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An interesting Tailscale + Docker gotcha

2026-01-29T00:00:00Z

As I’ve written about before, I use Tailscale for a lot of things. I thought I had it set up in a reasonably secure manner, but I recently noticed a problem.

I use Tailscale’s ACLs to limit what each node can access, based on the tags I apply to it. So an app node can’t access anything via Tailscale, while an integration or server node can access things tagged with either app or integration. This is expressed pretty simply in the Tailscale ACL JSON:

{
	"tagOwners": {
		// Servers that can be SSH'd into
		"tag:server": [],
		// Applications that are exposed on tailscale but never connect out
		"tag:app": [],
		// Things which talk to other services over tailscale (connecting to apps etc)
		"tag:integration": [],
	},
	"grants": [
		{
			// Users can access everything
			"src": ["autogroup:member"],
			"dst": ["*"],
			"ip":  ["*"],
		},
		{
			// Servers and integrations can access integrations and apps
			"src": ["tag:server", "tag:integration"],
			"dst": ["tag:integration", "tag:app"],
			"ip":  ["*"],
		},
	],
}

Over the past week I’ve been setting up a private Forgejo instance behind Tailscale, complete with an actions runner that runs things using a docker-in-docker container. I didn’t want the runner knowing anything about Tailscale, so I had it configured to speak to Forgejo direct over HTTP (forgejo:3000) instead of using full Tailscale HTTPS URL that I use when accessing it (http://git.example-net.ts.net/)¹.

Everything was going fine, until I forgot to do that translation… and it worked. My Forgejo action runners could access anything on my tailnet. I run several things on Tailscale that just have authentication turned off, on the basis that only authorised devices can access them. Things like the admin interface for this website. I definitely didn’t intend for any workflow I run on my git server to have access to edit my website!

This wasn’t just limited to Forgejo, either. Any docker container I was running could access the tailnet. In hindsight it’s fairly obvious why: the host is running Tailscale, connected as a node tagged with my server tag. That creates a tailscale0 interface, and automagically sets up iptables rules to route Tailscale traffic over the interface. Docker also automagically sets up iptables rules to bridge traffic, and apparently these two sets of rules interact in such a way that traffic from Docker containers is allowed to route via the tailscale0 interface.

I say it’s fairly obvious in hindsight — there’s no reason why Docker would special case any particular host interface after all — but it still feels pretty surprising. Because both bits of software inject their own iptables rules, I never really had a good mental model for how they interact. The host Tailscale node was a completely separate building block to Docker. It would be a pain to use either of them if they didn’t do these rules, but it’s also one of the reasons I don’t really like “magical” things².

There are lots of ways to fix this, but none of them feel particularly great. You can configure both Tailscale and Docker to not automatically fiddle with iptables and handle the rules yourself, but I really hate dealing with iptables³. As a stopgap I did hold my nose and add some iptables rules to drop traffic to the tailscale0 interface if it originated from the IP ranges that Docker was configured to use:

iptables -I DOCKER-USER -s 192.168.0.0/16 -o tailscale0 -j DROP
iptables -I DOCKER-USER -s 172.17.0.0/12 -o tailscale0 -j DROP

The DOCKER-USER chain is a nice little escape hatch; it comes before the main auto-generated DOCKER chain, and Docker leaves the rules in it alone.

So I added these rules, and felt pretty good about myself, and then… everything started breaking in weird ways. After some debugging I realised the problem was DNS⁴. The server’s DNS resolver is 100.100.100.100, a special Tailscale address. This is so that it can resolve tailnet hostnames via MagicDNS (and so I don’t have to configure my custom DNS servers manually on each device; Tailscale does it for me). My new iptables rules inadvertently dropped all the DNS packets coming from docker containers. D’oh.

Obviously the solution here is to double down and add MORE iptables rules:

iptables -I DOCKER-USER -s 192.168.0.0/16 -d 100.100.100.100 -o tailscale0 -j ACCEPT
iptables -I DOCKER-USER -s 172.17.0.0/12 -d 100.100.100.100 -o tailscale0 -j ACCEPT

This got DNS working again, but it all feels a bit gross. Not least because to actually make these persist you need to use iptables-save, and then you also get all the rules that both Docker and Tailscale have inserted. I came across a script to filter out the Docker ones, but… yuck⁵.

