Yesterday, I joined some of my colleagues on a cave walk. Having previously experienced Ailwee Cave in the Burren, I was expecting a leisurely walk through some beautiful geological features. In retrospect, the name of the cave–Hölloch, or Hell Hole–should perhaps have provided a clue.
Switzerland’s wonderful public transport got us easily to Muotathal, where the cave is situated. Four-minute connections between Swiss trains are a solid guarantee that you’ll get there on time – unlike Ireland, where they’d be a pretty good guarantee that you’ll miss your connecting journey and have to re-route via the furthest point on the island.
The first clue should perhaps have been when we got to the caving center, and they asked for name, address and phone number – specifying that they didn’t want our mobile numbers, but a number that could be used in case of emergency Next clue, had I been watching, might have been the welly boots, full suit overalls, heavy gardening gloves, and good solid helmets. But I wasn’t watching, and once we were all suited up, we headed off happily up the mountain to the cave entrance.
We crossed a few small bridges on the way up the mountain, which I found a bit terrifying – but I pressed on, assuming that once we got to the cave, all would be well. Our guide stopped for a moment along the way, and asked if anyone had asthma, was afraid of heights, or narrow spaces. Thinking back to the last time I was asked that latter question, in Newgrange, I thought “well, yeah, I am petrified of truly narrow spaces, but the spaces in Newgrange weren’t so bad, so maybe this will be fine.”
I am, I will readily admit, an idiot.
So, we walked in to the cave, it’s not nearly as beautiful as Ailwee (and we’re all on headlamps – no artistically arranged electric lighting here!), but that’s ok, we’re only at the entrance. Next up, the guide warns us, is a little bit of scrambling. I’m mostly ok with that – I’m afraid of real climbing, and heights, but this is more just low ceilings and craggy floors.
Mild terror sets in when we come to a bit where you have to lie down and wiggle through the crack, but it’s a very short stretch, and I can see that it opens up to standing-room on the other side, so it’s fine. We all get through, and the guide takes a photo of us from way above, down through a fairly narrow gap. He had gone around the other way, and I’m assuming we all now go back the way we came, and on the way he had gone. But no. Now we’re meant to climb up there!?
With a bit of a boost to get me up as far as the first foothold, and plenty of encouragement from those who’ve done it, I manage to get up. Argh! Scary!, but I’ve made it. We get everyone out, and start walking down further into the cave. As we walk along, I’m thinking “y’know, he asked about heights and claustrophobia, but he never asked about fear of the dark. It’s pretty dark in here. I’m kinda scared”. I try not to be a scaredy-cat, but heights, narrow spaces, climbing, and the dark are all things that will set me off.
Next stop, whaddaya know, it’s time to turn the lights off. There is no place darker than a cave with all the lights off, unless it’s a few hundred meters into the cave, and several hundred meters down, and even if there were cracks to the air above, they’re all filled in with an alpine winter’s worth of snow… And now he wants us to walk along like this!?
I put my left hand on the shoulder of the guy in front, and the guy behind me puts his left hand on my shoulder. Right hands are on the rock face, and off we go. The guy in front races ahead, and I’ve lost him within seconds – the guy behind keeps gently pushing me forward. I didn’t scream, but only because my breathing was far too panicked to get enough power into my lungs. I’m sure we can’t have gone too far, but it was horrific.
We spent about 3hrs exploring the cave, and I’d estimate less than half an hour of that was in spaces where I could stand straight. We climbed and crawled across sharp rocks, wedged ourselves into spaces to keep from slipping back on sandy spots, and at one stage traversed a two-foot-deep pool across a space that can’t have been more than 3′6″ before the water came. I was crying by the time I made it across – and I would never have made it at all if it weren’t for a colleague holding my hand, coaching me, telling me to breathe, keeping my balance right! Thank you Matthias!!
Two-thirds of the way through, we stopped for a rest, and an optional side tour. Stephen, Pierre and I opted out, and sat down on the rocks. Then, it started to get cold. So Steve and I found the one spot where we could stand mostly-upright, and broke into the Charleston With a bit of encouragement, he even managed to do a swing-out, although I had to be careful where I stepped, as we had a “slot” just wide enough for one foot at a time between the rocks!
The break, and the dancing, did me good. When the guide returned with the others, he suggested that I stick straight behind him – keeping the whole group at the pace of the slowest member. I would have felt bad at doing so earlier, but I was getting tired and sore, and I was glad of his help. With lots of grit, and plenty of help from my friends, I made it through to the last hurdle.
“There’s a ladder”, he said. “You should go last, so I can help you”, he said. We got to the spot, a ravine with a ladder stretched over it. Hard to see what was on the other side. The guide went over, then the first of our gang. Across the ladder, and then somehow “up”. Rocks in the way, no way to know what happened next. Sitting beside the chasm, petrified of the ladder. Everyone else goes across. The guide tells the other person who’s afraid of heights “just look at me, don’t look down”.
