Of waving weed…

Storm Francis delivered the north coast of Cornwall a spectacularly tempestuous lashing, the distant boom from the swell that was punching Pentire head could be heard from our shuddering  caravan a few miles up the Camel estuary.

Our mission was to find, and photograph  species of algae for our next set of art works in the series  'Of waving weed and waiting claws' (see our portfolio page for a full explanation).

Channel wrack, a seaweed of delicate and understated beauty found on the upper rocky shore, is abundant in patches, but when putting down a quadrat for the purposes of recording beauty, time and the universe, suddenly the pressure is on to find 'exactly' the right spot, but there are worse ways to spend your days right?

A worthy patch was found beside the remains of a Curlew, its keel pecked clean with a V shaped notch, all the hallmarks of a Peregrine kill, Ravens loitering and debating on the up-draught above us. With the retreating tide our soundtrack becomes bubble and crackle of lug worm burrows and drying Egg wrack, urgent pipe and heartstring ‘wurdle’ of Oystercatcher and Curlew, effervescent whir from the wings of a passing Hummingbird hawkmoth, cronk and gurgle conversations from, the now distant over the sand bar, ravens, the soft brittle crunch and snap of Cornish slate and Periwinkle shells under foot, hiss of distant surf,  fizz of ever present magic. 

 

Of waving weed and waiting claws is an ongoing INSTAR study of 3 art works, the first which is currently exhibited at Harley Gallery, North Nottinghamshire.

The title of this series is taken from the poem by John Betjeman, who lived in Trebetherick:

GREENAWAY

By John Betjeman

I know so well this turfy mile,
These clumps of sea-pink withered brown,
The breezy cliff, the awkward stile,
The sandy path that takes me down.

To crackling layers of broken slate
Where black and flat sea-woodlice crawl
And isolated rock pools wait
Wash from the highest tides of all.

I know the roughly blasted track
That skirts a small and smelly bay
And over squelching bladderwrack
Leads to the beach at Greenaway.

Down on the shingle safe at last
I hear the slowly dragging roar
As mighty rollers mount to cast
Small coal and seaweed on the shore,

And spurting far as it can reach
The shooting surf comes hissing round
To heave a line along the beach
Of cowries waiting to be found.

Tide after tide by night and day
The breakers battle with the land
And rounded smooth along the bay
The faithful rocks protecting stand.

But in a dream the other night
I saw this coastline from the sea
And felt the breakers plunging white
Their weight of waters over me.

There were the stile, the turf, the shore,
The safety line of shingle beach
With every stroke I struck the more
The backwash sucked me out of reach.

Back into what a water-world
Of waving weed and waiting claws?
Of writhing tentacles uncurled
To drag me to what dreadful jaws?