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The Borders We Share: A New Way to Fix a Broken World
Section 1: Foundations of the Multiverse (Posts 1–6)
Blog Post #3.1 (Bonus): Sherlock’s Docks, Ireland’s Edge: Clues to Equal Ground
In a Nutshell
It was with no small measure of astonishment that I, John H. Watson, observed my friend Sherlock Holmes seize upon a most curious pair of problems presented in the third instalment of The Borders We Share, penned by Dr. Jorge Emilio Núñez. The first—a dockside altercation set in our own London of the 1890s, a squalid affair of fish and fog where rough-hewn fishermen and sleek profiteers vie for a wharf’s dominion. The second—a modern vexation in Northern Ireland, 2025, where the shadow of Brexit has cast a pall over a once-peaceful border, stirring old feuds and new fears among its divided folk. Dr. Jorge, with his scholarly bent, proposed a remedy: not the triumph of one over another, but a sharing of the stakes—a notion as bold as it is unorthodox. Holmes, ever the skeptic of untested theories, took it as a challenge to his intellect. “Watson,” said he, “here are two Gordian knots—one of my own devising, one bleeding in the present day. I shall cut through both with the keen edge of reason.”
Through the haze of his pipe smoke, he fixed me with that piercing gaze I knew so well, a glint of anticipation in his hawk-like eyes. “Picture it, Watson: the docks, a reeking stage where labour clashes with greed, nets tangle, and fish rot—yet beneath lies a riddle of ownership and survival. Then, across the Irish Sea, a land green and troubled, where history’s scars and modern trade weave a tapestry of discord—pride, partition, and the spectre of violence lurking in the mist. Dr. Jorge bids us share the spoils, but I shall not rest on conjecture. I’ll unearth the clues—trace the threads of time and space—and forge a solution that stands scrutiny. Step into my mind, old friend; we’ve a fog to pierce, fictional and factual alike.” His voice carried that quiet intensity that brooked no refusal, and I, ever the faithful chronicler, took up my pen to record the singular adventure that followed.
The Adventure Unfolds
It was a chill March evening in 2025 when I found myself once more in the cluttered sanctum of 221B Baker Street. The fire crackled, casting shadows on the walls strewn with maps and chemical stains, as Holmes sat cross-legged, a cloud of shag tobacco wreathing his lean frame. Before him lay Dr. Jorge’s latest missive—Post #3 of The Borders We Share—its pages marked with his spidery scrawl. “Watson,” said he, his voice cutting through the haze, “here is a matter worthy of our attention. Two disputes: one a trifle of my own imagining, the other a festering wound in the modern age. Dr. Jorge suggests sharing the spoils—a quaint theory, but I shall test it with facts.”
He rose, pacing with that restless energy I knew so well. “First, a dockside squabble—London, 1890s, a reek of fish and coal dust along the Thames. Then, Northern Ireland, 2025, tangled in Brexit’s web. Both are knots of human folly, ripe for unravelling. Fetch your notebook, Watson; we begin.” I obeyed, pen poised, as he launched into his narrative with the precision of a surgeon’s blade.
“Our dock case,” he commenced, “is thus: the Thames Trawlers, a hardy band of fishermen—some twenty souls, I reckon, from the breadth of their nets—claim a wharf by right of toil. Their hands are rough as the oak they tread, hauling fifty barrels daily, if tide marks speak true. Against them stand the Fog Cutters, a dozen sleek rogues with a deed—too crisp, its ink suspect—asserting ownership. The wharf, 200 yards of prime timber, offers deep water for boats and sheds for cod. Fists clash, nets rot, and fish spoil in the fray. You’d call it chaos, Watson, but I see a pattern.”
He paused, tapping the page. “Dr. Jorge’s 2023 work—Chapter 6, mark you—speaks of dimensions. Vertically, the Trawlers are labour incarnate: sweat, salt, survival for perhaps a hundred mouths. The Cutters? Capital clad in silk, chasing twenty per cent profit per load—dock logs hint it. Horizontally, they snarl: Trawlers guard their livelihood, Cutters crave expansion. Time muddies it—fifty years of fishing, no clear title save tales; a ledger from 1840, half-illegible, shows shared use once. Space binds it—200 yards, measurable by my stride. But there’s more—a nonlinear thread, Watson. A fish baron’s carts trundle too often—three daily this month, triple last year’s tally. His game eludes the common eye, but not mine.”
