Words, pictures and me at the Archaeological Museum, Zagreb

Kick-ass jewellery and kicked out relationships – two things I will remember from my time with Zagreb museums and their labels.

As a dedicated lover, I recognise this as kick-ass jewellry, as statusni simbol, in any time and any language. (Archaeological Museum , Zagreb)

As a dedicated lover of jewellery, I recognise this as a kick-ass piece, a statusni simbol, in any time and any language. (Archaeological Museum, Zagreb)

Visiting museums always make me think about what the words in museums are for – one of my favourite things to think about.  Zagreb’s Archaeological Museum and the Museum of Broken Relationships take very different approaches to words. Today’s post will be about the Archaeological Museum, my next about  the Museum of Broken Relationships.

For now (at least), I am going to suggest that museums are places where people go to encounter objects of power. They promise a kind of magic. A place apart from my mundane life where I can encounter different people, hear new stories, find objects of meaning. I may become enchanted there – or disenchanted. Words are a part of that.

Words can weave around and through the displays, like an incantation. They ususally sit in the gap between the visitor and the object – possibly as bridge, possibly as a barrier. They can be an opening or an obstacle.

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I enjoyed the more direct connection with the wearer of these ornaments that the image evoked. (Archaeological Museum, Zagreb)

I tend to rely on words, probably too much, in museums and elsewhere.

The Archaeological Museum persuaded me to leave words behind. No rationalising verbal comfort blanket for me this time, I had to go visual. Once I was over the shock, the plunge was worth it.

The Archaeological Museum has catered well for international visitors like me; they know we cannot read Croatian. So they give us pictures instead.

Deprived of  words,  I was surprised how eloquent and evocative visual language was. How much more of myself and my life experience it seemed to include and involve.

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Images gave me a point of reference.  The object, and maybe more importantly, the inspiration behind it became familiar. I felt I could better understand the vessel and where it stood in the world. (Archaeological Museum, Zagreb.) 

I was impressed by the depth and resonance I found using images as a bridge, rather than words. This was a more intuitive, imaginative, less conceptual, more friendly, relationship.

Taking a visual approach focused my attention more sharply on the objects. We very often say that museum text should do this. My experience at the Archaeological Museum made me think that a picture can ‘say ‘Look at …’ in a more open and inviting way than words.

We interpretive writers should beware of seeing our task as giving visitors answers. Answers, especially definitive ones, tend to be the end points of conversation. I believe we want to provide conversation openers.

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Even my practical, scientific curiosity was addressed visually. It would have taken a lot of words to explain this. (Archaeological Museum, Zagreb)

But of course there were limitations. I have no idea what the map below shows.  However, by the time I saw it I was so enjoying ‘going visual’ I had a guess. Interestingly my French Conversation tutor taught me the value of that a few years ago: he always told us to guess when we thought we couldn’t understand. Doing that, we found we were almost always, at least somewhat, right. I realised there is a lot more to communication than the literal meaning of the words: there is the sense behind them (which may in the end be more important).

On that principle, I decided to go for the sense behind this map. I guessed it is either about where the stuff was made (dark red) and where it reached through trade (pale red) or it is about how some technique spread through time.  Croatian readers could tell me how close to the truth I am.

The truth is I don’t really care. I appreciate the fact that I was enjoying this visit so much that I was exploring the map and its possible meanings, digging into it for possible answers, being creative with the evidence. It was a relaxed and playful process.  A well-crafted label could have put a stop to that.

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In 2014, because of this museum, I shall be renewing my efforts to write words that start, rather than close down, trains of thought, flights of fancy, and imaginative journeys for museum visitors.

I will also be looking ever more closely at the way we use images and not just for multi-lingual contexts.

And will continue to cherish the visual creatives who I am fortunate to work with.

I will be running the perennially-exciting ‘A Way with Words’ course with master wordsmith and interpreter extraordinaire, James Carter, at Plas Tan y Bwlch later this month. If you want a retreat into words, a chance to play with a writing techniques  and tools to lift your interpretative writing out of the mire of mundane and ordinary, join us. 

 

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Attaturk and another view of memorials heritage interpretation

Beware of simple solutions and clear cut categories.

