Adam Nicolson has a passion for the shore, especially that in the part of Scotland where he created rock pools to aid his observations. “The Sea is not made of Water: Life between the Tides” describes the natural history of these pools, and of the shore in general, and the book also gives colourful accounts of local legends about where sea meets land. A third strand (pun intended) is based on philosophy, both ancient and more recent, and the whole is an enjoyable, and stimulating, read.
Nicolson's three pools were constructed by “excavating”, damming a channel and by creating a barrier to prevent water escaping at low tide. Each was thus different in topography and in the plants and animals that colonised; some long-term, others as short-term visitors. After an Introduction on “The Marvellous” (a title borrowed from Gosse’s “The Romance of Natural History: Second Series”), the book has chapters on sandhoppers, prawns, winkles, crabs, and anemones. Each is thoroughly researched and invitingly written and we learn much of the habits of the featured animals and also about their habitat and mini-ecosystems. Throughout, Nicolson adopts a rather anthropomorphic approach illustrated by these examples:
Can invertebrates have emotions?
Klein and Barron are convinced that invertebrates such as these prawns ‘are aware of the world (including the state of the mobile body within the world), and that this aware-ness feels a certain way to the organism that has it.’
[Of sandhoppers] They feed, nibbling on the weeds, and from time to time they also start to look after themselves, their little hands and feet feeling over the surface of their own shell-coat for any grains or fragments that might be abrading it..
Sandhoppers’ genes have learned to overwhelm the processing capabilities of their predators.
These crabs approach life with impressive displays of delicacy and discrimination, clearly recognising that only by looking after themselves will they survive.
[Of sea anemones] The cut edges naturally push together and rejoin to form a smaller animal. Those cut surfaces know each other as part of one thing and are happy to fuse.
These are just a few examples of the tone set, sometimes quoting anthropomorphic comments by the authors of scientific papers, and, while it results in lively description, it grates with me. When looking at rock pools, I feel a sense of wonder, but it is not a sense that requires projections of human feelings and nor does it require access to philosophy that is anyway a human construct. Indeed, I find reading philosophy very difficult and I admit that I don’t understand much of it, despite reading and re-reading what various distinguished philosophers have written. This might be because I am not very intelligent, but I like to think it is down to an acceptance that we will never understand much about the world around us, despite the claims of scientists using mechanistic approaches. The feeling of the unbelievable complexity of the natural world produces a profound sense of awe and that is good enough for me. I feel the same way when trying to understand geological time scales and the extent of the Universe.
What Nicolson shows is the delight that can be obtained from looking at Nature and, especially the nature of the aquatic world, something that is very different to the terrestrial world with which we are much more familiar. Shores represent a transition between the two and it is little wonder that they became so fascinating for nineteenth century observers, especially for those who could afford a microscope, in what was an explosion of interest, and discovery, at that time. The fascination continues today, as anyone who includes a visit to rock pools during a family holiday at the seaside will agree. Some of us keep that fascination for life.
My first experience of marine shores came as a child growing up in South Devon and, although I can only rarely re-visit the areas that meant so much to me when I was young, I am fortunate to have the “Shores of South Devon” website [1] and its associated Facebook page. There are regular entries, by enthusiastic experts, on what they have seen on their visits to favourite spots along the coast and there are also images, and videos, shot by SCUBA divers to show habitats and organisms that are less familiar to most of us. I am very grateful to the organisers and to all those who post their observations - Facebook has its good sides.
Having moved inland to go to university, my interests turned to a fascination with streams and rivers, firstly with the animals they contained and then with the processes, and transformations, that resulted from the animals’ activities. I then moved on to consider what happens at the microscopical scale and the part played by microorganisms, and their by-products, in the cycling or organic matter. In the end, I discovered that, much as I read and researched, I was getting further and further away from gaining an understanding of the aquatic world and, just as with geological time and the dimensions of the Universe, I became even more awestruck as a result.
In his review of Nicolson’s book in the Financial Times, Caspar Henderson posed the question “Where did life begin?”. Of course, we will never know and we have such a problem defining what we mean by life – do we mean self-replicating molecules, the first cell, cells that can split, or what? My own definition refers to the origins of the first cell and this was my response to the question that Henderson asked [2]. I think the first cell resulted from events on a very ancient shore, but a more popular view is that life began around some kind of hydrothermal vent. Was it a singular event and, if so, what were the chances of it occurring? Cue more awe.
[1] https://shoresofsouthdevon.org.uk/
[2] Letter to the Editor, Financial Times 26th June 2021
