Academic literature on the topic 'West Country (England) – Aerial photographs'

Mapping Iron Age field systemsAn assessment of the applicability of aerial photographyThere is little doubt that agriculture constituted the fundamental activity in prehistoric Denmark following its introduction 6000 years ago. Traces of cultivation are, however, almost solely preserved in the form of ard marks on surfaces sealed beneath barrows or layers of aeolian sand. Only one period in prehistory shows coherent traces revealing how field systems were formed and how they fitted into the landscape. During the course of the Late Bronze Age (1000-500 BC), a system of cultivation was introduced over large parts of NW Europe in which the individual fields or plots were separated from one another by low earthen banks and terrace edges or lynchets. These field systems could extend over several hundred hectares.These cultivation systems appear primarily to have been in use between 500 BC and AD 200. Research into prehistoric field systems has a long tradition extending all the way back to the 1920s in England, The Netherlands and Denmark, whereas in NW Germany and on Gotland work took place during the 1970s, with the Baltic Countries being involved in the 1990s. Early research was directed in particular towards mapping the field systems which, at that time, lay untouched in agriculturally marginal areas such as heath and woodland.In Denmark, Gudmund Hatt was a pioneer in this field. During the course of several campaigns, especially during the 1930s, he recorded 120 occurrences of field systems, primarily on the heaths of Northern and Western Jutland. These were published in 1949 in his major work Oldtidsagre (i.e. Prehistoric Fields). His work was continued by Viggo Nielsen who recorded 200 field systems in the forests of Zealand and Bornholm, largely between 1953 and 1963. In the former Aarhus county, the record has subsequently been augmented by a systematic reconnaissance of the forests which took place between 1988 and 1992. Subsequently, this led to the extensive investigations of field systems at Alstrup Krat near Mariager. As early as the 1920s, English researchers were aware of the fact that both ploughed-down and preserved field systems were visible on aerial photographs. However, the method was first applied in Denmark, The Netherlands and NW Germany in the 1970s, leading to a several-fold increase in the number known localities. In Denmark, P.H. Sørensen recorded 447 field systems in the former Viborg and North Jutland counties alone. P. H. Sørensen has published a series of articles dealing with various aspects of aerial photography in relation to ancient field systems. For example, the colour and origin of the various soil marks, the shape and size of the plots, different types of field systems and the relationship with soil type. He has also published several surveys of individual field systems. A significant problem with P.H. Sørensen’s work relates to the very few published plans showing the field systems and to the fact that these are based exclusively on a single series of aerial photographs.The main aim of this article is to demonstrate the potential for mapping field systems on the basis of not one but several series of aerial photographs. This is done through the detailed survey and mapping of three individual field systems and access to a series of data sources with respect to the interpretation of information contained in the aerial photographs. These comprise an interpretation of the origin of soil marks of banks and lynchets and an evaluation of the degree to which this interpretation is influenced by subjectivity. It is beyond the scope of this investigation to locate the field systems within a settlement and landscape context.Sources and study areaIn order to explore the problems and questions outlined above, three field systems were chosen in the central part of Himmerland: Skørbæk Hede, Gundersted and Store Binderup (fig. 1). This selection took place on the basis of an examination and assessment of almost all recorded field systems in Himmerland evident on several series of aerial photographs. These three field systems chosen are among those best preserved and also the most cohesive. Furthermore, all three have been mapped previously: Skørbæk Hede by Hatt on the basis of field survey, and the two others by P.H. Sørensen on the basis of aerial photographs. This provides the opportunity to evaluate any possible subjectivity in the procedure employed. Hatt makes a distinction between field boundary banks and lynchets. This opens up the possibility of evaluating how the two forms of boundary appear on aerial photographs. At Gundersted Hatt cut two sections through boundary banks. These, together with sections from other of Hatt’s excavations and more recent examples from the investigations at Alsing Krat, form the basis for an investigation of how soil marks arise and develop over time. In this investigation, use has also been made of historical maps in order to reveal the influence of historical cultivation on the presence/absence of soil marks. The earliest maps are from c. 1780. The primary source remains, however, series of vertical aerial photographs. Access to the latter has become considerably easier in recent years. A large proportion is now accessible via various web portals, and recently an overview became available of the contents of private and public archives. For the purposes of this investigation, use has been made of scanned contact copies of aerial photograph series from 1954, 1961 and 1967. From digital archives, use has been made of aerial photographs from 1979 and 1981 and the orthophoto maps from 2007 and 2008, respectively.Digitalisation and rectification of aerial photographsPreviously, mapping on the basis of aerial photographs was a laborious process involving tracing paper and the transfer of features to topographic maps. The introduction of GIS has, however, eased the process considerably and has also made it easy to compare various map themes such as soil-type, land-use, and digital finds databases. Before mapping can commence, the aerial photograph must be scanned, rectified and geo-referenced. rectification was carried out using the programme Airphoto, while geo-referencing and drawing in of the features were done in MapInfo. An example is shown in figure 2.Soil marks – how do they originate?In order to understand how the boundary banks and lynchets between plots appear as soil marks on the aerial photographs, it is necessary to examine how these boundaries were built up and also the influences to which they have been exposed from their creation and up until the time when they are visible on aerial photographs. Figures 3 and 4 show sections through two boundary banks at Gundersted These were carried out by Hatt at the beginning of the 1930s, just prior to the area coming under cultivation again and 20-25 years before the first aerial photographs revealed pale traces of boundary banks. As the area had not been cultivated since the Iron Age, the stratigraphy is the result of natural soil-formation processes: a podsol has been formed, comprising a heath mor layer uppermost, beneath this a bleached sand layer and an iron pan, and at the base the old cultivation layer and the topsoil core of the boundary bank, consisting of brown and grey sand. Ploughing of the boundary banks will, initially, not result in significant soil marks as the three uppermost layers are of equal thickness along the whole length of the section. A pale soil mark will, however, appear when the boundary bank has been levelled out and the plough begins to turn up material from the light topsoil core. This soil transport can in some instances continue for more than 70 years, but the soil marks will as a consequence also become wide and fragmented. This account of the processes leading to the appearance of the pale soil marks is completely different from the only other theory proposed in this respect, i.e. that of P.H. Sørensen. He describes a development involving three phases, beginning with the ploughing up of the bleached sand horizon which generates a pale soil-colour trace. Later in the development there is a shift to a dark trace, when the material in the topsoil core becomes ploughed up. In the final phase, the trace shifts again to a pale colour, when the plough begins to bring up the subsoil. However, these two sections show neither a bleached sand horizon nor a darker topsoil core. Furthermore, no colour changes have been observed at any of the localities. The fact that the boundary banks are apparent as pale soil marks is not due to ploughing up of the bleached sand layer but of the topsoil bank core. Ploughing down of the other boundary form, the terrace edge or lynchet, as shown in figure 5, will similarly result in the formation of a pale soil-colour trace through material being brought up from the pale topsoil core. P.H. Sørensen was also fully aware of this situation, and it can be confirmed by comparing Hatt’s map of the Skørbæk Hede site, where a distinction is made between boundary banks and lynchets, with the soil marks apparent on the aerial photograph series Basic Cover 1954 (fig. 6).Dark vegetation marks and pale erosion marksAlmost all the soil marks that form a basis for the mapping of the three field systems appear pale in relation to the surroundings. There are, however, occasional exceptions to this rule in the form of dark marks in areas of heather heathland and newly-ploughed heath. On the aerial photograph of Skørbæk Hede from 1954, a few dark marks can be seen directly south of Trenddalen (fig. 6) which correspond with the results of Hatt’s survey. These lie in an area which was cultivated between 1937 and 1954. In 1961, the area was taken out of cultivation and became covered with small trees. A corresponding phenomenon can be observed to the west of the settlement where the heather heathland was cultivated between 1954 and 1961 (fig. 7). These marks probably arise from the vegetation as a consequence of better growing conditions over the topsoil cores of the boundary banks. The fact that lynchets and boundary banks offer different growing conditions has been documented at Alstrup Krat where it could be seen that in several places anemones grew on the lynchets. Differences in the vegetation on the field surfaces and the boundary banks have also been observed on aerial photographs showing the scheduled examples of field systems at Lundby Hede and Øster Lem Hede.The final type of soil-colour trace to be dealt with here comprises the very pale patches that occur on both sides of Trenddalen at Skørbæk Hede and on the western margins of the field system at Gundersted. These could possibly be interpreted as ploughed-up deposits of aeolian sand, but this is not the case. By comparison with the topography and through stereoscopic viewing of the aerial photographs it becomes clear that these features are located on steeply sloping terrain and that they are due to ploughing up of the sandy subsoil. They become both larger and more pronounced with time as more and more subsoil sand is progressively eroded out due to ploughing (figs. 6, 7, 8 and 9).The influence of historic cultivation on soil marksThe fact that Hatt could still see boundary banks and lynchets in the landscape during his investigations in the 1930s was of course due to these areas not having been ploughed since they were abandoned at some time during the Iron Age. The Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters’ conceptual map from the end of the 18th century shows that 30% of Himmerland was covered by heath, 42% was cultivated, 21% lay as meadow and bog and only 4% was covered by woodland (fig. 1). By comparing the identified field systems with the heath areas on the maps, an idea can be gained of the duration of cultivation and how it has influenced the soil marks. Correspondingly, by comparing plans showing soil marks with the cultivated area shown on the conceptual map, it is possible to investigate whether cultivation, presumably continuous here since the 12th century, has erased traces of field systems dating from the Early Iron Age. Plates I-III show combined plans of soil marks from boundary banks, lynchets and recorded barrows at the three localities. The ordnance maps from the 1880s have been chosen as a background, showing contour lines, land use and wetland areas, and the cultivated areas have been added from the conceptual map. At both Gundersted and Skørbæk Hede, there