Today the buzzards are loud, mewing incessantly. I look up, but the conifers leave only small patches of sky visible between their feathery tops and the birds are hidden.
Their calling is met by the sound of the stream rising from the valley bottom, a hundred or so feet below me. The stream is also loud. It has been so for weeks now. It is loud because it is shallow and splashing over rocks; the water low at the end of a dry if not overly sunny summer. It will be loud again in the winter, but with a different voice, a voice born of rushing brown turbulence.
I am pleasantly suspended between these two sounds; the birds and the river. Suspended literally as well as metaphorically, on a seat slung between two trees halfway up the valley side.
To my right are conifers. Majestic. Two hundred feet tall or so. Western hemlock, planted maybe eighty years ago, native to northwest America but looking naturalized and attractive on this steep hillside. Conifers provide a poorer habitat than deciduous woodland, but these trees, I know, are enjoyed by the local marsh tits who harvest their cones. They were also visited last winter, I think, maybe, hopefully, by a pair of crossbills, although the birds were high and the identification difficult.
To my left is scrubby deciduous woodland; a mixture of hazel, oak, and beech; full of tawny owls and, in the summer months, chiffchafs, blackcaps and pied flycatchers.
The valley itself is a wooded gash in otherwise rolling county. It is as if a knife, drawn across proved earth, left a cut, which opened when the crust was baked. But, in fact, it is not fire but ice that created this valley, formed, as it was, by melt-water draining away from the glaciers of the last ice age.
The particular trees I am suspended from are perched on a rocky outcrop twenty or so feet high. Coupled with the steep natural fall of the land this extra height is enough to allow me to see right across the valley, and to lend my seat a certain buzzard’s-nest vertigo, the mild thrill of which I enjoy.
Today it is warm, still and quiet. There is little movement, other than a gentle rain of pine needles from the branches above and the occasional flicker of white butterflies finding the sunnier patches of the woodland floor. But it is not always like this. Sat up here in a strong wind I have been in a mountainous sea, all green waves and movement; trees of different thicknesses finding their own resonances within the wind, bending and swaying, towards and away, each to a different time, like the violin bows of an amateur orchestra. The seat, being attached to the trees, becomes a part of this motion, putting you in a boat on the sea, rather than looking at the waves from the safety of the shore. There is even an edge of the sailor’s fear; what if a mast should break or a spar come crashing down.
But, so long as it is dry and not too cold, this is a wonderful place to sit and read. I know I am lucky to have access to it. Lucky to the extent even that guilt sometimes takes the edge even off the pleasure of reading.
(During the summer of 2014, I got into the habit of walking the seven miles, along the canal, from Aynho warf to Cafe Nero in Banbury town centre for breakfast every Saturday morning. I remember the weather as being mostly perfect and these walks took on an unexpected magic and significance. This is one of a few of pieces of writing that came out them.)
A few weeks into these walks it suddenly occurred to me that something was missing. It was summer but there were no swallows. Even over the canal, where you would expect flies to abound, there were none. But of course, we get used to this. The constant news of species decline. The degradation of the natural environment through pollution or ever-expanding housing, it goes on and on, oppressing and saddening. Perhaps, to an extent, we ignore this sort of news, and perhaps, to an extent, we are right to do so. Why shouldn’t we? We have, after all, to live in a world over which we have negligible control. We must ‘keep smiling’ and go on being at least reasonably effective in everyday life, so the ability to ignore bad news is maybe a necessary defence mechanism.
I was listening to the radio the other day, there was a discussion about the plastic pollution of our beaches and seas. How do we reconcile our romantic image of the sea with such news? The sea, a place of escape; fathomless and poetic, the realm of adventure and heroic deeds and of a refreshing otherness. How do we reconcile such feelings and images with the possibility that the seas are irreversibly polluted with plastic? I say ‘possiblity’ because I find it impossible to accept that the seas and the beaches are actually irreversibly polluted with plastic. PLASTIC! Of all the possible pollutants, plastic somehow seems the worse. Not only in a practical, scientific sense, because it does not break down, but also in a poetic or metaphorical sense. In plastic we have managed to unite images of cheapness and tackiness with immortality. By polluting the sea with plastic, we seem to have injected poison right into the heart of one of the most potent of life’s well-springs. The ‘idea’ of plastic seems to pollute the ‘idea’ of the sea in even more complex and harmful ways than real plastic pollutes the real sea.
