Escape to the Howgills

Driving from my home in Durham towards the south eastern side of the Lake District or to Lancaster leads me across the A66 before I turn off and descend through the Eden Valley and Kirkby Stephen before entering the Lune valley where I join the M6, which follows the course of the Lune through the narrow gap between the high hills of the Howgills and the Winfell Ridge.  It is one of the most spectacular stretches of motorway in the country and I yearn for occasions when I do not have to rush past these hills in pursuit of deadlines.   Those chances do not come very often and, when they do, the weather is not always conducive to walking at high altitude.  However, last Friday, the gods smiled on me: the weather was perfect and I had nothing to pull me back across the Pennines and every excuse to linger.   I pulled off the M6, followed the A684 into Sedbergh and, just 15 minutes after I left the motorway, I was locking my car and following a footpath onto the fells.

There is something about the geology of the Howgills that sets them apart from the hills around them: the Lake District peaks have hard, jagged outlines whilst the Pennines reflect the tilted beds of Carboniferous limestone and sandstone.   The Howgills, however, have soft, convex outlines.  They are of Silurian sandstone though why this should give them such a different topography to the surrounding areas, I do not know.  From a distance they resemble a herd of recumbent cattle and it is no surprise that the highest peak – to which I was heading – was The Calf.

The convex form of these hills means that the first part of the walk is hard work and I had to pause at intervals to look down on s to look back at the small market town of Sedbergh below me and, beyond, the westernmost extremities of the Yorkshire Dales.   As I gained altitude, however, the slope gradually lessened and I was soon on an undulating, but gradually rising, grassy ridge heading north with just a few sheep for company.   The closely-cropped springy turf made for comfortable walking but the absence of wild flowers amidst the grass reminded me of George Monbiot’s phrase “sheep-wrecked”.   Apart from these sheep, I had the fells almost to myself, passing just half a dozen other walkers in three hours.

The summit of the calf is marked by a triangulation point, which offered the culmination of a series of outstanding views.  To the south west, I could see the northern end of Morcambe Bay glistening in the late afternoon sunlight.  Letting my eyes move northward from here, I could see the peaks of the Lake District laid out before me: Old Man of Coniston, Scafell Pike and Great Gable, Helvellyn and, in the far distance, Blencathra.  Then, continuing my panorama across the Eden Valley, I saw the sharp outline of the Pennines with, just discernible, the crenellations that marked Cross Fell, Great Dun Fell and Little Dun Fell.   Far below, I could just see the M6 snaking through the valley below, where drivers, no doubt, were gazing wistfully up at the hills just as I had done so often in the past.

Eventually, I tore myself away from the top of the Calf and followed the path back towards Sedbergh.  It was early evening as I rounded Winder, the first (or final, depending on your direction) undulation on the ridge.   Below me, I could make out activity on the fields of Sedbergh School, and could hear the distant cheers of spectators to what may have been a tug-of-war contest.   The summit of Winder is, I have been told, the turning point for the school’s cross-country run; it is a school with a ferocious reputation for sport, as I could hear.   Ironically, the town’s other claim to fame is its association with the foundation of the Quakers, the religious group whose views mostly closely align with my own.  Their founder, George Fox, preached both in the churchyard of St Andrew’s church below me, and on the nearby Firbank Fell, and the meeting house at Brigflatts, just outside the town, is the second oldest in the country.

The 12 kilometre loop took me about three hours and I was sitting in lengthening shadows outside the local fish and chip shop (the “Haddock Paddock”) sipping shandy from a can and enjoying the last of the afternoon’s sun.   And then it was back into the car for the drive across to the Eden Valley and finally onto the A66 to cross the Pennines.   It’s a tough commute.   But you shouldn’t feel too sorry for me…

The exception that proves the rule …

If you are going to understand river ecology, you need to be able to consider landscapes at several different scales simultaneously.   In the River Ehen, this means looking upstream towards Ennerdale Water and, beyond, to Great Gable and the other Lake District peaks in order to appreciate the geology that gives the catchment its bones.  But, at the same time, you need to look around at the meanders of the river and the bankside vegetation that create the immediate habitat for the organisms, and then to look even more closely at the individual stones that line the river bed.

Peering into the water last week, the pebbles, cobbles and boulders that make up the substratum of the River Ehen looked bare of filamentous algae for the most part.  There were a few clumps but, at this time of year, when grazing invertebrates are active, the algal flora is reduced to a thin film, invisible to the naked eye and apparent only as a slimy sensation when you run your fingers across the stone’s surface.   However, when I picked up a couple of cobbles, I noticed small, pale green gelatinous growths stuck on the upper surface.   Most were just a few millimetres across with the largest up to about a centimetre.