I can do that. I have to, to get out of the cave. I crawl across to the ladder, fix my eyes on the flame of the guide’s lamp, and slowly make my way across. Hang on, it’s a dead end. Where now? Up!?
The way out of the cave is a 50m climb, straight up. Through a narrow crack. In the dark.
I can’t even get my foot to the first foothold. I climb up on the guide’s knee, and make it from there. I have never been so afraid. There are metal rungs sticking out of the rock. Some of them, I can get. Most of them are a few inches too high. Sometimes, the guide can push my foot up, and I make it. Other times, I just have to wedge my back against the wall behind me and make that leap of faith. It was, without exaggeration, the scariest thing I’ve ever done. It seemed to go on forever. Towards the end, the rungs turn into a ladder. There’s more space, but there’s also a ladder in the way And it’s offset, a couple of feet to the left of the rungs I’ve been relying on.
I’ve screamed a couple of times along the way, and cried once. But it’s nothing to this ascent, which is punctuated by a stream of terrified invective against the cave, the ladder, and my slippery wellingtons! By the time I make it to the top, I’m barely breathing, and shaking from head to toe.
In the finest Swiss tradition, we finish with an Apéro. Beautiful plates of cold cuts are laid out, with fresh bread, and delicious wine. I go straight for the bottle of water, fill my cup, pass it on, take it back to refill my cup, and repeat until I’m almost calm. I’m still shaking, but the food helps a little. My lungs are full of cave dust – it’s a solid eighteen hours before I can breathe properly again. We head out of the cave, and back down the valley, where the wonderful Swiss transport system conveys us safely home.
Yesterday, every muscle in my body was jelly. I could barely stand (although I did an almost-convincing Charleston a couple of times on railway platforms to keep warm!). Every movement felt like fire. My legs were constantly threatening to cramp.
And yet, amazingly, today, I’m generally alright. By some miracle, I can move, I can walk, I’m not a solid mass of stiffness. My right shoulder is oh-so-sore, and my neck is beyond painful. My knees are skinned, and bruised to halfway down my shins. My back is blue and purple, my left forearm is yellow and blue, my right upperarm is just solid purple. But overall, I’m just thrilled that I made it out alive!
Lessons learned:
When someone suggests an offsite, do some research before signing up.
When someone suggests an offsite outdoors, be doubly careful.
When someone suggests an offsite in a cave, just say no.
When in doubt, Charleston! It’ll keep you warm if you’re cold, take your mind off the cave if you’re panicked, loosen your muscles if they’re threatening to get stiff (A swing-out is an acceptable alternative, but requires slightly more space, and should perhaps be avoided on busy train platforms.)
My little sister, probably the coolest person I know, laughed down the phone at me this morning, when I told her that universal suffrage did not exist in Switzerland, at the cantonal level, until 1991. The year before she started at school, the women of Appenzell Innerrhoden got the right to vote. Now, Rosie’s not wrong to be shocked. She’s a talented singer and a hardworking medical student, but she’s really not that old, and she had been halfway around the world by the time the country where her big sis is living got around to universal suffrage.
Women’s lib isn’t our usual go-to topic of conversation. But what got us onto it, and what brings it into sharp relief for me, is the thornier topic of reproductive rights. This weekend, I discovered that the contraceptive implant on which I have relied for the last two years had broken. Wikipedia describes Implanon as the most effective form of birth control currently available. But mine is currently in two parts, inside my arm, and I’m pretty sure that’s not the way it’s meant to be. I don’t know for sure that it’s non-functional in this state, but I’ve had a pretty awful withdrawal bleed, so I’m just guessin’…
I’ve been lucky with the timing of this failure. I’m pretty confident that I’m not at risk of an unexpected pregnancy. But that’s sheer luck on my part – and it’s just lucky that I noticed it when I did, too. I’m happy in my career, I love to travel, I’ve just taken up dancing. I don’t want a kid right now. I’m married to a wonderful man, who has medical problems that mean his sleep is extremely precious. He doesn’t want a kid right now. We’re not reckless teenagers – I’ve always been careful about contraception, and a large part of the reason I chose the implant was because of the combination of reliability and ease-of-use that it offers. It works very well, and it’s hard to get wrong.
But “hard to get wrong” is not the same as “impossible to get wrong”. I’m in a fortunate position – I know a pretty good amount about contraception, at least for a layperson. I’m reasonably familiar with the menstrual cycle, I’m bright, I’m numerate. I can remember when I last felt the implant intact, and it’s not all that long ago. I can do the math, and I know when I was last sexually active, and I’m confident that this will all be fine. And despite that confidence, I’m stressed and freaked because I made a choice about my reproductive organs, and the method I used to enact that choice has failed.
I can’t say what I would or wouldn’t do in different circumstances. When it came down to it, I hope that I would choose not to have an abortion – but I’d sure as hell want it to be my decision! It’s my body, it’s my future, it’s my career, it’s my family, it’s my life. Ultimately, this is one decision that’s not about you, it’s about me. And I believe that every woman should have the right to make that decision for herself.
