This is the Waldermarsudde oil mill in Stockholm, built in 1784 and once used to produce linseed oil. These days, it’s part of the Prins Eugens art museum.

I just walked past it, so don’t have much more to tell you about it. Instead, allow me to present some disparate thoughts on windmills a long way from Sweden.

As a child, I used to be taken on an annual trip to Norfolk to visit my extended family. Seeing windmills there was always a particular treat. I particularly liked windmills with ‘headphones’, which was my inexplicable choice of word to describe sails.

One windmill we visited often was Sutton Mill, built in 1789 and the UK’s tallest surviving windmill. I only realised when coming to write this blog post that it closed to visitors in 2008, and has had something of a torrid time since, with its cap removed and bits falling off. It has now been restored and is a holiday home available to rent.

The Norfolk mills website has a nice potted history, including recent events.

I can’t find a picture of me at Sutton Mill, but here I am looking typically full of sunshine on the back of a boat on the Norfolk Broads twenty-odd years ago:

There was a lovely article by Kate Youde and Susie Mesure in the FT recently about the challenges of living in a windmill: it’s hard to find furniture to fit circular rooms, you can’t really hang pictures on sloping walls, that kind of thing. It’s unbelievable that they failed to mention Jonathan Creek.

I’d never previously clocked that windmills often need two entrances. As the cap rotates with the wind, a single entrance could be blocked by the sails. I can’t believe that I’d never thought of that before.

In 2007, I took this photograph of a windmill somewhere in Norfolk. The embedded geolocation is wrong, and I’ve spent far more time than is sensible trying to work out which windmill it might be.

I reckon it is Stow Mill, which Norfolk Mills says would have been open to the public in 2007… though it, too, has now also been converted into a holiday rental.

This is a much newer mill than Sutton and Waldermarsudde, constructed as a flour mill in 1827. Happily, though, this one proves the FT’s rule about windmills having two entrances on opposite sides, lest one be blocked by the sails… or at least it used to, but the second entrance was bricked up when shorter sails were fitted.

Thirty years ago, King Carl XVI Gustaf ordered and funded the construction of these obelisks in a square in central Stockholm. They were later moved to a less conspicuous location on the quayside.

Let’s not pretend that we can’t see why they were moved: they’re ugly. Terrazzo concrete does not sit well with plexiglass covered waves of brightly covered lights. Concrete monuments are explicitly designed to last centuries; electronic gizmos and light bulbs are not. It’s very 1990s.

The symbolism, though, is interesting. The flashy do-dahs are there to show data on the air and water quality in Stockholm, and to remind us of the impact of humanity on nature—and vice versa. King Carl XVI Gustaf is a very similar age to King Charles III, and this is a topic that clearly interests them both. Perhaps expressing environmental concerns are part of the role of a modern European monarch.

This artwork by the Belgian couple Tom and Lien Dekyvere was part of Canary Wharf’s festival of winter lights, but has since been adopted into the permanent collection.

It is a boulder made from discarded circuit boards. It lights up, but I vastly prefer it in its daytime mode, where it looks much more like a boulder and much less like a twinkly trinket.

When I’ve seen this work previously, I’ve taken it as a commentary on the impact of technology on the earth’s natural resources: all those rare earth metals returning to the rocky form from whence they came. The growth of artificial intelligence, with its outsized carbon emissions, felt like it lent the sculpture extra contemporary relevance.

In the course of writing this blog post, though, I’ve discovered that my interpretation does not align with the artists’ intention, which is more about highlighting the imperfection of digital representations of the physical world—which, I suppose, explains the garish light display.

I also thought the label was misprinted, and should have been ‘El Antica’, which I assumed to be Belgian for ‘the antique’, but that’s a load of rubbish too.

This book, which was a birthday present from my parents, does an outstanding job of answering the question: what went wrong with the Boeing 737-MAX?

Robison takes a longitudinal view, giving a fast-paced account of the history of Boeing. The book notes how cost-cutting and the side-lining of expert engineers in favour of project managers led to a toxic workplace and, ultimately, a failure to prioritise safety over other considerations.

Robison, in concert with the inquiries into the plane crashes, makes the point that the failures in the design of the 737-MAX were not complex. The plane was loaded with software which brought the nose down, intended to avoid a stall by stopping the plane from climbing too steeply. However, this system relied on a single sensor to work out the angle of the climb. If the single sensor failed, the computer would put the plane into a dive. This system, which was new to the 787-MAX, was not described in the flight manual, and pilots were not made aware of its existence through training—so the plane would dive, and the pilots would have no way to understand what was going on, let alone avoid a crash.

Robison’s unemotional, journalistic style of writing sets all of this out plainly. The horror of the book comes from the sheer familiarity of the processes he describes: the prioritisation of delivering things ‘on time’ rather than making sure they were safe, the way that problems were obscured through corporate jargon, the siloed working that hindered cooperation and communication between teams, the inability of those with expert knowledge to influence decisions. You could draw endless parallels between the problems identified in this book and the problems identified in Module 1 of the UK COVID Inquiry.

