Strata Gems
©The Bathing Hut - Erica Yeoman In November 2005, the Alnwick Playhouse Writers Group held a writing week at the Bathing House, Howick supported by a grant from the Northumberland Coast AONB Small Grant Scheme. Guided by Beadnell poet, Katrina Porteous we were able to work in this wonderful setting to produce a variety of poetry and prose reflecting the history, geology, flora and fauna of this area of coastline. Through this website, we hope to offer something of the experience of this wild and unspoilt coast to others. Extract from ‘Old Blood’: Chris AlgarI’ve got the best seat today, squeezed into the large round hole in the rock we call the Fish’s Eye, with only my legs hanging out. Once you’re in it you can barely hear the sea. Just a low grumble like night wind or barrels rolling in a far off courtyard. But other noises – a shepherd calling his dog, the ‘scratch, scratch’ of the gulls, the ‘syllabub, syllabub’ of the dippers as they take off – they sound like they’re right next to you. There’s a hollow in its back wall like the places they put holy water or candles at church. Thomas and Sophia, the two toddlers, bring me treasures to put there: shells with holes in, water-worn bits of old pottery, spindly fronds of seaweed, a small dead fish. But today I’m the only occupant, curled up with my darning like a comfortable crab in its shell. At the edge of the babies’ pool there’s a rock which is the very image of a sheep’s head, complete with ear, eye and daft expression. Sophia is patting it, calling it ‘My sheepey’. Then she kicks her fat legs trying to splash me. I catch sight of Thomas widdling in the water – but Mam said seawater is healthy and what’s a bit of wee in all that wet? Two of the older ones splash across the ‘big pool’ which is really very small. It looks like a lopsided arrowhead with a rib of stone sticking out in the middle. The toddlers dream of being allowed in it, and once they are would sooner die than admit that it barely takes five kicks to get from the rib to the side. The rocks around the pool grow tiny white plants like deer horns, little dandelion yellow explosions and thick green mats of moulds and mosses. You can walk on the brown stone and the rusty red stone but take care on the green – it’s treacherous as ice. One day I was chasing Sybil and not watching my feet – next moment I was on my back in the pool like a beached porpoise with Martha and the bairns fair crying with laughter. Poetry: Beachcombing: Written by the group with Katrina Porteous
On the road to the castle At the stepping stone rocks In the Fish’s Eye On Soulful Sands At Cullernose Autumn Day: Anne Ousby
Past Howick Seahouses, a dinosaur-backed track At Howick Burn fresh otter spraints Beside the stile to Howick Haven Behind the Heugh the shotguns bark No Stars Shone: Mary AtkinsonNo stars shone The old wreck shivered in the sand Sea kelp held fast When the lamp went out A boat lay offshore |
Useful LinksLatest News |
