The Izzle Of Wiggot

We’re often told about something being the size of a football pitch, an Olympic swimming pool or Wales, or the length or size of a double decker bus, or several. In terms of mass, there’s much talk about Afrikan elephants. One such unit is of course the Isle of Wight, shown above in a photo from the International Space Station. In particular, in around 1910 CE, the observation was made that the population of the world could stand on the island. It was later noted, in 1968, that the information was out of date and the Isle of Man would now be required, and that year, John Brunner wrote his memorably titled novel ‘Stand On Zanzibar’, which estimated, as it turns out almost perfectly accurately, that by 2010 the seven millard people on this planet would require the floor space of the East Afrikan island of Zanzibar. These three islands have areas of 381, 572 and 1554 km² respectively.

Of the various units of area used, the Isle of Wight is not particularly common. From 1974, it became its own county, but it’s long been a familiar and discrete unit, particularly for people living in the English Home Counties. I understand that in the US, Martha’s Vineyard tends to be used. It has certain advantages over “the size of Wales” because that country has a largely politically defined border and there may in the past have been issues with Monmouthshire, a place which totally does my head in but has several significant personal associations for me which mean I can’t ignore it. As far as I can tell, Monmouthshire is now absolutely Welsh territory, but for a long time its status was ambiguous, and I can remember a late nineteenth century gazetteer repeatedly referring to “Wales and Monmouthshire” due to this confusion. Perhaps the issue of Monmouthshire will come up again on this blog.

A more precise definition of the statement that the population of the world could fit on the Isle of Wight is that 2 600 million people would occupy the island at a density of six people per square metre. This number was passed between 1951 and 1952, which is more recent than I expected. The issue of human population being a problem or not is another important matter which I plan to address soon, particularly in connection with the controversial documentary film ‘Planet Of The Humans’. There are cultural biasses in all these units, but this can be a good thing. For instance, deforestation is often quoted to the British in “Waleses”. A Wales, incidentally, is equivalent to 54½ Isles of Wight.

While I’ve been posting stuff about the Solar System, I’ve found myself using these kinds of units, particularly in terms of surface areas although there are some others. For instance, the Cassini Division in Saturn’s rings is about as wide as the east-west distance across North America at its widest point, probably roughly Vancouver to Nova Scotia. To some extent it may help to visualise the scale, but there also comes a point where it becomes impossible to relate to and one may as well just be saying “very big”. That said, it is startling that the maximum possible distance across Titan, for example, is roughly the same as London to Los Angeles, which feels like it’s practically on the other side of the world, and it’s fair to note that this is a slightly confusing statement because it isn’t east to west but across the Arctic, as an aircraft might fly.

Another issue, particularly with Wales, is that “if Wales was flattened out it’d be bigger than England”. The problem with this statement is that if England was flattened out it’d be bigger than England too, and the extent to which something is “flattened out”. Is it supposed to include just mountains and valleys imagined as pyramids or does it go down to the level of irregularities on the surfaces of grains of sand? How attached does a grain have to be to the rest of the surface? I’ve been into this before though.

Getting back to the Isle of Wight, I have the radio on as I’m typing this and it’s just been stated that an area of orchards the size of the Isle of Wight has been lost in this country since 1900. This shows how common this measurement is. It’s probably easier to relate to than Wales because it’s on the lowland side of the British Isles, so the whole flattened out issue doesn’t apply. Other linguistic spheres tend to use small local governmental units, perhaps their smallest such as Saarland, and may differ in that they are themselves not the official languages of island nations and therefore less focussed on islands and coastlines even though on the same scale their coastlines may be longer, as with Norway, so they lack “natural” geographical units of the same prominence. Denmark, I think, tends to use Bornholm. In terms of the “U”K, we have Rutland and Clackmannanshire, but the latter is as far as I know never used in this way, partly due to the 1974 reorganisation even though that’s now past. Rutland also temporarily disappeared at that time but came back in 1997 thanks to an enthusiastic local campaign. It’s a single square kilometre larger than the Isle of Wight.

The island was historically part of Hampshire and is not a ceremonial county. During the 1960s when metropolitan counties were being proposed, there was one suggestion which never got taken on board whereas all other suggestions were: the Solent area was considered as a metropolitan county. I don’t know if it would’ve been called “Solent” or included the island, but if it hadn’t there would’ve been an odd division between two halves of Hampshire, so presumably the Isle of Wight would still have become independent. Incidentally, the Solent area now has a population of 750 000, so it does seem valid as a metropolitan county although it never happened. They were in any case abolished in 1986.

