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Eclipse, how I loathe thee

For something which is theoretically the industry standard, Eclipse remains profoundly buggy and unstable. Of course, the argument is that the reason the user experience is a nightmare of crashes and weird behaviour is that it’s the plugins that are broken, but that’s kind of like saying a car is substandard only because it has a lousy engined and bald tires.

My latest adventure was trying to configure the Checkstyle  plugin. As soon as I tried to configure it, it would present me with the wonderfully meaningful error message:

Unhandled event loop exception – No more handles

Now, if you google for the checkstyle plugin with that message, you will see several thousand developers have had the same problem. The wonderfully obvious solution (can you detect the sarcasm here?) for 64bit Ubuntu 13:04 was to do two things: install libwebkitgtk, and hack the eclipse.ini.

 sudo apt-get install libwebkitgtk-1.0-0

and then in eclipse.ini add the following beneath the -vmargs invocation:


For reference, the whole eclipse.ini now looks like this for me


The triumph of open source.

Eight, Eight and Eight

The great fight for labour relations and working conditions in the 19th Century was for the Eight Hour Day.

Eight hours work, Eight hours sleep, Eight hours leisure. That was the target, and for most people in the industrialised west this was achieved in the 1970s and 80s. Generally.

So what has happened since, in our hyper-connected, always on world? I haven’t worked less than 9 hours for the last two years, and the commute is added to that.

So now it’s more like: Ten hours work, Two hours commute, Six hours sleep, Four hours managing banks, mortgages, taxes, insurance. Knock yourself out, the other four hours are for leisure, as long as you don’t shop, maintain the house or bathe.

Evolution In Action

One of the crew who continues to sign on is a gunner with a worrying habit of gnomically pontificating, fancying herself to be a wizened sage. It is possible, of course, that surviving for somewhat longer than average is due to some slight edge in wisdom. It’s more likely that the cumulative effect of vaporised aromatic hydrocarbons cooking off overheated weapons has sent her more than a little mad. I have come across her, on late watches when she has thought herself alone, obsessively polishing the guns and leaning over to whisper to them. I really do not want to know what she is saying.

One of her repeated aphorisms is that the loss of a ship is just a tax on stupidity. I appreciate the bloody-mindedness that this ultimately resolves to. Place that on the refiner’s fire and there’s not much left over than a nugget of truth: all consequences flow directly from conscious decisions. Nobody else is responsible for what happens to me or my ships.

Of course, I’m not happy to have had ships shot out from under me, and would prefer not to suffer the cost of the material loss, and the loss of crew who know how I want things done. But I cannot deny that every loss was a direct result of some conscious decision. So each loss gives me a chance to learn something to prevent the loss of the next ship.

I am certainly finding that my options for making a profit are evolving on a week to week basis, as I acquire new skills, and become better attuned to the difference between acceptable risk and bloody stupidity. Of late I have developed a pattern that for the time being is reasonably lucrative while reasonably safe. Not fast growth, but sufficient for the next few months as my longer term plans become clear.

There are various agents scattered about who will broker contracts to… well, let’s not be coy about it, to go out somewhere and kill a lot of ships and their crew for whatever reason they deem appropriate. They tell me they are pirates, or enemy combatants, or religious freaks. Whatever. I take my cruiser out, blow them into scrap. I return, take out the vessel I have fitted with salvage, and recover what I can. Then I pick up the bounty. It’s not consistently lucrative, but can earn nicely depending on what I find in the wrecks. Alternatively I use my exploration vessel to find pirate hideouts, and perform much the same cycle.

A side effect of this is that my crew is attracting individuals with a certain… oddness. The gunner I mentioned is an exemplar. To speak with her, initially, reveals no eccentricity. But spend too much time talking and she will start looking past your shoulder, and shifting from foot to foot, and folding her hands. It is quite amusing to keep talking, and watch her become more and more agitated. Release her attention, and she will scurry off. Follow her and you will find her polishing the guns, crooning and whispering. You may think that this is vaguely sexual – or if you think it’s extremely sexual, the thought of her slowly rubbing the oily cloth along the gleaming shafts, then I suggest you seek therapy. Instead it’s disturbingly maternal. She cares for the guns obsessively, possessively. One day I shall fit cameras in the gun room to watch her behaviour in combat. It will either be alarming or amusing. But it remains that she illustrates the result of the pressures produced by this society we have built. She is warped, distorted out of the norm of human nature, into a creature perfectly evolved to tend the machine that is her chosen love. We are a society of morlocls, less than human, more than human, requiring redefinition of human.


