Whistling languages

There are around 70 whistled languages worldwide, all based on spoken tongues and created to communicate across remote terrain. Each one is formed through changes in pitch, either following a tonal structure (where whistles, or syllables, follow the melody of the parent language), or non-tonal (where whistles mimic changes in vowel resonance, while the jump and slide of notes indicate the consonants)

The steep volcanic peaks of La Gomera. Image by Mathias Weil, courtesy of Free Images

Silbo Gomero - the most whistled language in the world

The shrill whistles of the Silbadors echo among the steep volcanic peaks of La Gomera, second smallest of the Canary Islands. The 4,000-word language of Silbo Gomero replaces the principal phonetics of Castilian Spanish with two distinct sounds for the five vowels and four for the consonants. It’s understood by over 20,000 people and can be heard up to two miles away – substantially further than a ruddy good yell. As a wise Silbador once said, “whistling is always easier than walking”.

Kus Dili - the ‘bird language’

In an isolated valley on northern Turkey’s mountainous Black Sea coast, locals shoot the breeze with the chirruping sounds of Kus dili. Used by around 10,000 people in Kusköy (‘the village of birds’), this centuries old language takes standard Turkish syllables and transforms them into piercing whistles that you can hear from over half a mile away. It’s in decline, but since 2014 local authorities have been trying to reverse this by teaching it at primary school level.

The h’mong - whistle of courtship

Deep in the Himalayas exists a whistling language with a twist. Used by the H’mong people to penetrate dense forests, their whistles also feature in the delicate act of courtship. Historically, young boys would saunter through the moonlit streets of neighbouring villages, whistling poems to catch the ears of young girls. Although rare today, this ancient language permits a complex and private code of love that’s far more chivalrous than the unwelcome ‘wit-woo’ of a wolf whistle.

Words: Matt Iredale

This article originally featured in issue 9 of Ernest Journal, on sale now

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Under the mountain

Woodworker David White carves spoons, jugs and other objects out of oak that he’s salvaged from the abandoned slate mines of North Wales, which has to be one of the most Ernest projects we’ve ever encountered…

Photo by David White

David, how did you come up with the idea to create the Mine Oak collection?

I’ve always been fascinated by the slate mining landscapes of Snowdonia. It was while on a tour of the vast slate caverns that opened my eyes to how much wood was still underground. I made a couple of cups from a sample of oak I retrieved from a mine and realised the colours in the wood were completely unique. From there my imagination ran wild with the idea of weathered wood, the rugged landscape and the industrial heritage of the mines.

What was the condition of the oak that you salvaged?

The oak is very variable in condition – it can be very brittle if it’s been closer to the mine surface (nearer bacteria). The wood that’s deeper underground is more preserved; very dense, and dark in colour. The real alchemy I find in using the wood is the colouration throughout the grain, as the iron brought down to the mine has rusted down over a hundred years and made an iron-rich water that reacts with the tannins in the oak, leaving areas of black flowing through the grain like dark clouds. I never know what will be inside the wood until I remove the surfaces. I’ve taught myself to be very open to what the wood condition and colouring suggests as objects to make with it.

Were there any challenges?

The biggest challenge is getting the wood out of the mines. The tunnels linking the caverns are only about five feet high, and I’m six foot tall. The dense, sodden wood can be 30kg per piece. Once back in the workshop the challenge is to make objects while the wood is still wet, so I can use green woodworking techniques with an axe and carving knives. However carefully I dry the wood, it often splits, so I build the splitting in to my processes now and try to forsee where splits will be so I can ‘cold forge’ fill cracks with contrasting metals.

What inspired the shapes of the jugs?

The rugged, industrial looking jugs are a reaction to both the rough wood, the massive landscapes and the industry of the mines. If you imagine a roughly made slate trolley on rails underground, filled with slate and pushed along in the dark tunnels by a young boy, you see the inspiration I had for the shapes.

What's your favourite item from the collection and why?

As I started making pieces from the mine oak, I read about what working life was like in the mines and quarries of Snowdonia a century ago. There was a huge sense of pride and comradeship among the hard working quarrymen. The men self-selected into groups of five, a ‘Bargain Gang’ who would bid for work each month. In underground and cliff-side shelters called cabans, men rested between extracting slate, talking about politics, singing, reading poetry and of course drinking tea. I created a set of five caban jugs that imagine each member of the Bargain Gang; two rock men, a splitter, a dresser and a rybelwr (young apprentice learning the trade). For the two tough rock men, I used the rough weathered surface of the oak as the jug rims. The colours within the oak looked like a Welsh moorland landscape. These jugs somehow communicated everything I wanted to convey about the eerie landscapes of slate mines.

Do you have any further plans to work with salvaged wood?

The amount of inspiration I found from the mine oak versus what I would have created with fresh, green oak was quite surprising to me. I have plans to make further sets of mine oak functional objects that are even more closely linked to the rugged mountain landscapes of Snowdonia. I also want to look to the coast of north Wales with oak in mind; perhaps shipwreck oak?