Historically, the island has cultural connections to East Kent, my own original local area. These are the two areas prominently settled by the somewhat mysterious Jutes after the fall of Rome. The Jutes are a poorly-known tribe compared to the Angles, Saxons and Frisians, whose name seems to be cognate with the Goths and Geats (as mentioned in ‘Beowulf’). They’re also rumoured to have suffered a genocide and to have therefore made little contribution to modern English culture although they are responsible for the division between maids of Kent and Kentish maids. Jutes were the maids and men of Kent, so to speak. I’m wondering if they were massacred for refusing to convert to Christianity.

I described Telesto and Calypso, Dione’s coörbitals, as both around the size of the Isle of Wight, but comparing a small celestial body to the island is ambiguous. Does it mean surface area, volume, or perhaps mass? A sphere with a surface area the same as the island would have a diameter of nine kilometres, which is quite a bit smaller than Telesto or Calypso.

By Mikenorton – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=26055216

This is a geological map of the island. The multicoloured sands of Alum Bay should be enough to convince most people that it’s quite heterogeneous. This varied composition makes it quite difficult to assess its mean density and therefore mass accurately. The Needles are obviously made of chalk, whose density is 2.499 compared to water. It’s tempting at this point to go off on a tangent and attempt to describe the island as if it’s a tiny moon of this planet, but I shall resist that. Nonetheless I do want to know how large and heavy it is.

As usual, I have little idea what’s known generally or just to me, so I may be recounting common knowledge here but if not, in the ‘noughties there was a Radio 4 sitcom which was mainly a parody of television science fiction tropes, called ‘Nebulous’. The central character, Professor Nebulous, has a backstory of accidentally destroying the Isle Of Wight by moving it ten kilometres to the left so it can get more sunlight, killing the whole population in the process and severely maiming one of the other main characters, Harry Hayes. This has made me curious about how much the island actually weighs. In order to decide this, it’s necessary to work out where it starts.

The Solent is between fifty and 120 metres deep and the Isle of Wight has an average elevation of about sixty metres, although St Boniface Down is 241 metres above sea level. I’m going to say, therefore, that the island is a prism with cross-sectional area of 381 km² and a total height top to bottom of 180 metres. I’m also going to assume it’s half chalk and half sandstone, although I’m aware it also contains substantial quantities of clay. The density of sandstone is up to 2.6, so a fair estimate is 2.55. Hence the volume of the island is only 68.5 km³ and its mass is just under 175 000 million tonnes. By this calculation, more than half of the island is below sea level.

Things can be done with these data.

Make the island a ball of rock. It then has a diameter of five kilometres and a surface area of eighty square kilometres, which indicates how flat and thin the real island is. This is kind of uselessly small for astronomical purposes. Both Phobos and Deimos are several times larger. If the Isle of Wight was orbiting us as a second moon, it would be relatively bright due to the chalk content but also very small. Perhaps people could live inside it in caves. It could have no external atmosphere and its gravity would be negligible, but it could be spun to give it artificial gravity. Unfortunately it wouldn’t do the squirrels much good and the fossil record would be . On the whole it doesn’t sound like a good idea. The population of the island is 141 606, and the question arises of whether it could be self-sufficient as a tiny moon. Perhaps if it were covered in greenhouses full of tanks of algæ. I’m not sure. I imagine the current inhabitants of the island would have something to say about it and wouldn’t be entirely behind such a plan.

As for the real Isle of Wight, I have been there on holiday and seem to remember being there on another occasion. This was in 1976. There used to be schools programme footage of me and my brother sitting on the jetty waiting for the ferry from, I think, Portsmouth. This was in July at the height of the famous drought. While there, I got tonsilitis and ran a fever, as did my brother, although I did manage to visit Blackgang Chine and the dinosaurs. Although it was difficult to find the holiday home, the small size of the island also made it fairly difficult to get lost.

To me, as a child, the Isle of Wight kind of marked the edge of the known world, or rather it was slightly beyond that edge. I was familiar enough with most of Kent and aware that Sussex and London were beyond it, and had visited them many times, but Hampshire and the island were not part of my local sphere.

That’s it really.

Small – Far Away

Until I was about thirteen, it used to mystify me why distant objects look smaller than close ones. Why wasn’t everything like tunnel vision? If there’s a castle in the middle distance which looks like a mathbox at arms length, why would they seem to be the same size? If they weren’t, vision would be very cluttered. There is, though, probably no way that could happen.

The answer, which it took me a silly amount of time to work out, is of course that the further away your field of vision is, the larger area it occupies, and therefore the smaller the portion of that area is occupied by objects within that field at that distance. I actually had to read Jacob Bronowski’s ‘Ascent Of Man’ before I realised how it worked. I presume practically everyone else who can see has worked it out before they were able to use language, but for some reason not me. It might be due to my poor eyesight, as I’ve been short-sighted for as long as I can remember. My early visual memories are literally blurry.

