Sixteen

The Smallest Kingdom

At nine o’clock in the morning the phone rang.

‘It’s John Murphy here. What’s the weather doing where you are?’

‘It’s snowing – coming down pretty steady. What about where you are?’

‘It’s good. It was snowing earlier but it’s clearing all the time. We’re good to go.’

It was 16th January. I’d been trying to get across to Piel Island for four months without success. At last I was going.

* * *

We drove seven or eight miles down the island road, and at Snab Point the right of way across the sands to Piel begins, a roughly semi-circular route that swings north towards the deepwater channel before cutting in a south-easterly direction towards the island.

John said, ‘The pub won’t be open today. But I phoned my pal Keith. He got a new coffee machine off his son for Christmas and he’s very keen to try it out on us. We’ll have a warm-up and then I’ll take you round the island.’

At the beginning of the route, deep tyre ruts cut a swathe through the saltmarsh, gravel giving way to silt, saltmarsh giving way to the tidal bounds. The sign at the start of the route proclaimed: ‘Danger, Soft Sand and Incoming Tides. No vehicular Access to the Foreshore’.

We were following the tide out. When we met that morning, John said we might be too early, that we might have to wait a while and see. But the first part of our journey was already clear of water, the sands sculpted by the tide into low elliptical banks and puddles and channels draining out from the land. In the distance a vehicle moved very slowly away from Piel, travelling through a sheet of seawater. It followed a route wide of the land, moving towards the main Walney Channel before curving back in towards the shore. To the east, way beyond the travelling car and further than the wide reaches of the bay, the land was under snow. It appeared to be held fast under the fresh fall all the way from the coast to the Pennine hills.

‘You’ll need to take care, especially over this first bit.’ Under foot the first metres of the crossing were greasy and skiddy. We walked in the ruts left by the few vehicles allowed to travel the sands, then we were through and could walk freely again. I thought I’d dressed adequately for the job but in minutes of being out there I stopped to put on a windproof jacket. This was serious cold.

I had a walking pole as John suggested, and my notebook and pen, phone set to voice record, but the cold had already made my hands useless. I stuffed all but the camera into my pockets. Keep it simple, I thought. I felt a slight sense of unease as well as excitement. I suppose this was nothing more than a healthy self-regard, me in survivalist mode, setting out into what was for me, the unknown. But John has been guiding walks to Piel for 20 years, and his enthusiasm was reassuring.

‘We’re away, we’re OK,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a brilliant day for it. This is going to be good.’

* * *

It’s not every day I get to email a king, but the landlord of the island’s pub has been known as the King of Piel since one of the more obscure and bizarre episodes of English history. The story centres on the accession to the throne after the sudden death in 1483 of Edward IV, the first Yorkist King of England, whose two sons, Edward and Richard, were subsequently imprisoned in the Tower of London by the Duke of Gloucester. A young boy born of humble origin, and who became known as Lambert Simnel, was discovered by the Oxford-educated priest, Roger Simon. Simon claimed the boy bore a striking resemblance to the two princes in the Tower. Simon educated the boy in courtly manners, and initially planned to present him as Richard, Duke of York, the younger of Edward’s sons. When he heard rumours that Richard had died, he then presented his protégé as Edward V, heir to the throne, who had miraculously managed to escape.

Simon took Simnel to Ireland, garnering support from the Irish government, and at the age of 10, the boy was crowned King Edward V in Dublin Cathedral. An army of Flemish, Irish and a number of English troops was assembled. They sailed for England and landed on Piel Island on 5th June 1487, where Simnel immediately laid his claim to the English throne. The rebellion was quashed as Lambert’s army moved south and was overthrown at the Battle of Stoke Field. Simon avoided execution because of his priestly status but was imprisoned for life. As for Simnel, he was pardoned by Henry VII for being nothing more than a puppet, and given the position of spit-turner in the royal kitchens.

Later he married and become a falconer. One can only goggle at what must have gone through the boy’s head, educated out of his simple early life, given two regal identities within a short amount of time, and paraded as the rightful king at the head of a rag-tag army. I wondered though, if he ever thought of Piel, and what he’d made of it, or if he might have imagined his falcons flying above the island as he watched, a hand shading his eyes from the too-bright sun.