This distinction of ‘ideas’ as a thing apart from their physical counterparts, seems interesting to me. Of course, at a mundane level it is inevitable; we can never know a physical object in its entirety and so we must always work with an abstraction of it. Such abstracted ideas, however, are often more complex and multi-dimensional than the thing itself. For example, our idea of the sea, as we have seen, is likely to be far more than just the sum of our scientific knowledge of it. It will include our personal and cultural associations at least. It is therefore not surprising that such an ‘idea’ has characteristics and behaviours which engender reactions far beyond those of the real object.
Mixing up the internal and subjective with the external and objective in this way is practically unavoidable. Even colour, which we cheerfully think of as a property of an external object, is, in truth, created entirely by our brains. The same being true of sound and the other sense impressions. The kingfisher, for example, is not blue and red, but colourless; the illusion of blue and red is created by our brains and projected onto the bird. We project not just sense perceptions such as colour and sound, but more complex phenomena such as feelings thoughts and emotions. To one person a sea bird colony appears a towering affirmation of chaotic but wonderful life, to another it is nothing but a smelly mess of squawking birds. Both are no doubt projecting some internal and probably unexamined element of themselves onto the external object. Even wilder or more abstract projections can be formed. We may look at nature and see love, or God, or a violent threat that needs to be subdued, or anything else for that matter, and because projection is often largely unconscious, we may feel such things to be objective reality; that the thing really has these properties, and be incredulous that others see things differently.
Is this good? Like a therapist’s patient, should we be encouraged to recognise these projections for what they are and ‘take them back’, relieving the objects of the burden of our expectations? Should we just allow the birds to be birds and the sea to just be the sea? Extremely easy to say, and maybe this is what science does; looks at what is left after we have withdrawn all our projections. And of course, it works. We sit back, in the large part, confidently expecting scientists to solve our problems, be they outbreaks of new diseases, global food shortages, or the development of biodegradable plastics and, with luck, we will not be disappointed. But there are difficulties and dangers here too. Science is brilliant at solving problems and generally improving life at a practical level, but the overall picture of existence it builds can seem bleak. To the extent that, for some, it is hard to live with.
This conflict between our subjective view of the world and what science tells us is not new. Perhaps the best-known expression was the romantic poet Keats’ accusing Isaac Newton of un-weaving the rainbow by explaining it in terms of prisms and the composition of light.
Is there an analogy here? One of the guidelines for building cages, or should I say enclosures, in modern zoos is that they should be such that the captive animal is able to ‘express its natural behaviour’. Birds should be able to fly, monkeys to climb and, presumably, hippos to wallow. Is one of the problems with science that it seems too bare a cage; a concrete rectangle maybe, in which our need for nutrition and air is recognised, but with no facility for us to express our imaginative, meaning-hungry natures?
I don’t know. Sometimes it seems like this to me, and that, to change metaphor, scientists are like miners; in that they go down to a dark and inhospitable place to bring back substances of practical use to us all. At other times the contrary seems true, and I would agree with the physicist Richard Feynman when he said that (to paraphrase); to think that science in some way undermines aesthetic sense is ‘a little bit nutty’.
Attempting to reconcile these viewpoints seems simultaneously interesting, difficult, and important. But this is the good thing about walking, it gives you time to think about such things.
Regarding the swallows (and maybe we can hope it will be the same with plastic) it was not as bad as it might have been. A week or so later, I was walking up to the lock gates at Kings Sutton and there they were, low over the water, twisting swooping and diving, with that characteristic pattern of flight which seems to have been laid down in our consciousness over a lifetime of summers. Slender wings the colour of mussel-shells or summer twilight and under the chin the hint of summer warmth and of the autumn to come. Coincidentally, just as I saw them, the lock gates above which they were flying were opened and for a moment it felt as both the emotional release of seeing the swallows and the water released by the lock gates flooded out together over the countryside.
The gap is joined
The spark flies
The lock above the old bridge opens
The swallow has made the cut
This blog is about a form of bioluminescence known variously as ‘sea sparkle’, ‘milky sea’ or more poetically ‘mareel’, which is a Shetlandic name meaning ‘sea fire’, (from Old Norse marr (“sea”) + eldr (“fire”). Also “miracle”, “morrali”, “glimro”)
A near miss:
I feel greedy, wanting to see sea sparkle. The sea provides us already with seemingly inexhaustible inspiration and possibility; to want it to also put on a light show seems ungrateful. I must admit though, since I first read descriptions of night-time glowing seas, I have wanted to see them for myself.