So let’s back up to my shocked little sister. She wasn’t even two years old when Ireland elected a woman to the highest office in the land. And yet she still lives in a country where, were she to need or want an abortion for any reason – personal, social or medical – she would have to get on a boat, or a plane, and leave the island where she has lived her whole life, in order to make that decision. She’s every bit as lucky as I am – she has a supportive family, a big sis in Switzerland, and the brains to work out what she needs and how to get it. (She’s also very familiar with the world outside her island, make no mistake!) No matter which way I look at it, that just seems wrong to me.
Having reproductive choices taken away from you, for any reason, is horrible and scary. Forcing you to go to another country to make those choices is cruel and twisted. And this, dear friends, is why I’m pro-choice.
Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve made several new friendships, and spent time with old friends, among my Google colleagues. It seemed like half the engineers formerly-known-as Sysops were in Mountain View, and I had already stayed up til 6AM with Tiarnan more than once before last weekend.
Last weekend, however, truly set the bar for future great nights out, or indeed whole weekends The previous bar was hazy: depending on how you measured, it could have been any of many nights at CTYI, one of a few nights in Munich, or a particularly memorable night during the offsite-residential part of one of my courses while I was studying in Munich, when we stayed up til dawn singing (including some awesome German on-the-spot rapping, a citronella candle full of bugs, and swimming in Chiemsee).
Looking back, the following seem to be common threads in any great night:
Staying up far later than is reasonable…
With people who are generally insensibly bright, and experts in their chosen field…
But who still manage to be socially stimulating…
Listening to good music, particularly if it’s of a genre I’m not especially familiar with…
Telling stories, sharing jokes, having a laugh…
And trying things I wouldn’t normally do, or that I haven’t tried before, or that are generally inadvisable (in the sort of “but why would you want to set a styrofoam cup on fire?” “Just to see what happens?” way)…
Last weekend involved all of these, and more!
Friday/Saturday
It started out on Friday evening, with a reasonably sedate dinner at a delicious Vietnamese place. Present were Dim, my flatmate in the corporate apartment; Gordon, a Sysops manager; Liam, another Irish EngProd exile visiting from Zürich; Tiarnan, whose official function is not yet clear to me, but appears to be some kind of anti-productivity mission; and I, your humble narrator.
After dinner, Dim, Liam, Tiarnan & I had planned to go to Bourbon & Branch, possibly my favourite bar in San Francisco. Our plans were sadly foiled by the fact that Liam’s passport was back in Mountain View, and they were being especially strict about the types of ID they would accept (which they had failed to relay to me in either the phone call or the e-mail I had received that afternoon, confirming our reservation ). Not to be put off by such a piffling defeat, your intrepid party carried on to an almost-equally-fine establishment nearby, which was immeasurably improved by the presence of a pool table down the back, which had lots of free space around it.
(At this point, I must refer back to my foursquare feed to be quite sure of what that establishment was called It was Rye.)
I was disappointed to learn that a strawberry daiquiri was out of the question, but found myself suitably consoled by their Hemingway. We stayed at Rye until well after midnight, at which point we attempted to relocate to Swig. Unfortunately, they were being just as fussy about ID as B&B had been, so we retired to the corporate apartment that Dim & I were sharing.
We happily polished off a bottle of the delicious Judd’s Hill “Magic”. As I went to explain the story behind the wine, Tiarnan idly remarked that the magic was that it erased memories, and pointed out that we’d shared a bottle of the same stuff previously
Liam left us sometime about 02:00, and Dim retired closer to 03:00, leaving Tiarnan and I to sort out a bottle of the eminently drinkable “Hess Collection Mount Veeder 19 Block Cuvée“. We did our best, and Tiarnan gladly educated me on the talents of several artists I’d never before heard of, including the truly fabulous Jewel, using the magic pixies behind Grooveshark! I also had my first taste of swing dancing, and was utterly confused by what now seems like a relatively simple triple-step
Shortly before 06:00, we continued on our way, and finding the Muni just about to pull out as we got to Brannan, we hopped onboard! Happily, we were on the right line, as we headed towards Carl & Cole on the N Judah. Our luck wasn’t entirely to last, as we missed our stop and ended up walking back a ways. We stopped in to an early-morning cafe, where they took one look at us and pointed us straight down the street to Kezar Bar & Grill. We missed the kickoff, but caught most of the Ireland-Italy match, interrupted only briefly by a reasonably authentic full Irish.
The England-Wales match saw us sharing our second-breakfast, a plate of French toast deep-fried in sugar. It kept us awake until Liam arrived to rejoin us, and once the match was over, some bright spark suggested we head to Dottie’s. Unfortunately, some time between leaving for dinner the night before, and leaving the pub after the second match, a flaming ball of nuclear energy had appeared in the sky. We were none too pleased with this development, but soon found ourselves queuing up for a third breakfast.
