Part I: Seals teeth and whales ears - Scott Polar Research Institute ...

If we were lucky we would see a few grey seals, usually in the water, bobbing their
horse-like heads (or so it seemed to me then - I know better now), as they in turn
reflected our curiosity. They were mysterious, rare creatures in those days - large, glossy
and smooth. When they came close to the boat one could see their graceful balletic
swimming motion through the clear water, in striking contrast to their ungainliness
ashore. It was clear to me why they were called ‘the people of the Sea’. In the air about
us we were surrounded by raucous birds - gulls, terns, puffins, guillemots among
others, and - sitting on the water - diving puffins, eider ducks and their more colourful
drakes.
We usually landed on a small crunchy shell-sand beach on Inner Farne, being divebombed
by the terns, seemingly pure white against the blue sky. Then we walked up a
slight slope on the delightfully green and springy sea-turf, starred with wild flowers,
most conspicuously the brightly contrasting sea-pinks. There was no restriction on our
movements, although we were asked not to disturb the birds. But it was impossible not
to walk up to a tern's nest to look for the brown-speckled eggs, or camouflaged chicks.
Or to feel the softness of the down in an open eider-duck's nest - and difficult to resist
the temptation to put one's hand down a puffin burrow to see if it was occupied,
experiencing the scary, anticipatory thrill of a nipped finger. One was really in touch
with nature. (This tameness I did not encounter again until I reached the Antarctic many
years later). It was heavenly. We could also go right to the edge of the vertical cliffs (no
restrictive rules - we were trusted not to do anything silly). At close-quarters we
watched the gulls, kittiwakes, guillemots nesting on the rocky ledges in their vertical
city, a place of noise and motion as incoming birds alighted with food for the chicks and
their partners took off on a fishing trip.
Another attraction of this island was St Cuthbert's Chapel, a square, rugged tower,
with a simple altar and carved oak pews inside. We always made a point of visiting it
and absorbing the romance of its history, and we walked over to the automatic
lighthouse, which stained the cliffs white, with its chemical waste. In those days no one
lived on the island and visitors could land and explore at will.
All too soon we were called back to the boat by the fishermen, re-embarked and set
off for the Longstone, through the channels among the rocks, with their seals and birds.
Arrived at the Longstone, we had a slippery walk of a hundred yards or so, over the
seaweed-covered rocks to the lighthouse. The bladder-wrack popped and rustled under
our feet, we slipped on the bright green Ulva and the glossy fronds of Laminaria
impeded progress. The lighthouse itself was a revelation: squeaky-clean, the graceful
curved tower planted firmly on the rocks was painted red and white in bands, all the
brasswork was polished to a bright shine, the linoleum waxed and spotlessly clean. All
the machinery was well oiled - and there was a clean smell about the place. Climbing to
the top we saw the miracle of the light, with its myriad crystal lenses, that revolved at
the touch of a finger. We were allowed out on the balcony to look at the 360 degree
view; then climbed down to see the small museum and to drink in the exciting story of
Grace Darling. The daughter of the lighthouse keeper became a national heroine by her
rescue of the crew of the ‘Forfarshire’ in l838, when she rowed with her father between
the islands in the storm. It was all very exciting for a small boy.
As I said, sometimes we were able to visit Holy Island (Lindisfarne) a few miles
further north, joined to the mainland at low water by a causeway. Holy Island has a
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