WHICH BE THE BEST BEACHES IN ENGLAND.—CONCERNING STATIONARY AND
MOVABLE SHINGLES.
The variety exhibited by Nature seems to be almost infinite, take what
ground we will for observation and comparison. This has been frequently
noted in both the animal and vegetable departments of Creation. I believe
it to be no less true of the mineral, especially when we embrace under
that head fossil remains.
If there be any feature in British scenery which to a cursory observer
appears uniform and identical everywhere, it is the yellow-looking beach
along the coast line. Yet it will be found on trial that our beaches
differ widely from each other. No two are quite alike. Devonshire is not
more diverse from Yorkshire, or Norfolk from the Isle of Wight, than are
their respective beaches, as to what these contain.
Nay more: on the range of the Sussex coast—a very monotonous range—I am
acquainted, at this present time of writing, with four beaches, which I
do not scruple to pronounce totally different one from another. If I were
shown the pebbles, I could generally tell from which quarter they came.
But to become aware of variety, you must observe certain admitted facts.
The frequenters of our coast-scenery, not one-tenth part of whom can
plead the sad excuse of being invalids, usually know but little of the
character of a beautiful beach lying in their intermediate neighbourhood.
Ordinarily speaking, a man will be better informed concerning the plains
of the Pampas, or the windings of the Coppermine River, than he is upon
the nature of the soil which is under his feet, or of the bough which
hangs over his head in the forest. And the reason of this is obvious; we
neglect the reality for the sake of the appearance. We greedily devour
certain stereotyped works as a kind of royal road to knowledge; but we
omit to notice and inquire into the sensible objects which are strewn
along our daily path.
Of course, we pay the penalty in kind. Two-thirds of our “book-knowledge”
is merely conceited ignorance; not the genuine gold, fit for current
coin, but a baser metal washed over, which will stand no one in stead
for long.
I will now describe accurately three beaches which occur in three
different counties. Any one who makes their acquaintance hereafter,
especially if in quest of pebbles, will, I believe, recognize the
original of each sketch. One of them now lies far away; but to think of
them is like dwelling on the still vivid impressions of a dream.
I am in a district of the New Red Sandstone, and as far as my eye can
reach I see towering cliffs of a kindred formation, wheeling round or
jutting out in foxy-coloured masses, while the innumerable points of
shingle glow like an autumn stubble at their feet. I commence searching
near the bright water-line, and what with the simple grandeur of the
scene, and what with the balmy breath of the south, I insensibly stray
onward for several miles, until the increasing weight in my pockets
suggests a pause. Now I will sit down under the shadow of that mid-way
rock, light a cigar, and inspect my treasures.
No sooner said than done. What a calming sensation a whiff of good
tobacco induces on these burning days! But what have I got? Above thirty
globes of chalcedony, blue and white, as oval as bantams’ eggs. I select
half a dozen on account of some beauty or peculiarity, and fling the
remainder into the sea, there to undergo a fresh impregnation. Next,
sundry bits of the red and white conglomerate. Let me advise everybody
who has the opportunity, to pick this up. When sliced and polished,
the surface obtained beats the inlaid work of a cabinet-maker all to
nothing. Next, a couple of choanites, one in the dark “rag,” ribbed like
sea-weed; the other in pretty light-brown moss-agate. These two go into
my breast-pocket for safety. Lastly, what has never been out of my hand
since I found it—a huge, knotted jasper-agate, of five pounds’ weight.
I will only add that the beach here described is a first-rate one in its
way, although not my absolute favourite. I had, however, never seen it
before, and have never visited it since; moreover, I had not a hammer
with me, nor any refreshment beyond a cigar, after tramping over many
miles of deep shingle; consequently, I do not suppose I did justice to
the contents of that bit of coast.