In front of us in the queue were a teacher with her 5mo old baby, and her cousin Stacey. The teacher was in San Francisco for a conference, and Stacey had come to help with the baby. We chatted away, laughed at each other’s jokes, and generally shared good cheer as we waited for yet more food (preferably tiramisu), deep-fried in sugar. At some point, Stacey gave me not only a phone number and an e-mail address, but also directions, in case I should ever find myself lost or bored in Dunsmuir, all charmingly scrawled on a sheet of beautiful flower notepaper
Saturday/Sunday
By the time we had eaten breakfast, Tiarnan & I were thoroughly broken, and Liam had to return to Mountain View. For those of you keeping score, I had been up for >30hrs by that time, and Tiarnan was only an hour or two behind. We headed back to the hotel for a brief kip, and woke again conscious, if not refreshed, some time around 18:30. Tiarnan was planning to go out dancing, and just as I was about to head home, foolishly extended an invitation for me to join him
But before we could dance, it was time for fourth breakfast dinner. Dim rejoined us for a delicious Indian, and Tiarnan & I made plans to be at The Rent Party in time for their drop-in Swing class at 21:30. We got there at 21:00, only to find out that the class had started at 20:30. Tiarnan graciously offered a crash-course, during which I learnt the aforementioned triple-step, and succeeded in tying myself in rather impressive knots every time he tried to swing me out
It wasn’t long before his friends (henceforth, the Sacremento posse) arrived, and our lesson was interrupted. Tiarnan’s friends, it should be pointed out, are overwhelmingly female. This worked out famously for me, coming from the typical Google world, where I can tell that it’s a writing-team meeting if the proportion of women tips above 10%. The Sacremento posse in particular are people who know him from the dancing world. For the record, Tiarnan has been dancing for many years, and is, to put it mildly, accomplished. This became relevant sooner than I had expected.
Tiarnan graciously shared the first dance with me, and I think I acquitted myself reasonably. This may have been because he confined his dancing to the two steps he had taught me so far, but we won’t speculate too far on that. I was about to sit down when one of the Sacremento posse invited me to dance. Knowing full-well that there’s only one polite reply to such an invitation, I acquiesced gladly. This dance went about as badly as the previous one had gone well. It improved somewhat, about halfway through, when the lead stopped for a moment, looked at me, and said, as politely as I’m sure he could, “you don’t know East Coast, do you?”. I explained that no, we hadn’t been introduced, and in fact, I had only started dancing in the prior half hour, which he took with great grace. He proceeded to teach me the basic East Coast step, which I promptly forgot.
My third dance, in which I learned the value of a good lead (or the additional difficultly that a poor lead presents to a new follow ). Nonetheless, I had fun, but now I needed a break, and some time to shove my rapidly-melting brain back in to my ears. I found the water coolers, wrote my name on a cup (not much contention for “Noirin”, really!), and tried to process.
The rest of the night went swimmingly. I managed about a dozen dances, with no fewer than eight leads. I mostly survived, and the leads were all very gracious. I may have broken one of them just a smidge, when I proceeded to hijack the dance slightly, and teach him the triple-step, but overall I think all involved had fun. I enjoyed watching some stunning dancers, particularly in the Blues room, and suffered only a minor shock on returning to the Lindy room from the Blues room and discovering that the music was approximately twelve times faster
Tiarnan having warned me that he planned to leave before midnight, I was not entirely surprised when we ended up closing the joint, and the magic of the internets (and the cars of the Sacramento posse) got us to Grubstake. I wasn’t really ready for their delicious chips, but did enjoy the gallon of ice-cream that I was served in the guise of a milkshake.
I managed to remain conscious long enough to get out of the diner and into a taxi. We headed back to the hotel, and rounded three sides of it before we found an open door, and crashed into bed. It was about this time that Tiarnan sent the following tweet, and yes, noirins was well and truly broken, although I would point out in my defence that it wasn’t so much the 30 hours that killed me, as the night of dancing that followed.
Sunday, I’m almost sure…
We were woken at some truly unmerciful hour, it can’t have been much past noon, the next day (for those of you who’ve lost track, the narrative has now made it to Sunday, at least in some universe), by the hotel fire alarm. I was perfectly content to die in the fire, as long as it didn’t involve moving anything below my hips. Tiarnan, on the other hand, insisted that we evacuate, a decision that was happily overruled by the lady on the intercom assuring us that the alarm was under investigation and we would be informed if there were any further developments. It wasn’t long before she returned to tell us that it was a false alarm, but by then we were awake.
For full disclosure, we had woken to the sound of Tiarnan’s alarm shortly before 07:00. Happily, he had been unable to stream the Scotland-France match over the internet fumes that the hotel provided, so we had rapidly returned to the embrace of Morpheus.
Anyway, once the fire alarm had woken us for real, I conducted a thorough study of the ceiling while Tiarnan conversed with no fewer than a dozen people via at least three media. We got up and found the most hip of San Francisco’s many hipster cafes. I had a swig of his mocha, and was surprisingly impressed. Tiarnan had thus introduced me to Swing and coffee in one weekend, a combination I feel confident will reoccur at some point.
