Treasures, Gifted

Beachcombing is the combining of worlds. We scour and search for treasures from the ocean, perhaps originally shared by the land, subsequently altered and gifted back, jewels and treasures from our own detritus, seaglass being an excellent example.

When I lived in Wick, in Scotland, there had once been a glass manufacturer, Caithness Glass (famous for providing the BBC Mastermind trophy. They are now based in Perthshire, rather than Caithness, yet they still use the name). Sometimes, pieces of this glass would wash up in the local charity shops, perhaps ornate perfume bottles or bud vases, each of such colour and splendour as to bring to mind the glasswares of ancient Rome, or Byzantium.

Once, however, I found something even better whilst walking along the coast near the town—a hefty blue glass paperweight, neatly fitting into my palm, heavy and heaving with cracks and fractures from the time it had spent in the sea. These cracks, those smoothed-off mussel fractures, and the crazed patterns of the worn surface are, to me, nature and man working together to produce something far greater than the original art. I do not know if it is actually Caithness Glass, or something predating that, something Victorian, perhaps, but that does not really matter. Blue glass has long been a favourite of mine, so this find felt like a true gift, placed in my path by chance, by the waters.

That writer’s imagination, the macabre voice inside me questioning why, precisely, a beautiful piece of glassware would be jettisoned into the waters, did lead me to wonder if it had been used to bludgeon someone, before they themselves were gently disposed of in the waters of the harbour late one night, an accident, another drunk-drowning. This was a rumour amongst the natives, the list of such misadventures somewhat alarming—something which has certainly made its way into some of my forthcoming fiction.

Maybe someone simply dropped the glass, cracked it, and did not want to keep it, unaware that fractures and damage are what make things special, unique. There is no perfect form, there is no skin without scars.

To walk the strandline and gather is a pastime as old as our very steps. It is a lesson in ephemerality and liminality. There are several locations around the coast of the North Sea and edges of the Atlantic where we can find the traces of much earlier walkers, footsteps of men and women, of children, deer, aurochs, boar, dogs and others, dating back to the Mesolithic, the middle stone age, when we were all hunters and gatherers.¹

There are other footprints, some later in the sense that they ‘only’ date from the Bronze Age, or Later Neolithic. A mere three to six thousand years. Then there are others still—the Happisburgh prints from Norfolk—dated to 950-850 thousand years ago, currently the oldest set of hominid prints outside of Africa. Stop and think about that for a moment—a river delta preserving those footprints, the sea revealing them to our view hundreds of thousands of years later, only to be destroyed by that same tide within a matter of days. Blink, and you miss it.

In other spots on the coast, you can see the marks of Bronze Age ploughs appearing in crumbling dune edges, as clear—once you know what you are looking for—as if they were neatly sketched in wet sand.

This is all beachcombing too, the locating and acknowledgement of our past—or that of our planet, perhaps, an ammonite here, a devil’s toenail there. Or the tracks of an otter, or the haul-out marks of a seal, all woven together with the meander of the strand birds, peppered with the sudden breathing holes and twisted casts of those below, each a testament to the three dimensional nature of the coast.

Those worms, clams or cockles neatly hiding above a layer of peaty sediment, itself bearing those footprints of our ancestors and, further below, rock carrying imprint of waves, the bed of a lake, mud drying and turning to stone. Three dimensions and four, time and twist of fate and circumstance, art created, then hidden, only to remerge and wear away once more—as we ourselves wear away, atoms and molecules endlessly recycled.

Bones and driftwood, tangles and tendrils, shells—so many shells—mermaid’s purses, fossils, those polished jewels of seaglass or semi-precious beach pebbles, amber, jet, seaweeds edible or useful in other ways, messages in bottles, or ambergris, prized and stinking. When you walk the coast, any and all of these things may share themselves with you and, whilst we get better at knowing where to look for certain things, the whole is still ruled over by luck.

I have mentioned before the negative side of walking the strandline: the nurdles, the bottles, the fracturing and fraying polyester ropes and nets, fishing line and tackle, floats and crates and plastic boots. These things are everywhere. There is no place on this planet with pristine beaches, not any more. We did that. And we still do.

There will come a time, probably long after we have destroyed ourselves, when there will be beaches scattered and cast with nothing but the natural, at least at the visible, rather than microscopic, level. I would like to hope humankind might be around to see this but, somehow, I doubt it.

The beaches of this world were once covered in the vast bones of animals long extinct, trunks of archaic trees, or cones from others, maybe fronds from huge ferns or the ancestors of our seaweeds (and, indeed, perhaps all plants), cast ashore as long ago as a billion years. The beaches decorated with differing detritus from epoch to epoch.

One day in the future, the sands and mudflats and rocks of the coast will be clad in other material—unknown and unknowable to us at this time. It is not ‘our’ coast, as I originally drafted—this strand of damp land is no more ours than we can truly own any portion of this planet. The land and the waters own us, yet we so often forget this.