are clearly no soil marks in the areas marked as cultivated on the conceptual map. Conversely, the immediately adjacent heath areas show many coherent traces. On this basis, it must be assumed that the field systems from the Early Iron Age also once extended into areas shown as cultivated on the conceptual map but that the long-term cultivation has apparently erased any trace of them. It should, however, be mentioned that Lis Helles Olesen’s investigations in NW Jutland only reveal a slight preponderance of field systems located on the old heath areas, so there may well be regional differences.The original total extent of the field systems is of course difficult to assess, but the field system at Store Binderup provides an idea of the order of magnitude. This field system is apparent as a well-defined topographic unit surrounded by wetland areas; the latter are shown on the conceptual map to be completely covered by heath. The field system extends over c. 75% of the cultivable area. In order to examine the influence of modern cultivation on the clarity of the soil marks, plans showing traces of the boundary banks have been compared with a series of historical maps. In general, the soil marks at all three localities appear most clear in areas which were cultivated latest. Former heath areas completely lacking in soil marks have probably never been cultivated. The last 50 years of cultivation with large agricultural machinery has had a dramatic effect on the soil marks. On figures 7, 8 and 9, clear evidence of ploughing out can be seen, whereby the soil marks in several places increase from 5 to 9 m in width. The negative effect of long-term cultivation on soil marks documented here only applies to pale soil marks on sandy soils. A number of field systems are apparent as dark soil marks, the visibility of which does not appear to be affected to the same extent by long-term cultivation. These make up only 3% of those recorded by P.H. Sørensen, and no sections through boundary banks are available from any of these field systems.Comparison of maps produced by field survey and from aerial photographsEvery map expresses an interpretation of what has been observed. This also applies of course to both Hatt’s mapping of the field systems on the ground in the 1930s and the subsequent mapping conducted on the basis of aerial photographs. Quality and credibility are, however, increased considerably, if the features observed can be confirmed by several sources or several researchers, reducing the subjective aspect to a minimum.On figures 10 and 11, the author’s plan of Skørbæk Hede based on aerial photographs is compared with the results of Hatt’s field survey. There is no doubt whatsoever that the aerial photographs are better able to show the overall extent of the field system. Conversely, the resulting plan is less detailed than Hatt’s map. In a few cases, however, sub-divisions of the fields are seen on the aerial photographs which Hatt did not record in his survey (figs. 8-9). In order to investigate subjectivity in the interpretation of the aerial photographs, a comparison has been made between the author’s and P.H. Sørensen’s plans of the field systems at Gundersted and Store Binderup (figs. 12, 13 and 14). Good agreement can be seen in the interpretation of the soil marks apparent on the aerial photographs of both localities. This suggests that the subjective aspect of the interpretational process is not a major problem.Evaluation of the method’s range with respect to studies of the agrarian landscapeAerial photographs encompass a great research potential relative to studies of the arable landscape during the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age. They are the only source available with respect to mapping the morphology and extent of the field systems, with the exception of the few remains tangible which still exist in woodland and on heaths. Field systems are particularly important in a cultural-historical context because they constitute the sole example from prehistory of the appearance of a total integrated cultivation system and how it was adapted to the landscape.The information contained on the aerial photographs, particularly in the form of pale soil marks resulting from the exposure or ploughing-up of the topsoil core of the boundary banks and lynchets, is a credible source relative to the mapping of the morphology and extent of field systems. Comparison between the maps and plans produced by several researchers mapping does not give cause to perceive the interpretation of the information as the aerial photographs as being particularly subjective. On the contrary, very good agreement can be seen between these interpretations.In a mapping exercise, use should be made of a number of different series of vertical aerial photographs as this provides the most detailed picture of the morphology of the field systems.A very significant source of error has been identified which must be taken into account when mapping the extent of the field systems, i.e. cultivation during historical times. In areas that were cultivated prior to the enclosure movement, i.e. in the very great majority of cases presumably since the 12th century, it cannot be expected to find pale soil marks. Long-term cultivation and the consequent mixing of the upper soil layers have erased most traces of boundary banks and lynchets. Renewed cultivation within the last 100-150 years appears, conversely, only seems to have had a marginal effect on the occurrence of soil marks. As mentioned above there can, however, be marked regional differences on the influence of historical cultivation on the clarity and degree of preservation of the soil marks. This is an aspect it will be interesting to study in more detail in the future.Michael VinterMoesgård Museum

With the increasing demands to use remote sensing approaches, such as aerial photography, satellite imagery, and LiDAR in archaeological applications, there is still a limited number of studies assessing the differences between remote sensing methods in extracting new archaeological finds. Therefore, this work aims to critically compare two types of fine-scale remotely sensed data: LiDAR and an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle (UAV) derived Structure from Motion (SfM) photogrammetry. To achieve this, aerial imagery and airborne LiDAR datasets of Chun Castle were acquired, processed, analyzed, and interpreted. Chun Castle is one of the most remarkable ancient sites in Cornwall County (Southwest England) that had not been surveyed and explored by non-destructive techniques. The work outlines the approaches that were applied to the remotely sensed data to reveal potential remains: Visualization methods (e.g., hillshade and slope raster images), ISODATA clustering, and Support Vector Machine (SVM) algorithms. The results display various archaeological remains within the study site that have been successfully identified. Applying multiple methods and algorithms have successfully improved our understanding of spatial attributes within the landscape. The outcomes demonstrate how raster derivable from inexpensive approaches can be used to identify archaeological remains and hidden monuments, which have the possibility to revolutionize archaeological understanding.

The long barrows of Lincolnshire have been the subject of long-term but intermittent interest. One aspect not investigated hitherto is the air photographic evidence for plough-levelled long barrows. Recently completed mapping work in the county by the Aerial Survey section of the Royal Commission on the Historical Monuments of England (RCHME), as part of the National Mapping Programme, has made possible the analysis of the air photographic evidence. This article presents an evaluation of that evidence and considers its significance in terms of the Neolithic of the region.A comprehensive survey of air photo collections has dramatically increased the number of long barrows known in the county, identifying over 50 examples of levelled sites. The majority are found on the chalk Wolds where the dozen surviving earthwork monuments are located. The distribution of long barrows in the county may now be extended onto the Jurassic Limestone ridge to the west where five examples have been recorded. The Lincolnshire long barrow enclosures have three categories of shape; oval, trapeziform, and oblong. The ditch plan is predominantly full-enclosing, and is found as the distinct form in the eastern region of England. The morphology and dimensions of two sites suggests they may have been a long mortuary enclosure or short cursus.At Harlaxton in the southern Limestone a long barrow enclosure forms part of an extensive later Neolithic ritual complex which incorporates a multiple pit-alignment as a principal component. The form of the complex appears to be unique and underlines the importance of Harlaxton as an inter-regional link.

After independence, the authorities of the young Cameroonian state had equipped most cities in the country with many documents for planning and management of urban space. This is the case of the city of Dschang in west Cameroon which, inspired by the colonial plans of town planning and development of the city, produced two important development documents respectively in 1963 and 1982. These Planning documents focused on the construction of public space including green spaces, amenity and aesthetics. However, despite the importance of the latter, it was till the creation of the University of Dschang in 1993 and then the influx of students from the year 2000, the city registered more than 50,000 inhabitants in 2010. This led to the emergence of a new urban dynamic with more consideration of green spaces by the actors of city construction. An ecological dynamic which takes into account the perspective of the old city development plans, has helped guide the development of the city. The analysis of Dschang city planning documents, the observation of urban space dynamics (with a remarkable contribution of aerial photographs), interviews with 300 households and resource persons show that the public spaces of the Dschang city are spreading more and more into green spaces. This participates more in increasing the tourist and cultural vocation of the city while building new landscapes.

Burial Mounds seen from the airA source critical investigationDenmark was systematically surveyed in secret by means of aerial photography in May 1954. The operation, codename Basic Cover, was executed by the US Air Force and resulted in approximately 42.700 orto-photographs taken from a fixed height of 10.000 feet and rendering a national coverage of 99.6%. The series is now declassified and, as numerous types of archaeological features are apparent on the individual pictures, it is drawn upon with increasing frequency as part of the daily routine of ­archaeological institutions around the country. As a consequence of the aerial survey having taken place relatively early in the year, archaeological monuments such as burial mounds stand out against the newly ploughed fields primarily as differences in the colour of the soil (fig 1). In 2005 the increasing general interest in the use of aerial photography prompted a group of colleagues to create the archaeological aerial photography network (LAND). COWI A/S are presently in the process of making the entire series available digitally which will doubtless lead to a further increase in its usage. Despite a general awareness of the numerous burial mounds visible on Basic Cover, little information is available concerning its properties as a systematic source. The purpose of this article, based on the results of an empirical study, is to provide tangible data on Basic Cover as a general source for use in burial mound listing and, more specifically, as a supplement to the mounds listed in the national database. The starting point was a systematic recording of burial mounds apparent on Basic Cover images from West Jutland. This took place within the framework of a project with the aim of studying the barrow line phenomenon and its links with a number of archaeologically known fords and bridges dating to the Iron Age and medieval times.The recording of burial mounds from Basic Cover was carried out for an area of roughly 1270 km2 around Skern Å (River Skjern) (figs. 2-3). The area is divided in two by the river valley; the landscape in the northern part is relatively undulating with a maximum height of 86 m above sea level, whereas the southern area is