The Original Reenactors Market. I’ve heard about this for quite a few years, and to an Australian the event has a somewhat mythical aspect, some mysterious fair that only occurs at solstice every seven years in a stone circle. The reality is quite a bit more mundane.

First, the location. Sort of near Coventry. More or less. We are finding many events outside of London are somewhat inaccessible without a car: trains can get us sort of near, more or less, but local bus services then turn out to be pretty well non-existent. We’re slowly sorting that out, and it does look like hiring cars is a reasonable way to proceed: having our own car for within London so far seems like a very bad idea. So, more or less near Coventry.

Getting to Coventry was a bit of an adventure in itself: I had looked to see what price train tickets were, saw that I could get there for about £20, and so decided just to pick up tickets from the station. Bad idea. I got to the station on Saturday morning, and found that the only tickets available on the day were going to set me back something like £160. Can you say “price gouging”? I went home, cranky, and booked tickets on-line for about £20 for the next day. On the way up the weather went from grey to full on fairly heavy snow somewhere around Northhampton, and turned into sleet when I got out. I don’t mind, I don’t mind at all: my mind still is blown that frozen water falls out of the sky in any form other than golf-ball sized hail stones. Coventry rail way station is, for reference, one of the least interesting and attractive stations in major cities I’ve seen so far. Spend as little time their as possible. Into a cab for a 10 minute trip south to a venue even less inspiring, two sheds next to a football ground – one of the local sports centers.

Seeing the venue I understood the location: obviously the only sort-of-central location with sufficient space that could be had for a special, mates-considered rate. Insert here some hand-waved description of my jaw dropping when I went inside, possibly using the word ‘cornucopia’ and vaguely alluding to a dragon’s hoard. It’s just as well I didn’t have a car, or any money, because I would definitely have strolled off with a few tens of meters of cloth. I limited myself, with some regret, to hunting for business cards and tips.

I’m honestly not sure how many vendors were there – probably 160 odd – but the thing that impressed me was how little rubbish there was. I’d say it was something like only 20% rubbish, and of the 80% good, 30% was very very good indeed. For my own purposes, more than anything else, I’m going to list off my impressions of those vendors that really caught my eye.

Caveat! For any vendors that were there that I don’t list below, do not be offended. It just means that whatever you were selling was not what I was looking for. Oh, and a second caveat for anyone going next year: there are no cash machines anywhere nearby, and a lot of the vendors only take cash.

Herewith the list.

Two J’s

Nice daggers, hangers and chapes for scabbards – these are the first and only chapes I’ve seen, for a ridiculously low price. Also good morions and sallets.

The Mulberry Dyer

Dyes, mordants, dying kits, really good thread, period paint brushes and some nice dyed linens.

Tod’s Stuff

Great stuff, as usual, beautifully made, but they also now are doing courses in knife, scabbard and crossbow making.


Gorgeous harness and brigantines.

Replica Crossbow World

Beautiful work, and able to produce museum quality replicas as well as more simple pieces.

Plessis Armouries

Very nice harness, including some superb gauntlets

Red Swan Books

These guys have a great product: reproduction period books, of various periods but mainly 14-16th C. Beautiful re-creations of period books, bound in traditional fashion on heavy rag paper.

The Leather Man

Phil Quallington – outstandingly good bombards, jacks and bottles, but the whole range is great.

NP Historical Shoes

Staggeringly good shoes – currently with a 7month back log of orders, but definitely worth the prices they are asking.

Trinity Court Potteries

I definitely was not looking for, nor currently need, any more ceramics, but this stuff is spot on.

Phil Fraser

All his stuff is good, but the pouches particularly caught my eye

Historical Footwear

The web site is only showing 17th C stuff, although they had a few other bits and pieces on the day, if I recall correctly. Tempted to get some of the high boots, later, when I have money again.