But where am I now? Two hundred miles away, and the scene is changed. I
have just rounded a headland, on whose summit the ripening corn-field is
waving and gleaming like the tuft on the head of a woodpecker. Dizzy
precipices of chalk stand like sugar-loaves against the blue sky, here
and there cleft in a tortuous, yawning chasm. Beneath, the beach seems to
slumber, so gentle is that lisping murmur, where the long billowy swell
washes the face of the skerries, and lifts up and down their heavy fringe
of tangle like a giant’s beard. Two hours are mine, as we mortals reckon,
before I am expected at the evening meal. This time I have my hammer
with me—no clumsy carpenter’s tool, which might rend or splinter, but a
tempered steel.
I did but walk a couple of miles in all. I found sundry pieces of
perfectly white agate, one of which proved good enough for a seal. I
broke open a score or two of jaspers, and was rewarded at last by a
fine slab of the rich brown (quasi-Egyptian). Then I hunted up from
the shingle a pocketful of “sponges,” and a choanite in dark purple
flint, which is rare. And then time was up, and scaling the cliff by a
well-known gap and pathway, I returned home to crab-pie and a cup of tea,
and the welcome of a dear, kind face. This part of our coast is much
visited now by pebble-seekers.
Now I have crossed a channel of the sea, and have looked upon the mighty
three-deckers, and all the flower of the yachtery of England; and I
have strolled through a smart modern town, and have passed a meditative
half-hour in a very ancient village, and then, at a sharp turn, I have
quitted the high-road, with its hot milestones, and picked my way through
a blossoming lane where the nightingales were singing; and I have
scrambled over the edge of a snipe-bog, and hurried past the mouth of a
diluvian estuary, and here I am, stretched at full length on the choicest
bit of beach in all the realm of Queen Victoria. In front of me are
soaring pinnacles of chalk, ribbed and dotted with primeval flints, like
the gun-muzzles in an upper deck. Behind me rises another barrier, formed
of the dark “greensand;” and on one side, for the space of a mile, these
lofty brows have dipped and disappeared, that the red edge of the wealden
might crop out from a wide tract of rush-grown water-meadows. Through the
heart of these latter steals a rivulet, beloved of stray wild-fowl, but
not tenanted by anything so lively as a trout.
The position of this beach is all that can be desired, and its contents
will not disappoint expectation. It has sometimes reminded me of one of
those angular nooks formed externally by the converging hedges of a
cover and a crop, where you are sure to meet with the hares and pheasants
which have come out to feed on your wheat-stubble or turnips. Here,
however, instead of the scuttling game, you must look for matchless
pebbles.
Often as I have paced this charming strand, the occasion of my first
stepping upon it was pure accident, as, indeed, are some of the
pleasantest turns in life. I remember one summer’s day, when the solid
cliffs seemed to be pulverizing under the heat, and the air-vessels in
exposed sheaves of bladderwrack were splitting and popping like crackers,
I found four or five specimens within a couple of hundred yards which I
have never since surpassed, seldom equalled. Two of these were _deep red_
choanites, conveying the idea, not of dull “oxide,” but that the animal’s
blood had suffused the agate; another was a particoloured madrepore,
another, a moss-jasper.
This bay, however, possesses peculiar advantages. In addition to the
fossils which drop from time to time out of its own overhanging cliffs,
it is fed in a remarkable manner from other sources.
* * * * *
Until of late years, Sussex has been the usual resort of those who
desired to collect pebbles for the cabinet. The capabilities of this
coast vary with every twenty miles. The Brighton beach was once famous
for the supply of “landscape-pebbles;” but in the lapse of years its
fecundity has been sadly impaired. The best chance remaining now is
that of an occasional waif during the March winds on the sweep fronting
Brunswick Terrace, and for about half a mile toward Shoreham.
Bognor has long reefs of rock at low water, and, by the usual rule, it
ought to yield petrified sponges; for I think that, generally speaking,
the locality determines the animal. But the infirmity of the Bognor shore
is, that its pebbles are chafed and worn to skeletons by the furious
storms which assail this unprotected coast in winter. No fossil with a
delicate constitution can long withstand the effect of these gales and
plunging seas.