predominately flat with long smooth ridges running north/south. The river, Skern Å, which has one of Denmark’s largest river catchments, constitutes a formidable ­obstacle in the landscape. Due to contrasting soil conditions caused by variations in local glacial deposits, any comparison with Basic Cover as a source for burial mound recording in the eastern parts of Denmark should be approached with caution.An unconventional approach was employed in recording to facilitate a comparative study of different sources for burial mound recording (fig. 4). Initially all visible burial mounds were recorded from Basic Cover regardless of previous listing in the national database. The criteria for a positive recording comprised the presence of either a circular white spot or a distinct shadow relief. As a supplement to Basic Cover, burial mounds were recorded from the highly detailed historic map Generalstabens Høje Målebordsblade from 1871, which subsequently became standard issue for many of the archaeological surveyors from the National Museum. All recorded burial mounds were finally correlated with the mounds listed in the national database. The data were then transformed into a ­single set of digital points where presence or absence on Basic cover and the 1871 map were indicated along with – if any – listing in the existing national database.The compiled results of the study are presented in figure 5a. At the start of the project, the national database contained records for 2872 burial mounds from the area. Identification on the 1871 map and Basic Cover resulted in the recording of 2186 and 2209 burial mounds, respectively. The total number of positive recordings was therefore 7267, whereas the number of unique burial mounds was 3983. This adds a total of 1111 to the number of listed mounds, equivalent to an increase of 39% or about 1.1 burial mound per km2 of dry land. The mutual correspondence in percentage coverage between mounds recorded from Basic Cover, the 1871 map and the mounds listed in the national database is shown as a graph in figure 5b. It can be seen that 69% of the listed mounds already appeared on the 1871 map prior to the ­national archaeological survey. The effects of various biasing factors, for example scheduled (and thus well preserved) mounds versus ploughed-over examples, are discussed in an assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of Basic Cover as a source. Less than 50% of the mounds listed in the database and appearing on the 1871 map are evident on the aerial photos. However, the photos still make a notable contribution to the record because they “capture” the very faint traces of the almost completely destroyed mounds that were not detected by the surveyors of the other sources. The newly recorded burial mounds have a significantly positive effect on the clarity of the linear structures in the distribution of burial mounds in the area (fig. 6). Based on an hypothetical, but not unsupported, statistic calculation it is ­argued that as much as 80% of the original population of larger burial mounds has been recorded following the present study.The distribution of mounds was ­explored on the basis of agrarian land use categories shown on the Vidensskabernes Selskabs kort (map) from 1800, in order to evaluate the situation prior to the introduction of major agricultural reforms, (fig. 7) .The distribution of the mounds recorded from the various source categories on the different area types is presented in fig. 8a. When only area types heath and open land are taken into consideration it is clear that mounds recorded from Basic Cover are under-represented on heathland, whereas listed mounds and those on the1871 map are under-represented on open land (fig. 8b). The patterns are to be seen in conjunction with the long-term destructive effect of agrarian land use on open land throughout historical times. In order to investigate the effect of vegetation cover on the visibility of mounds on Basic Cover, the areas covered by forest and heath around 1950 have been added to the map. To understand the effect of agrarian land use on the records from the different sources, the open land category has been divided into two further categories, old open land and new open land, respectively. The latter represents the parts of the heath that were reclaimed for cultivation between about 1800 and 1950 (fig. 9). In order to understand the factors influencing visibility on Basic Cover the distribution of mounds has been studied with respect to heath/forest and old open land/new open land (fig. 10a). When attention is turned to the representation of mounds in old open land and new open land it can be seen that there is no significant difference in the distribution of mounds recorded on Basic Cover (fig 10b). This suggests that there was only a small difference in the density of the prehistoric settlement ­between these two areas. Furthermore, it indicates that the under-representation of mounds recorded in the open land on the 1871 map and in the listed mounds in fact mirrors a bias resulting from historic land use rather than an actual prehistoric pattern. The fact that Basic Cover makes its most significant contribution concerning new mounds in the old open land is thought to be a product of the time when photos were taken. When surveyors from the National Museum visited these areas of long-term ploughing in the late 1900s many of the mounds were already too ploughed-out to be recognisable as such. However, due to the late introduction of mechanical cultivation they were still visible as white spots when Basic Cover was executed in 1954. The aerial photos thus constitute a excellent source for supplementing existing records, but due to a weakness in identifying mounds in areas of dense vegetation cover, compensation is naturally only partial (fig. 10c).The project has generated some factual information on Basic Cover as a source for the recording of burial mounds:1. Basic Cover provided an increase of 32% in the number of recorded mounds compared with existing records.2. 45% of the listed mounds could be identified. This illustrates Basic Cover’s weakness in areas with dense vegetation cover. However, mounds have fre­quently already been listed from these areas3. There is a systematic negative bias in the national database concerning listed mounds in the cultivated areas of histor­ically open land.4. Basic Cover provides a good coverage in historically cultivated areas and it can thus productively be used to comp­ensate for this bias in existing records.5. The soils and topography in the study area are ideal for aerial photography and the results can, therefore, not be transferred directly to the rest of the country where conditions may be less ideal. Basic Cover was carried out at a fortuitous time; after the heath had been reclaimed but before mechanical cultivation had fully run its destructive course. The regrettable destruction of monuments had accelerated but was by no means complete. Fortunately, Basic Cover took place at a time when ploughing had exposed the features without destroying then altogether. Systematic recording of mounds from the Original-1 maps is also recommended ­because data from this source can compensate for the biases seen in the listed mounds from the open land. A study of place names connected to mounds has indicated that many more mounds have disappeared from the open land through historical times.Kasper Lambert JohansenDanmarks MiljøundersøgelserAarhus UniversitetSteffen Terp LaursenMoesgård Museum

Tourism has become one of the world’s largest industries, with an estimated US$ 3 trillion in annual revenues and expanding at an average rate of 4-5 per cent annually. Since the 1950s, the global market for international travel and tourism has exhibited uninterrupted growth. As the world is becoming a global village, (eco) tourists are looking for new attractions and these are well represented in Cameroon at large and in the Bamenda Highlands in particular. The Bamenda Highlands, on which the Babessi-Oku Axis is found, is one of the most spectacular ecotourism destinations in the country characterized by gentle undulating hilly savanna, patches of forest, lakes, waterfalls, mountains and an amazing cultural diversity. The main objective of this study was to examine the constraints to the development of ecotourism sector along the Babessi-Oku Axis and to develop a sustainable ecotourism management model to address these constraints. Data for this study were obtained through primary and secondary sources. Primary sources of data included: personal interviews, field observation, the use of camera, Geographic Positioning Systems (GPS), questionnaires and the use of Focus Group Discussions (FGDs). Secondary sources included: materials from published and unpublished works related to the current study, maps and the exploitation of aerial photographs. Findings revealed that there are a plethora of constraints plaguing the ecotourism sector along the Babessi-Oku Axis and these include: degradation of the Oku Montane Forest, poaching, forest destruction for agricultural purposes, extinction of fauna biodiversity, and lack of community participation among others. An ecotourism development model for the study area has been developed in order to sustainably address these ecotourism constraints along the Babessi-Oku Axis.

“Abroad” once evoked a feeling of returning to one's homeland or, in the case of post-war Australians, to the mother country. It was also synonymous with a distant journey or place in a foreign land. Today the expression “travelling abroad” infers notions of travel and adventure. The modern use of the word is more likely to be something fixed, or the undertaking of a meaningful activity, such as volunteering abroad or studying abroad. “Abroad” is also used in the context of charitable organisations such as Community Aid Abroad, Work Abroad and Projects Abroad. Rumours, too, can be “abroad” as they too travel widely, in and out in the open and in circulation. Further, a general sense of the care-free, of independence, excitement, imagination, endless possibilities and freedom is aroused. The modern sense of the word “abroad”—out of one's country or overseas—derives from its late fourteenth century meaning: “out of doors or away from home”. “Abroad” comes from the Old English word “on brede” meaning: “at wide.” This issue of M/C Journal presents a diverse and fascinating interpretation of the word “abroad”. Our feature article, “Mobility, Modernity and Abroad” by Alana Harris, provides an overview of Australian travel abroad and examines the ways in which modern tourists can be both at home and abroad at the same time. Following on from this, Marjorie Kibby, in “Monument Valley, Instagram and the Closed Circle of Representation,” discusses the use of Instagram and how tourists represent themselves in the photographs taken when they travel. In the traditional sense of the word “abroad”, Graeme Williams examines the way in which Gentlemen’s Art clubs in England influenced Australian artists who travelled there in the first decades of the twentieth century in “Australian Artists Abroad.” Jillian Adams examines the writings of Australian journalist Helen Seager during her assignment in London in 1950, and Gwen Hughes’s unpublished manuscript Balkan Fever, written about her observations during a trip there in the 1930s. Donna Lee Brien discusses the impact of international foods on Australians via a little known publication in Melbourne, Australia between 1956 and 1960; and Katie Ellis, Mike Kent and Kathryn Locke examine the positive impact of advocacy abroad on the way in which disabled people watch television in Australia. Patrick West proposes a new methodology for language and knowledge relations in his article on the way glossaries of indigenous words are presented in Keri Hulme’s The Bone People and Melissa Lucashenko’s Mullumbimby. Liz Davis explores the game Bayonetta and the way in which Bayonetta, the game’s main character, moves freely through both time and territory; whilst Jasleen Kaur fixes iconic brand Tiffany’s with the allure of New York and Lanlan Kuang invites us to engage with present day imaginings of journeys along the Silk Road through dance drama performances sponsored by the Chinese state to encourage its cultural and foreign policies since the 1970s.The articles in this edition of M/C Journal take a word with old associations of journeys and travel, and add modern associations and ways of using the word “abroad”.

