Was Johnnie Walker a walker?

Question at the end of a hilly hike…

Andrew: Actually, no. John Walker, the man behind the brand, wasn’t known for walking. He was a grocer in Kilmarnock.

David: Always thought he was given to striding across Scotland with a dram in his pocket.
Andrew: The “walking man” logo came decades later, in 1908, long after John Walker died. Quite young, just gone fifty. It was a marketing invention, not a biographical fact.
David: Huh. Maybe he started the distillery because he liked a wee tipple after work?
Andrew: Another twist in the tale. I read that John Walker was a teetotaller, or at least restrained. He ran the whisky business because it was profitable.
David: So the empire was built by a man who didn’t walk and didn’t drink. Meanwhile, I stroll over one hill and reward myself with three pints.

_________

Voice-over

Grocer and blender of malts. Probably non-tippler and non-walker.

Kikuyu grass: an insidious invader

Pronounciation of Kikuyu "kih-KOO-yoo" (kɪˈkuːjuː)

Helena knows about this stuff ...

Helena: You gotta dig it out.

Sam: I can’t do that. My back.

Helena: Then another option is to get a digger in.

Sam: Expensive. Can’t we just spray the noxious nuisance? Glyphosate, or something, I heard works.

Helena: Yeah. Like Roundup. Spills over into the ecosystem. Consider the birds. Formulate a coexistence with the enemy plan. How about this: Layers of black polytheme plastic. Build a planter around the perimeter. Fill the planter with compost and potting soil, blood and bone. Make it fertile. 

Sam: Doesn’t the kikuyu find its way through the plastic? 

Helena: It might break through. Here’s how to deter it. Multiple layers of polythene. Check for breaks or tears. Trench around the planter and drive a net fence 30 centimeters down. Check around the planter for kikuyu rhizomes exploring a way in.

_________

Voice-over

Prepare a stockade, protect the vulnerable, and promote vigilance.

The Lime Tree and the Lemon Tree

A tale of two citrus…

Sam: Planted both about four years ago. The Tahitian lime roared up and the Meyer lemon just remained a dwarf. Despite a healthy crop of fruit this year.
Helena: Tahitians are vigorous. And Meyers are semi dwarf and often grafted onto dwarf rootstock. That could explain it.
Sam: There’s also kikuyu. 
Helena: Oh yes. Kikuyu is a notorious invader around here. I see it in your lawn.
Sam: I wondered about that. Competing for resources like water, oxygen, nirogen in the topsoil?
Helena: Oh yes. Less so for a vigorous chap like the Tahitian, his roots go deep. But the kikuyu also can release allelopathic compounds inhibiting growth of the shallower rooting Meyer.
__________
Voice-over
So there’s some reasons for the height differences between the lime and the lemon. Genetics, rootstock, and an invasive species. Celebrity gardener Helena may have some thoughts on controlling invasions later.

Cotton and Polyester

Hanging up a UNIQLO wash…

Cynthia: Effortless. Wash it, hang it, dry by morning.

Felicity: Polyester, yes. Dries well. But doesn’t breathe well.

Cynthia: Breathing? My T shirts are suffocating me?

Felicity: Not suffocating, just… sealing. Cotton breathes, lets heat escape, absorbs moisture, so you feel cooler.

Cynthia: But my polyester dries overnight. Cotton? I wait, and wait…

Felicity: Yeah. Polyester sheds water. Cotton soaks it up.

Cynthia: So polyester wins on convenience.

Felicity: But convenience can come at a cost. In comfort, and sometimes the planet. Polyester is plastic, after all. It lingers.

Cynthia: Plastic… on my skin. Eew. Charming.

Felicity: And then there’s wool—fine merino, not the scratchy kind. It breathes, regulates, even cools when it’s warm.

Cynthia: Wool that cools? That feels like a contradiction.

Felicity: Nature is full of those. Fibres that adapt instead of resist.

Cynthia: My skin does feel calmer in cotton. Less irritated. Less… reactive.

Felicity: Natural fibres tend to be kinder—especially for eczema, or sensitive skin.

Cynthia: Mmm. Maybe I’m choosing speed over skin health.

Felicity: Not choosing. Just not knowing. You’ll get there.

___________

Voice-over

Look at the fibres under a microscope and the natural fibres are porous and ragged and the plastic fibres straight.

Tapa cloth making

Two visitors to Fiji have a craft request…

Mere: I sometimes think the tail on Fiji Air planes is like the design on tapa cloth.

Lanieta: It is based on tapa design, yes. 

Mere: But the tail of the plane isn’t tapa cloth.