He turned, eyes gleaming. “Now, Ireland—a thornier knot. Northern Ireland, 2025: a green quilt, 1.8 million souls, part of the United Kingdom, brushing the Republic, an EU bastion. History broods heavy: Catholics—nationalists—dream of Irish unity; Protestants—unionists—cling to Britain. The 1998 Good Friday Agreement softened the border—100 miles, 200 crossings, once a war zone of 30,000 dead, now a thread of peace. Then Brexit: the UK departs in 2020, 58 per cent of Northern Irish voting ‘stay,’ yet out they went. Trade—£4 billion north-south, says the 2024 ledger—demands checks, yet a hard border risks blood. Vertically: the UK, a state of 65 million, its crown unyielding; Ireland, 5 million, its south a mirror; locals, split—45 per cent unionist, 40 per cent nationalist, per 2021’s count. Horizontally: UK and Ireland chafe, locals waver. Time stacks it—1690’s battles, 1921’s split, 1998’s truce, 2020’s rift. Space squeezes—100 miles, Belfast’s port a choke. Nonlinear? Politicians strut, EU pulls strings, fear hums—60 per cent dread violence, a 2023 poll avers.”
Clues Under the Lens
Holmes leaned forward, his thin fingers steepled. “Dr. Jorge’s multidimensionality—linear and nonlinear—guides us, Watson. Agents play roles in contexts—domestic, regional, global—across realms of fact, norm, and value. Time and space twist the tale. But I deal in evidence, not abstractions. Let us dig.”
He snatched a magnifying glass, peering at an imagined scrap. “Docks: the Trawlers’ nets—coarse hemp, fifty barrels daily, tide-stained to prove it. Their boots, caked in river mud, number twenty pairs along the quay. The Cutters’ deed—ink fresh as yesterday’s Times, creased oddly; a chemist could date it to 1889, not 1860. I’d wager a sovereign it’s forged. Their carriage tracks—twelve sets, shallow, silk heels beside them—mark their number. Time whispers: fifty years of fishing, no writ save a 1840 ledger I’d unearth from Guildhall, its ink faded but true—shared hauls once. Space: 200 yards—100 for boats, measured by the splash; 80 for sheds, stacked with cod; 20 for passage, narrow as a thief’s alley. Nonlinear? That baron—his carts, three daily, wheels grooved deep; his warehouse holds fifty extra barrels, pilfered, I’d prove with a dust-brush on his ledgers. His ink matches the deed—my Stradivarius on it.”
He smirked, then grew grave. “Ireland’s murkier. Trade—£4 billion north-south, 2024, per the Office of Statistics—flows vital; 200 crossings hum, ten carts weekly dodge tax, customs mutter. Locals—1.8 million: 45 per cent unionist, 40 per cent nationalist, 15 per cent adrift, 2021 census. Fear—60 per cent dread guns, 2023 Ipsos; trust frays—70 per cent backed 1998, 1999 poll, now 60 per cent cling, 2022 tally. Time—1690’s Boyne scars, 1921’s partition, 1998’s balm, 2020’s jolt. Space—100 miles: Derry’s bend, Belfast’s bustle, Dundalk’s gate. Nonlinear: unionist rallies—thirty per cent up since 2020, police logs; nationalist drums echo—five marches monthly, tit-for-tat. EU’s 2024 tariff tweak eases trade, not tempers; a smuggler’s cart—ten crossings, untaxed whiskey—tests the line’s pulse. I’d trail it, Watson, to a barn off the A1—proof in the casks.”