This inglorious attempt at kingmaking led centuries later to the gently mocking and bizarre custom of each incoming landlord of Piel’s Ship Inn being crowned as the King of Piel. The new monarch sits in a battered, ancient wooden throne wearing a helmet and holding a sword whilst he is anointed by the pouring of bucketfuls of beer over his head. Graffiti carved into the chair’s pitted surface date the ceremony back to at least 1856, and the care of the helmet and throne are an integral part of the tenancy agreement.

In the early 20th century there was at one point an entire cabinet that included a Prime Minister and the Lord Mayor of Piel, together with a royal family. Knights (and there are women knights too) are created by the same process of induction and are then said to be free men of ‘the Noble Ancient Castle of Piel’. And just so we’re all clear, the king and each knight was expected to be ‘a free drinker and smoker and lover of the female sex’.24

* * *

I’d visited the island previously, but not for years. The last time it had been a family day out with pals. Steve and I took the ferry across from Roa Island with the kids and dogs and the other adults took off in a Canadian canoe.

‘I hope they know what they’re doing,’ the ferryman said, mid-stream, ‘I’d not like to attempt that in an ebb tide. We’ll never see them again.’

As soon as we’d landed on Piel the friends’ dog found a fish head and set about eating it, together with the fishhook that was still in place, and that then became stitched into the dog’s lip. Thank God for mobile phones – we called our vet friend and he talked us through what to do. It made for a memorable visit. We’d had a drink at the pub and taken the kids to the castle and I remember looking over the channel towards Walney and seeing a hawk moving towards us. At first I’d thought it a kestrel. As it came closer, a small flock of starlings whizzed over the castle bailey and pinged apart, scattering in four directions. As the hawk swooped and dived after its prey, it passed close by us and before it disappeared I saw that it was a sparrowhawk.

I’ve had two more recent close encounters with sparrowhawks. Involved in the mundane task of washing up, I’d looked out of the kitchen window and seen one perched in the top of our clematis-covered trellis. The hawk was clearly watching me. I called Steve and together we looked back; the bird was a mere five or six feet away. Over the course of the next minutes, it didn’t once remove that piercing yellow gaze from us. It was as if it had come there with the purpose of watching our every move, and I think we both felt a slight frisson of intimidation.

Another morning I’d been setting out with the dog and seen a sparrowhawk winging in from the direction of the fell. I knew that my neighbours from the allotments up there were incensed by the things; the hawks patrolled the fell regularly, looking out for the relatively easy pickings of large numbers of racing pigeons. About 50 yards down the lane, on the hard standing in front of a neighbour’s garage, the sparrowhawk stood, one talon pinning a pigeon’s wing to the ground. The pigeon was on its back and, with its other talon, the hunter pounded up and down on its victim’s chest. The dog and I stopped still. The sparrowhawk locked eyes with mine; again that intimidating stare. It continued pumping the pigeon’s chest, driving its claws in, trying to compress and stop the bird’s heart. The hawk’s stare had about it an air of unquestionable superiority. ‘Interfere if you dare,’ it seemed to say. I didn’t, and I don’t think the dog was keen to linger either. We left the scene of the crime. Coming back from the walk there was no sign of either bird, just a collection of pigeon feathers littering the ground.

* * *

Planning my return to the island at the beginning of autumn I emailed the landlord of the Ship Inn to ask about ferry times. When the answer came, it was not what I’d hoped – or expected.

‘The ferry’s suspended until the spring. Sorry.’

I wrote again. I told them I needed to get to the island to complete writing a book.

‘The Roa Island jetty is being rebuilt. Consequently the ferry service is not able to operate.’

‘Is there any other way to get to the island?’

‘The only way is to walk, but the sands are treacherous at the moment. Boat is not an option as jetty demolished so no public access. Sorry.’

I began to search for alternatives. I found a name and a number for the ferry operator himself. I phoned. We talked about the possibility, the logistics, but despite the non-existent jetty it seemed we had a plan.

‘I can pick you up from Roa Island, but you’ll need good, high wellies and be prepared to get a bit wet.’

Then the evening before, a message came through: ‘Ferry won’t go. Think there’s water in the block. Sorry.’

Piel was beginning to feel as remote as St Kilda.

Just after Christmas an email came through from Sheila at the pub: ‘Hi Karen, there’s a walk on New Year’s Day across the sands to Piel accompanied by the local guide, John Murphy.’ I found it in my spam folder a week after the event. But I had a name and in minutes I was talking to John on the phone. At last, I had my man.

