is rich in ghosts. You can’t move for them. But, alas, you will no longer be bothered by Black Vaughan of Hergest Court. His spirit has, fortunately or unfortunately, been laid—or has it?

The original Black Vaughan was reputedly a fierce and brave knight who died at the Battle of Banbury in 1469. His effigy is still to be seen in the Vaughan chapel in St Mary's Church, Kington.  Effigy or not, his spirit lives on in local legends that over the centuries grew in the telling. 

One story has it that the brave knight was decapitated at Banbury, but as his head bounced across the blood-soaked field, his faithful black hound took it in his jaws and carried it all the way home to Hergest Court over 100 miles away. (2hrs 6 minutes along the motorway)

Hergest Ridge

Kington

Headless or not, Sir Thomas knew no rest and over the centuries became ever more wicked, coming back ‘stronger and stronger.’ Stories tell of how Black Vaughan began appearing in broad daylight, upsetting farmers and their heavily laden wagons. He would frighten their wives jumping up behind them as they rode to market, and sometimes assume the form of a large bluebottle in order to ‘torment the horses.’ 

So powerful did he become, that on one occasion he took on the shape of a bull and charged into the local church. Enough was enough, the final straw perhaps. Black Vaughan had to be stopped. As one old man put it:

“So, they got twelve parsons with twelve candles to wait in the church to try and read him down into a silver snuff box. For, we have all got a sperrit something like a spark inside we, an a sperrit can go large or small, even into a snuff box.” To make the rite even more potent they had with them a woman with a new-born baby, its purity and innocence adding power to the exorcism:

“Well, they read, but it was no use; they were all afraid, and all their candles went out but one. The parson as held that candle had a stout heart, and he feared no man nor sperrit. He called out ‘Vaughan, why art thou so fierce?’

 ‘I was fierce when I was a man, but fiercer now, for I am a devil!’ was the answer. But nothing could dismay the stout-hearted parson…He read and read, and when Vaughan felt himself going down and down and down, till the snuff box was nearly shut, he asked Vaughan, ‘where wilt thou be laid?’ The spirit answered ‘Anywhere, but not in the Red Sea.’   (Don't ask)

“So, they shut the box and took him and buried him for a thousand years in Hergest pool, in the wood with a big stone on top of him. But the time is nearly up.”

It’s a great story spoilt only by the fact that you have the same variant in other different stories of laying a troublesome ghost to rest.* Spoilt also by the fact that irrespective of the snuff box, Black Vaughan’s ghost lingers still—along with his fierce and terrible hound. No snuff box for him. It is said that even Vaughan’s descendants feared the hound as a harbinger of death, and for some, it continues to haunt the area.

Black Vaughan, himself left two footprints under an oak tree where he’d stand and admire his deer. The footprints could still be seen until quite recent times, for no grass would grow there on account of the man’s wickedness. When, eventually, the oak tree was chopped down, the woodsman responsible ended his days in a lunatic asylum. To this day, “Local people around Kington take the stories of the ghost of Black Vaughan, and his black dog as more than just legend.” (BBC’s Hereford and Worcester website 2004) 

*See a previous post recounting the demise of the wicked Sir Lawrence Tanfield 

An Elegant Sprawl

One of my Christmas presents was a night at one of my favourite places: Lower Slaughter—not on its streets, nice though they are, but at at even nicer inn. 

I love the name, Lower Slaughter which suggests one of the many bloody battles in the War of the Roses. Just up the road is Upper Slaughter where, presumably, a better class of people met their end. The origin of the word is more mundane*

We explored those Cotswold villages we hadn’t been to before; the three villages in the Wychwood area were neat and prosperous but with little more to them. Chipping Campden was much more interesting, with the wonderful gardens of Hidcote within walking distance—if you’re that way inclined. But the real joy lay in exploring lanes that led to nowhere, and driving across green but desolate uplands offering vast skies and panoramic views. 

It was on our way home that we came across the magical Swinbrook and the church of  St Mary the Virgin. 

I've never seen this type of grave before, or know whether it is peculiar to the locality

But I find it fascinating that three of the four  Mitford sisters (Nancy, Unity, and Diana) are buried so neatly together. Pamela, for some reason,  is buried northwest of the church tower. Their brother Tom who died in Burma during World War II has a plaque inside the church.

The church itself  is thought to have C11th origins because of is Romanesque central arches, but most of it is C12th and C13th. An interesting addition is the tower built in six weeks in 1822. Puts our procrastinating culture to shame.

The choir stalls are C17th along with the wooden pulpit, which rests on a modern stone base.

But what makes the church unique is in its devotion, not to the Lord but the once powerful Fettiplace family that dominated the area and owned estates in 15 counties. 

