Thatching Around the World

I didn’t grow up in a place where thatched roofs were part of the local tradition, so to me they have always had a slightly fantastical, fairy-tale allure. I always associated them with cozy European cottages, but when I was idly searching for pictures one day I discovered how much more widely the tradition is practiced. Here’s a selection, very far from comprehensive, of some of the interesting thatches I stumbled across.

Of course, thatched roofs are perfectly in style for cozy cottages, like this one in Dunkineely, Ireland.

Thatched house at Bloody Bridge, Dunkineely, Ireland, photograph by Louise Price via Geograph

Thatching is also an option for larger houses, like this one in Charlevoix, Michigan, in the US.

Modern thatched house, Charlevoix, Michigan, US, photograph by Deb Nystrom via Flickr

These small thatched roofs in Bali, Indonesia, have decorative tops.

Thatched roofs in Bali, Indonesia, photograph by CEphoto, Uwe Aranas via Wikimedia

This house, on an elephant reserve in Mozambique, has many tiers of thatching that make the roof as decorative as it is practical.

Thatched house in Mozambique, photograph by Leandro Neumann Ciuffo via Wikimedia

And here is what an Incan thatched roof might have looked like, from a reconstructed house at Machu Picchu in Peru.

Reconstructed Incan thatched building, Machu Pichu, Peru, photograph by RG72 via Wikimedia

There’s a lot of thatching going on in the world!

When a Song Is Stuck Too Long

Sometimes you really start to feel like you’re just chasing one earworm with another.

(For anyone who doesn’t know the old children’s song: There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly)

Image by Erik Jensen

Quotes: Illogical Does not Mean Inexplicable

The old Star Trek novel How Much for Just the Planet? is an odd book: an original-series Star Trek musical comedy farce in novel form. It concerns a planet called Direidi, where the eccentric local population reacts to the arrival of a Federation diplomatic mission and a rival Klingon deputation by putting both delegations through a series of increasingly wacky and nonsensical dramatic adventures (wacky and nonsensical even by the standards of original-series Star Trek, which is saying something).

In the midst of the general absurdity, though, the book delivers a poignant observation on life:

Spock sat alone on the bridge, contemplating the Direidi situation. He had been following the movements of the Enterprise crew to the best of his ability, given the effects of the background radiation. Terribly illogical things were happening on the planetary surface.

Spock had known for a long time, however, that when reasoning beings were involved, “illogical” by no means meant “inexplicable.” In fact, a great number of societal explanations required the suspension of logic, and sometimes working entirely outside its strictures.

How Much for Just the Planet? by John M. Ford

What’s true of a planet of theatrical interstellar weirdos is true of life in general. Things don’t always make sense in the way we think they ought to make sense, but they always make sense in some way. There is wisdom in learning to respect other people’s sense, even when it seems like nonsense to us.

Ford, John M. How Much for Just the Planet? New York: Pocket Books, 1987, 172.

Pompeii Reconstructed

Here’s a fascinating project: a digital reconstruction of the Roman city of Pompeii that lets us walk through the streets and wander the houses of the ancient city when it was still a living town. This video shows some highlights of the work produced by Altair 4.

Pompei Then and now [sic] by Altair4 Multimedia Archaeo3D Production via Youtube

A Highlands Set

Using some of the transmog pieces from last year’s Brewfest, I put together a highlands set for my Kul Tiran warrior. Now she’s ready for anything from caber-tossing to haggis-tasting. (Or possibly caber-tasting and haggis-tossing, depending on her mood.)

Here’s the pieces that went into the set.

Images: World of Warcraft screencap

An Urban Orchard in Pompeii

We don’t usually think of cities as places where food is grown. Farmland is a rural thing, and the harvest must be brought to urban markets so that city-dwellers can eat. But urban agriculture is nothing new. The destruction of the Roman city of Pompeii by Vesuvius in 79 CE preserved the evidence of extensive food production inside the city walls. One place where ancient Pompeians could get fresh, super-local food was the house known today as the House of the Ship Europa. (The name comes from a detailed graffito on the house wall depicting a sailing ship with that name.)