I realised a cleaner idea might just be to lock down what server tagged nodes could access within Tailscale itself. That way I can avoid touching iptables at all. It’s handy to be able to curl services from the host when debugging, but it’s not really necessary. So I removed that access, and… stuff broke again. I’m using my Forgejo instance as a registry for some of the docker images I run, so the docker daemon needs to be able to reach it. I ended up making a new tag for infrastructure, which can be accessed from server devices. This does still allow all the docker containers to reach Forgejo, but I already have it set up with appropriate access controls and public/private repository splits. Forgejo is a service designed to run publicly, so this seems a reasonable trade-off for convenience. I used the tests feature of Tailscale’s ACL config to make sure I’d got the rules right:

{
	"tests": [
		{
			// Servers can only access infrastructure
			"src":   "tag:server",
			"proto": "tcp",
			"allow": [
				"tag:infrastructure:8080",
			],
			"deny": [
				"100.84.16.43:8080",
				"me@example.com:8080",
				"tag:server:8080",
				"tag:app:8080",
				"tag:integration:8080",
			],
		},
	],
}

The whole situation still feels a bit messy. If I ever get around to switching to nftables I might loop back and manually craft some rules for routing traffic, instead of leaving Tailscale and Docker to do their own thing.

I discovered later on that logging into the container registry at forgejo:3000 actually issued a redirect to https://git.example-net.ts.net/ so this was all basically for naught… ↩︎
I didn’t use Tailscale’s MagicDNS for a long time just because the word “magic” put me off. Only when I eventually got around to learning how it worked, and seeing that it wasn’t really that magical under the hood, did I change my mind. ↩︎
nftables seems far better in lots of ways, but I can’t really be bothered migrating. Maybe next time I reimage the server for whatever reason… ↩︎
It’s always DNS… ↩︎
Again, nftables would almost certainly help here. It actually has (gasp) configuration files. But again, I really didn’t want to spend the time migrating. ↩︎

Surge protectors: marketing vs reality

2026-01-24T00:00:00Z

A while back I went down a deep rabbit hole looking into surge protectors, and what all the different numbers mean, and how that affects things in case of a voltage spike. Then I didn’t really do anything with the information, other than bore a few friends, and look around in despair at all the shockingly bad products out there. Time to fix that!

I’m coming at this from the angle of a computer user in a country with very good electrical regulations. If you’re protecting something else, or live somewhere that doesn’t believe in grounding things, your mileage may vary.

Building a better mental model

I think when most of us think of surge protectors, we think of an extension lead with some magical property that stops surges and protects everything plugged into them. It’s a bit like the shield on the USS Enterprise. If we put the shields up in time, they’ll stop everything thrown at them, until at some point they’re overloaded and stop working. Only then will we have problems. There’s even a little LED that goes out when she cannae take it any more, cap’n.

Of course, if that was actually the case, I wouldn’t be writing a blog post. Surge protectors are more like the crumple zone on a car. If you hit something, the crumple zone will absorb some of the impact, but you can quite easily still get injured. If the impact is big enough then the crumple zone will bleed some energy, but you’re still going to have a very bad time. My point here is that it’s not a perfect shield, can be overcome with a single excessive impact, and doesn’t magically recharge back to full strength.

The numbers, Mason! What do they mean?

To understand what protection these things really offer, we need to look at a couple of numbers. Unfortunately, they’re not the numbers that are displayed in the marketing. Sometimes they’re not even on the spec sheet. Most of the time they’re on the actual device, and if they’re not then it’s safe to just assume things are bad.

The most important number is the let-through voltage, U_p. It may also be called the clamping voltage, the voltage protection rating, or the VPR. This is the voltage that will be let through, before the surge protector does anything¹. We use 230V mains, with a +10%/-6% tolerance. So we shouldn’t be seeing anything above 253V. If you were designing a surge protector, you’d want it to engage a little above this, right? Maybe call it 300V so it doesn’t cut in prematurely? If you have a surge protector nearby, I invite you to try and find its U_p value. If you don’t have one, you can follow along with mine:

A not-very-good surge protector. Please take a moment to consider how difficult it was to make this text readable.