At a time when a trip abroad was out of the reach of most women, even if they could not make the journey, Australian women could imagine “abroad” just by reading popular women’s magazines such as Woman (later Woman’s Day and Home then Woman’s Day) and The Australian Women’s Weekly, and journals, such as The Progressive Woman and The Housewife. Increasingly in the post-war period, these magazines and journals contained advertisements for holidaying abroad, recipes for international foods and articles on overseas fashions. It was not unusual for local manufacturers, to use the lure of travel and exotic places as a way of marketing their goods. Healing Bicycles, for example, used the slogan “In Venice men go to work on Gondolas: In Australia it’s a Healing” (“Healing Cycles” 40), and Exotiq cosmetics featured landscapes of countries where Exotiq products had “captured the hearts of women who treasured their loveliness: Cincinnati, Milan, New York, Paris, Geneva and Budapest” (“Exotiq Cosmetics” 36).Unlike Homer’s Penelope, who stayed at home for twenty years waiting for Odysseus to return from the Trojan wars, women have always been on the move to the same extent as men. Their rich travel stories (Riggal, Haysom, Lancaster)—mostly written as letters and diaries—remain largely unpublished and their experiences are not part of the public record to the same extent as the travel stories of men. Ros Pesman argues that the women traveller’s voice was one of privilege and authority full of excitement and disbelief (Pesman 26). She notes that until well into the second part of the twentieth century, “the journey for Australian women to Europe was much more than a return to the sources of family identity and history” (19). It was also:a pilgrimage to the centres and sites of culture, literature and history and an encounter with “the real world.”Europe, and particularly London,was also the place of authority and reference for all those seeking accreditation and recognition, whether as real writers, real ladies or real politicians and statesmen. (19)This article is about two Australian writers; Helen Seager, a journalist employed by The Argus, a daily newspaper in Melbourne Australia, and Gwen Hughes, a graduate of Emily McPherson College of Domestic Economy in Melbourne, working in England as a lecturer, demonstrator and cookbook writer for Parkinsons’ Stove Company. Helen Seager travelled to England on an assignment for The Argus in 1950 and sent articles each day for publication in the women’s section of the newspaper. Gwen Hughes travelled extensively in the Balkans in the 1930s recording her impressions, observations, and recipes for traditional foods whilst working for Parkinsons in England. These women were neither returning to the homeland for an encounter with the real world, nor were they there as cultural tourists in the Cook’s Tour sense of the word. They were professional writers and their observations about the places they visited offer fresh and lively versions of England and Europe, its people, places, and customs.Helen SeagerAustralian Journalist Helen Seager (1901–1981) wrote a daily column, Good Morning Ma’am in the women’s pages of The Argus, from 1947 until shortly after her return from abroad in 1950. Seager wrote human interest stories, often about people of note (Golding), but with a twist; a Baroness who finds knitting exciting (Seager, “Baroness” 9) and ballet dancers backstage (Seager, “Ballet” 10). Much-loved by her mainly female readership, in May 1950 The Argus sent her to England where she would file a daily report of her travels. Whilst now we take travel for granted, Seager was sent abroad with letters of introduction from The Argus, stating that she was travelling on a special editorial assignment which included: a certificate signed by the Lord Mayor of The City of Melbourne, seeking that any courtesies be extended on her trip to England, the Continent, and America; a recommendation from the Consul General of France in Australia; and introductions from the Premier’s Department, the Premier of Victoria, and Austria’s representative in Australia. All noted the nature of her trip, her status as an esteemed reporter for a Melbourne newspaper, and requested that any courtesy possible to be made to her.This assignment was an indication that The Argus valued its women readers. Her expenses, and those of her ten-year-old daughter Harriet, who accompanied her, were covered by the newspaper. Her popularity with her readership is apparent by the enthusiastic tone of the editorial article covering her departure. Accompanied with a photograph of Seager and Harriet boarding the aeroplane, her many women readers were treated to their first ever picture of what she looked like:THOUSANDS of "Argus" readers, particularly those in the country, have wanted to know what Helen Seager looks like. Here she is, waving good-bye as she left on the first stage of a trip to England yesterday. She will be writing her bright “Good Morning, Ma'am” feature as she travels—giving her commentary on life abroad. (The Argus, “Goodbye” 1)Figure 1. Helen Seager and her daughter Harriet board their flight for EnglandThe first article “From Helen in London” read,our Helen Seager, after busy days spent exploring England with her 10-year-old daughter, Harriet, today cabled her first “Good Morning, Ma’am” column from abroad. Each day from now on she will report from London her lively impressions in an old land, which is delightfully new to her. (Seager, “From Helen” 3)Whilst some of her dispatches contain the impressions of the awestruck traveller, for the most they are exquisitely observed stories of the everyday and the ordinary, often about the seemingly most trivial of things, and give a colourful, colonial and egalitarian impression of the places that she visits. A West End hair-do is described, “as I walked into that posh looking establishment, full of Louis XV, gold ornateness to be received with bows from the waist by numerous satellites, my first reaction was to turn and bolt” (Seager, “West End” 3).When she visits Oxford’s literary establishments, she is, for this particular article, the awestruck Australian:In Oxford, you go around saying, soto voce and aloud, “Oh, ye dreaming spires of Oxford.” And Matthew Arnold comes alive again as a close personal friend.In a weekend, Ma’am, I have seen more of Oxford than lots of native Oxonians. I have stood and brooded over the spit in Christ Church College’s underground kitchens on which the oxen for Henry the Eighth were roasted.I have seen the Merton Library, oldest in Oxford, in which the chains that imprisoned the books are still to be seen, and have added by shoe scrape to the stone steps worn down by 500 years of walkers. I have walked the old churches, and I have been lost in wonder at the goodly virtues of the dead. And then, those names of Oxford! Holywell, Tom’s Quad, Friars’ Entry, and Long Wall. The gargoyles at Magdalen and the stones untouched by bombs or war’s destruction. It adds a new importance to human beings to know that once, if only, they too have walked and stood and stared. (Seager, “From Helen” 3)Her sense of wonder whilst in Oxford is, however, moderated by the practicalities of travel incorporated into the article. She continues to describe the warnings she was given, before her departure, of foreign travel that had her alarmed about loss and theft, and the care she took to avoid both. “It would have made you laugh, Ma’am, could you have seen the antics to protect personal property in the countries in transit” (Seager, “From Helen” 3).Her description of a trip to Blenheim Palace shows her sense of fun. She does not attempt to describe the palace or its contents, “Blenheim Palace is too vast and too like a great Government building to arouse much envy,” settling instead on a curiosity should there be a turn of events, “as I surged through its great halls with a good-tempered, jostling mob I couldn’t help wondering what those tired pale-faced guides would do if the mob mood changed and it started on an old-fashioned ransack.” Blenheim palace did not impress her as much as did the Sunday crowd at the palace:The only thing I really took a fancy to were the Venetian cradle, which was used during the infancy of the present Duke and a fine Savvonerie carpet in the same room. What I never wanted to see again was the rubbed-fur collar of the lady in front.Sunday’s crowd was typically English, Good tempered, and full of Cockney wit, and, if you choose to take your pleasures in the mass, it is as good a company as any to be in. (Seager, “We Look” 3)In a description of Dublin and the Dubliners, Seager describes the food-laden shops: “Butchers’ shops leave little room for customers with their great meat carcasses hanging from every hook. … English visitors—and Dublin is awash with them—make an orgy of the cakes that ooze real cream, the pink and juicy hams, and the sweets that demand no points” (Seager, “English” 6). She reports on the humanity of Dublin and Dubliners, “Dublin has a charm that is deep-laid. It springs from the people themselves. Their courtesy is overlaid with a real interest in humanity. They walk and talk, these Dubliners, like Kings” (ibid.).In Paris she melds the ordinary with the noteworthy:I had always imagined that the outside of the Louvre was like and big art gallery. Now that I know it as a series of palaces with courtyards and gardens beyond description in the daytime, and last night, with its cleverly lighted fountains all aplay, its flags and coloured lights, I will never forget it.Just now, down in the street below, somebody is packing the boot of a car to go for, presumably, on a few days’ jaunt. There is one suitcase, maybe with clothes, and on the footpath 47 bottles of the most beautiful wines in the world. (Seager, “When” 3)She writes with a mix of awe and ordinary:My first glimpse of that exciting vista of the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, and the little bistros that I’ve always wanted to see, and all the delights of a new city, […] My first day in Paris, Ma’am, has not taken one whit from the glory that was London. (ibid.) Figure 2: Helen Seager in ParisIt is my belief that Helen Seager intended to do something with her writings abroad. The articles have been cut from The Argus and pasted onto sheets of paper. She has kept copies of the original reports filed whist she was away. The collection shows her insightful egalitarian eye and a sharp humour, a mix of awesome and commonplace.On Bastille Day in 1950, Seager wrote about the celebrations in Paris. Her article is one of exuberant enthusiasm. She writes joyfully about sirens screaming overhead, and people in the street, and looking from windows. Her article, published on 19 July, starts:Paris Ma’am is a magical city. I will never cease to be grateful that I arrived on a day when every thing went wrong, and watched it blossom before my eyes into a gayness that makes our Melbourne Cup gala seem funeral in comparison.Today is July 14.All places of business are closed for five days and only the places of amusement await the world.Parisians are tireless in their celebrations.I went to sleep to the music of bands, dancing feet and singing voices, with the raucous but cheerful toots from motors splitting the night air onto atoms. (Seager, “When” 3)This article resonates uneasiness. How easily could those scenes of celebration on Bastille Day in 1950 be changed into the scenes of carnage on Bastille Day 2016, the cheerful toots of the motors transformed into cries of fear, the sirens in the sky from aeroplanes overhead into the sirens of ambulances and police vehicles, as a Mohamed Lahouaiej Bouhlel, as part of a terror attack drives a truck through crowds of people celebrating in Nice.Gwen HughesGwen Hughes graduated from Emily Macpherson College of Domestic Economy with a Diploma of Domestic Science, before she travelled to England to take up employment as senior lecturer and demonstrator of Parkinson’s England, a company that manufactured electric and gas stoves. Hughes wrote in her unpublished manuscript, Balkan Fever, that it was her idea of making ordinary cooking demonstration lessons dramatic and homelike that landed her the job in England (Hughes, Balkan 25-26).Her cookbook, Perfect Cooking, was produced to encourage housewives to enjoy cooking with their Parkinson’s modern cookers with the new Adjusto temperature control. The message she had to convey for Parkinsons was: “Cooking is a matter of putting the right ingredients together and cooking them at the right temperature to achieve a given result” (Hughes, Perfect 3). In reality, Hughes used this cookbook as a vehicle to share her interest in and love of Continental food, especially food from the Balkans where she travelled extensively in the 1930s.Recipes of Continental foods published in Perfect Cooking sit seamlessly alongside traditional British foods. The section on soup, for example, contains recipes for Borscht, a very good soup cooked by the peasants of Russia; Minestrone, an everyday Italian soup; Escudella, from Spain; and Cream of Spinach Soup from France (Perfect 22-23). Hughes devoted a whole chapter to recipes and descriptions of Continental foods labelled “Fascinating Foods From Far Countries,” showing her love and fascination with food and travel. She started this chapter with the observation:There is nearly as much excitement and romance, and, perhaps fear, about sampling a “foreign dish” for the “home stayer” as there is in actually being there for the more adventurous “home leaver”. Let us have a little have a little cruise safe within the comfort of our British homes. Let us try and taste the good things each country is famed for, all the while picturing the romantic setting of these dishes. (Hughes, Perfect 255)Through her recipes and descriptive passages, Hughes took housewives in England and Australia into the strange and wonderful kitchens of exotic women: Madame Darinka Jocanovic in Belgrade, Miss Anicka Zmelova in Prague, Madame Mrskosova at Benesova. These women taught her to make wonderful-sounding foods such as Apfel Strudel, Knedlikcy, Vanilla Kipfel and Christmas Stars. “Who would not enjoy the famous ‘Goose with Dumplings,’” she declares, “in the company of these gay, brave, thoughtful people with their romantic history, their gorgeously appareled peasants set in their richly picturesque scenery” (Perfect 255).It is Hughes’ unpublished manuscript Balkan Fever, written in Melbourne in 1943, to which I