I got quite close once. I was ‘crewing’ for the first leg (Eastbourne to Falmouth), of a sailing trip that was going to cross the Bay of Biscay, carry on down to north Africa and eventually cross the Atlantic. The skipper was to pick up different crew for the various stages and on this first leg it was myself, a friend, my father-in-law, and a young vivacious eastern European girl whom none of us had met before called Lenka1.
This was to be my first time sailing at night and I was full of romantic expectation of seeing the mast ‘stir a sky full of stars’, the ‘loom’ of the lighthouses we would pass and maybe even sea sparkle. However, although we had good wind and a fast trip2 none of this happened. The sky was overcast, and the veiled moon and shore lights reflecting from the clouds prevented it from ever getting properly dark. There was not a star to be seen and certainly no glowing seas. With a strong north wind and a rough sea, it was also extremely cold and uncomfortable3.
We arrived in Falmouth tired and the three of us were relieved to climb into the warmth and comfort of a modern car and head for home.
Lenka was staying on for the next leg and, after a day recovering, was to be joined by two new crew members for the trip across Biscay. We swapped email addresses so we could keep track of how the rest of the journey went and said goodbye.
A couple of days later a wonderfully joyous email arrived in my inbox. High on tiredness and excitement, writing from the plane on the way back from Spain, Lenka described, in ecstatic broken English, how they had met not only bad weather and rough conditions but large areas of sea sparkle4. As the boat had ploughed into each glowing wave, cascades of glimmering sea spray had been fired back over the deck, drenching the crew, who, excited and laughing, had also begun to glow. Lenka described how the luminous water had run into their eyes, and mouths, picking them out and making them shine with sea fire.
As you might guess, I was sorry not to have been a part of this; to be aboard a boat sailing through a spectral sea with a maniacally laughing and glowing crew is something you will not get to do every day.
While I am unlikely to get the chance of experiencing sea sparkle in quite such dramatic circumstances I would still like to see it. I have therefore made these few notes, partly out of curiosity and partly in the hope of increasing my (and anyone else who is interested) chances of seeing it in the future.
What is sea sparkle:
Nature has learned, through the guided play of evolution, to perform various tricks with light. Some of these modify light present in the environment, while with others generate ‘new’ light. The bright blue flash of a kingfisher, the shimmer of certain butterflies’ wings or the rays of the blue-rayed limpet5 are all examples of a phenomenon known as iridescence, in which the microscopic structure of the wing, feather or shell modifies the light falling on them, and causes them to shine and shimmer. Although iridescence generates no new light the effect can be surprisingly bright; catch the sun on the back of a kingfisher as it flies low over a river and you would think it was lit from within.
Bioluminescent creatures on the other hand generate light and hence shine or glow in the dark.
Instinctively, forgetting science for a moment, the ability to produce light seems to be somehow miraculous. There is something elemental about light. It seems more than just another physical phenomenon. Light and its counterpoint darkness are a primeval pair of opposites. ‘Let there be light’, the ‘light of reason’ and the ‘dark ages’, the ‘glimmer of consciousness’, the depiction of holy people as having haloes and the very word ‘enlightenment’, all contain light at their core. In children’s books as well, the ability to generate light is depicted as magical and firmly in the domain of wizards or supernatural beings, such as Harry Potter, Gandalf, Ged8 or ET.
Such connotations seem to give light, and the ability to generate it, a mystical or even spiritual aspect6,7.
However, despite all this, being able to generate light through bioluminescence, is in fact very natural and commonplace. Many, many creatures, especially marine creatures, bioluminesce and it is thought that nature has reinvented bioluminescence fifty or so times during the course of evolution. The tree of life is, like a Christmas tree, decorated with many twinkling and flashing lights.
The bioluminescent creature responsible for sea sparkle is a tiny single celled organism that drifts around the oceans as a component of plankton. It has the pretty Latin name ‘Noctiluca scintillans’, which translates as ‘sparkling night light’.
Undisturbed Noctiluca produces an extremely pale glow that is hard to see, but this changes if the water is disturbed by wave action or by someone walking or swimming. The cells then flash and sparkle with a blue-green light9 as a defence mechanism, to put predators off feeding, or to attract larger predators which will, in turn, feed on the predators of Noctiluca10.