Steve Millingham

All I have written on the back of the flyer is “still awesome”. Cannot go past here for pewter goods. They are also one of the only places around making replica Tudor and Medieval jewellery. Highly recommended: Tudor Jewels

 History In The Making

Outstandingly good oak furniture. Museum quality.

Traditional Materials

All those odd bits and pieces you can never find anywhere. I can see myself spending way too much here.

White Rabbit Lynens

Museum quality linens. Beautiful and surprisingly affordable stuff – the quality was superb, and they supplied most or all of the linens used for the production of Twelfth Night we saw recently with Mr Stephen Fry.

Armour Class

Very nice swords, reasonable prices and they will do commissions. They had some lovely rapiers there that were particularly responsive in the hand, although the medieval weapons seemed to feel a bit like they’d been made to the expectations of re-enactors, rather than swordsmen.

St George Armoury

Pretty good harness, and quite nice swords.

Forest Glass

Beautiful work, although their website needs work: it appears to be powered by Joomla that has been infected by spam worms.

Kitty Hats

Bespoke Medieval, Elizabethan, 18th and 19th century hats.

Period Glasses

In addition to making very high quality medieval, 16th and 17th C glasses, Trevor is passionate about the subject in a way that only re-enactors can appreciate. He also sells original glasses up to the WWII period.

Atelier Zilverlinde

Superb reproduction medieval and renaissance jewellery, sourced from period illustrations and surviving pieces.

Dressed To Kill

Pretty good harness.

ANA Period Shoes

Quite nice work, and well priced for the quality.

It’s only business.

It has become apparent that my frequent habit is to instruct the crew, if any, on each ship that I find myself on to depart the bridge until further notice. Alone, I dim the lights and sit looking out at the deep. While the crew busy themselves with whatever little busyness and pleasures that occupy their limited lives, I watch the glacially slow parallax changes of past days.

There are structures out there too vast to comprehend, to be comprehensible, by any ape brain or slightly enhanced ape brain, or even mine. Towering gas and dust clouds; random aggregates of star systems that we impose half sensed order upon; gulfs between where as yet no sun has called to others. Even at the great speeds with which I can move within systems, no change can be seen in these, and so they flatten themselves to be painted on the interior of the sphere of heavens centred upon myself, the renaissance world view come full, ah-ha, circle.

The raging chaos of nuclear storms made utterly still by distance and magnitude sums to a bleakness that cannot be denied. I may be godlike in the eyes of apes, of earth-bound mortals banging rocks together hoping for a spark, but in truth even such as I account for nothing. Aggregated across time and space, all our striving asymptotically approaches zero.

It could be this perspective that separates me from the crew. I can brood like Ahab on the bridge while the continue to live with hopes and animal comforts merely because they choose to shut out the cold. Or they have learned a skill that I have not, some mode of thought that keeps the night at bay.

Certainly the various crews have seemed content enough in their lots. I embarked some weeks ago on a lengthy set of errands on behalf of the Sisters Of Eve, aiding them in pursuit of some agenda they presented to me as an investigation into odd outbreaks of rogue AI drones. They were lying, of course, or at best presenting only partial truths. I knew this, and they knew that I knew, but still it pleased them to pay and reward me. And it pleased me to take their money while I laid my own plans.

Over the course of those days I acquired several ships that were subsequently shot out from under me. Mostly the crews survived in part, with perhaps one or two out of five lost to the night. While they do not speak of this to me, something in my treatment of them must be pleasing or at least not unpleasant, as the survivors continue to accept contracts for whichever craft I take out of the dock.

I remain surprised – why I do not know, as I have no recollected basis for comparison – that these craft require so few crew. A handful for the frigates, a double or triple handful for the destroyers. I am told that this is in part an artefact of Gallente ship design, and that other race’s craft require somewhat more. Certainly a startling level of automation is interposed between human hand and effective action. Still the need for a crew remains. The automated repair mechanisms themselves need maintenance, the artificial intelligences need the counselling of native intelligence, and the hand of man appears necessary to turn eggs into palatable omelettes and roasted beans into coffee.

For all I know the crew keep returning because they dimly apprehend the opportunity for wealth with no more than the usual risks, and less ill treatment than they may receive from another captain. In passing I hear other captains boasting of their harshness or rigorous discipline, an effort that bemuses me. The crew have functions and my contract with them is the same as the contract with any other mechanism: I will not expend effort on any component of my ship that functions as expected and has no deleterious impact, and malfunctioning systems will be ejected and replaced.