Yes, that’s 1,500 Volts. Up until that point the surge protector does nothing. Your computer’s power supply just has to deal with it. That’s not even the highest I’ve seen, either. It’s just the closest I had to hand.

So what are the other numbers? U_c is the maximum continuous operating voltage. That’s probably fine — in the worst case it’ll slowly degrade over time if the mains rides the 253V edge — but at the same time, would you not spec it for 275V or more given that? For the most part, we don’t really care about this, though. If the surge protector has the right kind of plug on it, then it’s probably got a U_c in the right ballpark.

Then we have U_oc, which is the open circuit voltage. This is one of the numbers that might end up on the marketing, because it can be big! This is the surge voltage that the device can sustain without failing itself. So for this surge protector, it won’t do anything for surges up to 1.5kV, between 1.5kV and 4kV it will clamp the voltage, and above 4kV it might fail in some manner. That failure could be failing open and leaving your computer to deal with the rest of the surge (the little LED would go out, though!).

The number not on the device that’s on all the marketing materials is the “Joule rating”. That’s how much energy the thing can absorb before it fails. That can be gradually drained by small surges over time, or by a big one. Something in the realm of 1kJ seems to be a “good” value, but what does it actually mean? Say we had a surge of 1.5kV, our 1kJ of protection would cover 0.66 Amp seconds. Surges are typically very short; let’s say one lasts 2µs. That energy budget would allow for 333kA of current to be handled! That’s an order of magnitude more than a lightning strike! Amazing! Except… There’s also a maximum surge current rating, and I guarantee it’s less than that. The actual number on the Joule rating is basically useless given all the other constraints, but the bigger the number the more hardy the protector will be, in general.

Oh, one more thing on that Joule rating. Sometimes surge protectors will have multiple different protection devices inside, especially when they protect other connectors like coax or telephone cables. Sometimes the Joule rating will just be the sum of all the individual protectors, so is even more useless. Yay marketing.

How much abuse can a PSU take, anyway?

OK, so it turns out surge protectors are… underwhelming, shall we say? If there’s a surge, your computer is going to be involved. So what can PSUs actually deal with?

Turns out modern PSUs have surge protection built-in, along with all sorts of other “why is the electricity not electricitying right?” safeguards. I can’t find a single manufacturer that actually puts any numbers to that, though.

If you were to open one up and look inside, you’d see something like this:

I spy with my little eye… something beginning with MOV!

That little thing hidden in heatshrink is a MOV, or Metal Oxide Varistor. Also known as a Zinc-Oxide Non-liner Resistor, or ZNR, as it’s labelled in the picture. It’s basically a resistor that varies its resistance based on the voltage. So it can have a high resistance at low voltages, and then after, say, 300V it could start dropping off. Can you guess what component is inside basically all consumer surge protectors? Yeah, these things! So, as mentioned, I don’t have numbers to back this up but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the MOV in a £130 PSU can probably handle at least the same as the MOVs in a £7 surge protector.

It’s hard to imagine a situation where there’s a surge that would have destroyed the PSU that would be mitigated by an external surge protector. It’s probably either going to take both of them out, or they’ll both survive. No Enterprise shields here, I’m afraid.

So is it not worth having a surge protector at all? Not quite. MOVs degrade with use, so if a surge protector handles some smaller surges, or takes bites out of bigger ones, it might prolong the life of the PSU. Maybe that’s worth it, especially if you find one of the (increasingly rare) ones with a decently low clamping voltage.

Addendum: covered equipment warranties and magic smoke

A bunch of surge protectors come with a warranty for downstream equipment. That sounds like a great deal, right? Even if there’s a huge surge that the protector can’t handle, at least you can replace the equipment? Alas, no. These warranties only cover if the surge protector doesn’t operate within its specifications. If you go over the max voltage, or the max current, or the max energy and all your equipment blows up, then the surge protector is merely working as designed. It’s meant to fail in those circumstances, and at that point all bets are off. No warranty money for you.