The mechanism by which bioluminescence is generated is chemical and is similar across many bioluminescent species. It involves an enzyme called Luciferase, and a light emitting compound called Luciferin12,13. In sea sparkle the Luciferase-Luciferin reaction is stimulated when the shape of the cell is distorted by the forces within the disturbed water. I have read that cells only sparkle at night and that even if you take a jar of sea water containing sea sparkle into a dark room it will not sparkle unless it is also night-time. It seems from this that although only a single cell Noctlluca must contain an internal clock, (but then you wonder if they also take account of the different lengths of night and day in winter and summer in which case, they also need to keep track of the time of year as well as the time of day).
Finding sea sparkle
To be able to see sea sparkle it is necessary for Noctiluca to be present in large numbers; the conditions for this to occur therefore provide a guide for when it might be best to go hunting for it.
These conditions include:
Warmth: Noctiluca reproduces more readily in warm water, so looking after periods of warm weather might be a good idea.
Shelter: Sheltered, calm bays are good hunting grounds as here the plankton stay near the surface of the water rather than becoming distributed throughout its depth.
Onshore breeze: A gentle onshore breeze may also help as this will push the surface water containing the creatures toward the shore.
Even under these conditions I get the impression that the appearance of sea sparkle is quite erratic and unpredictable. There are, however, various internet groups dedicated to reporting sightings, including one dedicated to sightings around the Welsh coast14. Keeping an eye on such sites could significantly increase the chances of catching this elusive phenomenon.
If you go hunting, good luck!
Not her real name.
Approx. 280 miles in 34 sailing hours (8.3 knots approx. average).
It is one of the strange things about sailing that despite uncomfortable experiences like this it draws you back time and again.
I do not know how large the areas Lenka sailed through were, but I have read that sea sparkle can cover thousands of square miles and be visible from space.
There is a short blog I wrote about Blue-rayed limpets here.
It seems to me a particularly charming aspect of bioluminescence that it is what might be considered more lowly creatures, such as glow worms, fireflies, jellyfish, and single celled plankton drifting on sea currents, that have the ability generate light, while the ‘higher’ mammals, including man, are denied it.
This aspect was nicely brought out in the Disney film ‘Avatar’ in which the fantasy world of Pandora was lush with bioluminescent plants and creatures.
Ged was a wizard in Ursula le Guinn’s excellent Earthsea Trilogy (which included the original school of wizardry on ‘Roke Island’).
This shade of blue-green light is the best colour for penetrating sea water, (the colour of the rays of the blue rayed limpet is a similar shade, for the same reason).
It is easy, when casually browsing on the internet, to get the impression that such interpretations are established facts – but other sources indicate that such ideas are just hypothesis and that research in many areas is still ongoing.
Due to lock down I have been unable to get to the beach for a while and so this blog is based on some photographs I took on an earlier visit and some bookwork. It is about barnacles.
Barnacles (Latin name Cirripedia) are those tiny, ivory coloured, volcano shaped shells you see attached, often in large numbers, to rocks along the shore. Each is only a few millimetres across, but their numbers can be as the stars in the sky, colouring the rocks and becoming part of the landscape. I like them if that is not a silly thing to say. I am not quite sure why. They seem more like a form of rock than a form of life; hard, immovable, and apparently inert, yet as much a part of the shore as the sea and the sand.
Barnacles (and a few limpets) encrusting rocks in the intertidal zone.
Although they may appear featureless, get down on your knees and really look, perhaps with a magnifying glass, and you will see there is more to them than you might have thought. Each shell is made up of several plates1 that form a small chamber, though often the plates are fused together and the joints hard to see. The chamber has a flat top which is closed by more plates making a pair of tiny gates. These gates meet along an intricate wiggly line which looks a little mysterious, almost as if the gates are sealed with a hieroglyph or magic symbol.
But these gates do not need a spell to open them, just a covering of sea water. When the tide is out and the barnacle is above water the gates shut, providing protection from predators and preventing the creature inside drying out, but when submerged the gates open, allowing the barnacle to feed by extending a number of feathered legs called cirri which capture tiny particles of plankton suspended in the sea water.
If you look carefully at different groups of barnacles up and down the shore you may find some that look subtly different; particularly the detailed shape of the plates and the line along which the gates meet. This might be because you are looking at a different species of barnacle, however barnacle identification is not easy, and you will need to look closely.
Two different species of barnacle. Left: Semibalanoides balanoides, Right: Chthalamus montagui (I think!)
But be careful! Even as you crouch down to look you should know that you are potentially in danger and that although small and apparently lifeless, barnacles can be hazardous. It is a well documented fact that at least one fully grown man was trapped and held captive by barnacles, not for a few minutes, but for a full eight years.