A growth of Draparnaldia glomerata on the upper surface of a cobble in the River Ehen, Cumbria, April 2017.

These growths are composed of the green alga Draparnaldia glomerata.  I have written about this alga before (see “The River Ehen in February”) but, under the microscope, it is such a beautiful organism, that I am not going to apologise for writing about it again.   The alga lives inside the gelatinous mass and consists of a relatively thick central filament from which tufts of narrower side-branches emerge.  The cells that make up these side branches gradually narrow, and the chloroplast becomes smaller until, eventually, the cells form a colourless “hair”.   These hairs are relatively short on the material illustrated below but can be much longer (some longer hairs were present but did not present nicely for photography).  The hairs are, in fact, an adaptation to help the alga acquire phosphorus, something I described in an earlier post about a relative, Stigeoclonium tenue (see “A day out in Weardale”).

Draparnaldia glomerata from the River Ehen, April 2017 showing filaments and side branches. Scale bars: a.: 50 micrometres (= 1/20th of a millimetre); b.: 20 micrometres (= 1/50th of a millimetre).

A low concentration of phosphorus is usually regarded as a Good Thing by aquatic ecologists, as this limits the amount of energy produced  by the plants at the base of the food chain.  This, in turn, means that the microbes and animals that depend on these are not using up all the oxygen in the water, or having other deleterious influences on the ecosystem.   I would usually regard the presence of an organism such as Draparnaldia as a sign of a healthy stream, as it is adapted to thrive when phosphorus is relatively scarce.

I was, however, careful to place “relatively” in front of “scarce”.   Studies by my colleagues (referenced in the earlier post) showed that the production of the phosphatase enzyme that boosts the alga’s ability to acquire phosphorus when it is scarce is determined by the ratio of nitrogen to phosphorus inside the cell itself, rather than in the water.   The physiology of nutrient limitation is all about the balance between the different “ingredients” that a cell needs.   If you have three eggs and 170g of sugar, for example, you can only make one cake, regardless of how much flour you have in your cupboard.   So it is with algae: most of the locations where I find Draparnaldia have very little nitrogen, but even less phosphorus.   There are barely enough ingredients for the algal “cake” so it is advantageous to the organism to pump out some enzyme to order to make up the shortfall.  This means that I can say with confidence that Draparnaldia is usually a good indicator of healthy streams.

Just occasionally, however, I get Draparnaldia in places where I would not usually expect it to be found.   The picture below shows a colleague standing in the Terman River, just before it flows into Lough Erne in Northern Ireland.   She is holding a skein of Cladophora glomerata in her left hand and a skein of Draparnaldia in her right hand.  I associate the former with nutrient-rich rivers where I would not usually expect to find Draparnaldia.  But both were growing prolifically at this site which defied my expectations until I started to think about the physiology of the organism.   Had I had the facilities to analyse the tissues of the algae, I expect that I would have found very high concentrations of nitrogen which, in turn, creates a demand for yet more phosphorus so that it could convert that nitrogen into the proteins it needs to grow.  However, that cannot be the whole story, because normally, under such circumstances, I would expect a competitive alga such as Cladophora to out-compete and overgrow the Draparnaldia.   Here, they were growing side-by-side.   It is, to date, the most luxuriant growth of Draparnaldia that I have seen, and also the only occasion where I have seen these two species co-existing in such abundance.

My colleague, Bernie White, holding skeins of Cladophora glomerata (left hand) and Draparnaldia glomerata (right hand) from the Terman River near Toome.  The border between the Republic of Ireland and the UK runs along the middle of this river.

I can extend my lesson from the first example to say that, to understand the ecology of any particular river you need to have perspectives obtained from many other rivers.   But, in this case, we see a potential limitation: the case of the “rare exception” that clouds an otherwise clear picture of an association between an organism and a particular set of circumstances.   The problem is particularly acute when dealing with the effect of nutrients because we are usually dealing with indirect, rather than direct effects.   Draparnaldia glomerata is usually associated with clean rivers with low concentrations of nutrients but it is not there because nutrient concentrations are low.   As for the diatom Amphora pediculus (see “The challenging ecology of a freshwater diatom?”) a more nuanced understanding of the relationship between an organism and nutrients yields more useful insights than simply assuming a cause-effect relationship.

