As if by magic, this morning on Bamburgh beach we found revealed once again the old wreck – a fossil of a most extraordinary kind – which was uncovered after decades under the sandbanks by the great big seas we had up here last November. Those who study such manifestations descended and reported their findings, working quickly at very low tide and only until the sand shifted over the skeleton once more. Today I was thrilled by its unexpected resurgence and greeted its reappearance noisily, whereas Barnaby boldly and joyfully danced around it, as our little video at the end of this piece shows.
In this world of water in which we now live we are all getting used to seeing things transformed – fields flowing into forests, trees swimming against the tide, boulders breaking through walls and window glass and the rich and famous running from their mansions for the warmth and comfort of the nearest Travelodge, or even a dodgy old lilo in a dusty church hall. In another kind of civil war, our countrymen are fighting their countryside and coast and, once again – as I said yesterday – the world’s turned upside down. As I write, it is still peaceful outside, though the sky is darkening and the radio relates that torrential rain is falling on the sodden west, where the wind is up and what are left of the hatches are being battened down by those who must endure more of the unendurable.
There are many questions we would ask. We seek the soothsayers’ expertise and scrutinise the frown lines in the mirror. Look within ‘The Dry Salvages’, third of T S Eliot’s Four Quartets – bits of which profound poem Kemo Sabe frequently reads out – and you find much about water and its ways. We little fellows have our own relationship with and thoughts about it, living as we do alongside a coastline not unlike Cape Cod’s: one of lovely beaches and ever-changing seas; seas which throw up shells and seals, carcases of one kind and another, vertebrae wrung from the backs of beasts which once breasted the very waves which bore them; seas which swallow ferries, merchant vessels, crabbing boats and cobles. I have often pondered about looking into the water and today I feel we all must do it now, more than ever.
If you wish to read about the Bamburgh wreck, here is one website of interest:
Our little video shows what a calm and pleasant morn it was on which we found the wreck – such a lovely surprise for us all. As usual Uncle Newmie is out of the picture, tied to Kemo Sabe lest he consume too much seaweed and do himself a mischief.
2 thoughts on “To report the behaviour of the sea monster”
Hello Mr Pip, we do enjoy your physical, whimsical and literary adventures. We three labs came across your posts when the painter was googling Thomas Hardy’s poem The Darkling Thrush. We are sitting on the settee which has taken some years to achieve, looking at the evening news. You will be asleep as we write as it is the middle of the night where you live. It’s evening here in Alaska but the painter wanted to see if there was any more news about the storms in the UK as she used to live in Northumberland and she has family in the northeast. Keep safe and keep us posted!
I am so glad that you enjoy reading the things I write: it is very pleasing to know that although you are so very far from us, what I ponder on has real interest for you all. It is wonderful to know that you are in Alaska, which we can hardly imagine. Kemo Sabe used to live in Michigan but that was long ago and in another country, as someone famous once said . . . I treasure my few but very loyal readers, especially those in the United States. Regarding the recent series of terrible storms: the country has never seen anything like it and although we in the far north have been spared, we are rocked by the suffering of others. Two more people died last night – one in central London. Thank you so much for commenting at length: it is really appreciated. Keep warm! Pip and the Dickens Dogs