There’s a famous scene in ‘Father Ted’ about this:

After reaching adulthood, I did have one strange experience on travelling past a field of sheep on a train and not getting any visual cues regarding how distant it was, where they somehow ended up looking about the size of cauliflowers to me. This is odd because there are cues such as mistiness, how you need to focus your eyes and the relative angles of your pupils which ought to tell you what’s going on. Nonetheless, and perhaps mildly embarrassingly, these didn’t come into play on this occasion for some reason. Of course I didn’t actually think they were the size of caulis, but the impression was vivid.

And yes, I hereby acknowledge that I still find Graham Linehan’s writing hilarious.

Another place where “small – far away” comes into play is of course ‘Doctor Who’:

I think there’s a history of dimensional transcendentalism in British children’s literature. Actually that’s quite a pretentious way of saying it, and it’s probably fairer to say that C S Lewis’s 1950 novel ‘The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe’ kind of invented it, not ‘Doctor Who’. The wardrobe seems to be bigger on the inside, although it’s because it’s a portal to another universe. Looking at it that way, the TARDIS is dimensionally transcendental because it’s a pocket universe, although ‘Who’ already uses that term to mean something else. As a child, I saw the TARDIS as kind of mushroom-like, in that the physical exterior of the vehicle contained a kind of stalk extending into hyperspace and expanding to a size bigger than the three dimensions of the Police Box. This is similar to the First Doctor’s explanation of the feature. I’ve always presumed that the word “transcendental” turns up in that in the mathematical sense rather than “transcendental meditation” or something else. A transcendental number is one which cannot be expressed using the four standard arithmetical operations or raising to a whole number power. All transcendental numbers are also irrational, since a ratio is one integer divided by another. There is an uncountably infinite set of transcendental numbers, as opposed to integers which are only countably infinite. I’m left with the impression that the dimensional transcendentalism of the TARDIS is achieved by exploiting the points in space between the ones accessible to us in ordinary space, but these two versions can be combined if you imagine the TARDIS to have a kind of four-dimensionally “rough” space along the lines of “If Wales were flattened out it’d be bigger than England” kinda thing. This ignores the Planck Length though.

‘Doctor Who’ is, to say the least, fiction. However, some things really are bigger on the inside. One example is a sphere exactly half the diameter of the Universe. The Universe is said to be 93 thousand million light years across, which reducing it to more manageable units is a diameter of 28.5 gigaparsecs. In Euclidean space, a sphere of half this size would have a volume of a little over 1515 cubic gigaparsecs. However, since space is not Euclidean, this is incorrect and the actual volume of such a sphere is 18 181 cubic gigaparsecs. It actually has a dozen times the volume. This is like the forty-five centimetre diameter Pilates ball in the corner of this room having an internal volume of a ball more than twice its diameter, which would make it a lot slower to inflate and deflate. You’d wonder where all the air was going or coming from.

It isn’t confined to the Universe as a whole either. The distance between the event horizon and the centre of a black hole is greater than the apparent radius of that event horizon. In fact, technically any object with mass is larger on the inside because gravity is a distortion of space, although I don’t think anyone has worked out how much it’s done so. It can’t be significant on the scale of Earth’s mass though because that’s been measured so precisely that the discrepancy is so small that placing the apparent size of the planet in the same volume as if space were Euclidean would not lead to any visible difference even on our comparatively minute scale. Nonetheless it is technically true.

Great Britain, which could possibly do with another name (Albion?) is the eighth largest island, and is accompanied to its west by the twentieth largest, Ireland. There is then, as usual, a kind of power law of islands of diminishing size and variable isolation. I was recently rather shocked to find that I’d been completely unaware of Portsea Island, which is the third largest in terms of population in these isles at two hundred thousand. Or rather, I knew it existed and I’ve even been there, but I failed to recognise the significance of the fact that a large town was largely built on it. Some of the smaller islands are far away, but still count as part of the archipelago: Rockall comes to mind, but also the islands of St Kilda. The question of whether the Faroe Islands count as part of this collection of bits sticking up out of the water also arises. Pear’s Cyclopædia used to say they were part of Scotland, although that was not meant in political terms but geographically. The reason I bring this up here is the evolutionary processes known as island dwarfism and island gigantism, together known as the “island effect” or “island rule”. This is the tendency for small animals to become larger on islands and large animals to become smaller. What, though, do “small” and “large” mean here?