Concentrating on carbon …

On the other side of Ennerdale Water I could see plenty more submerged stones, all covered with green filaments but these belonged to different genera to those that I wrote about in my previous post.   Both are genera that we have met previously – Mougeotia, which has flat, plate-like chloroplasts which rotate around a central axis in order to control its rate of photosynthesis – and Spirogyra.  When light levels are low, Mougeotia’s flat chloroplast is perpendicular to the light in order to capture as much energy as possible, but in bright light it rotates so that the plate is parallel to the direction of the light, in order to slow the photosynthesis mechanism down and prevent internal damage (see “Good vibrations under the Suffolk sun” for another approach to this problem).

However, too much sunlight is the least of an alga’s problems in the Lake District.   This post looks at a different challenge facing freshwater algae and our starting point is the spherical nodules, “pyrenoids”, that you should be able to see on the chloroplasts of both Mougeotia and Spirogyra in the images below.   Photosynthesis involves a reaction between water and carbon dioxide to make simple sugars (turning fizzy mineral water into “pop”, in other words).   A submerged alga does not have a problem obtaining the water it needs, but what about carbon dioxide?   Gases are not very soluble in water, so this presents a much bigger problem to the algae.   Explaining why also presents a big problem to a blogger who conscientiously avoided physics and chemistry from age 16 onwards.  Here goes …

Mougeotia from the littoral zone of Ennerdale Water, April 2017.  Scale bar: 20 micrometres (= 50th of a millimetre).

The concentration of a gas in a liquid depends upon the concentration of that gas in the surrounding atmosphere.   As far as we know (and this is still an area of contention amongst geologists), concentrations of carbon dioxide in the deep past were much higher than they are today, in part because there were no land plants to suck it out of the atmosphere for their own photosynthesis.  So the earliest photosynthetic bacteria and, subsequently, algae, lived in water that also had higher concentrations of carbon dioxide.   As land plants spread, so the carbon dioxide concentration in the atmosphere dropped as they used it to fuel their own growth.  As a result, carbon dioxide concentrations in the water also dropped, thus depriving the algae of an essential raw material for photosynthesis.

However, carbon dioxide is not the only source of carbon available to aquatic organisms.   There is also carbon in many rocks, limestone in particular, and this can mineralise to carbonate and bicarbonate ions dissolved in the water.  Aquatic plants can get hold of this alternative carbon supply via an enzyme called carbonic anhydrase.   By concentrating the carbonic anhydrase activity in a small area of the chloroplast, the algal cell can boost the activity of the Rubisco enzyme (which evolved to function at a higher concentration of carbon dioxide).   This whole process is one of a number of forms of “carbon concentrating mechanism” that plants use to turbocharge their photosynthetic engines (see “CAM, CAM, CAM …” on my wife’s blog for more about a terrestrial version of this).

A two-chloroplast form of Spirogyra from the littoral zone of Ennerdale Water, April 2017.  Scale bar: 20 micrometres (= 50th of a millimetre).

Pyrenoids are widespread amongst algae, though a few groups (notably red algae and most chrysophytes) lack them.   Cyanobacteria (blue-green algae) use an organelle called a “carboxysome” for a similar purpose.   The only group of land plants with pyrenoids are the hornworts, relatives of mosses and liverworts.   About half of all hornworts have pyrenoids and a recent study has suggested that the ability to form pyrenoids has evolved up to five times in this group during their evolution.   The appearance of pyrenoids in distinct evolutionary lineages of algae also suggests that there may have been several evolutionary events that precipitated their formation.  And, it is important to stress, some algae which lack pyrenoids have alternative methods of concentrating carbon to enhance Rubisco activity.

So let us end where we started: in the littoral zone of Ennerdale Water on an April morning, gazing at a fine “fur” of filamentous algae clinging to the submerged rocks.   Back in October last year, I talked about how Ennerdale fitted into a pattern of increasing productivity of Cumbrian lakes first noticed by Pearsall in the early part of the 20th century (see “The power of rock …”).   Now we can start to understand that pattern in terms of basic biochemical processes: getting enough carbon from a combination of atmospheric carbon dioxide and the surrounding rocks for Rubisco and the other photosynthetic enzymes to convert to sugars.   In Ennerdale Water, one of the least productive of the Cumbrian lakes, we can see these algae during the winter and spring because the amount of biomass that those biochemical reactions produces is still just ahead of the amount that grazing invertebrates such as midge larvae can remove.  In a month or so, the grazers will have caught up and the rock surfaces will be, to the naked eye at least, bare.

