“The Sea is not made of Water”

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

The Corbyn's Head Stack

When growing up in Torbay, I was fascinated by all the creatures that lived in rock pools. In addition to fish – blennies, gobies, butterfish, pipefish – there were many invertebrates. Limpets and barnacles could not easily be removed, as their defence against being swept away by waves, and attack by predators, also deterred human collectors. However, a wide variety of crabs, snails, worms, sea anemones, and many other creatures were collectable and I took some to observe in an aquarium tank. This was the early 1960s and I don’t know whether I would have spent hours on the shore had I been a young teenager today, with a mobile ‘phone, computer games, etc.. I like to think that I would, as I have never grown out of a child-like enthusiasm for “rock-pooling” and am only prevented from this pleasure today by living 100 miles from the sea.

One of the richest collecting spots (see above) was the rocky coast just to the north of a promontory called Corbyn’s Head (or Corbyn Head). At low tide, there are wide stretches of flattish sandstone rock, with many pools that contain easily-lifted boulders and large stones. Perfect for those interested in the creatures of the shore, but I was so fixated on the hunt that I never asked myself where the boulders came from, although I knew that they must be the result of erosion somewhere. I now know that they were likely to come from the promontory and that Corbyn’s Head has changed considerably over the last 200 years. Going much further back, we know that sea level rise after the Ice Age swamped a forest that filled much of what is now Torbay [1] and the rise in water level, together with storms, then eroded the Head.

As recently as 100 years ago, there was a stack off the headland and this was first formed into an arch before the whole collapsed. In the first photographs above, we see the appearance of the stack in 1928 and this can be compared to the contemporary appearance of the headland (above, lower). In an earlier engraving, taken from Gosse’s Land and Sea [2], we see a tall stack that is almost the height of the rest of the promontory and without the hole of the arch. Of course, there may be some artistic licence here, but this image (see below), from the mid-1850s, shows how Corbyn’s Head (referred to by its old name of Corbons Head) must have looked 150 years ago.

Anyone brought up in South Devon will feel an affinity for the red soils of the area and these derive from sandstones that were, in turn, formed by the compression of ancient sands and muds. It is a soft rock and is easily eroded, as I knew well as a child. Our house was faced with sandstone blocks and one of my household jobs was to sweep up the red dust that accumulated on the tiles of our verandah. On a much larger scale, there were also cliff falls; the most recent of which [3] was caused by sandstone rock becoming saturated and then collapsing under its own weight, as cracks widened and the whole became unstable. 

Sandstone may also contain pebbles washed by some ancient dramatic flood and this composite is called breccia. At Corbyn’s Head we have layers of sandstone overlain by breccia and a full description is given in the excellent, well-illustrated review of the local geology by West and Csorvasi [4]. 

I wonder what the coast of South Devon will look like in a few hundred years’ time, when global warming will bring further increases in sea level and when climate change may bring more violent storms? Will generations to come look at images from their holiday at the coast and remember fondly walking by cliffs and headlands that are then very different in appearance?

  

[1] http://rwotton.blogspot.com/2018/07/a-mammoth-tooth-from-submerged-forest.html

[2] Philip Henry Gosse (1865) Land and Sea. London, James Nisbet & Co.

[3] https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-devon-22020762

[4] http://www.southampton.ac.uk/~imw/Torquay.htm

Land and Sea

Philip Henry Gosse, the famous Victorian naturalist and populariser of marine biology, published Land and Sea in 1865 and, in his first biography of his father [1], Edmund Gosse writes of the book:

..some of the sketches were rather trivial and diffusely told, besides possessing the disadvantage that they seemed like discarded chapters from other books, which indeed they were..

However, one chapter – “Meadfoot and the Starfish” - shows the writing of Henry Gosse at its best. He describes a walk from his home in St Marychurch, Torquay, to a local landmark called Daddyhole Plain and then onwards to the beach at Meadfoot (shown below in an image from the BritishBeaches website).