Off Beachey-head, in the other direction, is found a variety which I
have not met with elsewhere. The specimen shown to me was vermicular;
the creature, which had perhaps been a “sabella,” lying in distinct
coils, not unlike _macaroni_, in the blue agate. This pebble was a very
large and perfect one; and the man who had picked it up, and paid
perhaps half-a-guinea for the dressing of it, was desirous to realize a
five-pound note. I wish much that it had found its way to the British
Museum. There is no stone there resembling it.
At Deal and Ramsgate, “fortification-agates” may be readily met with,
and sometimes a bit of carnelian: but this last, bright and homogeneous,
is rare. The Hastings beach is mainly worn out. Aldborough, in Suffolk,
was wont to be famous for its coloured agates; and Fifeshire, and part
of Forfarshire, for eyed jaspers: but many years have gone by since I
visited either of these counties, and I would not venture to speak with
confidence concerning their actual beaches now.
Very good pebbles are picked up at Cromer; and, occasionally, carnelians,
both red and white. Felixstowe, a little lower down the coast than
Aldborough, abounds in yellow agates, some of them beautifully
translucent, and rivalling the carnelian in smoothness of texture. At
Scarborough, remarkable specimens both of the agates and jaspers are
obtained by those who know where to look for them. Filey has the same
charms for enticing strangers to wander onwards along its pretty coast.
Indeed, all the Yorkshire beaches deserve and will repay a visit, both in
fossils and transparencies.
Carnelians are peculiar stones as to their habits, if I may use such an
expression in speaking of inanimate substances. It were absurd to doubt
that plenty of them still haunt our English coast; but where they manage
to hide themselves has often perplexed me. The method of searching for
them is as follows. Instead of keeping the sun behind you, he should now
be full in front, like a candle in your eyes. But you must not look at
the sun: you must look along the surface of the beach; and whenever a
bit of carnelian peeps out from the shingle, you will at once descry it,
owing to the position of the great light.
I tried this once at Blackgang Chine for three-quarters of an hour,
and in the course of that time I filled both my waistcoat-pockets with
red bits. It is true, none of these were larger than pudding-raisins,
and some of them scarcely more brilliant; still, the search was very
diverting. If the shingle had not been unusually damp, I might have lain
down every now and then and looked along its surface; in which case I
should, doubtless, have succeeded better.
The mention of Blackgang leads me to speak of the Isle of Wight, as the
choicest storehouse for this kind of fossils in Britain.
* * * * *
If it be true, as some geologists aver, that the pearly “Vectis” was
at one time joined on to our Hampshire coast, from which it afterwards
broke off like a loose morsel from the side of a cake, that would go far
to explain the abundance and beauty of its organisms. For, upon such
a separation from the mainland, the industrious sea would have great
opportunities of denuding the face of the cliffs and sucking the orifices
of the chines. Also, this circumambient sea is peculiar in its character
hereabouts; and the crystallizing waves impart an unusual lustre to
rolling agates and jaspers.
The beaches of the Wight are circumscribed in extent, which is a great
relief after the interminable ranges on the Sussex coast. The difference
is as great as that between a quiet forenoon spent in the museum in
Jermyn Street, and the laborious distractions experienced if we pass a
similar interval of time amidst the endless rooms and innumerable cases
on the first floor of the British Museum.
The village of Sandown, from the flag-staff on as far as Red Cliff and
Culver, exhibits a tempting and instructive shore. In winter, it is
better to commence at the dyke, and end with Red Cliff; but in summer,
you may walk the whole range with advantage. Here, a couple of hours may
be taken to as many miles; and if you do not shut your eyes, you must
fill your pockets. But look with resolution for good ones.
From Sandown to Shanklin, in the opposite direction, it is scarcely
inferior. It was once even better; but, lying so near at hand, it has
been unceasingly hunted over; and to look for a fine pebble there now, is
almost like hoping to find a hare sitting in your kitchen-garden. Many
tons’ weight of beautiful fossils have been gathered within the compass
of a morning’s walk here, in the last few years.