I find this a strange comfort, imagining a future devoid of our polluting, murderous presence, yet I still have hope—active hope, that is. We’re a remarkable animal, after all, and our ability to move forward in leaps may yet save us—not the planet, it will save itself regardless, at our expense. I know I am not alone in hoping one of those leaps happens soon and, I think, it might. The secret is not in technology, as many seem to believe, but in humanity. The ultimate path forward lies in kindness and care, in deep thought and the gentle washing waves of a shared destiny and past, our footprints stretching out behind us, our lives polished by the sea, by time.

Do you love to comb the beach? Is there something in particular you collect, or do you simply trust to whatever the sea and land offer? What is your greatest find? How do you find your emotions react when you find certain things, whether positive, or negative? Do you collect things and take them home, or leave them for someone else to find? What would you always pick up and pocket? Do you photograph other things (tracks, for example)?

The Shorefolk

We, the Shorefolk, have a legend of our origins, a tale as old as ourselves, perhaps with its feet planted in the real world, in the truth, a truth of sorts or, perhaps simply a story handed down over our generations.

There was once a woman—a giantess—similar to those who still walk our lands, their steps heavy and degrading, their detritus a constant. Only, she was older than they, much older. Wise beyond any but her sisters, she knew that the shores needed guardianship and set about creating the first of our kind.

We do not name her, we never have, but she is known as the Creator, as the Mother of Storms. Yet she is not a kind mother or a cruel, but as indifferent as the tide, as uncaring as the winds.

The Mother took some of the other giants and she made them smaller, using fire and water, air and earth. She molded them, giving them tougher skin, mottled like that of the seal, fingers which were longer, stronger. She shaped and she altered, using her magic and that of others, choosing which parts would help us, removing those which would not.

Our feet have webbing, unlike those of the giants, our hands too, we can close our nostrils, keep the sea from getting in, our eyes are larger and more capable of seeing under the water and in the low light.

All these parts were gifted to us by the Mother. Yet it was a hard time for our ancestors, the process was not easy, the process causing much suffering. Many died, many things went wrong. Some decided to escape before the process was fully complete, becoming our cousins inland, those in the mountains or those in the forests.

And yet the Mother persisted, wave after wave, gust after gust. She used her magics to speed through the days, see which of her changes worked and which did not and, eventually, she was happy.

Our earliest ancestors were taught all they needed to know about the shore. They were shown how to use all which the sea casts upon her, all that the lands bordering the ocean provide. Then they set about learning more, studying the animals, seeing how they could make their own shelters and dens, make them invisible from the ever-present and dangerous giants.

For some generations, the ancestors spread, and the Mother kept a watch.

Then came the changes, the oceans rising, the world altering fast and violently. The giants warred and the giants died. Their diseases and plagues eating away at their populations as they themselves killed others. Their cities emptied, others were flooded, the ocean reclaiming and drowning, the shores moving.

Our people, the Shorefolk, lost our Mother. She had other things she was called to do, other Peoples to protect and nurture, those she had worked on even as she had created us.

Yet we did not need her. We had the shore, we had everything we need—and we still do.

The giants and the others still come to our home, but they rarely see us, they do not know we are there, tending to the strandline, harvesting, protecting, watching over the tidal zone.

We stopped mourning the Mother, our ancestors finally understanding she was like the ocean itself—uncaring, neither good nor evil, just indifferent. We do not need our Mother, not in the way we need the coast, yet she is remembered still.

The shore provides, our Mother hides.

Sometimes, I receive replies to these little stories, asking if there are more about a particular character or setting. And I love it when I do receive these, it is such a wonder to me, such a special connection with you—the reader. Thank you. In this case, the Shorefolk play a part in my forthcoming series The Greater Good, and also the related The Lesser Evil (the earliest Tales of which are currently being serialised here on Substack).

Back in August 2020, I shared a letter here, Seasons and Memory, which included the following paragraph, one which I think I’ll share again, as I quite like it and think it fits neatly here. Today’s image was also shared then, a part of a series of images I took looking at beachcombing from one very small section of the coast in Orkney. (This post is still available in the archive for paying subscribers.)

“We are all a beach, covered in treasures to be uncovered, pieces of driftwood, rolled seaglass memory, shards of tumbled pottery, old bones and carried seeds, we are all that beach contains, ripe for discovery. Every single one of us is a multitude of tales, constantly washed by waves of time, our stories rearranged by the water, by the scouring winds, slipping sand and stone.”

Finally, thank you so much to each of you who reached out after I shared my last Edges and Entries post. I truly appreciate each and every word and thought, and every one of you, thank you.

1. If you are interested in the topic of fisher-gatherer-hunters and, perhaps, would like to discover how we can learn from those ancestors, apply their skills and knowledge in the here and now, to bring a strangely wonderful sense of empowerment, there will soon be an announcement about the second season of Ancestral Wild Empowerment. It shall also explain more about how you can get involved. As a part of the run up to this season (which will mostly be paywalled), there is currently a special offer: 20% off the usual price of both annual and monthly subscriptions, a price which lasts as long as you stay subscribed. The offer ends 1st of April, 2024.