The Canadian biologist J. Foster was one of the first people to study the island effect thoroughly in the 1960s, looking at various groups of mammals, and found that species of subspecies varied in size according to their taxon. Carnivores were smaller, rodents larger, even-toed ungulates smaller and insectivores and lagomorphs smaller. He didn’t look at creatures other than mammals, but the effect does apply to them, as with the Komodo dragon and giant tortoises at the large end and pygmy frogs at the other. One explanation is that smaller creatures get larger due to the lack of predators, whereas larger ones get smaller because of the lack of food. If this is so, the factors involved don’t just apply to islands. I’m personally wondering two things right now: does it apply to lakes, and does it affect plants? And the third thing is, how small does an island have to be before this starts to happen? Does it apply to Great Britain? Are animals and plants on islands far away from the English East Midlands smaller or larger in these islands? It should help to look at more distant examples first.

Possibly the most famous incidence of insular dwarfism is of the Flores Straits Islanders, who were humans of unusually small stature, currently classified as a different species, being around 110 centimetres tall. They died out early in the last Ice Age, although there appear to be folk tales of them still around in the area. Humans currently living in the area are also unusually short, but not to the same extent. They seem to have been a sister species to Homo habilis, the “handy man”, who lived in Afrika about two million years ago. Once again, we’re in the Coral Triangle as Flores Island is in Eastern Indonesia. The island of Komodo itself, where Komodo dragons live, is nearby. On Flores Island there are other examples of dwarfism. As far as the humans were concerned, it was hypothesised that their size was not an adaptation but was associated with pathology, such as Down Syndrome or iodine deficiency. Other primates in this category include an extinct species of macaque who lived on Sardinia and a colobus monkey native to Zanzibar. There was also a dwarf wolf native to Honshu, Kyushu and Shikoku, which strike me as rather large compared to some others, but it’s been claimed that the size of island is not the main factor, which makes no sense to me because in a sense a continent is an island.

Dodos are a good example of island gigantism, and unfortunately also an illustration of island tameness. It’s possible that small herbivores find it easier to hide from large predators, so they become larger in their absence. There were a number of species of giant primate on Madagascar, which is getting on for three times the size of Great Britain. The Pleistocene extinction event, which may or may not be linked to human activity, has led to a lot of larger species dying out. It seems to me also that they may be occupying vacant niches due to lower biodiversity.

There are examples of island gigantism in these isles. For instance, there’s an endangered vole in the Orkeys who is unusually large, a fairly large subspecies of field mouse on St Kilda, but I’m not aware of any insular dwarfism. That said, it does actually seem that the species of animals living in these islands are often smaller than their continental counterparts, and this may be a form of dwarfism. For instance, there are three very small species of native cockroach in the genus Ectobius, each only about a third to a quarter of the length of Blatta orientalis or the larger Periplaneta americana. Likewise with cicadas, native to the New Forest. Cicadetta montana is around a centimetre long, but cicadas elsewhere can be up to five centimetres in length. As is usual with evolution, the size difference probably already existed but became significant in Britain due to the pressure from human activity. That’s just my guess though.

The thing about these islands, though, is that they’ve only been islands at all for the past seven thousand years and are still very close to France and Benelux, so the isolation which might apply to other islands may not pertain to us. Then again, the Orkneys are pretty close to Great Britain too. The Orcadian example, though, might illustrate something about genetics more generally. Orcadians are generally the most distinct population of humans in Ireland and Britain in terms of ancient ancestry here, and the voles of the Orkneys may partly reflect a similar distinction. That does raise another issue for me though: is there another scale factor? Rodents like voles are liable to stay on their islands rather than often surviving to mix with the mainland population, except where they’re helped by humans, but a beaver or capybara is living in a smaller world and less likely to be distinct for that reason. Again, this is just me.

Probably the most shocking example of the island effect is what happened on Haţeg Island in the late Cretaceous. Here, pterosaurs became giants and sauropods (i.e. the likes of Diplodocus and Brachiosaurus) dwarfs. I’ve mentioned the place before. Haţeg Island was about the size of Ireland and was situated in the northern Tethys in today’s Romania. Its pterosaurs were extremely large. Hatzegopteryx, for example, had a twelve metre wingspan. Magyarosaurus and Paludititan, by contrast, were dwarf sauropods, both about six metres long and weighing about a tonne. They might have been preyed upon by the pterosaurs.

Presumably, if at some time in the future Britain was able to stay isolated, after we’ve become extinct, it might be expected to show the island effect, but that would depend on it remaining an island. Although the immediate likelihood of us staying isolated is high due to anthropogenic global warming raising the sea level, in the long term Doggerland, currently below sea level in the German Ocean/North Sea, will rebound against the pressure of the ice sheets and the whole region is likely to return to being a peninsula. Consequently we probably won’t ever be affected much by island gigantism or insular dwarfism, meaning that living in these islands is long going to be like it is now: looking through the wrong end of a telescope and seeing tiny animals here, but giant ones abroad.