At this point, I had planned to go home, get changed, and head to a Superbowl ad-watching party. Not the most dreadful state, but one from which I was rescued by yet another invitation to join Tiarnan’s friends. Given that the ad party was being held in the Internet Archive’s location, I figured I’d find a more fun gender-balance with his mates, and the decision was made. San Francisco being truly, wonderfully San Francisco, it was no problem for me to run out, get clean socks and a t-shirt, even in the twenty minutes I had before we were due to leave. For the record, if you’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days straight, and can only change one thing, make it your socks. OMG, that felt good!
Who dat!?
After possibly the wildest taxi ride of my life, including both San Francisco hills and driving down the street on the sidewalk, we found the party, and I settled in between the wonderful N’Awlins Helena and a dancer called Dana. Helena provided illegally delicious BBQ shrimp, with a sauce you could just drink. Dana, not to be outdone, explained the rules of American football as only a woman can, and we proceeded to transmit as much sound energy as possible directly back through the screen to the Saints.
I will readily admit to a certain fondness for New Orleans, and was only too happy to support the Saints. The football was, surprisingly, more entertaining than the ads, although I will give full props to Dove for possibly-unintentional comedy value, and to Google for a very well-received Parisian Love. (The football may also have been made more fun by the fact that Dana had placed a small bet, and we were therefore screaming for specific scores at both half- and full-time, not just for a single winner )
Once the game was over, and the victory celebrated, the weekend seemed almost complete. But no! What of the ad-watching party!? We headed back towards the Tenderloin to meet up with Tom, and find out how the party had been. Sadly, Tom’s companion had just been turned away from Swig, because her ID didn’t meet their exacting standards So we retired to the hotel bar for a bevvy (and no, I still hadn’t gotten my strawberry daiquiri!). Tom & Pam left us after one, and since both Tiarnan & I were in possession of the magic harp-stamped documents, we returned to Swig just one more time.
The lack of strawberry daiquiris at Swig rapidly became moot, as we shook our booty to a rousing chorus of “Oh when the Saints” from the live band. It was almost as fun as Hallowe’en in New Orleans, and possibly better since it involved slightly more manageable crowds. I had my first taste of Blues dancing, and any preference for Lindy that I might have expressed on Saturday was rapidly forgotten as I fell in love with yet another new dance.
The end of the night was marred by a drunken Irish idiot, who didn’t understand the basics of “no”, but Tiarnan did an absolutely impeccable job of looking after me, and really, the whole affair should not be mixed up with the absolutely fabulous weekend I enjoyed.
And thus you have the tale of possibly the best weekend I’ve ever had. I made new friends, I got in more girl-talk than I’ve had in the last very-long-time, I fell in love with two new dances (and I’m already signed-up for Lindy classes when I get home!), I got to talk all night long, for several nights in a row, I discovered new music (listen to Jewel & Sarah McLachlan’s “Water is Wide”!), I had, in short, an absolute blast.
Unfortunately, I have now returned to work, where I am trying to write concise, informative documentation, on a shockingly short deadline. I would have made this post more brief, but I just didn’t have time. If you made it this far, my apologies for the length. Remind me the next time we’re in the same city, and I’ll buy you a pint
The Apache HTTP Server team recently released 1.3.42, the final release of the hugely-popular 1.3 codebase. I wrote a bit about our reasoning, and where we’re going next, in response to some questions from El Reg. A lot of people have been asking about the decision to stop support for 1.3, so I thought I’d republish what I wrote.
Overview
In June 1999, the Apache Software Foundation was incorporated in Delaware.
A year previously, Apache HTTP Server 1.3.0 had been released, and it was rapidly becoming the most popular web server on the planet.
Not known for resting on their laurels, it was barely nine months later that the Apache HTTP Server team released the first alpha of Version 2.0. This was a significant rewrite of much of the original code, focused on improving modularization and portability. It made general release in April 2002, and remained best-of-breed until Version 2.2.0 came out in December 2005.
More than ten years and forty revisions later, Apache HTTP Server 1.3 has reached end-of-life status. Version 2.2 has been available for more than four years, and is widely deployed across the internet. Although critical security fixes may be released as patches for Version 1.3, there will be no further releases or support from the Apache HTTP Server team. We encourage all users of Version 1.3 to upgrade to Version 2.2 as soon as possible.
If you’ve been reading closely, you might be wondering what happened to 2.1, and what the developers were doing between April 2002 and December 2005? Since the advent of Version 2.0, the Apache HTTP Server team have reserved even-numbered minor versions for stable versions of the software. The odd-numbered minor versions are made public as alpha and beta releases, allowing developers to try out the bleeding edge of new features, and giving module authors a chance to prepare their software for the next release.
For anyone working on code that integrates with the Apache HTTP Server, these odd-numbered revisions are your best opportunity to request changes in the API, before it is released as stable!
The current best-of-breed stable version of Apache HTTP Server is Version 2.2.14, released in September 2009. But if you’re already itching to take Version 2.4 for a test drive, you can get a headstart by installing the alpha Version 2.3.5, released just last month. This version includes significant improvements to caching and proxying behaviour, and will eventually be released as Version 2.4.
