Category Archives: personal

Qualification vs unlimited education

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In “Adrift in Caledonia“, Nick Thorpe is in the Shetland Isles speaking to Stuart Hill (aka ‘Captain Calamity’).  Stuart says:

“What does qualification mean? … Grammatically, a qualification limits the meaning of a sentence. And that’s what qualifications seem to do to people. When you become a lawyer it becomes impossible to think of yourself outside that definition. The whole of the education system is designed to fit people into employment, into the system. It’s not designed to realise their full creativity.”

Now Stuart may be being slightly cynical and maybe the ‘whole of education system’ is not like that, but sadly the general thrust often seems so.

Indeed I recently tweeted a link to @fmeawad‘s post “Don’t be Shy to #fail” as it echoed my own long standing worries (see “abject failures“) that we have a system that encourages students to make early, virtually unchangeable, choices about academic or career choices, and then systematically tell them how badly they do at it. Instead the whole purpose of education should be to enable people to discover their strengths and their purposes and help them to excel in those things, which are close to their heart and build on their abilities.  And this may involve ‘failures’ along the way and may mean shifting areas and directions.

At a university level the very idea behind the name ‘university’ was the bringing together of disparate scholars.  In “The Rise and Progress of  Universities” (Chapter 2. What is a University?, 1854) John Henry Newman (Cardinal Newman, recently beatified) wrote:

“IF I were asked to describe as briefly and popularly as I could, what a University was, I should draw my answer from its ancient designation of a Studium Generale, or “School of Universal Learning.” This description implies the assemblage of strangers from all parts in one spot;—from all parts; else, how will you find professors and students for every department of knowledge? and in one spot; else, how can there be any school at all? Accordingly, in its simple and rudimental form, it is a school of knowledge of every kind, consisting of teachers and learners from every quarter. Many things are requisite to complete and satisfy the idea embodied in this description; but such as this a University seems to be in its essence, a place for the communication and circulation of thought, by means of personal intercourse, through a wide extent of country.”

Note the emphasis on having representatives of many fields of knowledge ‘in one spot’: the meeting and exchange, the flow across disciplines, and yet is this the experience of many students?  In the Scottish university system, students are encouraged to study a range of subjects early on, and then specialise later; however, this is as part of a four year undergraduate programme that starts at 17.  At Lancaster there is an element of this with students studying three subjects in their first year, but the three year degree programmes (normally starting at 18) means that for computing courses we now encourage students to take 2/3 of that first year in computing in order to lay sufficient ground to cover material in the rest of their course.  In most UK Universities there is less choice.

However, to be fair, the fault here is not simply that of university teaching and curricula; students seem less and less willing to take a wider view of their studies, indeed unwilling to consider anything that is not going to be marked for final assessment.  A five year old is not like this, and I assume this student resistance is the result of so many years in school, assessed and assessed since they are tiny; one of the reasons Fiona and I opted to home educate our own children (a right that seems often under threat, see “home education – let parents alone!“).  In fact, in the past there was greater degree of cross-curricula activity in British schools, but this was made far more difficult by the combination of the National Curriculum prescribing content,  SATs used for ‘ranking’ schools, and increasingly intrusive ‘quality’ and targets bureaucracy introduced from the 1980s onwards.

Paradoxically, once a student has chosen a particular discipline, we often then force a particular form of breadth within it.  Sometimes this is driven by external bodies, such as the BPA, which largely determines the curriculum in psychology courses across the UK.  However, we also do it within university departments as we determine what for us is considered a suitable spread of studies, and then forcing students into it no matter what their leanings and inclinations, and despite the fact that similar institutions may have completely different curricula.  So, when a student ‘fails’ a module they must retake the topic on which they are clearly struggling in order to scrape a pass or else ‘fail’ the entire course.  Instead surely we should use this this as an indication of aptitude and maybe instead allow students to take alternative modules in areas of strength.

Several colleagues at Talis are very interested in the Peer 2 Peer University (P2PU), which is attempting to create a much more student-led experience. I would guess that Stuart Hill might have greater sympathy with this endeavour, than with the traditional education system.  Personally, I have my doubts as to whether being virtually / digitally ‘in one spot‘ is the same as actually being co-present (but the OU manage), and whether being totally student-led looses the essence of scholarship, teaching1 and mentoring, which seems the essence of what a university should be. However, P2PU and similar forms of open education (such as the Khan Academy)  pose a serious intellectual challenge to the current academic system: Can we switch the balance back from assessment to education?  Can we enable students to find their true potential wherever it lies?