* * *

Mention the term sand-pilot and Cedric Robinson’s name will invariably crop up as he’s the celebrity guide, favoured by royal appointment. Cedric leads walks and events that take in bay crossings from Kents Bank across to Silverdale and Arnside, with slight variations in destination according to the tides and the condition of the sands and the channel.

But the historic longer nine-mile crossing from Hest Bank to Kents Bank, crossing the channels of the Kent and the Keer, is currently not being walked. Stephen Clarke and Alan Sledmore led this arterial route using quad-bikes, and if smaller children became tired, they could have a turn on a seat on the back. But the Council weren’t happy, and the walks stopped a while back. I asked Lancaster City Council if there were plans for guided walks in the future, but they didn’t seem to know and directed me to their tourist office, and they could only tell me about Cedric’s walks.

It seems unthinkable that the route will remain abandoned. With Cedric now past his 80th year and keeping to the part of the bay he knows the best (quite rightly, too), the long crossing is in danger of becoming the stuff of legend.

The crossings of Morecambe Bay are neither pathways nor sea-routes. They are hard won negotiations with sea-swells, 10-metre tides and storms. It is not possible to create foolproof waymarkings because of the shifting nature of the sands and the river channels. As Turner and Cox painted laurel brobs set in the sands, so the tried and tested method of temporary waymarking continues. Whilst technological mapping can mark routes to a hair’s-breadth accuracy, GPS would be useless; it wouldn’t recognise quicksand, the approach of the tide or the depth of the channels.

And there’s a conundrum. How could you begin to train sand-pilots? How many people have the necessary knowledge, or would want to take on the responsibility in this day and age? Ask locally, and it seems there’s no one waiting in the wings. Unless there’s already a background layer of experience in the bank, it simply isn’t accruable.

The less well-known crossing of the Leven sands from Flookburgh to Ulverston, led by Raymond Porter, historically took in Chapel Island and was frequently used as a refuge by travellers caught out by the tide. In the summer there are guided walks across to it, but even that’s not always possible. When I talked to Raymond in the autumn he’d said the sands had been unseasonably difficult because of heavy rain. Despite that I came across a geo-caching website telling me that it was a great trip, and that you could walk across at low tide. Oh, if only it was that simple.

If George Stephenson had had his way, Chapel Island would have become a railway station. He was investigating alternative train routes north to the hilly route over Shap, where the West Coast mainline to Glasgow was later constructed. Stephenson’s plan was to take the railway all the way across the sands from Morecambe to Humphrey Head on the Cartmel peninsula and then on again crossing the Leven Estuary into Furness. Imagine that.

The idea of a bridge across the bay has been talked about for years. My father was a huge enthusiast. ‘It’ll bring investment, boost the economy of the area. Imagine – it’d only take 20 minutes to drive to Morecambe,’ he was fond of saying. The same reasons are wheeled out every few years whenever anyone has a go and gets the local press jumping with a project that will never happen. At Lancaster University Dr George Agidas has researched the possibility of a road-bridge that incorporates tidal-powered turbines. His studies pinpoint the current locations in the bay where turbines would be placed to give maximum output. Inevitably, any scheme like this would invoke heated debates between those in favour and those with an eye on both the visual and environmental impacts. And what if the bay makes its own decisions? Who’s to say where the area of greatest tidal push and pull will be found in another 30 years?

* * *

It wasn’t every day that one could boast of having walked to an island. Once we had set off from Snab Point on the shore of Walney Island and manoeuvred across the slippery beginning of the walk, we were out on the open sands. I turned round to orientate myself. Further up towards Barrow the channel widened. Walney was reduced to an elongated, undulating strip of land. Snow showers bloomed over Black Combe, moving north over the Furness hills and travelling towards the mountains. We watched a jostle of geese coalesce into an organised form following the strip of land south and out into the Irish Sea. Then John pointed out a dark shape in the sands.

‘Someone obviously thought they knew what they were doing.’ Way out towards the Walney Channel, a car, buried to above window height.

‘There’s another wreck further on – we’ll go past it. We’ll call in at Sheep Island first,’ and minutes later we walked up onto the beach of a small island a short distance offshore. We crunched over the shingle. It seemed the island’s only features were a solid fence constructed at the line of vegetation and beyond it a dense tangle of plants.

As we stepped back onto the sands John listed the names of the nine islands of Barrow. Most of them I’d known, some not.