Rubisco is the enzyme whose gene, rbcL, we use for molecular barcoding, subject of many recent posts (see “When a picture is worth a thousand base pairs …”).  My early desire to avoid physics and chemistry at school translated into as little biochemistry as possible whilst an undergraduate and, over the past few-years, I’ve developed a frantic urge to catch-up on all that I missed.   Just wish that those lectures explaining the Calvin cycle had been a little less … tedious …


Giordano, M., Beardall, J. & Raven, J.A. (2005).  CO2 concentrating mechanisms in algae: mechanisms, environmental modulation, and evolution.   Annual Review of Plant Biology 56: 99-131.

Villareal, J.C. & Renner, S.S. (2012).  Hornwort pyrenoids, carbon-concentrating structures, evolved and were lost at least five times during the last 100 million years.  Proceedings of the National Academy  of Science of the USA 109: 18873-18878.


Spring in Ennerdale …

My latest trip to Ennerdale Water, in the Lake District, has yielded its usual crop of spectacular views and intriguing questions (see “Reflections from Ennerdale’s far side”).   This time, my curiosity was piqued by lush growths of green algae at several locations around the lake shore.  The knee-jerk reaction to such growths is that they indicate nutrient enrichment but I am always sceptical of this explanation, as lush green growth are a common sight in spring (see “The intricate ecology of green slime …”) and these often disappear within a month or two of appearing.

Two points of interest: first, the lake seems to be lagging behind the River Ehen, which flows out of Ennerdale Water.   We often see these lush growths of algae on the river bed in winter but by this time of year the mass of algae there is lower than we saw in the lake littoral.   Second, the lake bed looks far worse (see photograph below, from the north-west corner of the lake) than the actual biomass suggests.

Filamentous algae (Ulothrix aequalis) smothering cobble-sized stones in the littoral zone of Ennerdale Water, April 2017.

Under the microscope, this revealed itself to be unbranched filaments of a green algae, whose cells each contained a single band-shaped chloroplast lapping around most of the perimeter.   This is Ulothrix aequalis, a relative of Ulothrix zonata, which I wrote about a few times last year (see link above).   Like U. zonata, this species is very slimy to the touch and, I suspect, the payload of mucilage adds to the buoyancy of the organism and means that we look down on a fine mesh of filaments which trap light and add to the unsightly appearance of the lake bed at this point.   That this part of the lake shore is close to a tributary stream draining some improved pasture triggers some suspicions of agricultural run-off fuelling the algal growths but, looking back at my notebook, I see that the lake bed was almost clear of green algae when we visited this location in July last year.  I suspect that a return visit this summer would also show a clean river bed.  Appearances can often be misleading (see “The camera never lies?”).

Ulothrix aequalis from the littoral zone of Ennerdale Water, April 2017.   Scale bar: 10 micrometres (= 1/100th of a millimetre).

This was not the only site that we visited that had conspicuous growths of green algae, though the mass of algae was greatest here.   All of the sites at the western end had these growths (see “A lake of two halves” for an explanation of geological differences within the lake) but, curiously, the genus of alga that we found differed from site to site.   In addition to Ulothrix aequalis in this corner of the lake, we found Mougeotia on the south side and Spirogyra close to the outfall.  This diversity of forms is, itself, intriguing, and I have never read a convincing explanation of what environmental conditions favours each of these genera.   I see both spatial and temporal patterns of green algae in the River Ehen too and, again, there is no satisfactory explanation for why the species I find can differ along short distances of the river and between monthly visits.

The Mougeotia and Spirogyra both have another story to tell, but that will have to wait for the next post …

Desmids on the defensive …


I made a short diversion back to the car after sampling at Ennerdale’s south-eastern end (see “Reflections from Ennerdale’s Far Side …”) crossing the boggy land behind the gravel spit and dipping into one of the pools to pull out a handful of submerged Sphagnum in the hope of finding some desmids, a group of algae that I have not looked at for some time (see “Swimming with desmids …” for my most recent post on this group).

Squeezing the water from a handful of Sphagnum from a bog pool into a vial and allowing the contents of this water to settle is usually a reliable way of collecting desmids; however, on this occasion the haul was rather meagre.  There were plenty of diatoms, but desmids were sparse and limited to a few Pleurotaenium and Euastrum species and some rather impressive cells of Xanthidium armatum.