At the foot of Shanklin Chine occurs a singular collection of
limestone pebbles, siliceous within, which are well worth examining.
Extraordinarily-tinted choanites are here sometimes detected in the heart
of most unattractive and mis-shapen blocks. I once asked a successful
beaching lapidary there, how he _knew_ them? He declared that he did
not know them at all; but that whenever he saw fresh bonzes thrown up,
especially if with a deep-sea mark upon them, he would break them all,
and generally obtained a superb specimen among them. The objection to
this murderous process was, as he confessed, that some of the finest were
wont to be destroyed.
Latterly, I thought I discovered a way to recognize the presence of any
such choanite. It is to look closely for a peculiar depression in the
stone which is connected with the principal _air-hole_ belonging to the
fossil. But this method demands time and care.
Onwards to Luccombe, the beach disappears, owing, I imagine, to immovable
depth of sand. At Luccombe Chine, it partially revives: but do not linger
here. Go on to Bonchurch, and as you approach that lovely hillside,
rouse all your energies. Here comes in a mile of sand, small shingle,
and half-buried pebbles, which will put your skill to the test, if skill
you have. Look out for symptoms of the “tubular” structure, and diverge
now and then to the pools among those weedy rocks. Many a beautiful
“actinia” in flint lies there snug enough, wedged in a dark cranny,
and coated over with glutinous moss. You must really not be idle now.
Do not even light a cigar, but hammer and delve and scrape away; only
do not give in until you lay hold of something worth the while. Two
zoophytes, of the agatine-siliceous kind, were picked up on this spot
about a twelvemonth since, for which large sums of money were offered in
Ventnor the same day. For one of this sort, an American gentleman, not
long ago, gave eight pounds sterling. But there is in Brighton, or was
till very recently, a pebble from the Rottingdean beach, for which fifty
guineas have been offered to its possessor, and refused. I have not seen
it myself, but I am told that it is a spotted pyriform choanite; the
material, very beautiful agate.
At Ventnor, red gravel and diminutive carnelians, some of them not bigger
than pins’ heads, await the pebble-seeker. Occasionally an agate is found
here which is “chatoyant,” like an opal, but this is scarce.
I once tried the Freshwater strand, “ultima thule,” but I only met with
doubtful, ragged flints. The north side of the island presents on its
shores a surface chiefly of mud and estuary drift, delightful to solans
and sea-gulls, but not profitable for the cabinet of the mineralogist.
I ought here, in common gratitude, to say something of the beauties of
the Garden Isle. But, though some of the happiest hours of my life have
been passed there, I grudge to dilate upon the theme. I could not, if I
would, convey to a stranger a sense of the unutterable attachment which I
feel for its swelling downs and curling seaward bays. Much of the charm
of our old English scenery, which is fast disappearing elsewhere before
the railway and the canal, is still to be met with in this sequestered
island. Here are uncultivated rocky slopes, proffering rare wild-flowers;
ivy-mantled cliffs and moss-grown brambles; bays which in winter witness
the howling storm, and sometimes the fearful wreck, but in summer are
invested with the calm beauty of a moonlit lake. The inhabitants also,
many of them “aborigines,” have a primitive, unsophisticated character
in the inland villages; while, on the coast, this is chequered by that
roving disposition and semi-superstitious bent which are always to be
found among sailors.
Oddly enough, the story of a pebble illustrates this trait of character.
Some years ago, I was calling on a lapidary in Sandown who had done
a good deal work for me, and done it well. His account was settled,
and I was wishing him good morning, when he drew my attention to a
remarkably beautiful pebble, ready cut and polished, and begged my
acceptance of it. Now the stone, displayed on his board along with other
specimens, could not fail to sell; and was worth _to him_, I should say,
perhaps a sovereign. I was very unwilling to take it, but there was no
refusing without offending an old friend; so it went home in my pocket.