now turn. It is part of the Latrobe Heritage collection at the State Library of Victoria. Her manuscript was based on her extensive travels in the Balkans in the 1930s whilst she lived and worked in England, and it was, I suspect, her intention to seek publication.In her twenties, Hughes describes how she set off to the Balkans after meeting a fellow member of the Associated Country Women of the World (ACWW) at the Royal Yugoslav Legation. He was an expert on village life in the Balkans and advised her, that as a writer she would get more information from the local villagers than she would as a tourist. Hughes, who, before television gave cooking demonstrations on the radio, wrote, “I had been writing down recipes and putting them in books for years and of course the things one talks about over the air have to be written down first—that seemed fair enough” (Hughes, Balkan 25-26). There is nothing of the awestruck traveller in Hughes’ richly detailed observations of the people and the places that she visited. “Travelling in the Balkans is a very different affair from travelling in tourist-conscious countries where you just leave it to Cooks. You must either have unlimited time at your disposal, know the language or else have introductions that will enable the right arrangements to be made for you” (Balkan 2), she wrote. She was the experiential tourist, deeply immersed in her surroundings and recording food culture and society as it was.Hughes acknowledged that she was always drawn away from the cities to seek the real life of the people. “It’s to the country district you must go to find the real flavour of a country and the heart of its people—especially in the Balkans where such a large percentage of the population is agricultural” (Balkan 59). Her descriptions in Balkan Fever are a blend of geography, history, culture, national songs, folklore, national costumes, food, embroidery, and vivid observation of the everyday city life. She made little mention of stately homes or buildings. Her attitude to travel can be summed up in her own words:there are so many things to see and learn in the countries of the old world that, walking with eyes and mind wide open can be an immensely delightful pastime, even with no companion and nowhere to go. An hour or two spent in some unpretentious coffee house can be worth all the dinners at Quaglino’s or at The Ritz, if your companion is a good talker, a specialist in your subject, or knows something of the politics and the inner life of the country you are in. (Balkan 28)Rather than touring the grand cities, she was seduced by the market places with their abundance of food, colour, and action. Describing Sarajevo she wrote:On market day the main square is a blaze of colour and movement, the buyers no less colourful than the peasants who have come in from the farms around with their produce—cream cheese, eggs, chickens, fruit and vegetables. Handmade carpets hung up for sale against walls or from trees add their barbaric colour to the splendor of the scene. (Balkan 75)Markets she visited come to life through her vivid descriptions:Oh those markets, with the gorgeous colours, and heaped untidiness of the fruits and vegetables—paprika, those red and green peppers! Every kind of melon, grape and tomato contributing to the riot of colour. Then there were the fascinating peasant embroideries, laces and rich parts of old costumes brought in from the villages for sale. The lovely gay old embroideries were just laid out on a narrow carpet spread along the pavement or hung from a tree if one happened to be there. (Balkan 11)Perhaps it was her radio cooking shows that gave her the ability to make her descriptions sensorial and pictorial:We tasted luxurious foods, fish, chickens, fruits, wines, and liqueurs. All products of the country. Perfect ambrosial nectar of the gods. I was entirely seduced by the rose petal syrup, fragrant and aromatic, a red drink made from the petals of the darkest red roses. (Balkan 151)Ordinary places and everyday events are beautifully realised:We visited the cheese factory amongst other things. … It was curious to see in that far away spot such a quantity of neatly arranged cheeses in the curing chamber, being prepared for export, and in another room the primitive looking round balls of creamed cheese suspended from rafters. Later we saw trains of pack horses going over the mountains, and these were probably the bearers of these cheeses to Bitolj or Skoplje, whence they would be consigned further for export. (Balkan 182)ConclusionReading Seager and Hughes, one cannot help but be swept along on their travels and take part in their journeys. What is clear, is that they were inspired by their work, which is reflected in the way they wrote about the places they visited. Both sought out people and places that were, as Hughes so vividly puts it, not part of the Cook’s Tour. They travelled with their eyes wide open for experiences that were both new and normal, making their writing relevant even today. Written in Paris on Bastille Day 1950, Seager’s Bastille Day article is poignant when compared to Bastille Day in France in 2016. Hughes’s descriptions of Sarajevo are a far cry from the scenes of destruction in that city between 1992 and 1995. The travel writing of these two women offers us vivid impressions and images of the often unreported events, places, daily lives, and industry of the ordinary and the then every day, and remind us that the more things change, the more they stay the same.Pesman writes, “women have always been on the move and Australian women have been as numerous as passengers on the outbound ships as have men” (20), but the records of their travels seldom appear on the public record. Whilst their work-related writings are part of the public record (see Haysom; Lancaster; Riggal), this body of women’s travel writing has not received the attention it deserves. Hughes’ cookbooks, with their traditional Eastern European recipes and evocative descriptions of people and kitchens, are only there for the researcher who knows that cookbooks are a trove of valuable social and cultural material. Digital copies of Seager’s writing can be accessed on Trove (a digital repository), but there is little else about her or her body of writing on the public record.ReferencesThe Argus. “Goodbye Ma’am.” 26 May 1950: 1. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22831285?searchTerm=Goodbye%20Ma%E2%80%99am%E2%80%99&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.“Exotiq Cosmetics.” Advertisement. Woman 20 Aug. 1945: 36.Golding, Peter. “Just a Chattel of the Sale: A Mostly Light-Hearted Retrospective of a Diverse Life.” In Jim Usher, ed., The Argus: Life & Death of Newspaper. North Melbourne: Australian Scholarly Publishing 2007.Haysom, Ida. Diaries and Photographs of Ida Haysom. <http://search.slv.vic.gov.au/MAIN:Everything:SLV_VOYAGER1637361>.“Healing Cycles.” Advertisement. Woman 27 Aug. 1945: 40. Hughes, Gwen. Balkan Fever. Unpublished Manuscript. State Library of Victoria, MS 12985 Box 3846/4. 1943.———. Perfect Cooking London: Parkinsons, c1940.Lancaster, Rosemary. Je Suis Australienne: Remarkable Women in France 1880-1945. Crawley WA: UWA Press, 2008.Pesman, Ros. “Overseas Travel of Australian Women: Sources in the Australian Manuscripts Collection of the State Library of Victoria.” The Latrobe Journal 58 (Spring 1996): 19-26.Riggal, Louie. (Louise Blanche.) Diary of Italian Tour 1905 February 21 - May 1. <http://search.slv.vic.gov.au/MAIN:Everything:SLV_VOYAGER1635602>.Seager, Helen. “Ballet Dancers Backstage.” The Argus 10 Aug. 1944: 10. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/11356057?searchTerm=Ballet%20Dancers%20Backstage&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=194>.———. “The Baroness Who Finds Knitting Exciting.” The Argus 1 Aug. 1944: 9. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/11354557?searchTerm=Helen%20seager%20Baroness&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=194>.———. “English Visitors Have a Food Spree in Eire.” The Argus 29 Sep. 1950: 6. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22912011?searchTerm=English%20visitors%20have%20a%20spree%20in%20Eire&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “From Helen in London.” The Argus 20 June 1950: 3. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22836738?searchTerm=From%20Helen%20in%20London&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “Helen Seager Storms Paris—Paris Falls.” The Argus 15 July 1950: 7.<http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22906913?searchTerm=Helen%20Seager%20Storms%20Paris%E2%80%99&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “We Look over Blenheim Palace.” The Argus 28 Sep. 1950: 3. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22902040?searchTerm=Helen%20Seager%20Its%20as%20a%20good%20a%20place%20as%20you%20would%20want%20to%20be&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “West End Hair-Do Was Fun.” The Argus 3 July 1950: 3. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22913940?searchTerm=West%20End%20hair-do%20was%20fun%E2%80%99&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “When You Are in Paris on July 14.” The Argus 19 July 1950: 3. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22906244?searchTerm=When%20you%20are%20in%20Paris%20on%20July%2014&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.

Since their first encounter with colonial administrators in 1963, approximately 2,000 indigenous people living in the Nimakot region of central New Guinea have been struggling with a tension between their indigenous way of life and the imperatives of the state. It is not just that they are on the international border between Papua New Guinea and Indonesia and therefore difficult to categorise into this or that country. It is that they do not habitually conceptualise themselves and others in categorical terms. They value and focus on relationships rather than categories. In their struggle to adapt the blooming buzzing complexities of their semi-nomadic lifestyle and relational logic to the strict and apparently static lines, grids, and coordinates of rationalistic statecraft they have become torn by duelling conceptions of “kantri” itself (Melanesian Tok Pisin for “country”). On the one hand, kantri invokes an unbroken rural landscape rich with personal and cultural memories that establish a firm and deep relationship with the land and the ancestors. Such a notion fits easily with local conceptions of kinship and land tenure. On the other hand, kantri is a bounded object, part of an often frustrating and mystifying system of categorization imposed by strict and rationalist mechanisms of statecraft. The following analyses this tension based on 22 months of intensive and intimate participant observation in the region from 1999-2006 with a special focus on the uses and impacts of writing and other new communication technologies. The categorical bias of statecraft is enabled, fostered, extended, and maintained by the technology of writing. Statecraft seeks (or makes) categories that are ideally stable, permanent, non-negotiable, and fit for the relative fixity of print, while the relationships emphasised by people of Nimakot are fluid, temporary, negotiable, contested and ambiguous. In contrast to the engaged, pragmatic, and personal view one finds in face-to-face relationships on the ground, the state’s knowledge of the local is ultimately mediated by what can be written into abstract categories that can be listed, counted and aggregated, producing a synoptic, distanced, and decontextualising perspective. By simplifying the cacophonous blooming buzzing complexities of life into legible categories, regularities, and rules, the pen and paper become both the eyes and the voice of the state (Scott 2). Even the writing of this paper is difficult. Many sentences would be easier to write if I could just name the group I am discussing. But the group of people I am writing about have no clear and uncontested name for themselves. More importantly, they do not traditionally think of themselves as a “group,” nor do they habitually conceptualise others in terms of bounded groups of individuals. The biggest challenge to statecraft’s attempts to create a sense of “country” here is the fact that most local people do not subjectively think of themselves in categorical terms. They do not imagine themselves to be part of “adjacent and competitive empires” (Strathern 102). This “group” is most widely known as the western “Atbalmin” though the name is not an indigenous term. “Atbalmin” is a word used by the neighbouring Telefol that means “people of the trees.” It was adopted by early patrol officers who were accompanied by Telefol translators. As these early patrols made their way through the “Atbalmin” region from east to west they frequently complained about names and their inability to pin or pen them down. Tribal names, clan names, even personal names seemed to change with each asking. While such flexibility and flux were perfectly at home in an oral face-to-face environment, it wasn’t suitable for the colonial administrators’ relatively fixed and static books. The “mysterious Kufelmin” (as the patrol reports refer to them) were even more frustrating for early colonial officers. Patrols heading west from Telefomin searched for decades for this mysterious group and never found them. To this day nobody has ever set foot in a Kufelmin village. In each valley heading west patrols were told that the Kufelmin were in the next valley to the west. But the Kufelmin were never there. They were always one more valley to the west. The problem was that the administrators wrongly assumed “Kufelmin” to be a tribal name as stable and categorical as the forms and maps they were using would accept. Kufelmin simply means “those people to the West.” It is a relational term, not a categorical one. The administration’s first contact with the people of Nimakot exposed even more fundamental differences and specific tensions between the local relational logic and the categorical bias of statecraft. Australian patrol officer JR McArthur crested the mountain overlooking Nimakot at precisely 1027 hours on 16 August 1963, a fact he dutifully recorded in his notebook (Telefomin Patrol Report 12 of 1962/63). He then proceeded down the mountain with pen and paper in hand, recording the precise moment he crossed the Sunim creek (1109 hours), came to Sunimbil (1117 hours), and likewise on and on to his final destination