The other thing to bear in mind is that — in the UK at least — significant power surges aren’t common at all. If you travel with your computer then you’re more likely to come across dodgy electrics that can fry your computer than you are to hit a power surge. I’ve been to a lot of LAN events and have never heard of a surge protector popping and saving a computer; on the other hand I have seen an entire row of computers release their magic smoke because the electrician hadn’t connected the three-phase supply properly. There’s absolutely no protection to be had from that!

Photo credit: thanks to Greg for supplying the picture of the PSU so I didn’t have to take my computer apart.

Well, actually, it does a tiny bit before U_p because it’s not a binary switch, and life is messy. It won’t do much of anything before U_p. ↩︎

Upgrading the RAM in a Dell G15 laptop

2023-07-29T00:00:00Z

The Dell G15

I currently use a Dell G15 laptop for work. It has served me well for a little over a year, but recently it has been struggling a little with my day-to-day workload. It came with 32GB of RAM — the highest possible specification at the time¹ — but that is apparently no longer enough for me.

For a recent project, I was working on a Rust library used in an Android app. That meant running the usual glut of Android tools (Android Studio, an emulator and at least one Gradle daemon) alongside a normal IDE (IntelliJ IDEA). Throw in a web browser and a couple of electron apps, and I often managed to use all 32GB.

When you start swapping memory out to an encrypted disk — even an SSD — it doesn’t make for great performance. At first, I tried to work around this by enabling the Linux out-of-memory (OOM) killer, but it turns out that it’s not too good with Electron apps: it will kill the large browser process, but then the small Electron wrapper will just respawn it.

Can it be upgraded or not?

The obvious solution to not having enough RAM is to add more RAM. A quick look in the manual showed this might not be possible, though. The manual includes the following “Memory specifications” table:

Description	Values
Memory slots	Two SODIMM slots
Memory type	DDR5
Memory speed	4800
Maximum memory configuration	32GB
Minimum memory configuration	8GB
Memory size per slot	8GB or 16GB
Memory configurations supported	8 GB, 1 x 8 GB, DDR5, 4800 MHz 16 GB, 1 x 16 GB, DDR5, 4800 MHz 16 GB, 2 x 8 GB, DDR5, 4800 MHz, dual-channel 32 GB, 2 x 16 GB, DDR5, 4800 MHz, dual-channel

That unambiguously says that an upgrade from 32GB is not possible. I gave up.

Later though, I was complaining about memory issues to a friend, and he pointed out a Dell forum thread where a couple of people claim to have successfully installed dual-channel 32GB modules. Since the alternative was getting an entire new PC after only a year, I decided to give it a go.

The upgrade attempt

I ordered a pair of Crucial 32GB DDR5-4800 SODIMMs, and after they turned up dismantled the laptop. The G15 comes apart pretty normally: there are uncovered screws on the bottom holding the lower part of the case on. With those removed and some gentle prying, it pops off, and you get access to the battery, GPU and motherboard.

The first thing I saw was this:

The G15 motherboard adamantly proclaiming that it doesn’t want 32GB SODIMMs

Not one but two labels that indicate it will only accept 8GB or 16GB modules. Oh well, what’s the worst that can happen?

Oops?

I dutifully installed the new modules, reconnected the battery and put the case back together. I pressed the power button, and… nothing. None of the usual garish lights that immediately come on, no screen output, just a dead laptop. After reading some more of the user manual, I found that there is a tiny status LED on the side next to the ethernet port. Forcing the laptop to power off and back on again, the status LED blinked a distress code at me: 2 amber blinks, 4 white blinks. The manual says that is — unsurprisingly — a memory fault.

I figured at this point that the manual and labels on the motherboard were probably right. I took the laptop apart again, reinstalled the original 2x16GB modules, reassembled it, and pressed the power button. It didn’t boot. I don’t spend a lot of time fiddling inside computers, but I’ve done it enough that I’m reasonably confident I can’t entirely break a computer while swapping some RAM modules. I took to Googling², and found an interesting article that said Dell laptops don’t like to boot after RAM changes unless you clear the CMOS by popping out the battery for 15 minutes.

I opened the laptop up, and looked around for the CMOS battery. There wasn’t one. Turns out they don’t exist any more. I left the main battery disconnected for a while to see if it would help, and it didn’t.