But somehow curiosity was stirred in my mind when reflecting on the
circumstance afterwards. Why should he wish to make me a present? Or,
allowing for goodwill taking so straightforward a course, why part with a
stone of so much moneyed value? A few days after I dropped in again. My
friend was out: but I found his wife, and stayed for a chat. Presently
I referred, quite cursorily, to the gift which her husband had made me,
“and,” said I, “I wish only it had been something of less value.” The
gentler sex are sometimes more communicative than their mates. “Ah! sir,”
replied Mrs. ⸺, “there was reason for giving you _that_, may be. Anyways,
I’m real glad that it’s gone from _us_.” “Indeed! how is that?” “Why,
that stone was an unlucky stone for us, and I wished it to go, somehow.”
Then I learned from her the following singular tale.
Two brothers, sea-faring men, were great friends of the lapidary and his
wife. One day, one of these brothers found this pebble on the beach, and
had it cut. It turned out, as I have said, a remarkably fine specimen. It
was what they call a “deep-sea” pebble, and the “choanite” of a reddish
hue lay exactly central in the bonze of white limestone. The sailors
were both of them quite fond of it: and when they went to sea again, the
handsome pebble went with them, and was laid “o’ nights” on a shelf by
the hammock.
Their boat was upset: one brother was drowned: the other righted the
craft and got to shore, not without difficulty. Several articles were
missing, having gone to the bottom; but the pebble was safe.
The survivor brought it back to the lapidary, and made him accept of
it, being unwilling to retain it himself. The lapidary took it, and
put it aside: but his better half found it out, and insisted that he
should neither sell it nor keep it. So, he _gave it away_. This stone I
afterwards parted with to a London collector: not wishing to preserve
so sad a reminiscence. I took a fossil in exchange, which I almost
immediately lost. So, nothing connected with the mysterious choanite was
“lucky.”
Perhaps every feature in “Vectis,” from the matted festoons on its
honey-combed rocks to the “witchery of its soft blue sky,” predisposes
a frequent visitor to approve also of its pebbles. But it is an
unprejudiced fact, that in texture and colour they excel those which are
found on the Sussex beaches. And while I think highly of our Devonshire
jaspers, I remember a jasper-agate, gathered some years ago at Sandown,
which might challenge all such stones of native growth in our London
museums, and bear away the palm.
Many a calm summer’s evening, many a stormy winter’s forenoon, have I
whiled away in absolute contentment on that most interesting shore. In
the hot noons of July the bathing is delicious; and after your bath, the
shadow cast by overhanging cliffs, and a fanning breeze from the sea,
make a ramble onwards irresistible. But I found winter as pleasant in its
way. When the gust roared, and chimneys smoked, and the heavens looked
dark and disturbed, it was inspiriting to go forth roughly clad, and to
watch the fitful changes where the weather-gleam strikes upon Culver;
or to mark how that treacherous mist would come creeping round Dunnose,
till the “white horses” rose on the sea, and the heavy squall which had
long been packing in the offing burst with a wild cry, driving in a yet
heavier element with tatters of oar-weed and splinters of broken dyke
against the face of the immovable cliff.
After passing Shanklin, the style of scenery as far as Luccombe and the
Fishers’ huts, is quaint and picturesque. Here the “Gault” makes its
appearance, and the hill-paths are in consequence slippery and dangerous.
After this, succeed several miles of fairy-like beauty. And then, the
stern grandeur of Black-gang, the coast-line trending away in a range
as savage as that of Calabria. And last, the chosen home of the poet,
sublime Freshwater, and rainbow-tinted Alum-Bay.
* * * * *
Having said so much on the pleasure of beach-rambling, it may be well
to put tourists on their guard in two important particulars. The first
of these touches personal safety. No one should set out upon what may
prove a prolonged expedition without first ascertaining, _on Kalendar
authority_, the hours of the tide for that day. There are sundry points
on the coast of the Isle of Wight, for instance, where after a couple
of hours’ progress, on scientific thoughts intent, the pedestrian may
find himself hemmed in by a jutting precipice in front, while the
advancing tide behind has gradually cut off all hopes of a retreat on
“terra firma:” and as the face of the cliff is seldom such as admits of
being scaled, it will then fare badly with him if he be not “the king of
fishes.”