  1. Although ‘teaching’ is almost a dirty word now-a-days, perhaps I should write ‘facilitating learning’![back]

Paris dawn

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Dawn in Paris from the 29th floor of Hôtel Concorde La Fayette, looking north-east towards Sacre Cœur.  End of a few days as external expert for the INRIA Evaluation Seminar on “Interaction and Visualisation”.

I was also in Paris last September and changed my view of the city (hitherto rather poor).  I started a post about that then “Paris and the redemption of the French restaurant“, but never uploaded it at the time; however, I have now done so (post dated to Sept 2009).  Also on Flickr are more photos of dawn over Sacre Cœur and also I am uploading my photos from the previous Paris trip last Sept.

cracks in the ceiling, windows on childhood

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“This bedroom.  Where she knew the pattern of cracks in the ceiling better than any other fact of her life.”
Shipping News, p.54

Reading this, I realised I also remember the patterns on the ceiling above Mum and Dad’s bed in the big bedroom in Bangor Street, where my sister and I also slept in bunk beds.  As I lay, falling asleep with monkey held close, the pattern above seemed like the face and shoulders of some giant that had slept in the attic and left his impression in the plaster like the smaller dent in the sheets when I got up in the morning.

I had forgotten it, but I can see it now, patterns upon light green woodchip ceiling paper, as clear as the sky and grass before me where I am sitting now, and mornings with tea from the Goblin Teasmade and Dad bringing up marmalade-laden toast cut in triangles before, workman-fashion, he sipped hot tea from the saucer.

beyond books and blood

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With most others, I was sickened by Pastor Terry Jones’ threat to burn copies of the Qur’an; it is directly counter to the Christian message and basic human decency.  Happily, this now seems to have been abandoned. However, while this was provocative and insensitive and may be used as an excuse for violence across the world, there seems to be a subtle and worrying shift as many have suggested that he will be responsible for any violence or even deaths.

However vile Jones’ threat was, the responsibility for violence lies with the perpetrators.

We seem to have lost the plot somehow when the burning of a book claims more news time and more  condemnation than those persecuting, maiming and killing people.

I am sure both true Muslims and Christians know that God’s dignity is not diminished one iota by the desecration of any book or building (including Ground Zero), even though our own feelings, dignity or pride may suffer. And I am certain they also know that God’s love extends to victims whatever their beliefs.

Let’s set our attention on the important things and leave those like Pastor Jones to the obscurity they deserve.

Across Ireland to Limerick: Stepping Out of Time

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Early last week I had  a few days external examining the iMedia course at Limerick.  A wonderful course I was impressed again at the Dawn 2010 show pieces produced by the students who come predominantly from arts or design backgrounds and many of whom have never touched code or soldering iron before starting the course.

As it was Bank Holiday weekend, flying would have meant spending 24 hours in an airport between flights and airport hotels in each direction, or alternatively driving south to an airport.  It seemed more sensible and more fun to drive south through Ireland itself, and in the process satisfy a little my itinerant spirit.

I didn’t manage to write as I went along, but have retrospectively made a number of post-dated photo-blogs:

Roads of the Sea — Tiree to Larne

Into the West — Larne to Westport

Serendipity and Song — Westport to Doolin

Last Day — Doolin to Limerick

Full set of photos at my Limerick-Aug-2010 Flickr photo set

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Said goodbye to our little dog Tansy over weekend.  I am not one of nature’s dog lovers, but it is amazing how one gets attached to a small bundle of fur, I just wish I had been at home in Tiree with Fiona at the time.  At nearly 17 she was very old in doggy years, seemed to be happy to the end and certainly gave a lot of happiness to others, which is a pretty good epitaph for anyone.

Last Day — Doolin to Limerick

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From Doolin’s harbour side you can see the ferries that ply back and forth to the Aran Islands.  The rock is limestone, like the Burren, and the land beneath cut through with caves including the world’s largest stalactite and the submerged ‘Green Holes’, only discovered in the 1980s.

While the Aran Islands stretch across the sea to the North West, to the South West rise the Cliffs of Moher, 200 metres from the sea, shortlisted alongside Kilimanjaro, the Great Barrier Reef and the Grand Canyon to be one of the new seven wonders of nature.  There is no beach, no sand or shingle, just sea and shear rock, but surfers travel there to ride the 35 foot wave at its feet.

The Moher visitor centre is dug and buried into the hillside with curved windows cut through the turf; Hobbit Town meets HiTech,  The paved, stepped, and wheelchair-access routed area with its viewing points and wall of wave-patterned Burran limestone slabs, ends at widely ignored signs threatening danger to life and limb if one proceeds.  You can see why the signs are there; it is not so much the lack of fence or wall between the cliff top path and precipitous edge, but the rock itself.  The limestone of the Burran, Doolin coast and Aran Isles has ended and this is younger, softer alluvial rock, at the cliff top often little more than flakes of shale in hardened mud.  The tourists peeking over the edge may be secure in footing, but the soft cliff edge itself might shrug them off to fly for a moment amongst the nesting gulls before hitting the water 600 feet below.