near the base of the present-day airstrip. Such recordings of precise times and locations were central to McArthur's main goal. Amidst the steep mountains painted with lush green gardens, sparkling waterfalls, and towering virgin rainforests McArthur busied himself examining maps and aerial photographs searching for the region’s most impressive, imposing, and yet altogether invisible feature: the 141st Meridian East of Greenwich, the international border. McArthur saw his work as one of fixing boundaries, taking names, and extending the great taxonomic system of statecraft that would ultimately “rationalise” and order even this remote corner of the globe. When he came to the conclusion that he had inadvertently stepped outside his rightful domain he promptly left, noting in his report that he purchased a pig just before leaving. The local understanding of this event is very different. While McArthur was busy making and obeying categories, the people of Nimakot were primarily concerned with making relationships. In this case, they hoped to create a relationship through which valuable goods, the likes of which they had never seen, would flow. The pig mentioned in McArthur's report was not meant to be bought or sold, but as a gift signifying the beginning of what locals hoped would be a long relationship. When McArthur insisted on paying for it and then promptly left with a promise that he would never return, locals interpreted his actions as an accusation of witchcraft. Witchcraft is the most visible and dramatic aspect of the local relational logic of being, what might be termed a relational ontology. Marilyn Strathern describes this ontology as being as much “dividual” as individual, pointing out that Melanesians tend to conceptualise themselves as defined and constituted by social relationships rather than independent from them (102). The person is conceptualised as socially and collectively constituted rather than individuated. A person’s strength, health, intelligence, disposition, and behaviour depend on the strength and nature of one’s relationships (Knauft 26). The impacts of this relational ontology on local life are far reaching. Unconditional kindness and sharing are constantly required to maintain healthy relations because unhealthy relations are understood to be the direct cause of sickness, infertility, and death. Where such misfortunes do befall someone, their explanations are sought in a complex calculus examining relational histories. Whoever has a bad relation with the victim is blamed for their misfortune. Modernists disparage such ideas as “witchcraft beliefs” but witchcraft accusations are just a small part of a much more pervasive, rich, and logical relational ontology in which the health and well-being of relations are conceptualised as influencing the health and well-being of things and people. Because of this logic, people of Nimakot are relationship experts who navigate the complex relational field with remarkable subtleness and tact. But even they cannot maintain the unconditional kindness and sharing that is required of them when their social world grows too large and complex. A village rarely grows to over 50 people before tensions lead to an irresolvable witchcraft accusation and the village splits up. In this way, the continuous negotiations inspired by the relational ontology lead to constant movement, changing of names, and shifting clan affiliations – nothing that fits very well on a static map or a few categories in a book. Over the past 45 years since McArthur first brought the mechanisms of statecraft into Nimakot, the tensions between this local relational ontology and the categorical logic of the state have never been resolved. One might think that a synthesis of the two forms would have emerged. Instead, to this day, all that becomes new is the form through which the tensions are expressed and the ways in which the tensions are exacerbated. The international border has been and continues to be the primary catalyst for these tensions to express themselves. As it turns out, McArthur had miscalculated. He had not crossed the international border before coming to Nimakot. It was later determined that the border runs right through the middle of Nimakot, inspiring one young local man to describe it to me as “that great red mark that cuts us right through the heart.” The McArthur encounter was a harbinger of what was to come; a battle for kantri as unbounded connected landscape, and a battle with kantri as a binding categorical system, set against a backdrop of witchcraft imagery. Locals soon learned the importance of the map and census for receiving state funds for construction projects, education, health care, and other amenities. In the early 1970s a charismatic local man convinced others to move into one large village called Tumolbil. The large population literally put Tumolbil “on the map,” dramatically increasing its visibility to government and foreign aid. Drawn by the large population, an airstrip, school, and aid post were built in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Locally this process is known as “namba tok,” meaning that “numbers (population, statistics, etc.) talk” to the state. The greater the number, the stronger the voice, so locals are now intent on creating large stable villages that are visible to the state and in line for services and development projects. Yet their way of life and relational cultural logics continue to betray their efforts to create such villages. Most people still navigate the complexities of their social relations by living in small, scattered, semi-nomadic hamlets. Even as young local men trained in Western schools become government officials in charge of the maps and census books themselves, they are finding that they are frustrated by the same characteristics of life that once frustrated colonial administrators. The tensions between the local relational ontology and the categorical imperatives of the state come to rest squarely on the shoulders of these young men. They want large stable villages that will produce a large number in the census book in order to bring development projects to their land. More importantly, they recognise that half of their land rests precariously west of that magical 141st Meridian. A clearly defined and distinct place on the map along with a solid number of names in the census book, have become essential to assuring their continued connection with their kantri. On several occasions they have felt threatened by the possibility that they would have to either abandon the land west of the meridian or become citizens of Indonesia. The first option threatens their sense of kantri as connection to their traditional land. The other violates their new found sense of kantri as nationalistic pride in the independent state of Papua New Guinea. In an attempt to resolve these increasingly pressing tensions, the officers designed “Operation Clean and Sweep” in 2003 – a plan to move people out of their small scattered hamlets and into one of twelve larger villages that had been recognised by Papua New Guinea in previous census and mapping exercises. After sending notice to hamlet residents, an operation team of over one hundred men marched throughout Nimakot, burning each hamlet along the way. Before each burning, officers gave a speech peppered with the phrase “namba tok.” Most people listened to the speeches with enthusiasm, often expressing their own eagerness to leave their hamlet behind to live in a large orderly village. In one hamlet they asked me to take a photo of them in front of their houses just before they cheerfully allowed government officers to enter their homes and light the thatch of their rooftops. “Finally,” the officer in charge exclaimed triumphantly, “we can put people where their names are.” If the tension between local relational logics and the categorical imperatives of the state had been only superficial, perhaps this plan would have ultimately resolved the tension. But the tension is not only expressed objectively in the need for large stable villages, but subjectively as well, in the state’s need for people to orient themselves primarily as citizens and individuals, doing what is best for the country as a categorical group rather than acting as relational “dividuals” and orienting their lives primarily towards the demands of kinship and other relations. This tension has been recognised in other contexts as well, and theorised in Craig Calhoun’s study of nationalism in which he marks out two related distinctions: “between networks of social relationships and categories of similar individuals, and between reproduction through directly interpersonal interactions and reproduction through the mediation of relatively impersonal agencies of large-scale cultural standardization and social organization” (29). The former in both of these distinctions make up the essential components of relational ontology, while the latter describe the mechanisms and logic of statecraft. To describe the form of personhood implicit in nationalism, Calhoun introduces the term “categorical identity” to designate “identification by similarity of attributes as a member of a set of equivalent members” (42). While locals are quick to understand the power of categorical entities in the cultural process of statecraft and therefore have eagerly created large villages on a number of occasions in order to “game” the state system, they do not readily assume a categorical identity, an identity with these categories, and the villages have consistently disintegrated over time due to relational tensions and witchcraft accusations born from the local relational ontology. Operation Clean and Sweep reached its crisis moment just two days after the burnings began. An influential man from one of the unmapped hamlets scheduled for burning came to the officers complaining that he would not move to the large government village because he would have to live too close to people who had bewitched and killed members of his family. Others echoed his fears of witchcraft in the large government villages. The drive for a categorical order came head to head with the local relational ontology. Moving people into large government villages and administering a peaceful, orderly, lawful society of citizens (a categorical identity) would take much more than eliminating hamlets and forced migration. It would require a complete transformation in their sense of being – a transformation that even the officers themselves have not fully undertaken. The officers did not see the relational ontology as the problem. They saw witchcraft as the problem. They announced plans to eradicate witchcraft altogether. For three months, witchcraft suspects were apprehended, interrogated, and asked to list names of other witches. With each interrogation, the list of witches grew longer and longer. The interrogations were violent at times, but not as violent or as devastating as the list itself. The violence of the list hid behind its simple elegance. Like a census book, it had a mystique of orderliness and rationality. It stripped away the ugliness and complexity of interrogations leaving nothing but pure categorical knowledge. In the interrogation room, the list became a powerful tool the officer in charge used to intimidate his suspects. He often began by reading from the list, as if to say, “we already have you right here.” But one might say it was the officer who was really trapped in the list. It ensnared him in its simple elegance, its clean straight lines and clear categories. He was not using the list as much as the list was using him. Traditionally it was not the witch that was of concern, but the act of witchcraft itself. If the relationship could be healed – thereby healing the victim – all was forgiven. The list transformed the accused from temporary, situational, and indefinite witches involved in local relational disputes to permanent, categorical witches in violation of state law. Traditional ways of dealing with witchcraft focused on healing relationships. The print culture of the state focuses on punishing the categorically “guilty” categorical individual. They were “sentenced” “by the book.” As an outsider, I was simply thought to be naïve about the workings of witchcraft. My protests were ignored (see Wesch). Ultimately it ended because making a list of witches proved to be even more difficult than making a list for the census. Along with the familiar challenges of shifting names and affiliations, the witch list made its own enemies. The moment somebody was listed all of their relations ceased recognising the list and those making it as authoritative. In the end, the same tensions that motivated Operation Clean and Sweep were only reproduced by the efforts to resolve them. The tensions demonstrated themselves to be more tenacious than anticipated, grounded as they are in pervasive self-sustaining cultural systems that do not overlap in a way that is significant enough to threaten their mutual existence. The relational ontology is embedded in rich and enduring local histories of gift exchange, marriage, birth, death, and conflict. Statecraft is embedded in a broader system of power, hierarchy, deadlines, roles, and rules. They are not simply matters of belief. In this way, the focus on witches and witchcraft could never resolve the tensions. Instead, the movement only exacerbated the relational tensions that inspire, extend, and maintain witchcraft beliefs, and once again people found themselves living in small, scattered hamlets, wishing they could somehow come together to live in large prosperous villages so their population numbers would be great enough to “talk” to the state, bringing in valuable services, and more importantly, securing their land and citizenship with Papua New Guinea. It is in this context that “kantri” not only embodies the tensions between local ways of life and the imperatives of the state, but also the persistent hope for resolution, and the haunting memories of previous failures. References Calhoun, Craig. Nationalism. Open UP, 1997. Knauft, Bruce. From Primitive to Postcolonial in Melanesia and Anthropology. Ann Arbor: U Michigan P, 1999. McArthur, JR. Telefomin Patrol Report 12 of 1962/63 Strathern, Marilyn. The Gender of the Gift. U California P, 1988. Scott, James. Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed. Yale UP, 1998. Wesch, Michael. “A Witch Hunt in New Guinea: Anthropology on Trial.” Anthropology and Humanism 32.1 (2007): 4-17.