I have spent the past few weeks wandering with little plan, merely trying to learn something of this universe I find myself in. Picking up odd errands here and there has covered costs, and recompensed the loss of ships, and given me some time to consider where to begin to make my mark. It turns out that salvaging materials from the craft I was commissioned to destroy can be moderately lucrative. To the same extent I am led to believe that exploring the less well travelled reaches in search of obscured resources and bases can pay well, if the resources can be exploited.

So there, the basis of the start of a plan: outfit a craft and acquire the skills to scan systems and exploit what is found, and outfit other craft to salvage the detritus left over from the robust execution of business. Maybe that can be my mission statement, my credo, my motto. Nothing Personal.

Awakening to a new dream.

It could be that I woke more than 30 days ago, but the unbroken tiles of memory pave no further than that. The claim that I came into existence ex nihilo capable of speech, thought or volition of movement defies rational examination. Still the fact remains that I cannot recall anything prior to the moment I woke to the awareness that a machine voice was asking my name, and that I woke with speech, name, and a memory of having imagined that I woke from dream.

In the days that came after I sought to capture or create that dream, but disinterestedly. You may have expected that I would have obsessively agonised, sacrificed sleep, wanly rested my head on hand while perusing tomes – and I would name you a sentimental idiot. The memory was of no importance, an occasional passing minor amusement. Something about wealth and commensurate luxury, of power and desire, the power of desire, and the desire for power. If the dream had indeed been a dream, it has no more meaning than illustrating the dangers of eating too much cheese in the evening. If there had been a previous evening.

The dissonance that rang through my mind from that waking moment persisted for days. I could look in a mirror and see that I saw myself, and I could listen to the machine as it instructed me in this world and know that the name was mine, and yet I had no concrete memory. Not that I was a tabula rasa. The rapid instruction I received, the initial missions that formed tests of my instruction, seemed an act of excavation not inscription.

So there it was. I woke to a world and was told my rights, with no ritual or ceremony, but with brisk and impersonal efficiency. My rights: a sizeable level of starting funds; a more than serviceable space craft; access to training which would in turn generate more funds and grant craft; and a form of immortality should I wish it. A right to seek power, or wealth, or comfort, or to sit catatonic in front of a porthole watching the stars wheel by, as I chose. All for the price of accepting that all consequences were of my own choosing.

The machine voice, the trainers, made it amply clear that they did not care either way. Their real instruction was that I was not a special little snowflake. They are wrong. Probably. Between their warnings that I would probably fail, that I would probably fall into the depths of poverty, that I would probably lose heart, was a barely visible possibility of a path that would prove them wrong.

Watch me.


A pause for breath…

And at this point I descend into a list of things to remind me of what we did. Photos will, in time, show up: I am writing this on an iPad and so far have not found a convenient way of selecting certain photos for publication and excluding others. Also, some are on here, some on my phone, and some on my camera.

So! Sunday we went to the Picasso Museum, which took some finding because its tucked in the Barri Gòtic, and our maps (including the iOS 6 apple maps) are not much use in there. We continued wandering the Gòtic – something we have gotten in the habit of already – and found a nice little square (Fossar de les Moreres) with a great café and a nice monument to the defenders of the city in 1714. It turns out to be pretty well ground zero for the nationalist movement, and the plaza is built over the resting place of the defenders.

It’s well worth seeking out Bastaix – it’s not on the tourist road map, and the food is superb.

Monday we figured out the Metro. The system is clean, efficient, fast and most of all sane and reasonable. The tickets are simple to get from the ticket machines, and the best bet for a few days stay is the T-10 – for about 10€ you get 10 trips. That might be 10 trips for one person, 5 for two, or 1 for a group of 10 – they don’t care. While it’s only a half hour walk from Casa de Billy and the Gòtic, we’ve tended to take the metro back in the evening when we are … Tired…

Emerging from the Metro to La Sagrada Familia was jaw dropping. We spent a few hours in the church just enjoying the light, although the attached museum is good, and a trip up the towers worth while for a close up view of some of the decorative detail on the exterior. Don’t attempt that though if you are bad with heights or stairs, as it is very high up and feels precarious, followed by long very tight spiral stair cases down.