There was one nugget that particularly stood out. During the implementation of a particular decision, regular ‘go / no go’ meetings were renamed ‘go / go’ meetings, as ‘not going’ was no longer an option, whatever the safety considerations. I recently heard of another organisation (not in aviation) rebranding equivalent meetings in exactly the same way with exactly the same rationale.

This kind of corporate failure is pervasive: this book is essential reading to understand and challenge it.

In 1987, Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative Government set up the Teesside Development Corporation. It aimed to regenerate Teesside by using public funds to attract private investment, creating jobs and renewed prosperity in an area which had been somewhat left behind in modern Britain.

The Corporation was granted significant powers to make decisions about land use, development and infrastructure so that it could cut through the bureaucratic ‘red tape’ which so often prevented regeneration schemes from delivering timely tangible results. By sticking to a clear long-term strategic vision, the intention was that economic regeneration would surely follow.

It made some notable progress despite local protests about harming local heritage: Teesside Park and the Tees Barrage are both products of the Corporation.

Unfortunately, as is so often the case with schemes that aim to cut bureaucracy and ‘red tape’, the governance perhaps wasn’t quite as tight as it ought to have been, and the Corporation fell into financial controversy following accusations that public money had not been used appropriately.

The Corporation was dissolved not long after Tony Blair’s Labour government came to power, but can’t be forgotten since these ugly and sometimes off-kilter right-skewed statues continue to litter the local landscape:

In 2015, David Cameron’s Conservative Government set up the South Tees Development Corporation. It aimed to regenerate Teesside by using public funds to attract private investment, creating jobs and renewed prosperity in an area which had been somewhat left behind in modern Britain.

The Corporation was granted significant powers to make decisions about land use, development and infrastructure so that it could cut through the bureaucratic ‘red tape’ which so often prevented regeneration schemes from delivering timely tangible results. By sticking to a clear long-term strategic vision, the intention was that economic regeneration would surely follow.

It made some notable progress despite local protests about harming local heritage: the demolition and clean-up of the Redcar Steelworks site and the expanding local ‘freeport’ are both products of the Corporation.

Unfortunately, as is so often the case with schemes that aim to cut bureaucracy and ‘red tape’, the governance perhaps wasn’t quite as tight as it ought to have been, and the Corporation fell into financial controversy following accusations that public money had not been used appropriately.

Yet, despite losing almost a third of his vote, the Tees Valley Mayor who leads the Corporation kept his position in the 2024 election. Will that change how this story ends?

Good Lord, it’s the second post about a church in a row, I’ll need to hand this blog over to my brother if I’m not careful. Today’s visit is to St George’s Chapel, hidden away at what was once the centre of the Heathrow Airport site.

I’ve long known this existed, but I’d never visited. I’ve recently been reading Flying Blind by Peter Robison, and its mention of memorials to those killed in plane crashes spurred me to call in.

Except, one can’t call in. The church itself is open only for services. Opened in 1968, it was designed by Sir Frederick Gibberd, who more famously designed Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral and the Ulster Hospital. It is in a cave dug beneath Heathrow, stylistically similar to a crypt, the better to provide sound insulation from the noise above.

St George’s was designed with three apses, so that the Anglican, Catholic and Free Churches didn’t have to share. In the 1970s, the churches perhaps realised how petty and, dare I say it, unchristian that seemed, and so the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster, and the Moderator of the Free Church Federal Council banded together and rededicated one of the apses for shared used. They allowed the other two to be dedicated to use by non-Abrahamic religions, in a show of multi-faith… who am I kidding, this was the 1970s, of course they didn’t. They plonked a Bible in one of them, a font in the other, and carried on just as they were. Other faiths weren’t catered for until 1998, when a separate ground-floor multifaith prayer room was opened.

I couldn’t see any of this because the door was locked: as best as I can tell, it only opens at lunchtime four times per week these days, all of them for Catholic services. There was an A4 notice posted on the door with a number to call for urgent chaplaincy assistance… which was the same number one is advised to call if there is any ‘inappropriate behaviour’ in the vicinity. I’m not sure whether the chaplain prays for divine intervention in unruly behaviour or whether the security guard comes down to take your confession.

I’m being snippier than I mean to be. You can be as atheist as me and still think that the Garden of Remembrance is quite lovely. The 16-foot oak cross is arresting, and the many and varied memorial plaques are moving. The enclosed nature of the garden makes it a surprisingly peaceful and quiet place to sit and contemplate.

There is something genuinely delightful about the fact that Heathrow has protected this space while everything around it has changed. It’s a glorious bit of human-focused inefficiency, a rare place in an airport where one can sit in peace without being expected to handover cash.