As you walk on and around the altar area you’re aware of the corpses lying beneath you—that is if you can wrest your gaze away from the magnificent Fettiplace memorials.

I envy their elegant sprawl and hope, when my time comes, for a tomb as  richly ornate. 

This is the earliest tomb which dates from 1613, the oldest Fettiplace at the bottom wearing an Elizabethan ruff. The middle one is his son Alexander, and at the top is William Fettiplace

The tomb below was built in 1686 and is even more ornate. At the top is Sir Edward Fettiplace d. 1686. Under him is Sir John Fettiplace d. 1672 and on the bottom is John Fettiplace d. 1657

The first recorded Fettiplace is Adam who was one of seven townsmen imprisoned in 1272 for injuring clerks of the university of Oxford in a 'town and gown' incident.. It did him no harm, as in later life he became Mayor of Oxford for eleven terms between 1245 and 1268. From that point on, their prosperity grew through marriage and luck. They even impacted America. In 1607, two Fettiplace brothers, William and Michael,  are recorded in Jamestown  with Captain John Smith, though their relationship with Pocahontas is unknown.

There is also a Hampshire branch of the Fettiplace family who settled in Portsmouth, Rhode Island in 16771,

Overcome by a surfeit of Fettiplaces, we repaired to The Swan Inn a little farther down the road and mulled their place in history over a pint and a bag of vinegary crisps. 

*Saxon for a very muddy place. Slõhtre, It has an onomatopoeic sound to it, I think

Gallup.

I’m a sucker for old English churches, villages and folklore. I’m also in love with the Old West and the technology that allows me to explore it from home. In a previous book, Phage,  I became an expert in navigating myself around Phoenix and the surrounding mountains via Google Earth to the extent I wanted to go there and drop in to two or three of its more interesting bars. 

Gallup New Mexico is currently exerting a similar hold and for the same reason, a book—tentatively named Final Battle— that will hopefully surface in two years’ time. Set some time in the 2030’s, it features John Grey and Elizabeth McBride, first seen in the Gift Trilogy. Along with Elizabeth’s dark sister, Elsie they are characters too good to waste, and as Adepts with abnormal lifespans they allow me considerable scope to play with time. 

 

So why Gallup, New Mexico? A minor character is Chenoa, a Navajo* Shaman who leads a double life as Gill Darrat, a renowned psychotherapist, who for obvious reasons operates from the Navajo nation. On any map, Gallup stands out as the only serious contender, and that was where the fun began. Research is a compelling black hole, and I now know more about Gallup than most people—at least those living outside of it. 

There were three essential things I had to work out. Where did Gill Darrat live in Gallup? Where was her office? And where would her alter ego, Chenoa, be based?

The first question was answered by researching local estate agents, scanning charts showing the good and bad neighbourhoods, demographic profiles and crime statistics. Estate agents proved wonderfully compulsive, allowing me to wander through the interiors of their videoed properties until I almost became a serious buyer—like someone in the TV programme ‘Escape to the Country’—though a far cry from the bucolic English countryside. 

Does Gill Darrat live here?

Or here?

Google Earth allowed me to prowl the streets of Gallup in search of office space. I eventually settled on somewhere along the NM 610 between a Taco shed and an Indian Cultural Centre five miles farther down the road.

Highway 610 and things to see

And finally, Chenoa, her sanctuary—a far harder call. I had a cave in mind, its walls filled with ancient petrographs, but where? Two obvious contenders stood out: Pyramid Rock and Church Rock; not too far away from Gallup, but perhaps too close. Surely there’d be a convenient cave there, one that Chenoa could call her own? There was though the further problem: tourists, too many of them.

Church Rock

Pyramid Rock

The search continued deeper into Navajo country along Indian Route 12 which snaked into Arizona.  I glided over such evocative names as Window Rock, Fort Defiance, Sawmills, Wheatfields until finally I came across it—Lukachukai. By this time, I was Chenoa. This was my home.

But what about the extraneous, the research not used but tucked in a folder  just in case? The fact that Route 66 passes through Gallup. That Errol Flynn once rode into one of its bars for a drink—I’m guessing whisky, and water for the horse. The event is now part of Gallup folklore and advertised on Route 66 as you approach the town.

Driving through Gallup

El Ranchero with an inviting pool but no mounted Errol Flynn

 By this time I had become acclimatised, memories of the New Mexico I’d visited many years ago flooding back—deserts, mountains and sky, dry and invigorating heat. There are few architectural gems in Gallup, but several interesting bars, some of which I might be wise to avoid. But do I want to go there? You bet—especially Lukachukai. 

* The Navajo refer to themselves as 'The People' or Dine.