Why will the 1.3 code no longer be supported or updated?
As I previously mentioned, Apache HTTP Server 1.3.0 was originally released in June 1998. To put that in perspective, it would be another three weeks before Microsoft Windows 98 became available, a product which, despite significant commercial support, reached end-of-life four years ago. The first production 1GHz processors didn’t ship for another two years; today, if you want to buy a 1GHz processor, you’re probably in the market for a new phone!
Version 2 is a significant improvement over 1.3. The API has been rewritten to prevent many of the problems with module ordering and priority. Better support exists for non-Unix platforms, and smart filtering is now available. Version 2.0 includes support for IPv6 and multiple protocols, while Version 2.2 adds LFS, enabling you to serve files over 2GB in size. The core modules for authentication and authorisation have been greatly improved, as well as subsystems from caching to proxying.
In short, technology and the Internet have come a long way in the last twelve years, and Version 1.3 is simply no longer the best-of-breed solution it once was.
What has happened to 2.0? What should 1.3/2.0 users do now?
Version 2.0 continues to enjoy bugfix releases, but does not see active development.
We encourage all users to upgrade to Apache HTTP Server 2.2.14.
What’s the planned features roadmap and release schedule for the next version?
The Apache HTTP Server team release software when it’s ready – we prefer to ensure that our releases represent the best software available, rather than worrying about shipping deadlines. Features currently under development include further updates to auth modules, as well as state-of-the-art cache and proxy modules. If you’re impatient to try these things, you can check out Version 2.3.5 (alpha). Or, if you’d prefer a more academic look at the subject, you might enjoy Roy Fielding’s presentation, “Apache 3.0 (A Tall Tale)”.
Key facts
Apache HTTP Server Version 1.3 has now reached end-of-life status.
The current best-of-breed stable version of the Apache HTTP Server is Version 2.2.14 – we encourage all users to upgrade to this version as soon as possible.
For those who prefer to try out new features as soon as they become available, Version 2.3.5 provides an alpha preview of what will become stable Version 2.4.
The latest version of the Apache HTTP Server is always available from our download page.
Or “Turning Twenty-Five in the San Francisco Bay Area”
As the quarter-century creeps steadily up on me, I’ve been having a blast seeing the sights and meeting friends old and new. I can’t help thinking back to all the things I’ve enjoyed (and suffered through!) along the way. I’ve been incredibly lucky, and I hope that the next 25 years are as fun as the past 25 have been!
The following are just a few of the things that have set me off down memory lane
Winetasting in Napa made me reminisce about collecting Michelin stars with the Ellerays when all we (the kids!) wanted to do was see who could grow the biggest, coolest, oldest Tamagotchi.
A going-away party for the coolest kernel hacker around reminded me of the weekend I spent with Natasha, trying to create a working Linux boot floppy for a hand-me-down machine that didn’t have a bootable CD drive.
Hot-tubbing with engineers, dancers, and a girl who “does circus” was fun – but when we jumped in the (relatively) freezing pool, I was brought straight back to Ennareilly and our “punch, punch, punch-punch-punch” strategy for surviving the cold!
Paddling in the Pacific, well, I’ve done that before – on the other side! Remember Caloundra, and the pelicans?
Of course, the hour-long commute (in a very well-kitted-out bus) puts me more in mind of the camper van. Remember the ginger beer all over the camper? The flies all over the rest stop? The sugar-cane we begged for and then never got through?
Wandering around San Francisco, taking the cable-car to Ghirardelli Square, puts me in mind of our wanderings in Zurich, and all the wonderful times you’ve come to see me. I guess this year it’s my turn to come to you!
On the other hand, getting settled in the corporate apartment, checking out the farmers’ market for lunch, looking for the laundry room, and settling in to a glass of wine and a home-made dinner is more like Munich. That spag bol was great, although I’m glad to have graduated to a slightly bigger kitchen!
When Steve destroyed my new top in the laundry, how could I help but remember that beautiful white Susst top? And how could I help but be grateful for the thousands of loads of laundry you’ve done for me? Thanks mum!
Of course, the trip to Liz Claiborne afterwards? Let’s just say there are still things in your wardrobe I wish I could borrow
I haven’t found anything as good as your bread yet, and I miss our long, evening dinners catching up. I hope your year on the island is as fulfilling as all our childhood expeditions were – from the Giant’s Causeway to the Wicklow lighthouse, from Kilmainham to the Cliffs of Moher.
Thank you, mum and dad, for twenty-five wonderful years. (And Eoin & Rosie, for almost 45 between you )
Those of you who know me may have noticed that I don’t often respond to solicitations for charitable donations. Whether it’s a sponsored walk or a collection for malaria, I’m just not into “impulse buying”.
Those of you who know me better might know why this is. It’s not because I’m mean, honest I’ve maxed out corporate Gift Matching programs with the employers who’ve had them (even when I was just an intern), and I hope to continue to do so. But I prefer to give in a “concentrated” fashion – rather than sprinkling my charitable donations across the vast spectrum of worthy causes, I choose a few each year that I really believe in, and do my best not to feel guilty that I can’t do everything!