Holmes’ Verdict
Holmes straightened, ash falling from his pipe as he fixed me with a steely look. “Dr. Jorge’s 2017 remedy—egalitarian shared sovereignty—holds water if carved sharp, Watson. It demands a council of equals, blind to might, a notion I’ll refine with logic’s edge. Consider the docks: a triad—Trawlers, Cutters, locals—each granted voice. Vertically, their essence dictates: the Trawlers fish—fifty barrels daily, their craft honed by years at the net; the Cutters trade—twenty per cent profit per load, their guile in ledgers and markets; the locals mend nets—ten shillings weekly, their nimble fingers threading hemp. Horizontally, their relations demand order: shifts split the day—morning for Trawlers, when the tide runs strongest and fish swarm; noon for Cutters, when buyers throng the quay; dusk for mending, when light fades but hands still work. Rewards must follow effort—fish apportioned by the barrel hauled, coin by the sale struck, tools by the stitch sewn. No man gains what he does not earn, yet the strong bolster the weak—the Cutters’ profits might mend a Trawler’s boat, say.”
He paced, voice rising. “Time shapes it—seasonal quotas: winter for Trawlers, when cod run thick; summer for Cutters, when trade peaks; a yearly tally ensures balance. Space divides the 200 yards with precision—100 for boats, marked by the water’s edge; 80 for sheds, stacked with barrels; 20 for passage, a narrow lane chalked firm. Nonlinear threads? That baron’s game ends here—his fifty barrels, pilfered amid the fray, seized as evidence; his forgery, proven by ink and crease, my lever. I’d turn his hoard to a co-op—funds to buy nets, mend sheds, shared by all. The result? Fish flow to market, fists fall idle—profit without plunder, a solution as clean as a geometric proof.”
He wheeled about, eyes alight. “Now, Ireland—a triad of UK, Ireland, and locals, co-governing the line. Vertically: the UK rules north ports—£2 billion in trade, its strength in ships and customs; Ireland oversees south flow—£2 billion, its mirror in Dublin’s grasp; locals guard peace—1.8 million eyes, their soul split yet vital. Horizontally: a joint customs—UK checks Belfast’s docks, Ireland Dundalk’s gates, locals vote rules yearly by plebiscite, their voices the fulcrum. Rewards split fair—£2 billion divided, half to each state, jobs by skill: 5,000 souls as drivers, clerks, guards, hired by merit not flag. Time frames it—five-year terms, renewing 1998’s trust; a decade’s peace could root it deep. Space maps it—100 miles: 50 north, 50 south, crossings shared, marked by posts not walls.”
“Nonlinear?” he mused, tapping the mantel. “Rallies muted—bluster earns no ballot; the EU advises, its 2024 tweak a scaffold, not a yoke. That smuggler’s cart—ten crossings weekly, untaxed whiskey—yields £50,000 yearly in tax, I’d see it seized and turned to border posts, manned by locals. The outcome? Trade hums like a well-tuned engine—£4 billion flows unchecked; guns rest silent, fear’s 60 per cent quelled. A rational chord, Watson, struck across dimensions—linear roles anchor, nonlinear risks tamed. Dr. Jorge’s vision holds, if forged in evidence.”
The Other Side
“Stuff and nonsense, Holmes!” I burst out, my patience fraying. “You paint a pretty picture, but men grip power like gold—sharing’s a fool’s errand! At the docks, the Cutters clutch their deed, forged or not—it’s theirs in their eyes; the Trawlers’ fists won’t unclench, hunger’s a brute master. Fifty barrels or twenty per cent profit—neither yields an inch when pride’s at stake. Time—fifty years of fishing, yes, but fifty years of grudges too; that 1840 ledger’s a ghost, unheeded. Space—200 yards, a scrap too small for peace, each yard a battleground. And that baron? He’ll bribe or bully his way clear—carts roll on, co-op be damned!”
I pressed on, voice rising. “Ireland’s worse—the UK digs in, smarting from 58 per cent voting ‘stay,’ a wound to its crown; Ireland pulls south, nationalists cheer, unionists balk—60 per cent fear violence, Ipsos says, and they’re not wrong! Time drags heavy—1690’s Boyne, 1921’s split, centuries of hate; 1998’s truce frays, 2020’s jolt snaps it. Space—100 miles, 200 crossings, a smuggler’s sieve—ten carts weekly prove it. Nonlinear chaos runs riot—unionist rallies, thirty per cent up since 2020, police logs swear it; nationalist drums beat five marches monthly, a mirror of spite. The EU meddles, its 2024 tweak a sop, not a fix; politicians strut—DUP’s thunder, Sinn Féin’s chants—ego’s fuel. Trust’s a phantom, Holmes—Dr. Jorge’s reason drowns in this din!”