The distinctive feature of the genus Xanthidium is the bristling armoury of spines around the margins.  The arrangement of spines varies between species and X. armatum has one of the most impressive collections, with bundles of three or four short spines at each angle.   The photograph below does not really capture the depth of the cell, and it is also not possible to see that there are two “decks” of marginal spines, but also bundles of spines on the top surfaces as well as at the margins.   This is truly a man-of-war amongst desmids.


Xanthidium armatum from a boggy pool at the south east end of Ennerdale Water, January 2017.  Scale bar: 10 micrometres (= 1/100th of a millimetre).  The photographs at the top of this post show the pool from which the sample was collected.

I’m intrigued by desmids but do not claim great competence with the group, so this is a good place to advertise a field meeting organised jointly by the British Phycological Society and the Quekett Microscopical Society.   We will be using the Freshwater Biological Association beside Windermere as our base but heading out to various desmid-rich locations in the Lake District over the course of the weekend.  There will be opportunities to look at other groups of algae too, but desmids will be the main focus of our weekend.  David John of the Natural History Museum will be helping with this group, but there will be experts on other groups available too.  If you are interested in coming, let me know and I will keep you informed as the programme evolves.

Reflections from Ennerdale’s Far Side …


Ennerdale Water is, as I have described in earlier posts, is a lake of two halves, with a south eastern end influenced by granite and the north western end by softer mudstones and sandstones.  That has a big effect on the algae that we find in the littoral zone, with Cyanobacteria (blue-green algae) abundant in the south-east end and Chlorophyta (green algae) more conspicuous at the other end.   Diatoms are conspicuous in the littoral zone all around the lake, although there are some differences in the types of species encountered.  That is a story for another day, but I did find one species in some of the samples I collected from the south-eastern end that point to one other influence on the ecology of Ennerdale’s littoral zone.

Look at the photograph at the start of this post.  It was taken as I walked up to the south-eastern end (circa NY 127 140) and shows the view up the lake, with Angler’s Crag visible on the left hand shore in the distance.   The River Liza enters the lake on the right hand side (just out of the frame) and the low lying area between the River Liza and the raised ground where I was standing is an area of wet heath with a range of Sphagnum species and several boggy pools.   The shoreline of the lake itself is formed by a shingle spit which acts as a barrier between the wet heath and the lake itself.


The shingle spit separating the wet heath at the south-east end of Ennerdale from the lake itself.   Photographed in January 2017.

Several of the diatoms that I found at this end of the lake were species that I associate with acid conditions although, curiously, the limited chemical data that we have does not show a lower pH here than elsewhere in the lake.   I suspect that the proximity to the acid Sphagnum heath may lead to occasional pulses of acid water entering this area and exerting a subtle effect on the attached algae before being diluted by the water of the lake as a whole.   Of the species that I found, the most intriguing was Stenopterobia sigmatella, a long, sigmoid diatom with a single plate-like chloroplast.

The genus Stenopterobia fulfils most of my criteria for a genuinely rare diatom (see “A “red list” of endangered British diatoms”).   I only have 11 records in my dataset of 6500 samples, and in only one case did Stenopterobia constitute more than one percent of the diatoms in the sample.   These samples are all from acid habitats (mean pH: 6.1), with low nutrient concentrations (never more than 2 mg L-1 reactive phosphorus).  Those for which we have location information are plotted below.   The record in East Anglia needs further investigation (meaning: “I don’t believe it … but I haven’t had a chance to track down the slide for a closer look”). If we ignore this, the distribution is confined to mountainous regions of western Britain, and these Ennerdale samples also fit this trend, although the lake has soft water and is circumneutral rather than acid.

Stenopterobia sigmatella is another diatom with a sigmoid outline, and this brings me back to a question that I have posed before (see “Nitzschia and a friend …”): what advantages does a sigmoid outline confer on a diatom?  I cannot think of any other genera of algae that has species with a sigmoid outline, which only adds to the mystery. All of the diatoms that are sigmoid are motile, so I guess that the explanation may be linked to movement, but I don’t know for sure what the reason may be.   For all of the rich diversity that we see in diatoms, there is still, to pick up on a phrase from my biography of Humboldt, a “poverty of meaning” …


Stenopterobia cf sigmatella from Ennerdale Water, October 2016 and January 2017.  Scale bar: 10 micrometres (= 1/100th of a millimetre).