Unexpected success

I started to get worried: if I couldn’t fix this, I wouldn’t be able to work until I got a new PC, and that wasn’t really in my budget at the minute. I sat reading old forum threads and help guides³, none of which were actually useful. Out of nowhere, though, the laptop booted up.

Naturally, I immediately shut the laptop down again, opened it up, and switched back to the new RAM modules. Then I turned it on again and sat waiting. After about 15 minutes of it looking totally dead, it turned on and showed a BIOS warning about the hardware configuration being changed. It then booted perfectly normally, and all 64GB of RAM was visible and usable.

My theory is that the forum threads were right: Dell laptops are funny about RAM upgrades. But somehow in removing the physical CMOS battery, they’ve kept the same “you have to wait 15 minutes” behaviour just without any indication that’s what’s happening. Regardless, I now have enough RAM even for the greediest of IDEs and Electron apps.

Bizarrely, the maximum spec has decreased to 16GB since then. ↩︎
In the generic sense. I use Kagi these days. ↩︎
On my phone because, y’know, the laptop was busted. ↩︎

Docker reverse proxying, redux

2022-12-06T00:00:00Z

Six years ago, I described my system for configuring a reverse proxy for docker containers. It involved six containers including a key-value store and a webserver. Nothing in that system has persisted to this day. Don’t get me wrong – it worked – but there were a lot of rough edges and areas for improvement.

Microservices and their limitations

My goal was to follow the UNIX philosophy of “do one thing and do it well”. Unfortunately, that doesn’t really work when applied to network services that have to interact with one and other. UNIX tools are built upon a common file system and simple data passed over STDIN. Microservices don’t have that shared foundation. You could make one: companies that use microservices in anger often have a team that deals with the “developer experience” of creating and using microservices. But as a solo developer that’s not something I wanted to spend my time doing.

This became very apparent when trying to debug issues. In the UNIX world, if your series of commands piped together does something strange you can simply echo the data at various stages. Not so much when that data is flying around on a network, going into and out of things like etcd. Trying to figure out why a certificate hadn’t been acquired was a case of searching through logs from four containers, none of which had particularly good logging. There are many ways to get insight into what’s happening with microservices but, again, that’s not something I wanted to do myself.

Over time, and with experience in other projects, I came to realise that microservices only really make sense if you’re unable to deploy a monolith. For tech companies this naturally happens when different teams contribute to the same service: splitting it out into smaller services that are wholly owned by individual teams makes sense. For solo developers, that never happens. You can still gain the other benefits of microservices – such as code separation and having clearly defined APIs – by sticking to certain coding standards.

Proxy inconveniences

As well as being unhappy with the microservice nature of the solution, I wasn’t pleased with nginx. If you requested an unknown domain, nginx would use the first server block in its config to serve a response, instead of sending an “unrecognised name” alert as I wanted. It was a minor issue, but it irked me.

So from nginx I switched to haproxy. It has a strict-sni option when configuring TLS connections which makes it behave properly. It also performs a lot better for this type of workload than nginx. All was well for a while, but then I started getting alerts that requests were occasionally failing. I couldn’t reproduce the issue, but my nightly jobs to build and push containers managed to hit it nearly every night, causing them to fail.

After some investigation, I found that the haproxy developers had refactored the header parsing code, and neglected to properly reset flags when multiple requests were sent over the same connection. There was a patch, but it wasn’t released. No problem, I thought, I’ll just cherry-pick it onto the last release… Except that haproxy use Git in the most convoluted manner I’ve ever seen – they have one repository per release. This makes it harder to patch, but it also made me question whether I trusted them to ship stable software: there were no tests for the header parsing code (which is both fundamental and finicky, the perfect target for tests), the source code management was weird, and they didn’t seem in any rush to patch this bug.

Not long after that issue, Greg managed to encounter another bug where haproxy returned a 500 error whenever the upstream server replied with a particular, perfectly valid, header. The die was cast – it was time to move to something else.

Not Invented Here syndrome

Looking for a new solution, there were many more options than back in 2016. I’m still convinced, however, that anything exposed to the Internet should not have access to run docker containers. It’s the modern equivalent of running a CGI script as root. That single requirement eliminates most off-the-shelf solutions. What do you do when nothing quite meets your specific requirements? You make something yourself! My new solution has two components: Dotege and Centauri.