Gosse rested here, writing [2]:

The exertion of walking and collecting had given just enough of fatigue to the muscular system to make the dolce far niente a luxury. Under the shadow of a great angular block, I reclined, enjoying the beauty and exhilaration of the sunlight, while relieved from its oppression. Most brilliant was the flood of light with which very object was suffused in the unclouded blaze of that summer noon. How fine was the interchange of broad light and deep dark shadow, on those angular limestone cliffs! How glowing the coloured breadths of golden furze and purple-sheeted heath, expanded sea and vaulted sky!

His attention then turned to the rock pools at Meadfoot and the algae that were abundant here, one being Delesseria sanguinea, an herbarium specimen of which is shown below (image from Wikimedia Commons).

 He writes:

This very fine species is not uncommon all along the coast hereabouts, but is never seen except at the lowest level of the tide, where it grows often in considerable quantity, large leafy tufts springing out of the basal angles of the perpendicular masses of rock, or in persistent tide-pools hollowed in the rock itself. It will not bear exposure to the air with impunity, as many of our sea-weeds will; for if left uncovered but a short period, a quarter of an hour or even less, the delicate rose-crimson membrane becomes defiled with large blotches of a dull orange-colour, which shew that its texture is irrevocably injured, decomposition having already set in.

Thus, Henry Gosse introduces his readers to organisms of deeper water and the alien world that represents for us: the passage also conjuring up the pleasure of investigating the sea shore, which became a passion for many Victorians. As I sit writing this piece in my study in Hertfordshire on a very sunny June day, I certainly feel the pull of Meadfoot, just as many readers of Land and Sea must have done. All the more so, as I was brought up in Torbay and walked over the same shores that so beguiled Gosse.

Quite something for a chapter written more than 150 years ago.

[1] Edmund Gosse (1896) The Naturalist of the Sea-shore: The Life of Philip Henry Gosse. London, William Heinemann.

[2] Philip Henry Gosse (1865) Land and Sea. London, James Nisbet & Co.

What to wear on the shore

Many of us have enjoyed looking at algae and animals in rock pools during visits to the seaside. That is especially true for families with young children, happy to see the organisms in their natural surroundings, rather than as video clips or in TV programmes.

In the Nineteenth Century, the “craze” for Marine Biology drew many adults to the coast, both to examine algae and animals in situ and also to collect organisms for their aquarium tanks. Then, parlour aquaria were a relatively common feature in middle class homes and these allowed close observation, something that was not always possible on the shore, as many features only became apparent once individuals were under water.

A striking difference between the contemporary and the Nineteenth Century collector was in the way each dressed. Now, we wear shorts, jeans and T-shirts during summer visits to rock pools, perhaps with flip-flops to provide protection for the feet from sharp coatings of barnacles, or to reduce the chance of slipping on slimy seaweeds. If we wish to wade in pools we may wear boots and, in deeper water, thigh waders or chest waders. Then we have the option of looking underwater using snorkelling or SCUBA diving, perhaps with a wet suit for protection. All this would have been alien to those involved with the “craze” when it was at its height in the second half of the Nineteenth Century. At that time, collections in deep water were made by trawling, or dredging, from small boats, so there was no chance of making in situ observations. It was also a matter of luck as to what appeared when the net, or dredge, was emptied on board.

Whether collecting from boats, or on the shore, men wore everyday outdoor clothing, but obviously not the newest, and soakings were a common feature. Henry Gosse, whose books did much to encourage the “craze”, was certainly adventurous as his son, Edmund, describes:

The way in which my father worked, in his most desperate escapades, was to wade breast-high into one of the huge pools, and examine the worm-eaten surface of the rock above and below the brim.. ..My Father would search for the roughest and most corroded points of rock, those offering the best refuge for a variety of creatures, and would then chisel off fragments as low down in the water as he could. These pieces of rock were instantly plunged in the salt water of jars which we had brought for the purpose. When as much had been collected as we could carry away - my Father always dragged about an immense square basket, the creak of whose handles I can still fancy that I hear - we turned to trudge up the long climb home. ¹

Collecting was not a casual pastime for Henry, but a mission to find out as much as possible about the organisms of the shore. His industry was most impressive, especially when compared to the more passive approach of today. As to his selection of clothes, Edmund writes:

Even as a little child I was conscious that my father’s appearance on these excursions [collecting trips] was eccentric. He had a penchant for an enormous felt hat, which had once been black, but was now grey and rusty with age and salt. For some reason or other, he seldom could be persuaded to wear clothes of such a light colour and material as other sportsmen affect. Black broadcloth, reduced to an extreme seediness, and cut in ancient forms, was the favourite attire for the shore, and after being soaked many times, and dried in the sun on his somewhat portly person, it grew to look as if it might have been bequeathed to him by some ancient missionary long marooned, with no other garments, upon a coral island. His ample boots, reaching to mid-thigh, completed his profession garb, and when he was seen, in full sunlight, skimming the rising tide upon the sands, he might have been easily mistaken for a superannuated working shrimper. ²

So, a good covering of clothes, but with accumulated grime (also typically seen in pictures of working men of the time). Nevertheless, this scruffy costume allowed a great deal of freedom of movement and permitted excursions into pools and into the shallow sea. Clearly, there were more challenges for women collectors, especially with Victorian decorum demanding that most of the body was covered in a long-sleeved and long-skirted dress (an example of a mid-Century outdoor dress is shown below).

Although women made notable contributions to the development of Marine Biology in the Nineteenth Century, their clothing had to conform to the sensibilities of the time and they could not be as adventurous as Henry Gosse in plunging into pools. However, there was a shared need to clamber over rocks and sand and one of the leading authorities on seaweeds, Margaret Gatty, the wife of a vicar, gives the following advice:

About this shore-hunting, however, as regards my own sex (so many of whom, I know, are interested in the pursuit), many difficulties are apt to arise; among the foremost of which must be mentioned the risk of cold and destruction of clothes. The best pair of single-soled kid Balmoral boots that ever were made will not stand salt water many days - indeed would scarcely “come on” after being thoroughly wetted two or three times in succession - and the sea-weed collector who has to pick her way to save her boots will never be a loving disciple as long as she lives! Any one, therefore, really intending to work in the matter, must lay aside for a time all thought of conventional appearances, and be content to support the weight of a pair of boy’s shooting boots, which, furthermore, should be rendered as far water-proof as possible by receiving a thin coat of neat’s foot oil, such as is used by fishermen.. ..Next to boots comes the question of petticoats; and if anything could excuse a woman for imitating the costume of a man, it would be what she suffers as a sea-weed collector from those necessary draperies! But to make the best of a bad matter, let woollen be in the ascendant as much as possible; and let the petticoats never come below the ankle. A ladies’ yatching [sic] costume has come into fashion of late, which is, perhaps, as near perfection for shore-work as anything that could be devised. It is a suit consisting of a full short skirt of blue flannel or serge (like very fine bathing-gown material), with waistcoat and jacket to match [see ³ for an example]. Cloaks and shawls, which necessarily hamper the arms, besides having long ends and corners which cannot fail to get soaked, are, of course, very inconvenient, and should be as much avoided as possible.. ..In conclusion, a hat is preferable to a bonnet, merino stockings to cotton ones, and a strong pair of gloves is indispensible. All millinery work - silks, satins, lace, bracelets, and other jewellery, &c. must, and will, be laid aside by every rational being who attempts to shore-hunt. ⁴

Nineteenth Century women thus needed to overcome the restrictions provided by the dress mores of the day. It was easier for men, but followers of the “craze” of both sexes showed an application and enthusiasm for discovery that is unusual today, except perhaps in young children. However, the attention span and stamina of children means they are unlikely to spend hours each day on collecting, followed by hours more observation and research once the catch is returned home. That was the norm for the adult enthusiasts of Marine Biology in Victorian times.

¹ Edmund Gosse (1907) Father and Son. London, William Heinemann.

² Edmund Gosse (1896) The Naturalist of the Sea-Shore: The Life of Philip Henry Gosse. London, William Heinemann.

³ This is an example of a boating costume contemporary with Margaret Gatty’s description from ⁴ below: http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/i/interactive-womans-boating-outfit-about-1872/

⁴ Mrs Alfred Gatty (1872) British Sea-Weeds drawn from Professor Harvey’s “Phycologia Britannica”; with descriptions, an amateur’s synopsis, rules for laying out sea-weeds, an order for arranging them in the herbarium, and an Appendix of new species. London, Bell and Daldy.

Rock pools, restoration and Creationists

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.