Through my last lengthy writing project, it did not take long to I realise I had become obsessed with paths. The proof of it was there in my notebooks, and, most prominently, in the backlog of photographs cluttering the inner workings of my mobile phone. Most of the photographs I took had a couple of things in common: first, the astonishing greenness of the world they were describing; second, the way a road or path or corridor or pavement or trail led off into distance. The greenness was because I was in England, in summer, and mostly in a part of the country where green seems at times the only colour. I am not sure what it was about tailing perspective that caught me.Image 1: a) Undercliffe Cemetery, Bradford; b) Undercliffe Cemetery, Bradfordc) Leeds Road, Otley; d) Shibden Park, Halifax Image 2: a) Runswick Bay; b) St. Mary's Churchyard, Habberleyc) The Habberley Road, to Pontesbury; d) Todmorden, path to Stoodley Pike I was working on a kind of family memoir, tied up in my grandmother’s last days, which were also days I spent marching through towns and countryside I once knew, looking for clues about a place and its past. I had left the north-west of England a decade or so before, and I was grappling with what James Wood calls “homelooseness”, a sensation of exile that even economic migrants like myself encounter. It is a particular kind of “secular homelessness” in which “the ties that might bind one to Home have been loosened” (105-106). Loosened irrevocably, I might add. The kind of wandering which I embarked on is not unique. Wood describes it in himself, and in the work of W.G. Sebald—a writer who, he says, “had an exquisite sense of the varieties of not-belonging” (106).I walked a lot, mostly on paths I used to know. And when, later, I counted up the photographs I had taken of that similar-but-different scene, there were almost 500 of them, none of which I can bring myself to delete. Some were repeated, or nearly so—I had often tried to make sure the path in the frame was centred in the middle of the screen. Most of the pictures were almost entirely miscellaneous, and if it were not for a feature on my phone I could not work out how to turn off (that feature which tracks where each photograph was taken) I would not have much idea of what each picture represented. What’s clear is that there was some lingering significance, some almost-tangible metaphor, in the way I was recording the walking I was doing. This same significance is there, too (in an almost quantifiable way), in the thesis I was working on while I was taking the photographs: I used the word “path” 63 times in the version I handed to examiners, not counting all the times I could have, but chose not to—all the “pavements”, “trails”, “roads”, and “holloways” of it would add up to a number even more substantial. For instance, the word “walk”, or derivatives of it, comes up 115 times. This article is designed to ask why. I aim to focus on that metaphor, on that significance, and unpack the way life writing can intersect with both the journey of a life being lived, and the process of writing down that life (by process of writing I sometimes mean anything but: I mean the process of working towards the writing. Of going, of doing, of talking, of spending, of working, of thinking, of walking). I came, in the thesis, to view certain kinds of prose as a way of imitating the rhythms of the mind, but I think there’s something about that rhythm which associates it with the feet as well. Rebecca Solnit thinks so too, or, at least, that the processes of thinking and walking can wrap around each other, helixed or concatenated. In Wanderlust she says that:the rhythm of walking generates a kind of rhythm of thinking, and the passage through a landscape echoes or stimulates the passage through a series of thoughts. This creates an odd consonance between internal and external passage, one that suggests that the mind is also a landscape of sorts and that walking is one way to traverse it. (5-6)The “odd consonance” Solnit speaks of is a kind of seamlessness between the internal and external; it is something which can be aped on the page. And, in this way, prose can imitate the mind thinking. This way of writing is evident in the digression-filled, wandering, sinuous sentences of W.G. Sebald, and of Marcel Proust as well. I don’t want to entangle myself in the question of whether Proust and Sebald count as life writers here. I used them as models, and, at the very least, I think their prose manipulates the conceits of the autobiographical pact. In fact, Sebald often refused to label his own work; once he called his writing “prose [...] of indefinite form” (Franklin 123). My definition of life writing is, thus, indefinite, and merely indicates the field in which I work and know best.Edmund White, when writing on Proust, suggested that every page of Remembrance of Things Past—while only occasionally being a literal page of Proust’s mind thinking—is, nevertheless, “a transcript of a mind thinking [...] the fully orchestrated, ceaseless, and disciplined ruminations of one mind, one voice” (138). Ceaselessness, seamlessness ... there’s also a viscosity to this kind of prose—Virginia Woolf called it “impassioned”, and spoke of the way some prosecan lick up with its long glutinous tongue the most minute fragments of fact and mass them into the most subtle labyrinths, and listen silently at doors behind which only a murmur, only a whisper, is to be heard. With all the suppleness of a tool which is in constant use it can follow the windings and record the changes which are typical of the modern mind. To this, with Proust and Dostoevsky behind us, we must agree. (20)When I read White and Woolf it seemed they could have been talking about Sebald, too: everything in Sebald’s oeuvre is funnelled through what White described in Remembrance as the cyclopean “I” at the centre of the Proustian consciousness (138). The same could be said about Sebald: as Lynne Schwartz says, “All Sebald’s characters sound like the narrator” (15). And that narrator has very particular qualities, encouraged by the sense of homelooseness Wood describes: the Sebald narrator is a wanderer, by train through Italian cities and New York Suburbs, on foot through the empty reaches of the English countryside, exploring the history of each settlement he passes through [...] Wherever he travels, he finds strangely vacant streets and roads, not a soul around [...] Sebald’s books are famously strewn with evocative, gloomy black-and-white photographs that call up the presence of the dead, of vanished places, and also serve as proofs of his passage. (Schwartz 14) I tried to resist the urge to take photographs, for the simple reason that I knew I could not include them all in the finished thesis—even including some would seem (perhaps) derivative. But this method of wandering—whether on the page or in the world—was formative for me. And the linkage between thinking and walking, and walking and writing, and writing and thinking is worth exploring, if only to identify some reason for that need to show proof of passage.Walking in Proust and Sebald either forms the shape of narrative, or one its cruxes. Both found ways to let walking affect the rhythm, movement, motivation, and even the aesthetic of their prose. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn, for example, is plotless because of the way it follows its narrator on a walking tour of Suffolk. The effect is similar to something Murray Baumgarten noticed in one of Sebald’s other books, The Emigrants: “The [Sebaldian] narrator discovers in the course of his travels (and with him the reader) that he is constructing the text he is reading, a text at once being imagined and destroyed, a fragment of the past, and a ruin that haunts the present” (268). Proust’s opus is a meditation on the different ways we can walk. Remembrance is a book about momentum—a book about movement. It is a book which always forges forward, but which always faces backward, where time and place can still and footsteps be paused in motion, or tiptoed upstairs and across tables or be caught in flight over the body of an octogenarian lying on a beach. And it is the walks of the narrator’s past—his encounters with landscape—that give his present (and future) thoughts impetus: the rhythms of his long-past progress still affect the way he moves and acts and thinks, and will always do so:the “Méséglise way” and the “Guermantes way” remain for me linked with many of the little incidents of that one of all the divers lives along whose parallel lines we are moved, which is the most abundant in sudden reverses of fortune, the richest in episodes; I mean the life of the mind [...] [T]he two “ways” give to those [impressions of the mind] a foundation, depth, a dimension lacking from the rest. They invest them, too, with a charm, a significance which is for me alone. (Swann’s Way 252-255)The two “ways”—walks in and around the town of Combray—are, for the narrator, frames through which he thinks about his childhood, and all the things which happened to him because of that childhood. I felt something similar through the process of writing my thesis: a need to allow the 3-mile-per-hour-connection between mind and body and place that Solnit speaks about seep into my work. I felt the stirrings of old ways; the places I once walked, which I photographed and paced, pulsed and pushed me forwards in the present and towards the future. I felt strangely attached to, and disconnected from, those pathways: lanes where I had rummaged for conkers; streets my grandparents had once lived and worked on; railways demolished because of roads which now existed, leaving only long, straight pathways through overgrown countryside suffused with time and memory. The oddness I felt might be an effect of what Wood describes as a “certain doubleness”, “where homesickness is a kind of longing for Britain and an irritation with Britain: sickness for and sickness of” (93-94). The model of seamless prose offered some way to articulate, at least, the particularities of this condition, and of the problem of connection—whether with place or the past. But it is in this shift away from conclusiveness, which occurs when the writer constructs-as-they-write, that Baumgarten sees seamlessness:rather than the defined edges, boundaries, and conventional perceptions promised by realism, and the efficient account of intention, action, causation, and conclusion implied by the stance of realistic prose, reader and narrator have to assimilate the past and present in a dream state in which they blend imperceptibly into each other. (277)It’s difficult to articulate the way in which the connection between walking, writing, and thinking works. Solnit draws one comparison, talking to the ways in which digression and association mix:as a literary structure, the recounted walk encourages digression and association, in contrast to the stricter form of a discourse or the chronological progression of a biographical or historical narrative [...] James Joyce and Virginia Woolf would, in trying to describe the workings of the mind, develop of style called stream of consciousness. In their novels Ulysses and Mrs Dalloway, the jumble of thoughts and recollections of their protagonists unfolds best during walks. This kind of unstructured, associative thinking is the kind most often connected to walking, and it suggests walking as not an analytical but an improvisational act. (21)I think the key, here, is the notion of association—in the making of connections, and, in my case, in the making of connections between present and past. When we walk we exist in a roving state, and with a dual purpose: Sophie Cunningham says that we walk to get from one place to the next, but also to insist that “what lies between our point of departure and our destination is important. We create connection. We pay attention to detail, and these details plant us firmly in the day, in the present” (Cunningham). The slipperiness of homelooseness can be emphasised in the slipperiness of seamless prose, and walking—situating self in the present—is a rebuttal of slipperiness (if, as I will argue, a rebuttal which has at its heart a contradiction: it is both effective and ineffective. It feels as close as is possible to something impossible to attain). Solnit argues that walking and what she calls “personal, descriptive, and specific” writing are suited to each other:walking is itself a way of grounding one’s thoughts in a personal and embodied experience of the world that it lends itself to this kind of writing. This is why the meaning of walking is mostly discussed elsewhere than in philosophy: in poetry, novels, letters, diaries, travellers’ accounts, and first-person essays. (26)If