Lanieta: Heaven forbid. 

Mere: Anyway, since you are a tapa teacher, could you teach me the principles of tapa cloth making? We only have tomorrow.

Lanieta: The basic principles in a day, it’s possible.

Mere: What would we be able to cover?

Lanieta: Starting with how the bark is harvested from the mulberry tree, softened, and beaten into cloth, and the meaning behind the patterns. Then we’ll move to weaving, learning the basic plaiting structure and how materials are prepared.

Mere: Uh, oh. Sounds quite involved. Would we be able to make something ourselves?

Lanieta: A small piece, yes. Not a plane tail, ha. But the skills take years to refine. What I could do in a day is a foundation, not mastery.

Mere’s Daughter: Are there cultural aspects we should understand before starting?

Lanieta: Yes. Tapa cloth has cultural meaning—ceremonial, familial, and historical. I’ll explain these as we go, because understanding them is as important as learning the technique.

Mere: Is doing a one-day course kind of shallow and disrespectful?

Lanieta: Your willingness to learn a traditional craft is already a sign of respect. 

_________

Voice-over

The workshop is held in a quiet village on Viti Levu. Fields, and mountains beyond. Rabbits? Next, they’ll be pilots on Fiji Air.

News and Weather from the White Rabbit Channel

Seeing June out, three rabbits kept one earthquake (Friday) and two typhoons (Saturday, Sunday) at bay. 

Rabbit Power! 

WHITE RABBIT, WHITE RABBIT, WHITE RABBIT.

Preparing for a Podcast about Podcasting

The reflexive genre…

Juliet: Ha. A podcast about podcasting. Sort of self-referential, eh. OK. I was a talk-show producer at a radio station in New York. I booked guests, researched topics, screened callers, kept the wheels turning. Eventually, management handed me a mike and a time slot of my own.
James: That's why I wanted to interview you. I'd like to connect the world of radio talk shows with today's podcasting scene. A lot of overlap, right?
Juliet: Oh, absolutely. In fact, that's pretty much what my show became. We started as traditional radio, then added video segments for the station website. When podcasting arrived, we repackaged the audio as a podcast. More recently, we've moved toward a full video show. The technology changed, but the fundamentals stayed remarkably similar.
James: So our podcast about podcasting is really a conversation about storytelling, interviewing, and audience engagement across different eras.
Juliet: Exactly. Whether you're broadcasting over AM radio in the 1990s or uploading a video podcast today, you're still trying to create a meaningful conversation that people want to listen in to.
James: In this interview, a key ask is, “What advice would you give a host who wants their interview podcast to go well?”
Juliet: Well, seven key points. First, research your guest thoroughly. Second, prepare questions but don't cling to them. Third, listen actively rather than waiting for your turn to speak. Fourth, establish rapport early. Fifth, guide the conversation with a clear structure. Sixth, encourage stories rather than one-word answers. Seventh, always keep the audience in mind.
___________
Voice-over
Research creates better questions. Guests can tell whether you've done your homework. Flexibility lets you follow unexpected insights. Active listening uncovers gems you never planned for. Rapport helps guests relax. Structure prevents rambling. Stories are memorable. And remembering the audience ensures you're asking what listeners would want to know, not just what interests you personally.

Hokusai to Hara: Ukiyo-e to Anime

Looking back…

Anton: I came to study woodblock prints and thought I’d do my research in a museum. But one contact led to another and I ended up doing line drawing work at a manga publisher. Suddenly all those hours studying contours and negative space became unexpectedly useful. 
Arisa: Are ukiyo-e and manga different completely art forms? 
Anton: Different tools, same family resemblance. Ukiyo-e artists had to communicate movement, emotion, weather, personality, all with line. Manga inherited that confidence in line. Selecting which lines matter and leaving the rest out. 
Arisa: So manga is a descendant of ukiyo-e? 
Anton: I’d say so. There’s sequential storytelling, expressive faces, stylised motion, dramatic composition. Even the economy of line. Manga modernised it.
Arisa: So where does anime fit? If ukiyo-e becomes manga… does manga become anime? 
Anton: Often, yes. Anime takes manga’s drawn language and adds movement, sound, rhythm, timing. But there’s another interesting loop: sometimes anime reaches back into older Japanese art traditions. 

Hara Keiichi: Miss Hokusai

Arisa: Any recommendations? 
Anton: Well, the anime film Miss Hokusai. It takes the world and artwork of ukiyo-e artist Hokusai Katsushika telling the story through anime. Set in Tokyo’s Edo era. Feels modern and historical at the same time. Director was Hara Keiichi.
__________
Voice-over
Manga and anime are not for everyone. There have always been fans and detractors. But there’s something about the economy of lines in a woodblock print, a manga page, or animation frames, when lines express the essence of the story.