Black and white images courtesy of National Slate Museum; other images by David White

Explore more of David White’s work at thewhittlings.co.uk

Woolly buggers and booby nymphs

Fly fishermen try to fool fish into thinking that tiny bits of hair, fur, feather and thread tied to a hook are in fact tasty insects. Broadly, there are two types of fishing fly: imitators, which are designed to look like real insects; and attractors, which often look like nothing on God’s green earth, but fish seem to like them anyway. Here are three outlandish patterns that caught (ahem) our eye

Woolly Bugger

Still one of the top patterns around, the Woolly Bugger is a popular and widely used fly for catching all sorts of fish. It has proven its effectiveness over many decades, which is perhaps largely down to its versatility – it looks like a lot of things that fish love to eat, from a drowning fly to a large nymph, or even a small baitfish.

Booby Nymph

This design, which is often irresistible to trout, came about following a cunning observation: that many emerging insects use a bubble of air to move from the lake bed to the surface, which then holds them in place while they transform into a flying insect. The basic booby is simple in design – a pair of foam boobies at the head, a short body and a fluffy tail of marabou feathers (to simulate the waving legs and wings as the nymph emerges). In still waters it can be ruthlessly effective. However, fly fishing purists consider the use of boobies to be as crude as the name, and akin to cheating. The issue is contentious enough that some lake owners ban boobies from their waters.

Tups Indispensable

Made for catching brown trout in the chalk streams of south west England, this fly was the brainchild of Devon tobacconist RS Austin in 1890. Its peculiar name stems from the fact that it utilised an unusual material in its manufacture; namely, wool taken from the testicles of a ram or ‘tup’. This fine substance was long noted by anglers for its “beautiful dusty yellow” colouring, as first recorded in Alexander Mackintosh’s 1806 book The Driffield Angler.

Words: Matt Jones, Illustrations: Louise Logsdon

This article originally featured in issue 9 of Ernest Journal, on sale now

Issue 9

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Field guide: wild medicine

Bushcraft instructor Fraser Christian gathers wild plants from the forest floor to make handy extras for your first aid kit, from antihistamine tinctures to skin-protecting balms

Fraser making his antihistamine nettle tincture

My great-grandfather was a gypsy healer – he made wild medicines for Romany families and their animals. He would chew poultices of medicinal herbs and spit them into the mouths of horses. His son, my grandfather, said I am the last of the true gypsies in our family because I’m happy as long as I have somewhere warm and dry to lie down after I’ve been fed. He taught me the rule of threes, how in extreme conditions you can survive three hours without shelter, three days without water and three weeks without food. I teach this on my courses today.

Here, deep in the woodlands of rural Dorset, you are always aware of your heritage. Not just your parents and grandparents but that deep heritage – the splits in our genealogy when we diverged from the other animals. What was gained then? What was lost? The things I’m learning aren’t new – it’s old knowledge, waiting to be re-learned. Nature is chaotic, anarchistic, but there are patterns in it, too. It wants us back.

I’ve had three years out here, watching and listening. You have to adopt a different pace. If you can hear your footsteps, you’re moving too fast. The animals give clues through their movements and their habits. I watch what they eat, when they sleep, how they move, and how they treat themselves when they’re sick. This knowledge is not consigned to the forests. When I was in Bristol I found 12 medicinal plants on a patch of wasteland behind Temple Meads. Our native wild plants are tough and they find a way. Knowing how to use what’s around you is invaluable, wherever you live.

Guidelines for picking

• Different parts of the plant are better to pick at different times of the year. Look at the plant and see where it’s putting its energy – the roots, the leaves, the flowers or the seeds. This is the part to use.

• Picking after rain can save on washing, but make sure you dry the flowers before using them.

• Using your non-dominant hand, pinch below the part that you want to take, so as not to tear it, and then pluck the top of the plant with your other hand. Pick nice examples, not tired ones. Only gather from an established community, and always leave two-thirds of the plant. Pick individuals, rather than clumps – it is all too easy to gather a similar-looking poisonous species.

• Walk as far away from your base as possible and pick back towards the camp – you want to leave the closer plants for emergencies and times when you might not be able to walk so far. You could even seed the most useful plants just outside your front door, as I have with yarrow.

• When I’m foraging I always carry waterproofs, a head torch, a survival blanket, sandwich bags (for storing what I pick), a knife, a lighter, a tick removal pen, a standard first aid kit and a tin of bushcraft balm (see recipe).

Identify common medicinal plants

Cleavers (Galium aparine): You may know this plant as the one that sticks to your jumper when you’re on a walk, hence its nickname sticky willy. These are best to pick when around three inches tall. Take just the tip and use it for its cleansing properties, in a tea or a tincture. When my cat had cystitis I fed her a poultice of cleavers in the same way my grandfather treated the horses.

Nettles (Urtica dioica): Nettles are a great first plant to forage because everyone knows what they look like. Pick the youngest tips to use in a tea or a tincture. They are a powerful antihistamine and contain huge amounts of vitamin C. The sting can promote an anti-inflammatory response. When weeding a polytunnel without gloves, I got stung all over my wrist, which was stiff from martial arts and skateboarding injuries. It felt better for three months afterwards.