When I lived in Ireland, particularly while I was still in college, I tried to “give global, act local”. I volunteered with various groups, from a local literacy program to the St John Ambulance. I even indulged in retail therapy for the St Vincent de Paul, both groceries and Christmas presents
Living in Switzerland, however, I’ve found that the attitude towards volunteer work is very different. Add my frequent travels (particularly in 2010) into the mix, and it’s just not a model that’s working for me any more. But my employment situation and the local tax regime mean that I have room to expand my financial giving – yay!
But I’m not sure where to put my money. We’re not talking millions, but I still think it’s worth spending time making sure it goes to something I believe in. That way, when I do have millions, I’ve already done the tough part And this is where you come in.
Where do you think I should put my charity bucks?
To give you some background, I think if my giving had a “theme”, it would be this: Knowledge is Power.
I’m interested in improving access to knowledge, information, education. So one of my favourite charities is Literacy Bridge, which began with the idea “that the most effective approach towards ending global poverty requires empowering people with better access to knowledge”.
I’m also interested in preserving knowledge for future generations. Last year, for example, I sponsored the restoration and preservation of a collection of James Lind manuscripts, in celebration of dad’s birthday.
In general, I’m interested in charities serving those with the greatest need (not necessarily those who are easiest to reach), and I’m not looking for advocacy groups for one particular idea or cause.
What am I looking for?
Charities that understand the importance of inspiration. If I lived anywhere on the West Coast of the US, I’d already be a Friend of the California Academy of Sciences (and heck, I’m still considering it!). They understand that an interesting, engaging story is key to getting people to care. And whether the knowledge you want to impart is in science, the arts, or just basic literacy and numeracy, if you can’t get people to care about it, you’ll have a hard time achieving anything lasting.
Charities that engage in a personal connection. I prefer to share my donations among a smaller group of charities, which means each gets a larger share of the pot. In return, I’d like to hear what each charity is doing, and connect with more than just bank slips.
Charities that promote access to information over one particular message. Learning about family planning may be key to helping women in the developing world steer their fate, but if all you do is hand out contraceptives, they’re not going to learn how to run a small business that could give them a real degree of independence. Building people up, giving them the tools they need, is vital to sustainability.
Do you know a charity that fits the bill? Leave me a comment, or drop me an e-mail. Thanks!
If you’ve ever been to an ApacheCon, you’ll know that there are hundreds of great reasons to go. If you haven’t been before, check out Jeremy Thomerson’s Top Ten Reasons to attend ApacheCon. (Note that the trainings aren’t just for Wicket. Naturally, we’ll cover other top Apache projects, from Solr & Lucene to httpd & Tomcat. But we also have training on everything from dealing with the media to keeping your web applications secure!)
Of course, there’s more to attending a conference than deciding you want to go. I’m lucky enough to work for a company that “gets” open source, and is happy to give me time off to attend. (Wanna come work with me? )
What if your boss isn’t so keen to let you disappear off to California for a week? You might know that the value of the networking you can do at ApacheCon way outstrips the pricetag (and you know you can get a special discount if you’re staying at the conference hotel!), but “networking” is a bit of a vague proposition. Especially if your boss has to justify it to her boss, and so on.
So here’s just some of the business-friendly reasons you should come to ApacheCon:
Just started doing open source, and your team haven’t quite got the hang of open development, working with the community, or exactly how this “open source” thing works? Come along to the Hackathon, for a serious crash-course in collaboration–and a behind-the-scenes peek at the upcoming features of the products you use!
Oakland is just a stone’s throw from the Valley–whether you need to check-in with head office in Silicon Valley, or entertain a client in Napa Valley, why not combine it with a trip to ApacheCon, and kill two birds with that one stone?!
Two days of top-quality trainings (Monday and Tuesday) will bring you right up to speed on the technologies you need to know about, quickly and efficiently.
If you’re not attending trainings, the BarCamp gives you a chance to talk and learn about anything under the sun, with some of the coolest people in Open Source. If you want to know what’s going to happen in the next ten years of open development, you can’t afford to miss this. And it’s free
What other vendor invites you along to meet the Chairman of the Board!? At ApacheCon, you can meet the movers and shakers who are shaping the products you use, creating the technologies of the future, and paving the way for bigger and better opportunities yet! (Heck, you can even get training from our Chairman!)
Pick the ones that make the most sense to you, and put together a pitch for your boss. Check out the schedule to get an idea of the relevant trainings and tracks, and see if there’s a Meetup that would go into more detail on the projects you work with. There’s so much going on at ApacheCon, that there’s really no reason for your boss to say no!
P.S. If your boss is still a little unsure, why not offer to do a training session for your colleagues when you get home? You’ll learn more than enough at ApacheCon to justify the expense–heck, for the cost of hiring in an expert, your boss could send several people to ApacheCon to quiz a whole collection of experts!