And out on the grass beside the forbidden cliff path, an Italian couple set up a video camera looking out towards the rocky headland, and sit in front of it to exchange rings.

Back at the visitor centre a sculptor was hard at work with chisel, angle grinder and chain saw, capturing the spirit of Maher from surfer to sea birds.  Shane Gilmore‘s sculptures are found across Western Ireland, and he was commissioned to make this one in situ during the Clare Heritage Week.  At Shane’s feet lay a collection of reference books; he explained that if he got some detail wrong, gave a bird the head of a gull and the body of a gannet, someone would be sure to notice.

It is only a short way from Doolin and Maher, and slightly longer of you cut back north to travel across the Burren, but worth it, for its near lunar yet surprisingly fertile landscape.   Few roads cut across the limestone countryside but far beneath the ground are subterranean rivers and networks of caves left from past water courses, treacherous as they too can flood rapidly when rain falls and drains through sinkholes and caverns.

At a distance the Burren landscape appears barren, but between the clints, giant paving slabs of grey stone, the cracks, or grykes, are rich with wild flowers and lush grasses that supported communities from Neolithic times, who in turn left their traces in fire circles and ring forts.  And near every parking place, each clint is topped with a tiny cairn or sculpture as visitors today still want to leave some trace of their being here, or maybe token of their hoped-for return.

Serendipity and Song — Westport to Doolin

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Westport nestles on the far shore of one of Ireland’s great peninsulas, jutting into the Atlantic, with the Mountains of Connemara to the south and the wild coasts of Achill to the north.   Some years ago we camped on Achill Island in late September.  Most Irish campsites close after the first week of September but we found one campsite still open although only one other campervan stopped by in the few days we spent there.  The site had several permanent mobile homes, and despite the 8 foot banks of grass-topped sand that protected the site each was held to the ground with structures of foot-wide girders to hold them down against the force of the Atlantic winds.  We parked close between some of these and as the campervan shook in the night reminded ourselves that these were just mild September breezes, not the wild storms of the winter.

This time I had to set my face south cutting across Connemara to Doolin for the night.  I took the coast road between Croagh Patrick and the sea, passing the car parks and coaches at its foot where the pilgrimage route begins.  Although I’ll forgo the climb on hands and knees of the true pilgrim it would be good to climb it some day for the view and the sense of those who have visited this holy spot for a thousand years.

I do not have a SatNav and somehow at Louisburgh I took the wrong road.  As the road narrowed to single track and then grass began to grow down the centre, I realised my mistake, but assumed it would eventually join up with the main road.  In fact I was driving down a 15 mile cul-de-sac.  Often when I have lost my way in a strange city, I have vowed I would get a SatNav, but now I am glad I have not.  Global communications and perpetual internet offer instant information and allow us to plan every journey with printed Google maps and reviews of each tiny coffee house.  But it would be a Faustian bargain if it were to rob us of the joy of just one unexpected and unplanned mistaken road to paradise.

On the far south west of County Mayo, there is a tiny nick in the coast on the map, and the indistinct line leading to it is this road, skirting the coast, looking out to islands and ocean, and ending at that nick, named like so many other simply White Strand.

Although my feet ever itch to wander, if there were a place to stop for a while and taste the ocean air, this would be it; but with many miles to go, I had just a few minutes to walk among the dunes and check where I was with three lads taking turns on a quad bike across the broad washed sand, before setting on my way again, back along the road I had come and again amazed at the way I had come and the fortune of following a ‘wrong’ path.

Through Connemara and many mountains calling to be climbed and lakes to be sailed; past Galway, the sound of tin whistle and fiddle almost audible even from the European funded ring road that bypasses the town’s old streets; along the coast of Northern Clare with the Burran on the left and sea on the right and on down, over the little bridge to Doolin and Fisher Street.

Fiona and I had camped in Doolin many years before, but we arrived late, the night was wild, and the ground in the campsite down by the harbour more like marsh than grass1.  So we stayed in the van, opened up the roof just far enough to poke out our heads, feel the wild wind whip our hair, and see the waves crash against the feet of the Cliffs of Moher.  So this was the first time I had visited the legendary O’Connors and experienced a session there.