The other matter respects fatigue. Hearty exercise is desirable; not
so that which results in utter exhaustion. My own experience is as
follows:—I have climbed to the summit of Sca’ Fell, and then walked back,
footsore and fasting, to Keswick. I have swum a mile before breakfast. I
have ascended Mount Etna at midnight in December’s snow. But for sheer
fatigue, pulling at the muscles, and drying up the marrow, there is
nothing equal to ten miles of stiff shingle, while a foggy north-easter
currycombs your face, and perhaps your shoe-leather has been laid open by
the edge of an inauspicious flint.
If in addition to all this, forgetting “Cording,” you have sallied forth
_non bene relictâ parmulâ_, your condition is by no means enviable.
Therefore, whoever intends to go beaching in earnest should look to his
outer man, and carry with him certain creature-comforts, not omitting to
include in these a supply of good tobacco.
Yet one word more upon this head. Have a due regard to the well-being of
your eyes. They are, as you will not fail to acknowledge, the working
party on these occasions. Manage how you will, they _must_ be subjected
to a great stress and strain. Give them half an hour’s respite, if
possible, while you sit down and inhale the “weed.” It is unpleasant to
find, after too intense a service on the part of your “daylights,” as you
return homewards along the meadow-path, that a beach you have left two or
three miles behind you is all _coming back_, whether you like it or no,
upon your organs of vision.
* * * * *
On the whole, summer is the most fruitful season for stocking a cabinet,
on account of the more powerful illumination cast upon the objects of
your search. But in winter the beach itself is very likely to be in
better condition, for it is oftener agitated, and many specimens will
come to the surface which in calmer weather lie buried under sand. It
is important to train yourself to attentive observation, and after long
habit the ear will listen intuitively.
If you hear the sea make a dull, booming noise during the night, be on
the look-out two or three tides later, when the first shingle now thrown
up has sifted and settled down. Large pebbles will then be found on the
top of all, the process being much like that which takes place on shaking
a basin of lump sugar.
But it will be well for you to be always on the alert. The seaside
elements must be coaxed and humoured, if you hope to get anything by
their agency. A beach itself is exceedingly capricious. On some days you
may walk for miles and remark nothing worth picking up; perhaps the next
day, over the same ground, so great will be the profusion of fossils as
to suggest the idea that since your last visit a petrified shoal had
returned to life, swum into the bay, and there been once more stifled in
gurgling lime, or liquid silex, and penetrated by the metallic “moss.”
“The sea yields its harvests without sowing or planting,” and
seaside scenery is exquisite if you have come upon it where it is
unsophisticated. Happily it is in such sequestered “Edens of the
_western_ wave” that the most desirable pebbles are met with. I have
gathered rare specimens where the dor-hawk was wheeling overhead, and
saucy sea-gulls screeching almost in my face; while a cunning crow would
watch from a projecting ledge of rock to see whether I was about to
capture, and afterwards throw away, anything which might serve him for a
luncheon.
The terraces of Margate and Ramsgate are invaluable to the tired artizans
of London seeking their well-earned recreation; but no poet could venture
to affirm of them what Scott said of “Brignall banks,” that they are
“wild and fair.” But quit these populous thoroughfares, and get away to
pearly Beachey Head, or roam the lone strands of Yorkshire or Devon,
or go and lose yourself among shadowy nooks and gleaming bays in the
sweetest of all islands, and you will possess the genuine colour and
scent, and music and mystery of the sea, as the Creator has framed and
blended that wondrous element.
You need not look for pebbles unless you like; sometimes it were
better not. But saunter down to the water’s crinkled edge, and inhale
that indescribable odour from old rock, slippery now with dulse and
ribbon-weed—Piesse and Lubin distil nothing to equal it—and con the page
in Nature’s volume which lies open before you; it will never give you a
head-ache, nor a heart-ache either.