‘Walney; Roa; Barrow Island; Crab Island in the middle of the channel, also called Dova Haw; then Sheep Island; Foulney, named after ‘fowl’ for its nesting birds; Ramsey Island, which became incorporated into the dock wall; then Piel; and last, Headin Haw.’ The last just a speck of a place offshore from the docks, once used as a dynamite store.

‘See the edge of Black Combe? In the last Ice Age the glaciers were heading south and bulldozed the face off the mountain – see where it looks dish-shaped? The deposits were dumped here – making all these islands.

‘A long time ago shipping used this side of the channel, coming into port this side of Piel.’ John’s arm swept up along the sea of sands that stretched between Piel Island and the inland coast of Walney. ‘Then the sands and the channel shifted. In the 1800s there was an isolation hospital on Sheep Island, built out of wood.’

‘Must have been draughty,’ I said.

‘It didn’t last long. It was supposed to be for sailors coming into Barrow who might have contracted contagious diseases. I don’t think it was used much though. It closed in the 1920s.’

The four-wheel drive was coming closer.

‘That’s the King,’ John said. The vehicle pulled up beside us and the two men exchanged greetings.

‘I’m off for gas bottles,’ the King said.

By now the morning light had grown in intensity. Overhead the complex white masses were drifting apart and sunlight fell onto the wet sands. More snow – or hail – fell on Barrow, which, being so close to the sea, doesn’t happen too often. It fell in a series of chaotic bands as if the wind behind it had no idea which way to blow. Away out on the Irish Sea, great dark banks of cloud broke apart, and the light that fell from the sky super-lit the sands under our feet. Striations of linear markings had been formed by the retreating tide, and these, together with the intensity of the light reflected on the sands and the speed of the wind, made it seem as if we were turning under the sky, and not the clouds moving over our heads. The snow showers pushed out into the wide open space of the bay. It was a sky that would have had David Cox rushing for his boots and paints.

‘Look there,’ John said, ‘a rainbow being born.’ And underneath the edge of falling snow, high up into the far reaches of the bay, the unmistakeable shape and colour of a rainbow, bright against the black sky beyond.

We came alongside the remains of a van. Had it not been for the steering wheel, it might have remained undecipherable, and more like a whale carcass fashioned out of rusting metal. Its whole form was garlanded with weed of the deep sea-greens, reds and pale ochres of the sub-sea world. Each rusted pinion and shaft was carefully wound and transformed. The tips of two rear tyre arches broke from the ground, the prop shaft bent in the centre, broken in two.

‘That one was a Sherpa van. There was another one not too long ago. Keith will tell you about that. That bloke was very lucky to get off at all. There’ve been a number of drownings over the past few years. Six, I think.’

One of the windfarm boats slunk seawards down the channel. It was a strange sensation, of walking on the sea bed eye-level with that wall of steel as the ship slipped towards open water. In dark silhouette Piel appeared more like an abandoned stage-set than an island. To its north a gaunt terrace of six houses, then the pub, whitewashed like a traditional Lakeland farm cottage, red chimney pots a-crest its slated roof, and the jumbled ruins of the castle facing out to sea. We were coming closer, then the sound of a car again and the King reappeared alongside, one arm resting on the window frame.

‘No gas,’ he said with a smile. ‘No matter, we’ll manage.’

And as he drove on, John said, ‘He’s a great chef, a really good chef,’ and the King’s car crunched up onto the island’s foreshore. John told us about the walk he’d led over to the island on New Year’s Day, with mulled wine and a good fire in the pub. It sounded a perfect way to begin the year. After wading through an ankle-deep, narrow channel of standing water, we landed on Piel. Thank God for Gore-Tex boots.

* * *

‘This is Keith, this is Karen, and that’s Charlie the dog,’ John said, introducing me to the island’s only full-time residents other than the King and Queen.

‘I’m Karen too,’ I said. We left our boots outside and stepped into a small sitting room. The warm blast from a steeply banked-up coal fire soon hit home and we shed our windproofs and jackets. The walls were painted red and the ambience of the place was one of warmth and homeliness.

‘We were expecting you, glad you made it. Now let’s get down to business – coffee?’ Keith said. ‘I can highly recommend the caramel latte macchiato.’

I’d just walked over the sands to a remote island with only four inhabitants. I’d not been as cold since I’d been lost in a white-out on the top of Ben More Coigach in Sutherland over 20 years ago, and now, with my cheeks beginning to turn red from the heat, I was being offered a coffee menu to beat the high street chains hands down. A few minutes later we were handed coffee glasses elegantly striped with layers of caramel and cream and coffee.