Dotege is a replacement for the microservices that monitored containers and obtained certificates. It’s fundamentally a templating engine - whenever the containers change, it evaluates a template and saves the result to disk. The template has access to details about the containers, their labels, ports, and so on. Dotege can also obtain certificates from Let’s Encrypt, and raise a signal against another process whenever the template or certificates change. I used this to generate the configuration and certificates used by haproxy for a while, and more recently changed the template so that it works for Centauri.

Centauri is my own reverse proxy. It’s configured using a simple text file and can also obtain certificates from an ACME provider. It doesn’t serve static content, has no knowledge about docker, and avoids the other bells and whistles that adorn most reverse proxies. It also has good test coverage to ensure that I don’t, say, accidentally break header parsing.

As a software engineer I enjoy writing software, but I also enjoy running simple, easy to understand software. That’s what I’ve achieved here: it’s very easy to identify where the problem is if anything goes wrong, both are small Go programs rather than vast sprawling C monstrosities, and their interaction is primarily through a file written to disk that can be inspected or edited as needed.

An introduction to containers

2020-03-01T00:00:00Z

So. Many. Containers.

I’m a huge fan of (software) containers. Most people I know fall in to one of two camps: either they also use, and are fans of, containers, or they haven’t yet really figured them out and view them as some kind of voodoo that they don’t really want or need.

I’m writing this short guide to explain a little how containers work - and how running something in a container isn’t really that much different to running it normally - to hopefully enable more people in that second group to give them a try. It’s aimed at people who have a fairly good grasp of how Linux works.

Containers are often mentioned in the same breath as VMs, which is not a helpful comparison or analogy. Think of containers as standard units of software, much like how Intermodal containers are standard units of freight transport across the world. When a company internationally ships goods in volume there isn’t a question about how they’re packaged - they go in an intermodal container. The same container can be deployed on a freight train, a lorry, or a ship. The haulage company doesn’t need to care what’s in the container because they’re completely standardised. Likewise, with software containers you don’t really need to care about what’s inside: the software you’re deploying could be written in Go, Python2, Python3, Bash, PHP, LOLCODE, or anything¹.

What does a running container look like?

When you run a container, you’re just running a process. In a lot of ways it’s not very different to what happens if you were to start the same process on the host computer.

For example I have a container that just runs cat(1). With no arguments, cat will read from stdin until it receives an EOF, so it’s handy to test with. If I run ps a on my computer, I can see the cat process in amongst everything else I’m currently running:

    PID TTY      STAT   TIME COMMAND
   7199 pts/1    Ss     0:01 /usr/bin/zsh
 323806 pts/0    Ss+    0:00 /bin/cat
 324120 pts/4    R+     0:00 ps a

The /bin/cat process is in a container, and the ps a underneath it is just running like normal on my desktop. They look very similar, right? If I look under /proc/323806 I can see all the usual attributes, the same as any other process running.

If I run ps in a container, though, it’s a different story:

    PID TTY      STAT   TIME COMMAND
      1 pts/0    Rs+    0:00 ps a

So inside the container it looks like there’s only one process running. It can’t see anything running “outside” on my desktop. The secret here is that this isn’t a special container trick: this is just a feature of the Linux kernel called namespacing.

If we go back to procfs and look at the ns/pid node we can see the process in the container is in a separate PID (process ID) namespace to the one on my desktop:

# readlink /proc/323806/ns/pid  
pid:[4026534564]
# readlink /proc/7199/ns/pid
pid:[4026531836]

Almost all² processes running ’normally’ on my desktop have the same PID namespace, whereas each container gets their own by default. PID namespaces are hierarchical: a new process is assigned a PID in its own namespace, and the parent namespace, and the grandparent namespace, and so on. That’s why I can see the process running in the container from my normal shell - the container’s namespace is a child of the main namespace all of my desktop software is running in.

Linux supports - and container software makes use of - a bunch of other namespaces too: mount points, network, UTS³, cgroups, and more. These all play a part in isolating a container from the system it is running on.