Maybe beware particularly when you are dealing with conflict. Black and white are hard to sustain.

I am prising apart the roles of heritage interpretation and remembrance/ memorialisation as I believe the two often become conflated.

In my last blog post  I explained how I have come to the view that the main difference lies in memorialisation having a narrower focus and usually a single narrative whereas interpretation takes a more inclusive stance and tends to be polyvocal (has many voices).

Of course, that is not always true.

I think that in general memorialisation is about the past and interpretation addresses the present.

But that is only ‘in general’.

Just as I was getting these thoughts clear, I came across a memorial that reminded me, forcibly, like a sledgehammer, that nothing in conflict and our treatment of it is clear cut or simple.

Fittingly, as it is the centenary 1914-1918 war that stimulated my pondering on heritage interpretation and commeration, the memorial remembers that conflict.

As part of my researches I sought out the memorials to the First World War at the National Memorial Arbortetum. There were very few. I found the Gallipoli memorial and, on it, part of Attaturk’s letter to the ANZAC mothers. (Attaturk was the founder of the Modern Turkish Republic and, before that, the commander of the Turkish armies during the battles in Gallipoli where so many Allied men, particularly Australians and New Zealanders died.)

The text of this letter strikes me as remarkable. I broke down (not once, but several times) when I read it. It took me a lot of practice to be able to read this aloud in a steady voice. When I did, I saw the audience found it as powerful as I had.

Attaturk wrote to the Australian and New Zealand women who had lost their sons:

Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives… You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side now here in this country of ours… you, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well” 



This writing shows how the commemoration of war can be personal and universal. It is in my view a rare example. It gives me hope and an example. I would love to hear of others.

If we aspire to be create inclusive interpretation of our conflicts we can learn much from this letter. In particular, we should remember in our 21st century world our audiences are multi-cultural and that ‘there is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets’.

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Memorials, heritage interpretation and the First World War

 At first, working with remembrance, with its focus on memorials, felt so familiar I couldn’t distinguish it from heritage interpretation. Both interpretation and remembrance can about remembering and keeping a story alive. They both speak to us of what happened, who was involved and what that means for who we are now.

I had learned about remembrance mainly from my work at the National Memorial Arboretum, ‘the national centre of remembrance’ in the UK.

I  learned about remembrance mainly at the National Memorial Arboretum, ‘the national centre of remembrance’ in the UK.

A year ago I identified the relationship between interpretation and remembrance as an important issue for interpreters as we approach the centenary of the First World War.

Interpreters will be involved in retelling the story of the 1914-18 conflict, hopefully in a wide range of places and in all manner of media. We will be using our skills to make it relevant. We will be looking for the connections between those events and the lives of contemporary communities. Where we look, the stories we find and retell will strengthen some connections. The stories we do not tell will be weakened.

Picture 12My work in Ireland, at the National Memorial Arboretum (NMA), the National Army Museum and currently at the Royal Air Force Museum have helped me to think about interpreting conflict, especially relatively recent conflict. I have talked about it in England and Sweden and later this week I will talk about it again in Croatia.

Each of those occasions has given me the chance to listen to new perspectives. There are many perspectives and I have learned just how limited mine is. Every person I have spoken to has told me something new and valuable. As ever, interpreters do well to listen at least as much as they speak.

I came to thinking about the First World War with a sense of how far we in Europe have come in the last century. I wanted an internationalist, visitor-focused perspective on how we approach interpreting heritage where our national stories are so different. I hoped to explore creative ways in which we could look back together at the time we tried to tear each other apart. My interpreter’s instincts were as ever towards inclusion and multi-faceted approaches to a complex story.

Most English villages have a war memorial

Most English villages have a war memorial

 

I spent a lot of time looking at memorials, in small villages and in large national arenas. I have been very moved by them, by what they say about the people they were erected by, as well as the people they were erected for. Memorials are eloquent, they carry generations of emotion. They give us a space where we can remember our own. In this place, we can be alone with those we have lost, their memories and the stories we have about them.