Despite the strong wind and the cold, the house was warm and solid. Paintings with maritime themes decorated the walls: clippers surging through the sea, small boats at anchor. Karen told us about their return to the north, how they couldn’t wait to get back after 26 years living and working in the deep south. The house had belonged to Keith’s mother, and when the chance to take it on came, they’d jumped. They moved in during the winter of 2010, and the day after their move it snowed – unusual for Barrow and unheard of for Piel. And the snow froze, and the sea froze too and the ice remained for a month. I recalled that winter too, going to Sandside on Christmas Eve to witness the frozen sea, walking the saltmarsh towards Arnside and the afternoon’s lowering sun casting our shadows like slim angels over the incoming tide beyond the edge of land. And where the water had pushed into the channels that furrow the marsh, what remained were intricately detailed, frozen, upright fans of ice, for all the world like starched Elizabethan lace collars. I recall the sound of it too, the tide pushing in a great slow, slushing, chinking curve from the far side of the estuary, directed through ever-narrowing strips of semi-open water. And icebergs, for goodness’ sake; small, yes, but nevertheless, icebergs in Morecambe Bay.

* * *

Keith has island blood in his veins. His grandfather was King for many years, and Keith grew up in the pub. As a lad he understood that everything had to be carried across the narrow stretch of water between Roa Island and Piel – barrels of beer, crates, fuel, food; everything. In late autumn two boatloads of sheep were crammed onto the open ferry, 70 at a time, to overwinter on the island’s grass. Keith began operating the ferry himself at the age of nine, and by 16 was granted his boatman’s license. There had been no phone or radio, no way of making emergency contact with the mainland other than improvising, and on the night his grandfather suffered a major stroke, Keith’s mother ran to the slipway with a piece of fabric soaked in paraffin, set it alight and waved and waved and waved until eventually, after too long a time, a light of recognition came from the other side.

‘We used to run the pub for two weeks every autumn so that the last landlord, Rod, could have a break. We were lying in bed one night. We knew there was absolutely no one on the island apart from us. Then three loud knocks came on the bedroom door. We both heard it, looked at each other and decided we were not about to go and see who was there!’ And Karen had been aware of the presence of male figures at times, wearing old-fashioned uniforms like the pilots and coastguards, and once she’d asked Keith why he hadn’t answered her question – but he’d not been in the room at the time.

They seemed so composed and happy, these island-dwellers, comfortable with their world. But island life has its challenges. In mileage terms it’s not that remote, but given the tidal nature of accessibility, you might as well be living in the Hebrides. Karen has had health problems, but is much improved and actually looks the picture of health. But then Keith fell, breaking his ankle and shin and tearing ligaments, and Karen doesn’t drive.

‘Luckily we had an old school friend staying at the time. He’s the Dean over at Lancaster. We were about to set off across the sands to take him back. There were big tides on and a Force 9 to 10 blowing in. The others were already in the car. It was so cold I set off running over the wet grass and a big gust slammed into me, took me off balance and down I went. I heard the crack – I knew it wasn’t good. I passed out. I just remember coming round in a large puddle, the water up to one lens of my glasses, and thinking, “This water’s very cold.” I didn’t know it then but I’d broken my ankle in four pieces, smashed ligaments and broken the shin.

‘It’s no joke when the ambulance service doesn’t have the foggiest where you are. The operator had never heard of Piel Island or Snab Point. Our friend Steve had to drive the pick-up. They got me in the front and I remember thinking, he’s heading too close to the channel, and having to direct him. I managed to keep it together till we met the ambulance, then once I was onboard and Karen and Steve were away in the car, I couldn’t get the pain relief quick enough.’

‘How on earth did you manage living here?’ I asked. Their two sons had come north to get them sorted; bagging up several tons of coal so that Karen could carry small amounts into the house at a time. There’s no mains power on the island, and shortly after the accident, their generator packed in. With the other five houses in the terrace run as holiday cottages, and a total full-time population of four people, there’s not always someone around to lend a hand.

‘It’s not so bad these days though: Tesco and Asda deliver to Snab Point. We just have to drive to the other side to pick it up.’

‘They’re not offering to deliver to the door then?’ I asked, half joking.