Here, after presently stripping to the elbow, you may surprise a
hermit-crab, or catch the spotted “goby” in his dark saline pool, but
please let him go again; you ought to give him his freedom, if only out
of gratitude; for all this time your own tired body is being braced and
refreshed, and your mind, yesterday jaded and careworn, is winning back
its elasticity under a sense of blessed repose.
I will now mention some peculiarities in the nature of our beaches, which
I have noted from time to time in the book of my experience.
* * * * *
A BEACH is supposed to be a permanent accumulation of pebbles and small
shingle, due to such cliffs or banks as are near at hand. And this
general definition would be so far scientifically correct, if nature
were stagnant like the surface of a deserted mill-pond. But, as Nature
is always at work, always shifting the scenes, the above definition,
although it sounds like a truism, does not hold good in either of its
clauses. The accumulation which we look upon is _not_ permanent, nor
is it always due to a neighbouring source. Sometimes the collection of
stones which we find heaped up in an immemorial bay has been washed
round—much of it, perchance, recently—from a distant quarter. And this
might be taking place under our very eyes, and we not know it, just as
we do not _see_ the grass grow. Except in very calm weather, beaches are
continually travelling, and they travel rapidly along certain lines of
coast, until they arrive at a terminal point or headland. To get round
this latter takes time, but they do get round it at last, with the help
of strong gales prevailing in one direction, and under the rushing tides
of an equinox. Now if we suppose a few acres of shingle to be once fairly
carried past such a promontory, and discharged into the curve of an
elliptical bay, they will be locked in, and may, perhaps, never get out
again.
I have myself no doubt that Sandown Beach is fed and replenished in this
manner: and the bay being deeply indented with the points of Culver and
Dunnose, prominent at opposite extremities, egress is difficult. Yet
most persons might naturally suppose that whatever they find on the
beach here is due to its overhanging cliffs.
Some of the best pebbles travel fast, and are, in fact, migratory, till
they reach such a “nidus” as I have described. This is owing to the
rounded form which fossils usually assume. Angular lumps rather remain
stationary. Jasper I suppose makes few excursions: while the agates and
oval choanites are continually on the move, and may have visited a dozen
different localities before they are picked up. I have hunted a bit of
yellow agate in this way for above a mile in the course of a few weeks,
dropping it again on purpose, and never finding it in the same place.
Beside the above real motion of a beach, there is an apparent total
change for a time which is by no means uncommon in exposed situations.
This is, when an inshore gale drifts the sand and conceals for a day or
two the entire mass of shingle. It is a provoking circumstance when it
occurs, but it seldom lasts long in its effects. The sudden re-appearance
of half a mile of solid beach, as if by magic, on a change of the wind,
has sometimes surprised me in spite of past experience.
In average weather, when a beach is not migrating, the rise and fall of
the pebbles in the same lines is very observable. The only change then
induced in a stratum of shingle is by the suck and draught of the sea.
This latter, however, is unceasing, as may readily be tested by bathers;
everything which you set your foot upon under the wave being in a gentle
rolling motion. It yields an amusing diversion in the water, to play the
pebbles about under one’s feet. The effect of it, however, is not so
quaint as that which I remember experiencing many years ago in Loch Long,
where are no pebbles, but plenty of mud. Here, wading out in the shallows
to arrive at swimming depth, I put one foot after the other on the backs
of some unsuspecting flounders lying on the sand, and laughed aloud at
the tickling sensation as they glided away from under me.
But all _motion_ is a source of interest and charm, especially while we
are on the sunny side of forty. I believe that this forms one feature of
delight in the capture of winged insects. Exquisite as is a good British
collection, the dry side of the science, whatever learned entomologists
may say, is not the most inviting, and would attract comparatively few
persons after a time.
In like manner, who would care for cover-shooting, if all were
sitting-shots? But the “runners” and “fliers” impart a zest.
Even here, my friends the seaside pebbles have a claim to please: for,
although inanimate, they are not altogether devoid of motion, as I think
I have shown.