You can manually run a process with unshare(1) to “unshare” some namespaces from the parent process. For example if I run unshare -fp --mount-proc ps a, it looks very similar to running ps instead the container:

    PID TTY      STAT   TIME COMMAND
      1 pts/4    R+     0:00 ps a

So: a process running inside a container is just a heavily namespaced process running otherwise normally in the operating system. No voodoo magic here!

What about the filesystem? What are ‘images’?

Containers run in their own mount namespace meaning mount points can be different inside the container to those on the host. This means the container can have a different / mounted to the host, effectively giving it its own filesystem.

The root filesystem of the container is defined in the container’s image. If I use Docker to run a container using the Ubuntu image (docker run ubuntu), the root filesystem inside that container will resemble a minimal ubuntu install. Note that this is just the filesystem: the container doesn’t have its own kernel.

You might be thinking that sounds pretty inefficient. Downloading Ubuntu is definitely not instant, and doing it for every application you run would be insane! Quite. Containers solve this by using filesystem layers. These are stacked on top of one another to create the final filesystem. Each layer can be retrieved and cached independently of all others.

Say (for simplicity) that the Ubuntu image is a single layer. If I run one container with that image, then the layer will be downloaded and cached once. If I run three hundred containers with that image then the layer will be downloaded and cached once. Even better, if I use another image that’s based on Ubuntu but adds some software on top, only the “on top” layer will be downloaded if I already have the relevant “Ubuntu” layer cached.

If all the layers are cached, what happens when you change a file? This is dealt with using the copy-on-write technique: when you modify a file it is copied from the source layer and the changes are only made in a new layer. This is handled by the OverlayFS filesystem which is part of the mainline kernel.

When a container is running, changes made to its filesystem are temporary, and do not persist across container restarts. To persist data - or introduce new data to a container - you can mount volumes. How this works varies depending on how you’re running your container, but at the basic level it is pretty much the same as bind-mounting (mount -o bind).

You may be familiar with using chroots to change the apparent root directory of processes, perhaps with full-blown “jails” built on top. Containers offer much better isolation thanks to the use of namespaces. Instead of being constrained to a portion of the host’s filesystem, they don’t even have it mounted! Containers also get to specify their environment - if they expect in certain places, for example - instead of the sysadmin having to manually set up the chroot. Finally, containers offer much more fine-grained control over what processes can do (if you want it), and allow much more advanced use-cases such as inter-container networking.

Images and filesystems employ a little magic to ensure that layers are reusable and cacheable, but again there’s nothing terribly special about them: a container has a filesystem that appears to it to work the same way as a filesystem on the host, and it’s using a standard filesystem shipped with the kernel.

How about networking?

Again, networking is namespaced, so a container has its own network stack, its own virtual network interface, its own IP address and so on. How that network interacts with your real network depends on how you’re running the container. Docker, for example, can add iptables rules to NAT traffic between containers' networks and the outside world.

Containers can generally be connected into networks, and can communicate amongst themselves without the traffic actually leaving the host machine. This allows you to, for example, run a SQL database and connect it to a web application without ever exposing the database to the outside world. Moreover, as well as being isolated from the outside world, it’s isolated from other containers in other networks. If one of your applications has a crazy bug or is compromised, this significantly limits the damage it can do.

You have to explicitly opt in to “publishing” ports from a container, which exposes them to the outside world (either directly, or via a load balancer or some other middle-man, depending on how you’re running the container). This means you can pick and chose how the outside world sees the app you’re deploying: if it’s a web service that listens on both port 443 and port 80, you can chose to only expose the encrypted port.

If you run some containers and create some networks, you can see the interfaces and bridges on the host:

$ ip l
...
6: br-2405a8cc0445: <BROADCAST,MULTICAST,UP,LOWER_UP> mtu 1500 qdisc noqueue state UP mode DEFAULT group default 
    link/ether 02:42:3e:fa:23:62 brd ff:ff:ff:ff:ff:ff
8: veth8ed0735@if7: <BROADCAST,MULTICAST,UP,LOWER_UP> mtu 1500 qdisc noqueue master br-2405a8cc0445 state UP mode DEFAULT group default 
    link/ether b2:c1:5d:55:26:9b brd ff:ff:ff:ff:ff:ff link-netnsid 2
10: veth541d84b@if9: <BROADCAST,MULTICAST,UP,LOWER_UP> mtu 1500 qdisc noqueue master br-9d7bc4024c1a state UP mode DEFAULT group default 
    link/ether 86:aa:5f:ee:da:1a brd ff:ff:ff:ff:ff:ff link-netnsid 1

This shows a bridge and two virtual NICs, just the same as if you’d manually created them (albeit with seemingly random names). So: as before, nothing special here.