He smiled thinly, a flicker of amusement in his gaunt face. “Your passion blinds you, Watson, but not entirely astray. Yet consider: the docks shared once—1870s logs, faded but true, show fish split peaceably; Trawlers ate, Cutters sold, baron or no. Hunger bends pride when bellies growl—fifty barrels feed a hundred, twenty per cent fills a purse. Ireland? 1998 held firm—70 per cent backed it, 1999 poll; 60 per cent cling still, 2022 tally. Time heals if forced; space yields if carved—200 crossings flowed once, can again. Nonlinear risks—rallies, meddling—fade when roles bind: UK, Ireland, locals tethered by trade’s £4 billion pulse. Dr. Jorge’s dimensions align—linear order anchors, nonlinear folly hedges. Reason bends even brutes, if the lever’s sharp.”
Why This Matters
As the fire dwindled to embers, Holmes stood silhouetted against the window, the gaslight of Baker Street casting a halo about him. “From the slime of London’s docks to the mist of Ireland’s green hills, Watson, borders test the mettle of men—yet they yield to a keen eye and a steady hand. Dr. Jorge’s multiverse—his agents, contexts, realms, dimensions—sings a subtle tune here, one I’ve tuned to evidence. The Trawlers’ nets and the Cutters’ deed, the UK’s ports and Ireland’s crossings—these are not mere squabbles but threads in a vast tapestry, woven across time and space. I’ve cut the knot with logic’s blade; it falls to others—perhaps you, old friend—to tie it firm with will and deed.”
He turned, his voice softening, though no less resolute. “This is no idle exercise. At the docks, a hundred mouths hang on the catch—children with hollow cheeks, wives with weary hands; in Ireland, 1.8 million souls teeter on peace’s edge—farmers fretting trade, mothers dreading guns anew. Dr. Jorge’s vision—sharing over seizing—offers a lifeline, not a dream, if grounded in fact. I’ve traced the clues: fifty barrels, £4 billion, a smuggler’s cart—all proofs of a world that bends to reason. His next tale roams Sherwood—mind that green, Watson; it’ll test this method anew. For now, the game’s afoot beyond these walls—visit https://drjorge.world or his https://x.com/DrJorge_World, and join the chase. Men may cling to power, but truth cuts deeper—mark that, and we’ll mend what folly breaks.”
Clues to Chase
- Núñez, J.E. (2017). Sovereignty Conflicts (Ch. 6, 7).
- Núñez, J.E. (2020). Territorial Disputes (Ch. 1, 7).
- Núñez, J.E. (2023). Cosmopolitanism and State Sovereignty (Ch. 1, 6, 7).
NOTE:
New posts every Tuesday. Bonus posts as inspiration strikes. This time it is thanks to Reddit user Agreeable_Bid7037 from r/SherlockHolmes!
PREVIOUS POSTS:
1. Entangled Worlds, Shared Futures: A New Border Blueprint
2. Khemed’s Oil, Crimea’s Shadow: Splitting the Stakes
3. Sherlock’s Docks, Ireland’s Edge: Clues to Equal Ground
NEXT POSTS:
Section 1: Foundations of the Multiverse (Posts 1–6)
4. Sherwood’s Green, Amazon’s Roots: Forests for All
Robin Hood vs. Sheriff; Brazil-Indigenous clash.
5. Atlantis Rising, Antarctic Thaw: Deep Claims, Shared Wins
Atlantis rivals; Antarctic resource race.
6. Narnia’s Ice, Cyprus Split: Thrones in Balance
Narnian kings divide; Cyprus partition.
AUTHOR’S SAMPLE PEER-REVIEWED ACADEMIC RESEARCH (FREE OPEN ACCESS):
State Sovereignty: Concept and Conceptions (OPEN ACCESS) (IJSL 2024)
AUTHOR’S PUBLISHED WORK AVAILABLE TO PURCHASE VIA:
Friday 21st March 2025
Dr Jorge Emilio Núñez
X (formerly, Twitter): https://x.com/DrJorge_World
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