‘Not yet. A healthy regard for the sands is a good thing.’ Then, ‘A young lad got his car stuck, back-end of last year. He came knocking on the door late one night. It was October, so it was pitch dark. I took him back out in my car, and found a 16-year-old lass in the car, wearing a dressing gown. She was in bits by the time I got out there. I tried to pull his car out with mine, but it didn’t budge – my rear wheels were lifting up into the air. Then the fuel pipe snapped, so that was my car written off. He was lucky though, that lad – and his girlfriend – with the tide on its way in. I’ll hand it to him though, he came back next day and dug his whole car out. It’d sunk halfway down the spare wheel on the back door. Then he towed mine off for me.’

John and I had to keep an eye on the time, and although it would have been good to stay longer by the fire and listening to island stories, we pulled on our boots and warm gear and said our farewells, and Keith said, ‘When you go round, look at the back of the terrace and you’ll see a tiny window high up on the back wall of each house. There were stairs up to them – we found the remains of them when we renovated the house – so the pilots could keep look out for the masts of sailing ships appearing over the top of Walney, then they’d race out in rowing boats to guide them in.’ I liked the image, the romance.

‘What do you make of the turbines though?’ I asked.

‘I don’t mind them, actually. They make me think of Don Quixote. At night, when the service boats go out and they’re all lit up, it’s quite a sight.’

* * *

Someone had made a sign for the island campsite. It was tilted at a jaunty angle atop a grassy mound: ‘Benefits Street’. Good old Barrow humour. We walked the shingly beach towards the castle ruins, John stopping to show me Sailors Soap seaweed and sea-rolled and rounded nuggets of red-brown iron, remnants from an ore-laden ship that had been wrecked offshore.

The castle covers an impressive area. It’s had the usual kind of restoration, the newly carved sandstone blocks apparent against the wind-worn ancient architecture. Built by an abbot of Furness Abbey, Piel Castle has long been considered the storage facility for an illicit monastery trade in brandy and wool. With an outer moat and fortifications, the monks were clearly serious about keeping their goods out of sight and safe, and keeping potential raiders out. Here on Piel, there was of course ready access to trade routes, but also it was strategically positioned to guard the deepwater harbour of Barrow-in-Furness against pirates and raiders from the north. I remember stories I’d heard years ago, of a tunnel connecting the island with Furness Abbey back in the hills beyond Barrow, the once fabulously wealthy stronghold of the abbey set deep in a natural amphitheatre in the Vale of the Deadly Nightshade. And I thought of poor old Lambert Simnel holed up here, holding court, though God knows how he did; waiting to be told what to say and who to say it to, no doubt.

I watched a tawny-winged kestrel hanging in the air beyond the castle keep. It was spotlit by bright sunlight. Inside the shelter of the castle keep, we were protected from the buffeting wind, and could almost feel the slightest sense of warmth from the sun. The kestrel, superimposed against the whitest of clouds, eyed the earth, then fell from sight.

We circumnavigated the island. As the view eastwards over the bay opened out I saw again the snow-laden hills of Pendle in Lancashire. Another line of birds came in from the open sea, geese again, using the southern tip of Walney as the place to begin forming into an organised V, then flowing onto the land close to the shelter of the island’s inland pools. And just there, the sandy bay where grey seals haul out, though they weren’t in evidence today. A path led us under the castle walls and past a low cliff, underneath which lay a substantial portion of a tower, collapsed and improbable, built of a confluence of beach cobbles, bricks and mortar. The wind high-pitched itself from out of the ruins like the sound of 30 boys whistling, all in a different key. A complication of briar and hedge bordered the path and a blackbird landed ahead of us, tail up, cocky, regarding us with that sun-ringed eye.

‘Look out there,’ John said, ‘Seldom Seen – you can see Seldom Seen.’ And he pointed out into the gunmetal water to a dark strip emerging from the southernmost reaches of the bay, materialising and vanishing again and again as the sea washed it over and over.

‘Mussel beds,’ John said.

Oystercatchers came in off the bay, settling on the grass and in the chicken coops behind the pub. They looked at home, as if they knew exactly where they were. And as we looked out over the lands of Furness, the ‘Far Ness’ or strip of land that the Vikings named, the sky darkened to the colour of Cumbrian slate, and born on the body of the sea more white squalls moved, pushed on by air from the north, drifting like wraiths as they passed over the narrow band of Foulney Island, out towards St Helena, South America and the Falklands. And out of nowhere another kind of cloud appeared, a gathering of knot, reeling and flowing over Seldom Seen in their micro-choreographed unanimity. Like a fish shoal they turned, changing colour immediately and in an instant, though we searched for them long after, they had gone.