Veronica Swift: Home is an extension of oneself

After the concert…

Beatrice: Really enjoyed it.  Your voice, your onstage energy, and the threading stories between songs.

Veronica: Thank you. A show isn’t just a sequence of songs. It’s a narrative arc. 

Beatrice: As a linguist, I liked your storytelling. The way you spoke about “home” as an extension of the self, and then contrasted that with the trauma of losing your house.

Veronica: There have been setbacks, certainly. But I think they’ve helped me grow, both as a person and as an artist. So, you’re a linguist? We’re cousins. Singers and linguists both live and thrive through language.

Beatrice: You seem to stretch language beyond its usual limits. Like with scatting.

Veronica: I try to. Sometimes words aren’t enough, or they get in the way. Improvisation with band members, it’s a kind of conversation beyond language. Maybe that’s where the truest parts of the story live.

Home is an extension of oneself

__________

Voice-over

A concert we often wonder where the songs come from. What they mean to the singer. Especially if it was the singer who wrote the song. What relations are between the members of the band. 

"Rules are rules" vs "Rules were made to be broken"

At the station binpoint…

Ken: The plastic wrapper… it should go in a bin for plastics.
Joe: A bin for plastics? None here. Just this regular trash can.
Ken: So we’d better carry it home.
Joe: Carry it home, huh. Well… rules are rules, I guess.
Ken: I agree there could be more garbage bins. When I lived in New York, I often heard the expression ‘Rules were made to be broken.’ Joe: Yeah… My dad used to say that while rolling through stop signs in our neighborhood. He’d tap the brakes and say, ‘See? I technically stopped.’
Ken: My father was the opposite. He once turned around and walked home because he realized he forgot to put the cardboard cartons in the right place.
Joe: When I was a kid, we had this one teacher who said, ‘If a rule doesn’t make sense, challenge it.’ We loved that.
Ken: In Japan, we learned the opposite: ‘If a rule doesn’t make sense, follow it anyway until you understand why it exists.’
Joe: Cultural difference, eh. Americans come from this whole stew of rebellion — revolution, frontier life, civil rights movements. We’re raised to think the individual conscience is the final judge.
Ken: Japan’s history is more about shared land, shared risk. Rice farming villages, tight spaces, limited resources. If one person ignored the irrigation schedule, the whole harvest suffered.
Joe: Yeah… and in the U.S., pragmatism sometimes means bending a rule to get something done faster. But that can backfire. I remember a recycling program in my hometown that failed because people kept tossing pizza boxes in the paper bin.
Ken: Questioning rules also has value. Maybe the best approach is somewhere in between. Like thoughtful obedience, thoughtful rebellion.
_________
Voice-over
As more foreigners appear in Japan, historical, cultural and pragmatic concerns collide. Like Japanese communal pragmatism, American individualist rule‑testing, environmental norms in both countries, and how small habits shape national culture.

Blacksmithing

Meeting again…

Hiroshi: You were the one who always wanted a stable office job.
Ryū: Well, here it’s hot flames and cool water, steel glowing red, then hissing as it quenches. Watching metal change shape when you hammer it.
Hiroshi: Like a pre-digital age. Real handwork. Real craft. No logins, no updates.
Ryū: Exactly. And who knows, if the digital world ever falters, people like me might suddenly be useful again.
Hiroshi: You already are. This place feels alive with purpose. 
Ryū: And charcoal. And it’s sooty. Want to try making a knife from an iron bar?
Hiroshi: Me? Make a knife? Seriously?
Ryū: Sure. Not so hard. First we heat the bar until it’s red. Then we hammer it into shape. After that comes forging, quenching, grinding, sharpening, and polishing. Each step changes the metal’s soul.
__________
Voice-over
Ryū goes on to explain that there are different materials ranging from carbon steel which sharpens beautifully but rusts easily and stainless steel which is low maintenance but harder to hone.

White Air Fried Rabbits

WHITE RABBIT, WHITE RABBIT, WHITE RABBIT.

Whoa! Mrs Rabbit using an air fryer to hair dry her three wet rabbits?

Dangerous. 

She claims her cousin David White Hare uses a Hare Dryer when he’s been out in the rain.

But it’s not the same.

Luckily, she hadn’t turned the machine on so we are spared burnt bunnies this month.