This house sits among other houses on the southern side of the city. From the outside, it doesn’t look much different from the dwellings around it. On the inside, though, the house owners had made good use of the space they had for growing a variety of foods.

At the rear of the house, a large walled garden space stood open to the sky. Gardens were not uncommon in Pompeii, and many houses had open courtyards for leisure, but not all were as carefully planned as at this house. Archaeologists studied the layout of the garden, pollen deposits preserved under the volcanic ash, the types of planting pots and tools kept in the space, and even the shapes left in the ground by tree roots to determine how this garden was planted and what grew there.

The core of the garden was laid out in regular rectangular planting plots which match the ways Roman agricultural writers like Cato and Varro recommended planting grapevines. The roots of one large tree were identified as a filbert, a tree which is often planted at the edges of vineyards in modern Italy. The pollen samples from the site had an unusually high amount of grass pollen compared with other Pompeian gardens; while in other houses grasses were weeded out out flower beds or kitchen garden plots, at the House of the Ship Europa, grassy paths were allowed to grow between the grape vines.

Smaller tree roots were found in regular rows along the walls. Since young fruit and nut trees are typically grown by grafting branches from the desired species onto rootstock that may come from a different kind of tree, we cannot tell from the roots alone what smaller trees were planted in this garden. The rootstocks would have been suitable for plums, peaches, cherries, figs, olives, or almonds, and some or all of these foods may have been grown at the house. Elsewhere in the garden were a number of large perforated ceramic pots whose shape and size match the types of planting pots Roman writers recommended for growing citrons, a citrus fruit and ancestor of the lemon.

The burnt remains of filberts, grape seeds, figs, beans and dates were scattered in the layer of volcanic ash that covered the garden. Most of these plants could have been grown at the house, but date palms do not produce fruit in the climate of Italy, so the dates must have been imported. Perhaps the Europa celebrated on the wall of the house was a trading ship belonging to the family. The house may have functioned as a store selling both their own locally grown fruits and nuts and some imported produce from elsewhere in the Mediterranean.

The House of the Ship Europa gives us an idea of what kinds of foods were grown within the walls of Pompeii and were part of the diet of city’s residents. The city was not just a place of residence, but also an agricultural landscape, and we must imagine that other ancient cities were as well.

Image: Fresco of fruits, photograph by the Yorck Project via Wikimedia (House of Julia Felix, Pompeii; c. 70 CE; fresco)

Quotes: Either to Be Bored or to Lie

Dr. Watson comments on the afternoon’s mail to his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes:

“Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked as he entered. “Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a tide-waiter.”

“Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,” he answered, smiling, “and the humbler are usually the more interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie.”

As a fellow introvert, I share Holmes’s annoyance with unwelcome social summonses. I have more than once been bored at a social occasion I was expected to attend, and I have been known to lie to get out of events I don’t want to go to.

(For the curious: a fish-monger sells fish, and a tide-waiter was a customs official who historically went aboard ships to oversee the collection of import duties and check for contraband.)

Doyle, Arthur Conan. “The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor.” Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories. Vol. 1. New York: Bantam Books, 1986, 388-89.

A Concordance of Polybius and What AI Can and Can’t Do for Historians

Boosters of large language models (LLMs) and other kinds of so-called artificial intelligence make big claims about what the technology can do for us, sometimes referencing the benefits brought by other inventions like the Internet or mass production. I rarely find such arguments convincing when applied to my field, history. An experience from my graduate student days may help illustrate why.

When I was a graduate student in the early 2000s, I wanted to write about the Greek historian Polybius and his idea of what constituted Italy. Polybius lived and wrote in a time when the Roman state had fought a century of wars to conquer and defend the Italian peninsula. The idea of Italy as a single thing that could be defined and found on a map was still somewhat new and up for debate. I was interested in seeing where the boundaries of what Polybius called Italy lay, as a reflection of how the Roman elite whose society he moved among thought about their empire and its place in the world.

The obvious place to start was to search the text of Polybius’ Histories for references to Italy, but remember that this was the early 2000s. Search engines for the internet were still in their adolescence, and while there were some projects under way to digitize Classical texts and make them searchable, they still had their limitations. To get the information I needed, I went to the library and found a concordance of Polybius.