This man was Charles Darwin, the world-famous scientist and author of ‘The Origin of Species’ who, having found an unusual type of barnacle while voyaging on the Beagle thought he would spend ‘some months, perhaps a year’ 2 sorting out the then chaotic classification of the world’s barnacle species. Six years and many hundreds of pages of detailed scientific publication later he would write, to a friend (with still two years’ work to go):
“I am at work on the second vol. of the Cirripedia, of which creatures I am wonderfully tired: I hate a Barnacle as no man ever did before, not even a Sailor in a slow-sailing ship”.3,4
So, what is this creature that can engage such a brilliant and hardworking mind for eight years? What exactly is a barnacle?
Even before Darwin gave them his attention it had taken science quite a long time to decide what barnacles are and what class of animal they belong to. Maybe we can see why. At a casual glance barnacles look like tiny limpets, which also have hard, roughly conical shells and, at the times we generally see them are stationary and appear rigidly attached to the rocks. Barnacles and limpets however are completely different types of animal; limpets are molluscs, which are creatures like snails, that have soft unsegmented bodies, whereas barnacles have a segmented body and a hard exoskeleton. Even so barnacles were classified as a type of mollusc until it was discovered that they pass through two free-swimming larval stages5 before they permanently attach to the rocks. It was the observation of these larval stages that led to the correct classification of barnacles in 1834, as belonging to Crustacea, the same grouping as crabs, shrimps and lobsters.
There are two main categories of barnacle, the type we have been talking about, which attach directly to the rocks and are known as sessile barnacles and a type that attach via a stalk, which are known as pedunculate barnacles. There are over a thousand species of barnacle worldwide but around the UK we have just two or three species of pedunculate barnacles, which are usually found washed ashore attached to floating driftwood or plastics and, depending on whether you count invasive species or not, six or nine species of sessile barnacle. However, differentiating even such small numbers of species can be tricky. In the words of Charles Darwin again:
“Whoever attempts to make out from external characters alone, without disarticulating the valves [Darwin called the shell plates valves], the species, (even those inhabiting one very confined region, for instance the shores of Great Britain) will almost certainly fall into many errors”6
The difficulty seems to arise because there is a large variation in the appearance of individual barnacles, even within one species. Books such as ‘A Student’s Guide to the Seashore’7 offer a step through guide to barnacle identification, but as alluded to by Darwin, differentiating between some species requires scraping the barnacle off the rock and dismantling it. Personally, I think I would rather live with a little ambiguity in my identifications.
If we think classifying barnacles as molluscs was something of a scientific blunder it is as nothing to what was believed in the middle ages about a type of pedunculate barnacle known as a goose barnacle. This type of barnacle, which was found washed up on British shores attached to driftwood, was thought to be the embryo of a black and white goose known as a barnacle goose. Because this goose only winters in the UK it was never seen to breed and as migration was not understood at that time an explanation for its seasonal appearance was lacking. The shape and colour of the floating goose barnacle looks, if you have a good imagination, somewhat like the beak, head, and neck of the goose and so the one was assumed to be the embryo of the other. The full supposed life cycle involved a barnacle goose tree (remember the barnacles were always found attached to wood), on which the goose barnacles grew and from which the geese hatched.
One form of the wonderful barnacle goose tree8.
There is an Anglo Saxon riddle that accompanies this story:
My beak was close fettered, the currents of ocean, running cold beneath me. There I grew in the sea, my body close to the moving wood. I was all alive when I came from the water, clad all in black, but a part of me white. When living, the air lifted me up, the wind from the wave, and bore me afar, up over the seal’s bath. Tell me my name9.
I have to say, I find this an attractive story and sometimes wonder if it might not have been fun to have lived in less scientifically constrained times, when one could be free to entertain poetic ideas like geese hatching from barnacle trees. But then maybe there is a poetry of a different and more powerful sort in the image of a man working patiently for eight years to understand these tiny creatures, while all the time devising the theory that would explain the growth, not of the barnacle tree, but of another tree, the evolutionary tree of life, among the branches of which not only barnacles and geese but man and all other creatures would be shown to have their place.
Some UK species of barnacle have four plates, and some have six.