You can never go back (2)

Conversation continued…

Antonio: I always thought “Forget us and don’t come and see me” was cruel. Like he was pushing Toto away.
Mariella: Birds push chicks out nests. He was freeing him. So the boy could fly.
Antonio: Maybe I need someone to push me. So I can fly.
Mariella: Then jump. A book. Your legacy.
Antonio: Like writing down my memories of the old cinemas? 
Mariella: Exactly. The velvet seats, sticky floors. Your experiences as a projectionist. Written and drawn. That’s a legacy.
Antonio: I was thinking of cinema music.
Mariella: How about starting with Morricone in the Paradiso scene. The music doesn’t cling; it releases. It rises like a sigh that turns into a blessing. Once you think less nostalgically you become one who can never go back.

_________
Voice-over
Ennio, a recent documentary about Morricone, was a reminder of how good he was at writing a melody to match the emotion of a scene. His music isn’t background, it’s the emotional grammar of the scene. And in this scene he circled back, like nostalgia resurfacing, and rising unexpectedly, like an opportunity coming up just when it seemed doors were closing. A genius at turning words into music.

Hamnet and the Sorrow of Loss

Personal reflections after a film…

Jessie: Losing a son at thirteen… it’s a devastation that never fully settles. Watching Agnes lose Hamnet felt like watching myself from a distance.
Paul: For me it was similar. My son is still alive—forty‑five now—but the boy he was disappeared when he was fifteen. The schizophrenia‑like symptoms took him somewhere I can’t follow.
Jessie: You’ve said before it feels like living with a ghost.
Paul: Thirty years of it. A ghost of a son who once laughed, once argued, once dreamed. The film stirred that ache again, the ache of losing someone who still breathes.
Jessie: That’s a particular kind of sorrow. People don’t always understand that kind of loss.
Paul: They think grief requires a funeral. But grief can be a long corridor with no door at the end. But Shakespeare, his way was to write through it. That struck me. I’ve spent years trying to make sense of my son’s disappearance into illness, trying to understand something from it.
Jessie: The film seemed to suggest a way to hold sorrow without being crushed by it.
Paul: Yes. The ending especially. The way grief became a kind of offering, a way to honour the child rather than drown in the loss.
Jessie: I found myself thinking: maybe devastation can be rearranged. Not erased, but rearranged into something that lets us keep walking.
Paul: That’s what I felt too. That my son’s ghost doesn’t have to haunt me; he can accompany me. Not as absence, but as a presence transformed.
Jessie: And that love doesn’t vanish with the child. It just changes its shape, like water flowing.
Paul: Shakespeare said, “Give sorrow words.”
Jessie: And, “The rest is silence.”  Knowing that silence, too, can be a kind of healing.
_________
Voice-over
Overtones of Ophelia. Her drowning, being pulled under by loss, was perhaps a metaphor for Hamnet succumbing to a fever. And the film adding themes of parental grief, absence, and giving sorrow shape through art.

You can never go back (1)

Flickers of fading firelight…

Antonio: I keep thinking I ought to do something with what’s left of my life. Leave something behind. Not just...
Mariella: Cruise to the end of it, you mean? Well, a legacy doesn’t have to be grand. Even a small one matters. It’s never too late. One just has to be organised about achieving it.
Antonio: Organised. Hah. Seventy years misplacing my glasses; now I’m meant to organise a legacy.
Mariella: Legacies aren’t paperwork. They’re gestures. A letter, a kindness, a story you pass on. Even the way you talk about old films becomes part of someone else’s memory.
Antonio: Maybe. But some people just settle in one place, follow the same routines, stay in their circle of friends. They seem content just chatting in the piazza every day.
Mariella: And that’s a kind of joy too. Piazza life. Familiar faces, familiar jokes, the comfort of being known without explanation.
Antonio: Communities that get old together. Then they die off. And those friends… they’re not easily replaced.
Mariella: True. But the warmth of those years still counts. Even if the cast changes, the scenes mattered.
Antonio: I wouldn’t like to go back to my hometown. You can never go back. Not really.
Mariella: Got to keep moving forward, then? Reminds me of Alfredo in Cinema Paradiso. “Don’t give in to nostalgia. Forget us all. If you do and you come back, don’t come and see me.”

Cinema Paradiso: Alfredo and Toto

__________
Voice-over
Alfredo’s advice to Toto is ironic, to abandon small-town life for a greater future in Rome. Looking back with nostalgia restricts potential, and one must move forward, embracing life without being anchored by the past. Basically, Alfredo is giving Toto "tough love," encouraging him to follow his dreams, build a future, and not look back on the life he will leave behind.