August 1903AUGUST 1903.
AUGUST 1903.
A monthof variable weather, much rain and heavy seas occasionally compelling the boats engaged in the herring fishing to run for it. Dearly bought indeed is their silvery freight as they thresh their way homewards followed by a stiff sou’-easter, their oilskins glistening with repeated drenchings, and twelve miles’ ploughing and a doubtful bar yet to be negotiated ere safety is reached. How different! no running for home with us; here we remain secure and comfortable amid the hurly-burly, and trust to the stability of the grand old building for our safety. Right well does it merit our confidence. After a century’s buffetings with the elements, not a single sign of weakening in the never ceasing conflict is evident. Surely a creditable testimony to the honesty of the labour employed in its erection.
That herring are occasionally in our vicinity is evidenced by the industrious diving of the gannets, accompanied by large flocks of gulls and terns, and also by the presence of whales snorting and puffing close to the Rock. At low water the reef is covered with gulls and terns resting from their labours of the tide. Scorning such relaxment, the gannets, wheeling and diving, maintain their ceaseless chase, establishing their kinship with that bird of the Ancient Mariner, the tireless albatross. A skua or robber-gull has billeted himself amongst the gulls and terns, and is frequently seen harrying them of their legitimate prey. It is surprising that the terns at least, with their needle-pointed bills and belligerent propensities, suffer themselves to be so despoiled, and make no attempt to combine and drive off this pirate on the fruits of their industry. On the contrary, after a fruitless twisting and doubling in mid-air, in which they are invariably worsted, they seem to accept these periodic attacks of the skua as a matter of course.
Amateur fishers have been but seldom in evidence here this summer; even the lobsters have enjoyed a season of comparative rest. Possibly the uncertain state of the weather prevented their usual visits. Towards the close of the month a trio of amateurs castanchor—or rather what does duty assuch—within hail of our kitchen window, a favourite spot of theirs. Lines were no sooner down than a brisk business began in cod, varied by an occasional poddley which has little or no market value, but which to us here is always acceptable, and forms the principal part of our catches. Several good catches of these have been taken here during the month. What appears to be whitings two inches in length is seen to be their food at present. The terns also are seen to be on similar diet, and though engaged in conveying a mouthful to their young ones, it in no way impedes their full flow of language, nor muffles in the slightest degree their strident throat notes.
During the unusually low tides occurring this month an opportunity was afforded of examining a most peculiar form of animal life of which I have nowhere seen any account. Attached to the rocks amongst groups of corallines this curious object[2]has all the semblance of a bird’s claw. Imagine the leg of a bird amputated at the knee, firmly fastened to the rock by the cut end, and imbued with life, and you have a fair idea of this animal. About half an inch in length, the “leg” is seen to be composed of segments, and terminates in three toes, furnished with sharp, curved claws, which keep up a constantclutching—at what is not apparent; but the action strongly reminds one of a similar effect produced by juveniles who have become the proud possessor of a hen’s foot, and for a piece of slatepencil—the usual juvenilecurrency—demonstrate to admiring companions the utility of the extensor muscles.
Last month we had the unique experience of being serenaded by the Dundee trippers with a cornet solo, but the last Saturday of this month fairly eclipsed this performance. As we were about to sit down to tea we were somewhat startled to hear the regular beat of a drum and the unmistakeable music of the bagpipes. A hasty survey from the kitchen window sent us flying to the balcony, there to witness the novel sight of a ship, manned byboys—a training brig evidently, bound for Dundee. Bearing down upon us from the eastward, she approached close to the Tower, the tide being about full. Flag courtesies being exchanged, crowds of juvenile faces were seen lining the rail, while midships pipers discoursed some lively music, including the “Cock o’ the North.” The wind being light, the vessel made but little way, and as she slowly crossed the reef the youngsters lustily cheered us, which we returned as best we could. Breaking into song, the whole ship’s company favoured us with “Poor Cock Robin,” the youthful voices having a most pleasing effect in the stillness of a really beautiful summer’s evening. Applauding our loudest, cheers were again exchanged as she slowly drifted beyond our hearing, the whole scene strongly reminiscent of “H.M.S. Pinafore.”
[2]Whale-louse.