Yarrow (Achillea millefolium): This feathery plant is a powerful astringent (causes the skin and other tissue to tighten) so it’s ideal for treating small wounds. I’ve planted them outside my front door in case I cut myself. Achilles carried it with him to treat his troops during battle, hence its Latin name. Use as a poultice or in a balm.

Plantain (Plantago lanceolata): Plantain grows in abundance on verges by motorways and railways, but can be found almost anywhere. It has distinctive lance-shaped, ribbed leaves and ‘rat tail’ seed heads. It is full of B vitamins, which makes it useful in a tea for coughs and colds, and is brilliant used as a poultice on cuts, blisters and bites.

Bushcraft balm

A tin of balm is essential in my kit, handy for rubbing on aches and pains and protecting and healing dry or sore skin, among other uses.

Ingredients:

Sterilised jar
Sterilized screw-cap tin
Sunflower oil
Plants (for this I use plantain, yarrow leaves and flowers, mare’s tail, self-heal and water mint)
Sieve
Campfire or other heat source
Cooking pan
Water
Beeswax
Knife

Method:

1. Put your plants in a jar and cover with sunflower oil. Together, the medicinal properties of these plants protect against bleeding, burns, allergic reactions, inflammation and other common problems you might encounter while out in the wild.

2. Leave the jar in the sun or another warm place for a month.

3. Strain the plants from the oil. You can use a sieve or your hand – squeeze the plants in your fist with your thumb pointed down over the jar – the oil should trickle down into it.

4. Heat the oil in a bain-marie over a flame at a heat where the water is just breaking into bubbles but not boiling. This should be roughly 68°C (154°F) – the temperature for pasteurisation without denaturing the oil.

5. Shave in small amounts of beeswax, then test the consistency of the balm by dropping the oil solution onto a cold surface and letting it set, then scraping it with your fingernail. If you want to make a salve, leave it quite soft. For a balm, add more wax until it reaches the desired consistency. Store in the screw-cap tin.

Tincture

A tincture is a concentrated extract of a plant. Depending on the plants you use, you can take a dose of tincture to promote a restful sleep, aid digestion and ease nausea, heartburn and allergies. For this recipe I’ve chosen to make an anti-inflammatory and antihistamine tincture using nettles.

Ingredients:

Sterilised jar
Sterilised glass vial with a dropper
Vodka
Nettles
Sieve

Method:

1. Pick young nettle tips (would be a good idea to wear gardening gloves for this) put them in a jar, and cover with neutral grain spirit. Ideally this would be pure ethanol, but this is only available under license in Britain, so the best alternative is a high-percentage vodka.

2. Let the leaves steep in the jar in a warm place for about a week.

3. Strain out the plants and store in a sterilised glass vial with a dropper. This tincture will keep for a year or so. You can make it double-strength by steeping more nettles in the same vodka. Drink it like schnapps or pour a dash of boiling water on two drops of tincture to make it non-alcoholic.

Poultice

This is a moist mass of plant material applied to the skin to relieve soreness and inflammation, drawing out toxins as it dries. To make one is easy – just chew the plant up, form a pad, then apply it to the affected area. It should fall off naturally when it dries – replace with a fresh one, if needed. Depending on the plant, these can be used on cuts, splinters, burns, bites, stings and infections.

NB: Take a reputable guidebook with you when foraging. Consult your GP before taking herbal medicines as some plants cause contraindications with prescribed medication.

This article originally featured in issue 5 of Ernest Journal

Fraser Christian is founder of Coastal Survival School, based in Dorset

Becalmed: changing terrors of the Sargasso Sea

Bring to mind ocean journeys, and you might well imagine high seas, rogue waves, ships dashed on rocks – tales of human resilience pitted against a wild and omnipotent ocean. But what of places where the elements relent, leaving boats to flounder in a windless sea?

There is one such place renowned for its disquieting calms – the Sargasso Sea, a shoreless oval of water in the North Atlantic measuring some 2,000 by 700 miles. Bounded by ocean currents on all sides, the water rotates clockwise in an ocean gyre, slowly revolving like the eye of a hurricane. The area has struck terror into the minds of sailors for centuries. It was once known as the Horse Latitudes, after becalmed Spanish ships were forced to throw their horses overboard to save drinking water. Tales of ghost ships abound, their skeleton crews left to starve or go insane while their sails hung listlessly.

Despite its fearsome reputation, this singular place plays a vital role in the wider North Atlantic ecosystem, renowned oceanographer Sylvia Earle calling the Sargasso Sea ‘the golden rain forest of the ocean’. A knotted mass of free-floating sargassum seaweed covers the surface, picked over by crabs, shrimp and curious fish. Young sea turtles shelter in the thick mat of vegetation, and most of the world’s freshwater eels are spawned here.

Sadly, these revolving ocean currents also pull in vast amounts of ocean plastics, which knot together with the sargassum to form so-called windrows: long rafts of free-floating debris. Even more disturbing, below the surface a fog of microplastics is steadily making its way into the marine food chain. The most terrifying ocean journey of all is one of our own making.

The Smog of the Sea chronicles a one-week journey through the remote waters of the Sargasso Sea; thesmogofthesea.com