I am hoping that the photos and videos will give some approximate idea of the place, because words are insufficient. Inside is like being an ant in a late afternoon forest of plane trees, with the light filtering through the leaves. The Nativity facade is a right of laughter and song, and the Passion facade is bleak and austere and extraordinarily moving.

If you do just one thing on a Europe trip, go to La Sagrada Familia.

We needed a stiff drink after our visit, and finally made it to Ciudad Condal. This tapas place is firmly on the tourist map, but deservedly so. It’s got an up-market feel, rather than being a real tapas place (ie a pub with food), but the service, tapas and cava-based sangria is amazing. Our experience with the waiter we had is typical of the experience we’ve had so far: by trying to use what piddling bit of Spanish we have, begging forgiveness for our crap Spanish, and welcoming their advice and suggestions, we have found waiters and so forth very willing to help out explaining the food and custom, and steering us to what they think is good rather than what the tourists are looking for. I’m hoping that the smiles we have gotten have been of relief at finding us not to be more arrogant pain in the arse tourists.

A Moment Of Perfect Beauty


Inside La Sagrada Familia. More to follow when I sort out photos.

Casa de Billy


The interior and feel of the hotel is intimate, elegant and deeply relaxing. It feels more like staying at someone’s house than a hotel. We cannot recommend it highly enough.


Another day characterised by walking and food. We tried to go to the really good, and the really really good tapas places that we keep getting recommended, but they were impossibly packed out. Instead we wound up at Matamala, which was pretty up market and does Catalan slow food. A bit pricey for what we wanted, but stupidly delicious.

Today we tried to be more Barcelonan, and slept late, ate breakfast late, and strolled out late. The entertainment in Barcelona on Sunday seems to be strolling, because everyone was doing it, the whole city on foot with dogs and prams beneath the autumn plane trees. We intended to find coffee and a pastry, without much luck: I have an unerring ability to not find what I am looking for, although there was ok coffee and a reasonable pastry at La Taverna de Barcelona
. Each time we have walked out we have rambled off in different directions to see what turns up, but this time we were sort of rambling with purpose: on Sundays after 15:00 entry to the Pablo Picasso Museum is free, so we were aiming for a late lunch, the museum, and then early tapas.

We found the local Arc de Triomphe, although it’s not particularly clear what the triumph was, the down into the botanic gardens, turned right for the museum and then got lost in the Barri Gòtic again. We settled for an overpriced and somewhat bland tourist tapas in the square near an old market building at Casa Delfín, got lat again and finally joined the queue at the museum. It was worth getting turned round and wandering though, the area near the museum is amazingly lovely.

The museum was pretty cool, being in a damned old building whose story I need to dig into, and the collection interesting. Of course, because most of the big known paintings and other works are held in other collections, it’s dominated by his early work, although there is a large section dedicated to showing his various interpretations of Velasquez’s Las Meninas that really shows how careful and intelligent his work is.

The other tapas place we were seeking, which apparently has life changing ham, was just beside the museum, and closed. Because the signs were in Catalan, we guessed they meant it reopened at 19:00, so we wandered off for churros and chocolate and a drink first. I found Barcelona’s first and probably only Brazilian cocktail bar where we had some pricey and dangerous cocktails, then went back to our original destination. Having lubricated our brains and consulted the Internet we worked out it was closed until Tuesday. Sigh.

Still, we accidentally found a seriously awesome small non-tourist tapas bar, Bastaix and stuffed ourselves with cheese and olives, and learned how to make tomato bread.

Toast paninis or similar. Rub it with a clove of garlic. Rub it with a tomatoe that’s been partly roasted or grilled. Drizzle with olive oil. Sprinkle with salt. Serve it forth.

Tomorrow, the big fancy famous catherdral.


It turns out when I looked it up that my suspicions were correct: the Picasso museum is made from a row of 5 adjacent 14th and 15th century houses, that had been reworked in the 18th century, then turned into the museum from the 1960s onward. One thing that was amazing was some 14th century painted roof beams… We stood and watched for a while, and virtually none of the museum visitors looked up to see them.