At a personal level, remembrance is powerful and important. It has a power, authenticity and authority that demand respect and recognition from the rest of us. Usually it is sharply focused. It has a single story; it is a very specific remembering. This comes both from its personal aspects and may be politicised.

 

Interpretation, on the other hand has to look outward, It is a point of balance between those who tell the story and those who have come to hear it. Interpretation leans towards the audience and responds to their understanding. At its best it promotes dialogue. It recognizes that there is more than one side to a story, especially, maybe, if that is a story of conflict.

 

I had learned about remembrance mainly from my work at the National Memorial Arboretum, ‘the national centre of remembrance’ in the UK.

A tight focus on a particular story can lead to a blinkered view.  (Preparing a talk for an international audience I discovered that Americans call these ‘blinders – an even more eloquent metaphor for interpreters.)

I think the difference between interpretation and memorialisation rests in our understanding of story and most importantly our ability to include different stories. Unlike memorials, interpretation can and I now believe should, present conflicting narratives and bring in new perspectives.

Sometimes it is hard to honour the stories we have to tell whilst also respecting the knowledge and experiences of the people we are talking to. When the stories involve conflict and the memories of loved ones we need extra reserves of skills, compassion and understanding.

For more about TellTale and the range of work we do go to our website.

 

 

 

 

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A job well done: Window on Wild Lindisfarne

They liked it. Visitors really liked it. They walked into the room and said ‘Wow!’ out loud. That was what we had wanted, after all this was Window on Wild Lindisfarne, or WoW for short.

The window part of the Window on Wild Lindisfarne. It needs some help to become a WoW.

The window part of the Window on Wild Lindisfarne. It needs some help to become a WoW.

Yes, it was a tiny room, but one that had been very important to us.  This space had to convince visitors that The Holy Island of Lindisfarne, a small patch of windswept rock and sand off the north-west coast of England, was really important for wildlife.

It was about encouraging people to see and experience more of the wild side of Lindisfarne.

It was about encouraging people to see and experience more of the wild side of Lindisfarne.

There had been special challenges involved in this, but we saw visitors there, hugely enjoying it, we knew we had found good solutions. Which is, of course, our job.

The challenges? There were three:

Firstly Lindisfrane is dripping with historical and spiritual heritage. That is what draws people. We therefore had the task of deflecting attention, for a moment, from what they had come to see.

Beautiful images of this most beautiful place are important.

Beautiful images of this most beautiful place are important.

Secondly, the most amazing of the amazing wildlife is the light-bellied brent geese who fly here from Scandinavia. The grassy field in front of the window is where they like to feed and roost – but only in winter, and often only at high tide.  That of course, does not tie in with visitor movements – most visitors come in the summer and the island is inaccessible at high tide. This is a good example of an unpredictable and difficult wildlife subject!

Designers CDA made nice use of materials  showing the flying gees moving from panel to stonework.

Designers CDA made nice use of materials showing the flying gees moving from panel to stonework.

Thirdly the space was small and divided between two buildings, one of which didn’t exist yet.

However, as ever, there was an opportunity for every challenge. Three of them were:

  • The community of islanders, our client, whose passion for their place shines through all the interpretation. Working with them was a joy. From the start we were determined that as much of the story as possible would be in their words. So we ran workshops and edited the transcripts with the lightest and deftest of touches.
The people of the island - the interpretation uses their words to share their stories.

The people of the island – the interpretation uses their words to share their stories.

  • Lots of visitors come to the island. No, they don’t come for  wildlife but they come – and we had been told they needed more to do during their visit.  Certainly the local pubs and tea shops wanted them to stay longer. Here good interpretation would definitely contribute to a hard-pressed and tourism-reliant local economy.
  • One of the buildings was an old coastguards’ lookout with great views over the island. A room with a view is always a gift to an interpreter.

P1250649 81I am proud of what the team produced here: our friends and longest of long-term TellTale associates John and Deborah Conibear of CDA did a great job with the design and implementation of all the graphics and the production of the video: Laurie Campbell, one of the UK’s top wildlife photographers was wonderfully generous in allowing the use of his fabulous images; another TellTale buddy Dan Powell,  leading wildlife artist, did the illustrations. Associates of CDA (whose names sadly I do not know) provided the ‘historical photographs’ and the interactive donations box.