a person is searching for some kind of possible-impossible grounding in the past, then walking pace is the pace at which to achieve that sensation (both in the world and on the page). It is at walking pace that connections can be made, even if they can be sensed slipping away: this is the Janus-faced problem of attempting to uncover anything which has been. The search, in fact, becomes facsimile for the past itself, or for the inconclusiveness of the past. In my own work—in preparing for that work—I walked and wrote about walking up the flank of the hill which hovered above the house in which I lived before I left England. To get to the top, and the great stone monument which sits there, I had to pass that house. The door was open, and that was enough to unsettle. Baumgarten, again on The Emigrants, articulates the effect: “unresolved, fragmented, incomplete, relying on shards for evidence, the narrator insists on the inconclusiveness of his experience: rather than arriving at a conclusion, narrator and reader are left disturbed” (269).Sebald writes in his usual intense way about a Swiss writer, Robert Walser, who he calls le promeneur solitaire (“The Solitary Walker”). Walser was a prolific writer, but through the last years of his life wrote less and less until he ended up incapable of doing so: in the end, Sebald says, “the traces Robert Walser left on his path through life were so faint as to have almost been effaced altogether” (119).Sebald draws parallels between Walser and his own grandfather. Both have worked their way into Sebald’s prose, along with the author himself. Because of this cocktail, I’ve come to read Sebald’s thoughts on Walser as sideways thoughts on his own prose (perhaps due to that cyclopean quality described by White). The works of the two writers share, at the very least, a certain incandescent ephemerality—a quality which exists in Sebald’s work, crystallised in the form and formlessness of a wasps’ nest. The wasps’ nest is a symbol Sebald uses in his book Vertigo, and which he talks to in an interview with Sarah Kafatou:do you know what a wasp’s nest is like? It’s made of something much much thinner than airmail paper: grey and as thin as possible. This gets wrapped around and around like pastry, like a millefeuille, and can get as big as two feet across. It weighs nothing. For me the wasp’s nest is a kind of ideal vision: an object that is extremely complicated and intricate, made out of something that hardly exists. (32)It is in this ephemerality that the walker’s way of moving—if not their journey—can be felt. The ephemerality is necessary because of the way the world is: the way it always passes. A work which is made to seem to encompass everything, like Remembrance of Things Past, is made to do so because that is the nature of what walking offers: an ability to comprehend the world solidly, both minutely and vastly, but with a kind of forgetting attached to it. When a person walks through the world they are firmly embedded in it, yes, but they are also always enacting a process of forgetting where they have been. This continual interplay between presence and absence is evidenced in the way in which Sebald and Proust build the consciousnesses they shape on the page—consciousnessess accustomed to connectedness. According to Sebald, it was through the prose of Walser that he learned this—or, at least, through an engagement with Walser’s world, Sebald, “slowly learned to grasp how everything is connected across space and time” (149). Perhaps it can be seen in the way that the Méséglise and Guermantes ways resonate for the Proustian narrator even when they are gone. Proust’s narrator receives a letter from an old love, in the last volume of Remembrance, which describes the fate of the Méséglise way (Swann’s way, that is—the title of the first volume in the sequence). Gilberte tells him that the battlefields of World War I have overtaken the paths they used to walk:the little road you so loved, the one we called the stiff Hawthorn climb, where you professed to be in love with me when you were a child, when all the time I was in love with you, I cannot tell you how important that position is. The great wheatfield in which it ended is the famous “slope 307,” the name you have so often seen recorded in the communiqués. The French blew up the little bridge over the Vivonne which, you remember, did not bring back your childhood to you as much as you would have liked. The Germans threw others across; during a year and a half they held one half of Combray and the French the other. (Time Regained 69-70)Lia Purpura describes, and senses, a similar kind of connectedness. The way in which each moment builds into something—into the ephemeral, shifting self of a person walking through the world—is emphasised because that is the way the world works:I could walk for miles right now, fielding all that passes through, rubs off, lends a sense of being—that rush of moments, objects, sensations so much like a cloud of gnats, a cold patch in the ocean, dust motes in a ray of sun that roil, gather, settle around my head and make up the daily weather of a self. (x)This is what seamless prose can emulate: the rush of moments and the folds and shapes which dust turns and makes. And, well, I am aware that this may seem a grand kind of conclusion, and even a peculiarly nonspecific one. But nonspecificity is built by a culmination of details, of sentences—it is built deliberately, to evoke a sense of looseness in the world. And in the associations which result, through the mind of the writer, their narrator, and the reader, much more than is evident on the page—Sebald’s “everything”—is flung to the surface. Of course, this “everything” is split through with the melancholy evident in the destruction of the Méséglise way. Nonspecificity becomes the result of any attempt to capture the past—or, at least, the past becomes less tangible the longer, closer, and slower your attempt to grasp it. In both Sebald and Proust the task of representation is made to feel seamless in echo of the impossibility of resolution.In the unbroken track of a sentence lies a metaphor for the way in which life is spent: under threat, forever assaulted by the world and the senses, and forever separated from what came before. The walk-as-method is entangled with the mind thinking and the pen writing; each apes the other, and all work towards the same kind of end: an articulation of how the world is. At least, in the hands of Sebald and Proust and through their long and complex prosodies, it does. For both there is a kind of melancholy attached to this articulation—perhaps because the threads that bind sever as well. The Rings of Saturn offers a look at this. The book closes with a chapter on the weaving of silk, inflected, perhaps, with a knowledge of the ways in which Robert Walser—through attempts to ensnare some of life’s ephemerality—became a victim of it:That weavers in particular, together with scholars and writers with whom they had much in common, tended to suffer from melancholy and all the evils associated with it, is understandable given the nature of their work, which forced them to sit bent over, day after day, straining to keep their eye on the complex patterns they created. It is difficult to imagine the depths of despair into which those can be driven who, even after the end of the working day, are engrossed in their intricate designs and who are pursued, into their dreams, by the feeling that they have got hold of the wrong thread. (283)Vladimir Nabokov, writing on Swann’s Way, gives a competing metaphor for thinking through the seamlessness afforded by walking and writing. It is, altogether, more optimistic: more in keeping with Purpura’s interpretation of connectedness: “Proust’s conversations and his descriptions merge into one another, creating a new unity where flower and leaf and insect belong to one and the same blossoming tree” (214). This is the purpose of long and complex books like The Rings of Saturn and Remembrance of Things Past: to draw the lines which link each and all together. To describe the shape of consciousness, to mimic the actions of a body experiencing its progress through the world. I think that is what the photographs I took when wandering attempt, in a failing way, to do. They all show a kind of relentlessness, but in that relentlessness is also, I think, the promise of connectedness—even if not connectedness itself. Each path aims forward, and articulates something of what came before and what might come next, whether trodden in the world or walked on the page.Author’s NoteI’d like to express my thanks to the anonymous reviewers who took time to improve this article. I’m grateful for their insights and engagement, and for the nuance they added to the final copy.References Baumgarten, Murray. “‘Not Knowing What I Should Think:’ The Landscape of Postmemory in W.G. Sebald’s The Emigrants.” Partial Answers: Journal of Literature and the History of Ideas 5.2 (2007): 267-287. 28 Sep. 2018 <https://doi.org/10.1353/pan.2007.0000>.Cunningham, Sophie. “Staying with the Trouble.” Australian Book Review 371 (May 2015). 23 June 2016 <https://www.australianbookreview.com.au/abr-online/archive/2015/2500-2015-calibre-prize-winner-staying-with-the-trouble>.Franklin, Ruth. “Rings of Smoke.” The Emergence of Memory: Conversations with W.G. Sebald. Ed. Lynne Sharon Schwartz. New York: Seven Stories Press, 2007. 121-122.Kafatou, Sarah. “An Interview with W.G. Sebald.” Harvard Review 15 (1998): 31-35. Nabokov, Vladimir. “Marcel Proust: The Walk by Swann’s Place.” 1980. Lectures on Literature. London: Picador, 1983. 207-250.Proust, Marcel. Swann’s Way. Part I. 1913. Trans. C.K. Scott Moncrieff in 1922. London: Chatto & Windus, 1960.———. Time Regained. 1927. Trans. Stephen Hudson. London: Chatto & Windus, 1957.Purpura, Lia. “On Not Pivoting”. Diagram 12.1 (n.d.). 21 June 2018 <http://thediagram.com/12_1/purpura.html>.Schwartz, Lynne Sharon, ed. The Emergence of Memory: Conversations with W.G. Sebald. New York: Seven Stories Press, 2007.Sebald, W.G. The Rings of Saturn. 1995. Trans. Michael Hulse in 1998. London: Vintage, 2002.——. “Le Promeneur Solitaire.” A Place in the Country. Trans. Jo Catling. London: Hamish Hamilton, 2013. 117-154.Solnit, Rebecca. Wanderlust: A History of Walking. 2001. London: Granta Publications, 2014.White, Edmund. Proust. London: Phoenix, 1999.Wood, James. The Nearest Thing to Life. London: Jonathan Cape, 2015.Woolf, Virginia. “The Narrow Bridge of Art.” Granite and Rainbow. USA: Harvest Books, 1975.

In 1937 John Piper’s article ‘Prehistory from the Air’ was published in the final volume of the modernist art journal Axis. In it, Piper compares the landscapes of southern England, seen from above, with the modernist works of Miró and Picasso (Fig. 4.1). His interest in the aerial view is not, however, confined to its Formalist-aesthetic aspect; Piper also points out how flying and aerial photography have accelerated archaeological theory and practice. Aerial photographs, he writes, ‘have elucidated known sites of earthworks and have shown the sites of many that were previously unknown’. They are also, he continues, ‘among the most beautiful photographs ever taken’. The aerial view, it seems, could be both investigative and aesthetic. The use of aerial photography by archaeologists, known as ‘aerial archaeology’, began in earnest in Britain in the decade in which Piper was writing, although its possibilities were beginning to be suspected in the 1920s, after the use of aerial photography for reconnaissance purposes in the First World War. In the interwar period it was British archaeologists who pioneered the new methods of aerial archaeology. In his book on aerial archaeology, Leo Deuel notes that until the 1950s ‘no other European country had made any comparable effort to tap the almost limitless store of information consecutive cultures had imprinted on its soil’. As many commentators pointed out, the British landscape offered plenty of such ‘information’: the series of invasions, settlements, clearances, and developments that constitute British history have made the landscape a veritable palimpsest, the layers of which can potentially be revealed in an aerial view. Archaeologists became expert in deciphering aerial views of this palimpsest, as we shall see. But such views of Britain exercised an appeal beyond archaeological circles. Aerial photography showed Britain as it had never before been seen; it revealed aspects of the landscape hitherto unknown, or at least never before visualized in such concrete form. The aerial view ‘made strange’ long-familiar features: hills seemed to disappear, towns and cities might appear tiny, rivers and roads ran through the two-dimensional scene like veins.