Long may it continue.

Twenty years ago, I used to walk across Stockton’s Trinity Green daily, shuttling between my rented student house and lectures at Durham University’s Queen’s Campus… though in those days, it wasn’t called Trinity Green; it was just a ruined church.

Twelve years ago, I got around to writing about the slightly grisly history of the ruined church that stands at its center—and the graveyard that has now become the Green itself.

Wandering across the Green again, I reflected on how lovely the space has become, mostly thanks to work that was done some years after I moved away from Stockton. It’s become a great bit of urban greenery, with the once frequently vandalized and graffitied ruined church now sensitively fenced off, adding a beautiful atmospheric centerpiece.

It’s easy to imagine an alternative history in which the ruined church was flattened and its churchyard redeveloped into a car park or something similar. Instead, Stockton Council had the foresight to create something really special.

One of the most remarkable things about the 2024 General Election campaign was the complete absence of discussion regarding the processes by which the major parties choose their leaders.

The four most recent prime ministers at the time of the election—May, Johnson, Truss, and Sunak—had all been appointed between elections through internal party processes. It’s therefore clear that the electorate was being asked to trust not only the leader in post at the time of the election but also each party’s process for selecting a successor.

There was good reason to worry that these processes might not be robust. Both Labour and the Conservative Party leadership selection processes had recently appointed leaders who the electorate at large would not have picked: Corbyn and Truss. With hindsight, we can add Sunak to that list as well.

And yet, somehow, in all the unavoidable wall-to-wall coverage, I saw this issue raised not once.

In the most recent edition of the London Review of Books, Tom Hickman sets out yet more reasons why these internal party processes are at odds with the UK’s constitutional settlement. This one, in particular, is so egregious that I’m surprised I didn’t clock it at the time:

As the Cabinet Manual states, the monarch shall appoint as prime minister ‘the person who appears most likely to be able to command the confidence of the House’. In this case, that person was Rishi Sunak, who won each round of votes by MPs. He was, as events subsequently showed, the person whom MPs, left to themselves, would have selected. Yet in the final head-to-head between Sunak and Truss, in which party members voted, Truss was elected. MPs were, in essence, bound by contract with party members to act as though their confidence was reposed in Truss when in fact she was not the person most likely to command the confidence of the Commons.

The veil drawn over the discussion of these issues strikes me as most peculiar. Even as someone who reads more about UK politics than the average person, I couldn’t tell you what the Labour system is: I remember that Starmer altered it as part of his reform of the party, but I couldn’t tell you how. I know the Conservative system only because we’ve collectively lived through far too many of their leadership elections in recent years, including the one currently ongoing, and they have bafflingly made not a single change to the system that brought us Liz Truss.

Hickman argues that we’ve learned how not to appoint a prime minister. I disagree: the fact that nothing has changed suggests to me that we haven’t learned a thing.

The image at the top of this post was generated by DALL·E 3.

Until I saw this sign, I’d never heard of the ‘8 Bridges Way’, a walking and cycling path along the River Tees—despite having visited the Transporter Bridge many times, which is where this circular route begins and ends.

Having seen the sign and searched the web, it feels very much up my street: a twelve-mile river walk is just the sort of thing that Wendy and I might mosey along on any given weekend, especially given that we could easily catch a train down to Middlesbrough which would leave us a stone’s throw from the start.

I’ll have to add it to the list!

I streamed this 1995 Richard Linklater film after an online recommendation engine—I can’t remember which one—suggested it would be a good fit for me.

As you may know, it follows an American boy called Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and a French girl called Celine (Julie Delpy), both in their early 20s. They meet on a train, and spontaneously decide to alight together in Vienna, spending the night walking around the city and talking.

It was very warmly received in the 90s, and has been called one of the most romantic films of all time. My feelings were mixed.

This is a dialogue-heavy film: the whole thing is basically a single conversation between Jesse and Celine. This is exceptionally well-written and true-to-life, and the two actors have strong chemistry. I found it engrossing.

The problem—if it is a problem—is that the film doesn’t escape its confines. There’s a lot of naïve chat between the couple, the sort of cod philosophy of carefree wealthy twenty-somethings. Other than the viewer, there’s nothing within the film that’s at a remove from their perspective. This felt indulgent, and I vacillated between finding it charming and suffocating. I still don’t quite know whether I liked it or not: I wouldn’t describe it as romantic so much as a portrayal of a naïve idea of romance. It reminded me of Heather Rigdon’s Young & Naïve in sentiment, though the couple in the film—unlike the song—are the same age.

In the end, it’s hard to conclude that a film that had me glued to the screen and left me with lots to ponder is anything other than a success. Two sequels have also followed in the two decades since, and I plan to seek them out—which is surely an indication of recommendation.

It is, though, very much a film of its time. The gender politics have moments of real discomfort for one thing—so your mileage may vary.