Looking in seashore rock pools always thrilled me as a child
and my fascination with Aquatic Biology started during many visits to the shores
of Torbay. I always followed an instruction from a book that stones in rock
pools should be replaced in the same position, and with the same side
upwards, as they were an important shelter and substratum. The idea was to look, see as much
as possible, and then return the habitat to its natural state and this was an
early lesson in conservation. The visits provided me with strong and lasting
memories of what seemed like a primeval world, especially at the lowest spring
tides.
Enticingly, some pools had large stones in them and turning
these over was the best way to see many types of fish, crabs and other animals;
the more obvious types that appeal strongly to children. I was also intrigued
by sea anemones and the way they extended their tentacles while under water and
then contracted them, together with the anterior of the body, when the tide
went out. I never saw them catch anything, but there was always the thought
that I might.
A hundred years before my explorations, Henry Gosse, an
expert on sea anemones, had collected in some of the same rock pools in South
Devon, although his sampling was aided by the use of a hammer and chisel when
he was collecting specimens for aquaria. He was thus not the careful conservationist
that I was attempting to be, but he was certainly aware of the much greater
damage that humans could do to shores. In his first visit to St Marychurch,
Torquay, Henry developed a fondness for one location at Oddicombe:
The tidal basin became one of the
most constant of his haunts, and he nourished a jealous and almost whimsical
affection for it, suffering from a constant fear that its crystal beauty might
be profaned. Every day the high tide renewed its freshness, and then,
retreating, left the basin to settle into glassy calm.. ..Strangely enough,
this exquisite little freak of nature survived, untouched, for nearly twenty
years after its discovery. At last, one day when my father climbed up to look
into it, behold! Some thrice-wretched vandal had chiselled a channel on the seaward
side, not very deep indeed, but enough to destroy its unique regularity of
form. He never went to it again. 1
Human interference thus ruined the feeling Henry had for
this large pool and he would have been more accepting if the erosion had been
natural. Even though he was a profound Creationist, Henry knew that the erosive
power of the sea changed coasts. He may even have seen these changes as a form
of “geological evolution” [not his term], just as we now know that sea levels
have been affected by glaciation and are likely to be affected by anthropogenic
global warming. Oddicombe, the area where Henry’s tidal basin was located, has recently
been altered further by the action of landslides, emphasising that coastal
erosion can come from the landward side as well as the seaward.
All of us are familiar with the notion of an idealised location,
like Henry’s tidal basin and my rock pools, and we do not take kindly to anything
that changes that idea, especially when it is caused by human interference. It
may be a wood, a meadow, a stream, or another habitat that has become heavily
impacted by tree felling, farming, or canalisation. Yet, we know that
change is inevitable with our growing population size and that is why there is
a pressing need to conserve and restore habitats. Interestingly, restoration is
usually to a state representative of the recent past rather than a pre-human
condition. This is logical for Creationists, as they believe that humans came into existence only
days after the first living organisms but, for those that accept that humans
have been on Earth for a tiny fraction of the time that life has existed, one
might expect that there would be acceptance of restoration to the pre-human
state. Is that achievable - or desirable?
1 Edmund Gosse (1890) The naturalist of the
sea-shore: the life of Philip Henry Gosse. London, William Heinemann.
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