A distribution map of records of Stenopterobia in Great Britain.   S. curvula is a synonym for S. sigmatella (see taxonomic note below).  Map prepared by Susannah Collings (see “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” for more details of how this was done)


A valve of Stenopterobia densestriata.  Photograph from the ADIAC database (photographer: Micha Bayer).  Scale bar: 10 micrometres (= 1/100th of a millimetre).

Taxonomic note

I have used the name “Stenopterobia sigmatella” in this post, but this still needs confirmation as there is a closely-related species, S. densestriata (Hustedt) Krammer 1987 (see image above).  S. sigmatella has < 24 striae in 10 micrometres whilst S. densestriata has > 26 striae in 10 micrometres.  S. densestriata also has slightly smaller overall dimensions.

David Mann made the following comment about Stenopterobia sigmatella on the website Common Freshwater Diatoms of Britain and Ireland (predecessor to the new Diatom Flora of Britain and Ireland: “A nomenclatural mess. For most of the 20th century, this species was referred to (wrongly) as S. intermedia. Ross (in Hartley, 1986) stated that there is an earlier name, sigmatella, that could be applied to this species and made a new combination S. sigmatella. Unfortunately, this was wholly ignored by Krammer (in Lange-Bertalot & Krammer, 1987; and see Krammer & Lange-Bertalot, 1988) who made the new combination S. curvula. However, Nitzschia curvula of W. Smith is preceded by N. sigmatella of Gregory (1856, 1854, respectively).”   The references can all be found on the Common Freshwater Diatoms website.


A bigger splash …


This post continues my occasional series on insignificant black or dark brown spots on submerged stones (see “Both sides now …” for another recent episode).  I found these particular specimens on a cobble in Croasdale Beck in Cumbria, close to my regular haunts around the River Ehen and Ennerdale Water and thought that, with algae grabbing headlines for the wrong reasons yet again, I should write something positive about them.   What kind of weird world do we live in when people think it strange that algae thrive in a warm, well-lit water body, whilst simultaneously lauding other people who devote four years of their lives to practising jumping into a swimming pool?


Colonies of Chamaesiphon cf fuscus (mostly 2-3 mm in diameter) growing on a submerged cobble in Croasdale Beck, Cumbria, August 2016. 

There was something about the regularity of the outlines of the dark brown / black spots on some of the more stable stones in this flashy beck that attracted my attention.   I’ve scraped a lot of dark smears and smudges off rocks in the past and often been disappointed when all I find are inorganic iron or manganese deposits.  Over time, one gets an eye for what is and is not an algal growth (or, for that matter, a submerged lichen) and even, in some cases, for the type of alga that formed the growth.   In this case, I had a good idea, straight away, that I was looking at a member of the genus Chamaesiphon, a cyanobacterium (blue-green alga).

Members of this genus are unicellular and form dense mats of cells that can be difficult to photograph.   I could not get a really clear view of individuals within this particular colony so, instead, have included some of Chris Carter’s photographs of another member of the genus.   You can see the short, club-shaped cells, each in a sheath and many topped by small “exospores” which bud off from the mother cell to propagate the colony.   The sheath has a brown tinge, presumably to the “sun-screen” compounds that we have met before in cyanobacteria.   Most of the members of the genus live on submerged rocks, but a few live on other algae (see “More from the River Ehen”).   Most of the rock-dwelling species indicate at least good conditions in rivers, but one species, C. polymorphus, is tolerant of more enriched conditions, which complicates use of a straight genus-level identification for rapid assessments.


Chamaesiphon polonicus from Caldbeck, Cumbria, photographed by Chris Carter.  Top left: looking down on colony; other images: side views showing cells in their sheaths and, in a few instances, with exospores. 

Oddly (to me at least) press coverage of the Olympic diving pool story has only used the word “algae”, never telling us what sort of alga is responsible for the problem.   This is equivalent to the commentators saying that “animals” have just made a perfect leap off the 3 metre springboard, leaving the audience to work out whether the subsequent splash was made by a slug or a human.

But I should end on a positive note: better, perhaps to compare the algae not with the divers but with the judges who assign the final scores.   That’s because a few minutes mooching around a stream or beside a lake can usually reveal enough from the types of algae that live there to give some insights into the health of the stream.   My visits to Croasdale Beck over the past year or so have shown me enough to suggest that this little Cumbrian stream probably deserves the algal equivalent of an Olympic medal.  But I doubt that we’ll get much press coverage for saying that…