P1250556 66My TellTale partner, Peter Phillipson, developed the concept (with CDA), provided interpretive and ecological input, facilitated the workshops and worked with the community. I provided the words (and maintain the fact that there are so very few of them makes that a major contribution).

Thanks to all of them, this is one of the jobs we are most proud to have been involved with.

Visit our website to see more TellTale projects.

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Why is a heritage interpreter like a comedian?

Does laughter have a role in heritage interpretation?  Would a course in stand-up comedy help me understand what it is?

This week I was interviewed as part of a research project into the social psychology of laughter. I was invited not because I had been laughing too loudly in public (yet again!) but because I wrote this post on laughter at heritage sites a few months back.

Of course I accepted the invitation. It sounded like it would be a laugh. It was. It left me feeling sparky and rejuvenated. Laughter does that to me, even talking about it apparently does it too.

Picture 5The research was being carried out by Glen Duggan of the School of Psychology at Trinity College, Dublin.

I found myself cast as someone with a professional interest in laughter. That was new to me. It made me think again about laughter and heritage interpretation.

So why do you think laughter is important? Glen asked me.

My answers were:

1. Not all laughter is helpful

Obviously there are lots of different sorts of laughter. That’s one of the things this research is looking at. I focused on the sort that makes people feed good.

2. Laughter can help people learn

Lots of good teachers know this. I think comedians often make connections in surprising, irreverant, and otherwise attention-grabbing ways. This makes their stuff memorable. Good interpretive guides do this too. Making memorable connections is fundamental to heritage interpretation.

 3. Laughter can help visitors to chill

Laughing is often associated with relaxation, with letting your guard down a bit. I think this is hugely important, especially in a country like mine where we are culturally rather formal, like introductions and require a rather large personal space.

Interpreters often have to pack people who do not know each other into a  small space (e.g. for an otter talk) or ask them to walk in a group around a heritage site. When we do this, we are effectively asking them to get physically closer to each other sooner than they would choose to. Offering them something they can laugh at together, especially if that is what I (as of two days ago) term a ‘laugh of recognition’, helps them to feel socially more at ease. More at ease means more receptive to what we have to say.

I suspect they are also more likely to stick with the activity.

Most of the good guided walks I remember have involved the group at least smiling (I am talking the UK, after all) together within the first five minutes. That’s probably not a coincidence.

This  skilled guide used laughter well during an often sobering and poignant tour of Fremantle Prison (Australian Convict Sites World Heritage Site)

This skilled guide used laughter well during an often sobering and poignant tour of Fremantle Prison (Australian Convict Sites World Heritage Site)

NOTE: I should say at this point that this is a UK-English perspective. I do recognise that other cultures are available, including several where strangers are comfortable with close proximity. (Strange, but true.)

4. Humour can build empathy

Those ‘laughs of recognition’ may be particularly important. Good guides often use humour to build empathy and identification with the subject. They tell us some facts and then might say something like, “So can you imagine how the conversation went when the King went home and told his wife that he had just given away half her fortune? I don’t envy him that one – reckon he was in the spare room that night ” … and so on. This will be accompanied by lots of body language and facial expression. This is performance, pantomime, raconteurship and very close to comedy. It draws people into the story, it brings people and places to life. It builds relationship with the subject matter.

5. Laughing is not always appropriate

I am not the best person to write on this. Inappropriate humour is an ever-present social pitfall for me. It took me several decades to realise that ‘just because you think something is funny you don’t need to say it out loud, Susan‘.

But heritage interpreters have more to worry about than simply making fools of themselves. Ours is the serious and sometimes sensitive business of sharing people’s heritage. We have the capacity to be offensive and seriously disrepectful, both of which will alienate our audience and diminish the reputation of our site and our organisation.

However the very best guides I have seen know how to  present an experience that offers emotional highs and lows.

6. The medium matters 

We have to be more careful in print than face to face.  Humour often needs a human face. People are also more flexible than panels and can say different things to different people.

I have been known to slip facetious and humorous asides into my interpretive writing.

I have been known to slip facetious and humorous asides into my interpretive writing.