I am no biologist, and I don’t really know very much about shore life. Before retiring and moving to be near the sea I worked in physics and engineering. The attractions of the sea were for me, like most people I would think, a mixture of fresh air, the simple pleasures of sun, sand and sea on skin and the novelty of a different environment. But the coast has also always inspired. I used to walk along the shore and use the sea and sand to spark thoughts about physics. Actual physics, such as wondering how sand ripples form or more esoteric metaphysical thoughts, inspired by the sea, about the universe or time and space. Biology was never my thing, a bit too squishy and potentially messy for my liking and, I thought, less fundamental and therefore intrinsically less interesting than the big questions of physics.
Bird watching was the nearest I came to an interest in life sciences. I had often thought that once retired and settled in, I would look for some ornithologically themed volunteer work. I imagined myself monitoring bird numbers along some stretch of wild Pembrokeshire coast. Motivation for a regular walk and a chance to feel like I was doing something useful in the face of the constant soul-destroying news of climate change, pollution, habitat loss and declining wildlife.
It was my son who noticed the online advert for volunteers for Living Seas Wales (https://livingseas.wales/ ) and passed it to me. Not birds, but the life of the seashore. Recording what is present, but also looking for invasive species or species indicative of climate change.
The novelty intuitively appealed. The chance to learn something new. Not just new, but quite different. The sea, an unknown alien world to most of us, is particularly good at firing our imaginations and I enjoyed the thought of immersing myself in this new subject. I made contact and after a pleasantly small amount of admin and some online training, was ready to go.
Since discovering it a few years ago I have greatly enjoyed the area around Dinas Island on the north Pembrokeshire coast. The walk around the head itself is beautiful and dramatic with views out into Cardigan bay and across to North Wales. There is even a small sea stack which, in the spring and summer, hosts colonies of beautiful, raucous seabirds including razorbills and guillemots.
Razorbills and guillemots on Needle Rock, Dinas Island
It was maybe natural then that I would choose a bay near the Head for my first shore search.
Picking a pleasant day, I arrived a little before low tide. It was easy this first time. I knew nothing and so everything was new. I thought the easiest thing might be just to take photographs and identify what I found back at home with books and the internet to hand. I walked over the sand, heading to the rocks that form one side of the bay, photographing the different seaweeds that were either growing on rocks or cast up on the sand as I went.
I like the early stages of getting into a new subject. It reminds me of looking out onto a field of newly fallen snow. You have no preconceptions or mental clutter and are free to wander where you will, think what you like and ask whatever questions come to mind. I remember wondering whether seashore life is as seasonal as life on the land and whether the types of rocks, or how exposed a shore is, has much effect on what will be found there. I also had more specific questions such as whether those little fish you sometimes find in rock pools choose to live there or just get stranded as the tide goes out and if a rock pool is simply a visible bit of the undersea habitat that lies all around or a fundamentally different and unique eco-system.
Arriving at the east end of the bay I chose a moderately sized, attractive looking rock pool and knelt for a closer look.
It is a cliché I know, but rock pools do look like gardens. Some look like flower gardens, full of life and colour, others are more like Japanese Zen gardens, austere arrangements of rock and light and shade. This one was of the first type, a play of weeds of different shapes and colours; greens and reddy-browns, flat, and feathery, with the rock basin below the water line covered in that pale pink growth you sometimes see; a type of under-water lichen perhaps?
There were a number of those sea anemones that look, when they are closed, like blobs of red jelly, as well as shells of various sorts, some I recognised as limpets but others I was not sure about. I took photos of all these before spotting something more unusual; a broad piece of brown seaweed covered in a fine geometric pattern. I had no idea what this was. More photographs.
I was just about to move on when I became aware of a small patch of pale star-like growth, partially hidden among the weed on the bottom of the pool. As my eyes tuned in, I realized there was quite a lot of it, perhaps it was another type of anemone.
A quick look around, followed by a cup of coffee sat on a rock and a short, shouted conversation about the pleasantness of the morning with a fisherman setting out to pick up lobster pots and it was time to go. It had been good. There is something about going to a place with a sense of purpose rather than just strolling along looking at the view. You engage with things more deeply, people come up and talk to you, interested in what you are doing.
My lasting impression was just how much life there had been. Fifteen species1 within a few square yards, some of which I had never seen before and had not known existed. Seashore life is not cosy or cute, but it is beautiful and wonderfully alien. You might as well be exploring life on other planets, Star Trek style, as delving into rock pools. Getting to know the shore is bringing home to me that Life is at least as great a mystery as the abstract questions of physics and of course, you only have to look up and the birds are there as well.
A few of the species described above (tentative ID):