Doolin is a Mecca for traditional music: around the bar several Japanese faces, a lady from South Carolina, and a couple of hitchhikers from Lille meandering their way around the Western Ireland, cooking pasta in a battered saucepan.   Perched on a bar stool, I chatted over dinner with a man who lives just 25 miles away, staying in his caravan overnight, ready for a day visit to Inis Mór, the largest of the Aran Islands the next day. He had briefly visited the islands 12 years before, but this time was planning to walk across Inis Mór to Dún Aonghasa, the huge Iron Age fort cut in half by the eroding cliff face. I was reminded of the parable “the wise man built his house upon rock”, but after over 2000 years even the limestone of the Aran Isles is no sure foundation against the buffeting of the North Atlantic waves, that can throw vast boulders up to the cliff tops from the sea 25 metres below.

At 9:30 the music group began to assemble, three men who clearly played together and others invited into the music making, an older man with no instrument who later sang, and others.  It is an inclusive music, with no pretension, Guinness lubricates the beating Bodhrán and pumping accordion, and the old hands play alongside the young.  One couple, maybe students visiting during the summer vacation, looked nervous but were welcomed in and a young boy, maybe 12 or 14 years old, sang and played tin whistle, gradually growing in confidence as the night wore on.

next Last Day — Doolin to Limerick

  1. The campsite was Nagle’s, a great location overlooking the sea, but this time I stayed at Lane Lodge B&B.[back]

Into the West — Larne to Westport

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The fastest route to Limerick from Larne is probably due south to Dublin and then across to the West, the route we took as a family when we first visited Ireland together on the weekend of the Good Friday agreement.   At that time, the IRA and Unionist cease-fires had been in operation for several years and the border checkpoints, while still very visible, were not in use.  However, I vividly recall the gradual realisation that the alternating villages we drove through: one prosperous and brightly bedecked with red, blue and white painted kerbstones, followed by one more down at heel with a large church in the middle, were in fact alternating protestant and catholic villages, bringing home so sharply the social as well as political and religious differences.

Whether it is passing time, or simply a different route, but I didn’t notice the extreme differences this time.  However some things don’t change and beside the road, strapped to each lamppost, flap the Union Flag, the flag of St George with the hand of Ulster in the middle and even Scotland’s flag of St Andrew, but never the flag of St Patrick nor, of course, the tricolour1!  Like Norman castles in Wales, masonry also remains, and the heavily armoured police stations contrast so strongly with the bungalow with its ‘Police’ sign in Tiree.

As I had Saturday and Sunday to get to Limerick, rather than driving directly I planned to go to Doolin for the night.  However, not content with this detour, I decided also to go to Westport on the way.  I don’t fully understand this Celtic longing for the western seaboard.  Is it deep in my blood from birth, or borne from stories of the downed cantref beyond Aberdyfy and Tír na nÓg?  It is certainly not America, but somewhere out there in the Atlantic, caught between the wave trammelled coast and the crack in the earth that is the mid-Atlantic ridge, is a path into fairyland and myth that draws at something deep in the heart.

My route south from Larne took me through places that evoked again those childhood memories: Omagh, Antrim, and road signs to others: Enniskillen, Londonderry.  Like South Africa, it seemed so impossible that things could ever change and yet, despite problems still in both, it is a different world; hope still for other parts of the world that today seem equally impossible.

In those days there would have been check-points at the border, but travelling now I never even noticed a sign to say when I crossed from Northern Ireland to Eire.  However, as I drove through Ballyshannon I had no doubts that I was in the South: bright coloured shop fronts and ramshackle road signs, a country whose spirit is far more like southern Europe, than the cooler Northern blood that often mistakes tidiness for godliness — what happened to the hot fire that flowed through the veins of Visgoth and Viking?

I would have loved to have more time to stop along the way, camp on Boa Island at the top of Loch Erne looking out at the hills that tumble into the water across the Loch, or climbing Benbulben that, while gentler from the West and South, to the North rises square faced and square sided like a wooden-block mountain in child’s counterpane landscape. However, I did not stop and drove on towards the West, through the thick traffic near Sligo, and on into the County Mayo countryside.  It would have been good to stop and stare, to spend time savouring each place; and given time I would do so, but with limited time I always choose to move rather than stay, to feel the miles flow past whether by foot or car.  Like the thirst for the western shore, the itinerant spirit runs deep in my heart, and as a child I dreamed of being a gypsy or a tramp, living along the paths of the land.

next Serendipity and Song — Westport to Doolin

  1. To be fair south of the border tourist shops accept payment in euro or US dollars, but not pounds (not even Scottish pounds), and on flag poles fly the flags of Ireland, the EU, USA, France, Germany, Italy … but never the UK.[back]