I think laughter is brilliant – in  heritage interpretation and elsewhere.

So much so that, yes, I am seriously thinking of taking a course in stand-up comedy. I’ll keep you posted.

 

For more information on what we do , when we are not laughing, at TellTale go to http://www.telltale.co.uk/News.php

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‘Living the woodland life’ with Ben Laws

Yesterday Peter and I spent the day in Prickly Nut Wood with Ben Laws, listening to him talk about his ‘forest life’ and his woodsmanship.

I almost always find being with people in a place that they are strongly connected to, moving. This was exceptional. It may have been life-changing.

Ben in Prickly Nut Wood - a man at home in the woods.

Ben in Prickly Nut Wood – a man at home in the woods.

Ben is extraordinarily connected with his woods. They have been his home and work for 22 years. He owns 8 acres (about 3 hectares) and manages another 90 acres (36.5 hectares). For the first eleven or so years he lived in a bender in the woods before deciding the use the timber of the woodland and his knowledge and skill in working it to create a house.

This project featured on what became the one of the most popular episodes of the ‘Grand Designs’ TV programme, which showed Ben designing, collecting timber for and building his house. A few years later, the television returned and showed him living happily in an extended house with a wife and baby.  It was a a lovely story, about a beautiful building and a quiet man with vision and purpose.

Two or three times a year Ben opens his house and garden to a limited number of visitors. Yesterday we were two of those – in a flash of brilliance, our daughter had bought Peter, a manager and lifelong lover of woodlands, two places for his Christmas present.
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It was a lovely day in mid autumn – a day of blue sky through the turning leaves, blackberries, and fungi. Ben lives in Sussex, a gentle , green, wooded and affluent county in south east England, far away (in every way) from the open moorland of Derbyshire where we live. His mixed woodlands are rich in sweet chestnut a strong, durable and workable timber that I could see Peter envied.

Sweet chestnuts

Sweet chestnuts

The woods are beautiful and varied. There are dense stands of well managed coppice, areas of regrowth that have been recently harvested and some fine oak standards. Being there with Ben added a dimension, maybe several dimensions, to the lovely place and my reasonable grasp of at least the fundamentals of woodland management. He has all the detailed knowledge, the practical experience, and the total familiarity with the wood and working it. He was a clear, articulate and welcoming host who encouraged all questions from his I guessed very mixed audience of foresters, architects, gardeners, tree surgeons, designers, permaculturalists.

Ben knew and acknowledged that people had come to see his house but insisted that we saw the wood, the source of his materials first. That was an excellent move. I learned so much more detail of how woods were traditionally managed to yield a range of valuable building products.

Charcoal making

Charcoal making

After lunch we visited his workshop, another early self build project where the basic structure was more visible and talked about the building techniques. By this time I think everyone in the room wanted to build their own roundwood timberframe house. I know I did.

Inside the workshop

Inside the workshop

Ben demonstrated the 'butterpat joint' he developed for roundwood work.

Ben demonstrated the ‘butterpat joint’ he developed for roundwood work.

Ben now has a business building and advising on such buildings throughout the country and a team of people working for him.

Then he showed his house. As he said, it was smaller than it looked on the telly. As one of the participants said, it is even more lovely. The group was quiet, almost reverential, possibly awestruck, looking at it. Ben, rather charmingly pointed out picky shortcomings that wouldn’t be like that if he was doing it now, while we stared around, open-mouthed.

How lovely is this? The outside of Ben's house ...

How lovely is this? The outside of Ben’s house …

 

... and a small part of the (hard to photograph) interior.

… and a small part of the (hard to photograph) interior.

I bet that at least one person in that group builds a house of sustainably sourced local timber within the next decade. I bet many of us will looking how we can live more sustainably and harmoniously with our surroundings. I suspect most will think harder about the sources of the timber products we buy and the life in the woodlands we pass through.

This wasn’t billed as a day to learn about sustainability or woodland  management for wildlife. In fact, Ben probably communicated more of both than many days run by conservation organisations with those aims. He made sustainable living feel personal and highly desirable. Watch and learn.

There are many things we can gain from spending time in the woods.