Docker? Compose? K8s? Floccinaucinihilipilification?

(OK, Floccinaucinihilipilification isn’t actually a container technology, as far as I’m aware.)

Docker is the most popular container engine - that is, the bit of software that actually runs containers. It’s responsible for setting up all those namespaces we found, downloading and caching image layers, and actually starting and stopping the processes. Docker runs as a system-wide daemon - when you run a command like docker run ubuntu it actually just instructs the daemon to do the work.

There are several alternatives to Docker for running containers; one interesting one is Podman which runs containers without a daemon. Container engines have all standardised around the same image format looked after by the Open Container Initiative, so an image you build in Docker can be used in Podman, or pretty much any other engine.

Docker compose is a tool for defining and running multiple-container applications. I mentioned earlier running a database alongside a webapp - in practice to do this you’re going to have to configure a network for them, configure a mount point for the database to persist its data on, pass credentials in to both the database and the application, and so on. Doing all that by hand is tedious and error prone.

Docker compose lets you write “compose files”, which are simple yaml descriptions of the containers you wish to run, their properties, and details about any volumes or networks you may want. Out of the box, docker-compose will create a default network for each compose file you run so the containers within it can communicate.

Kubernetes is a container orchestrator, designed to automate deployment and management of large numbers of containers. It works with Docker under the hood, but provides a huge amount of tooling on top to allow you to deploy applications and manage their dependencies. It runs across multiple physical (or virtual) machines (while still allowing containers to communicate privately), and can support massive workloads by scaling out services (running multiple copies of a container on different hosts) and load balancing. Kubernetes is sometimes shorted to k8s (as in K - 8 elided letters - s) because computer people don’t like long words.

OK, they make sense now. But why bother?

Hopefully if you’ve read this far you’ve already picked up on some of the potential benefits, but this is my personal list:

Isolation. If I run some software in a container, there is very little it can do to upset me. It’s not going to leave bits of itself all over my filesystem, it can’t steal all of the secrets in my home directory, I can even limit its CPU and memory resources if I want. If I decide to stop running it, I just delete the container and it is completely gone: no trace remains.

Ease of use. If you give me a container image I have a very good idea of how to run it already. I might need to do some minor configuration to expose ports or mount volumes, but there’s no question about how to run it, how to make it automatically start, and there’s no “installation” procedure. If I want to then swap it with an alternative (say, move from MySQL to MariaDB), it’s potentially just a case of changing the name of the image I pull.

Dependencies included. Containers just run. Python 2 software includes Python 2 and just work. Python 3 software includes Python 3 and just work. I don’t have a massive headache trying to run both at the same time, because they take care of their own messes. Similarly I’m not going to have to install npm or cargo or composer to pull in dependencies for an application: that’s going to have been done in the build process.

Reproducibility. As a fallout from having dependencies included and being isolated from everything else, containers give you amazing reproducibility. If it “works on your machine” in a container, it’ll almost certainly work in production because it’s the exact same environment.

Standardisation. At the start of this article I called containers standard units of software. One of my favourite advantages of containers is that you basically get an API to list all the software you’re running. Most container engines let you supply labels attached to containers as well, so you can add your own annotations. I use this to annotate services which expose HTTP endpoints, and I have a tool that automatically generates SSL certificates for them and configures haproxy to route traffic to them. I can’t imagine how I’d do this without containers - I imagine it’d involve a lot of manual work.

Hopefully this has helped demystify containers a little. If you feel like I’ve missed something important out, or I’ve left you more confused than when you started, feel free to drop me a note using the feedback form below.

OK, maybe you should care if you’re deploying something written in crazy languages like PHP. ↩︎
Some multi-process apps, such as web browsers, are starting to use namespaces to enhance security, as do certain package systems like Flatpak ↩︎
“Unix timesharing system”; in practice this means having a separate hostname ↩︎