My father has always been difficult to get presents for. If he needs something, he’ll buy it himself. If he knows he wants something, he’ll do the same. He doesn’t have my mother’s love of certain fabrics or patterns, so that we could just keep getting him Portmeirion china every year (sorry mum!)
And so it was, that many years ago, I drew up our family tree, as a birthday present for dad. I wrote to the Office of the Chief Herald to find out about the Plunkett and O’Callaghan coats of arms. I quizzed my mother and my grandmother to fill in as many details as I could. Unfortunately, I ran out of names before I ran out of paper, but dad smiled and thanked me for the gift anyway. It ended up in the attic and some point, and I have no idea where it is now. I recently threw out the photocopies the Chief Herald had sent me, while clearing through old boxes!
Family is important to me, but I don’t restrict that to blood or legal relatives. My “family” includes a small raft of honorary aunts, uncles and cousins Despite a passing interest in history and genealogy, I’ve never really done the research to find out who my family are beyond the living generations.
I would imagine that Ireland is a pretty awesome country for a genealogist to find herself in. Combine a relatively small population with religious homogeneity, and parochial records suddenly make your job more like looking for a needle in a bureau drawer, rather than a haystack. Add in a relatively small landmass, and you could quite reasonably go around the parishes and just look. Finally, a relatively low level of personal mobility – emigration aside, in an agricultural society if you inherit the farm why would you ever move? – means that if you know your family are from Dublin, or Cork, two generations back, there’s a good chance that’s where they were from three, four, five generations back.
But with all that said, I was always a bit too much of an armchair genealogist to ever go looking through the records, until about a week ago. What happened then? I discovered that the National Archives of Ireland had completed their project to digitise the 1911 census data.
Well, what a job they’ve done! You can find out more at their Census of Ireland 1911 page. They’ve highlighted some fun facts – Oliver St John Gogarty wrote “single” as his marital status, and then had to cross it out when he remembered he was married! And they have an absolutely fantastic interface for browsing and searching the data. Dad and I laughed when we noticed that the Head of Family at Dunsany Castle could not read, although the twelve assorted servants could both read and write. (Little Lord Plunkett was only four at the time – so it’s fair enough really!)
On a personal level, I’ve found the census records for George Plunkett, my paternal great-great-grandfather, the dockmaster at the South Dock in Dublin. I believe I’ve found the records for my maternal great-great-grandmother, who my mother knew as Anne-Marie Buckley Carney, but who the census records as Anne Buckley – she had been married to Patrick Buckley for just a year at the time, and they lived in a house with six windows at the front (and a stable and coach house at the back!)
It’s amazing stuff, and I think huge props should go to the National Archives for their stellar work. I look forward to doing more research when the 1901 census data is released, later this year/early next year. And if you’ve found family records, I’d be fascinated to hear their stories
No, it’s not really my birthday. But it’s a year today since Stephen and I moved. It’s been wonderful, horrendous, tiring, invigorating, bizarre and fun.
I’ve gotten used to things I thought I’d never be able to live with, like no shopping on Sundays or at night. I now get irritated by things that were a normal part of life before, like 30-minute bus journeys. Things I expected to stay the same have changed, and things I expected to change have remained the same.
Overall? Definitely a mixed year. I’m glad I did it, glad I came here, glad I’ve had the experiences I’ve had. It hasn’t all been fun and games, and if I knew then what I know now, I’d have been a lot more cautious about coming here. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s been a great opportunity, and I’d probably do it all over again. (Although I’d throw out a lot more stuff before the move!)
I’ve often said I could live anywhere (almost!) for a year. I still think it’s true – but in the case of Switzerland, I’m happy to report that a year is not enough Here’s to next year!
I’ve been wondering whether to blog about this. On the one hand, Dave Carroll’s written a song I can’t get out of my head and produced a great video to go with it. On the other, I think he was a complete idiot in not taking out his guitar as soon as he got to Omaha, given the situation.
Ultimately, the “I love this song” won, and thus let me present you with my favourite song this week: United Breaks Guitars, by Dave Carroll and Sons of Maxwell.
I truly can’t understand why, having seen the baggage handlers throwing the guitars around, he didn’t take his guitar out the moment he got it back. Any time I’ve flown with my harp, that’s the very first thing I do, the moment I get it back. Doesn’t matter if it delays things, if I’m tired, or if it’s a busy baggage hall. Open the case, take out the harp, open the soft cover, check it over. It doesn’t take that long, and it means I’m able to continue the journey without completely freaking out If I saw someone throwing it around, (after suggesting that they be considered for the Olympic weightlifting team!) there’s just no way I’d be able to go to my hotel and sleep without checking it out.
Still, the internet says Dave got sorted out after releasing this video. I’m glad, but I hope he’ll be more careful next time! And I’m looking forward to the other two videos he’s promised!
Next clue, had I been watching, might have been the welly boots, full suit overalls, heavy gardening gloves, and good solid helmets. But I wasn’t watching, and once we were all suited up, we headed off happily up the mountain to the cave entrance.
). Not to be put off by such a piffling defeat, your intrepid party carried on to an 
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