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Sorry, QR code, it’s not you .. it’s me

QR code – speaking as a heritage interpreter, I think our relationship is ending, or at least changing. The honeymoon is over as far as I’m concerned. You’ve got to do a lot more to pull your weight if we’re going to hang out together in the future.

So where are you taking me?  Is it worth it? Do I care?

So where are you taking me? Is it worth it? Do I care?

Firstly, QR code, I accuse you and, more so, your minions, of seducing us away from what we know. I think you have encouraged us back to bad ol’ interpretive habits.

We know most people don’t want to read a lot of stuff when they are visiting heritage sites. A few years, we interpretive writers sorted out that interpretive panels, for instance, were not an excuse to put a book on the wall or a stick. A panel is a highly disciplined piece of communication involving writing and pictures that has to be well designed, snappily written and to the point (see here, here and here). Otherwise people won’t read it.

 Having writing and pictures (hopefully) on a tiny, weeny screen that reflects light doesn’t change that. Especially if no one has thought about what the content looks like on a small screen. Your advocates who talk about the squillions of trillions of mega giga bytes of stuff that visitors can access are completely missing the point.  Interpreters know visitors want engagement , experience, relationship, understanding. 

I have seem some shocking stuff hidden behind QR codes.  It seems rather like back in the 1970s when (maybe) we didn’t know better and wrote Way too much.  Bigger is not better when it comes to information in interpretation.

Okay I hear you – people can read this when they get back home. Of course they can. Show me evidence that they do.

What I am really interested in, however, is interpretation that gives people a better, bigger, deeper, more meaningful visit while they are on site. At the place where it matters. As part of a first hand direct experience.

The thing is, I think, if you were so minded, you could help with this.  You are a lot less ‘shouty’ than a panel. I warmed to you at first because of that. It seemed we could work together to remove clutter, to make information more of an option than an intrusion. You still have that potential.

Yes, you're easy - but that doesn't make you worthwhile.

Yes, you’re easy – but that doesn’t make you worthwhile.

But you let me down.   You can be clunky and unreliable. You’re often slow: you don’t like shadows. Or cow poo (okay I forgive that, me neither!). You need people to get really close to you before you’ll tell them anything.  It’s not all your fault, of course, sometimes we’ve tried it in the wrong places and there just wasn’t a strong enough connection; I can’t blame you for that. My fault.

QR codes may be an answer  but not an easty one (thanks to Dan Boys of AudioTrails for this image)

QR codes may be an answer but not an easy one (thanks to Dan Boys of AudioTrails for this image)

The trouble is that, now I know you better, I think that even that unobtrusiveness that I was so attracted to, is a bit of a problem. You’re dowdy, mate. Look at you. We’re trying to attract people’s attention here – to lure them into this lovely stuff that will enhance their visit. Your black and white non-representational look may go down well with geeks, but for the rest of us it says nothing. You need a decent interpreter to give you a makeover, to sell you better, to add the wink and sparkle. Maybe we can make you smile. That would be nice.  Its great to see our friend and associate, Dan Boys giving you good attention. You need it.

But I’m still not sure. People are beginning to lose interest. I’ve noticed the Sunday supplements – you were all over them not so long ago – are giving you the cold shoulder now. Feels like you may be out in the cold.

There you are, lurking in the corner - but you're losing your claim to that place.

There you are, lurking in the corner – but you’re losing your claim to that place.

The word on the street is that you are ‘a hassle’, ‘a bit pointless’, ‘never lead to anywhere I want to go’.

It’s time for change, my friend. Or maybe a parting of the ways.   You see, there are lots of things we can do with our smart phones on heritage and wildlife sites. You might be the oldest but I’m not sure you’re our best option. We’re looking at this (especially in a project I am working on with RSPB) – maybe we can give you the revamp we need. Maybe not.

Of course, if this is the end, it doesn’t mean the time we’ve had together was a waste. Far from it. I think we’ve learned a lot. I hope I’m now more understanding of digital interpretation.  I’m excited by it and will be playing the field a bit. You’ve helped me see what I want and what I, and more importantly our visitors, need from guys like you. When the next new medium comes along, I’m ready.

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