A concordance is a type of scholarly reference work that was common in the days before texts became searchable. It is a list of every word used in a particular text (such as Polybius’ Histories) and the context in which it is used. To find every instance when Polybius used the word Italy (or Ἰταλία in Greek), I just had to open the volume to the letter iota, scan down to Ἰταλία, and start going through the references to find which ones were worth looking up in my copy of Polybius and which ones were not useful for my research.

The work that went into creating such a concordance was enormous. The surviving text of Polybius’ Histories runs into the hundreds of pages in a modern printing. Someone had to go through the Greek text and catalog every single word (not to mention dealing with the issues of differing texts in different manuscript traditions, scribal errors, and emendations), then compile all those references into one enormous volume. All of this work was done by hand in the days before computers. The book that I laid out on the table in front of me when I was writing that paper represented thousands of work-hours, a significant chunk of some previous scholar’s working life. (I was lucky to have chosen a research question about a well-known author whose work had been concordanced by scholars of past generations. If I had wanted to check the work of some more obscure author or uncatalogued fragments, I would have had to sit down and scan every page myself.)

If I wanted to research the same question today, I could simply load a copy of the Greek text, type the word into a search box, and have the results in seconds.

Technologies like searchable electronic text have not only changed what questions scholars are able to ask, they have changed the meaning of scholarly work altogether. The kind of rote mechanical labor that went into creating something like a concordance of Polybius used to be a staple of an academic historian’s life. While scholars have always aimed to make new discoveries and present new interpretations of the evidence, up to the late twentieth century it was understood that as a working historian, you would spend a significant amount of your productive life just reading through texts and assembling data a piece at a time, either for your own research or to make a tool for others to use.

These days, although there are still times when searching doesn’t help and you still need to just go through the text line by line, a significant amount of what historians used to do is now automated. Indexed, searchable texts with good metadata have taken the place of a lot of the more cumbersome old scholarly tools in much the same way that electronic databases have replaced the old card catalog system.

This is a change I fully approve of. I have no nostalgia for the old days. I am not shaking my cane at the clouds complaining about kids these days who don’t have to use a concordance in the snow uphill both ways. Making basic information more readily available and easier to probe in new and unexpected ways leads to better questions and more interesting arguments about history, and both scholarly and non-specialist audiences benefit from the wealth of new research that modern tools have made possible.

Now, some have tried to present artificial intelligence as a new revolution in scholarship parallel to the development of searchable catalogs and texts. Just as searchable texts allow us to skip the tedious and unrewarding work of slogging through sources word by word gathering references by hand, so an LLM can save us the tedious work of reading through the existing literature finding the answers to questions so we can spend more time focusing on our own research interest. I find this argument unpersuasive for two reasons.

First, the LLM services which currently exist and promise to perform this kind of operation are not up to the task. They may have scanned all the relevant literature that I would want to consult in my research (and there is a good chance that they have not, but let us suppose for a moment that they have), but they have no understanding of it. They do not know how to separate different threads of argument, how to weigh different theoretical approaches or contrast older and newer scholarship, or how to critically assess evidence. They do not actually know anything, they just slap together text in a way that fits the models they’ve been fed. A search engine may produce wrong results, depending on how well the text it’s searching has been coded or how accurate a search term one uses, but these errors at least point to specific data points that can be checked. An LLM produces authoritative-sounding nonsense with as much facility as truth. It saves no time or effort to use an LLM for research, since everything it produces is suspect, and it does not present its sources for checking.

Second, the tedious work of reading through existing literature is a vital part of scholarship. We have to understand the arguments made by scholars in the past and the bases on which they made them if we are going to do any better at tackling the same questions ourselves. Historical research depends on extensive reading of sources and prior scholarship, not just as a way of assembling data but in order to actually understand our subjects. It is not the same as the rote work of compiling all the words used in a text. There is no royal road to historical understanding, and this part of the research process cannot be automated away.

No one makes concordances any more, and hardly anyone uses them. Search technology saves us labor and frees up scholars’ time to do the more interesting and more important work of engaging with evidence and contemplating new questions. The human work that searches replaced was work that we could well do without. The work that LLMs promise to replace is essential, and they can’t do it for us effectively anyway.