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As the tide covered the Rock he could be seen in the clear
moonlight ploughing along the creamy surface, stretching his tether
in every direction in futile efforts to escape. At daylight next morning
he was found sheltering under a projecting ledge of rock. What a
clean, well-groomed fellow he looked, with his sleek, glossy coat
glistening in the sunshine, his squat, plump body adapting itself to
the inequalities of the surface on which it rested. His coat, by the
way, as much fur as that of a horse—grey above, mottled with dark
spots, while the under surface is of a creamy yellow. His beautiful
teeth gleaming white against the scarlet interior of his mouth, as he
snapped fruitlessly on either side, suggested the maximum of robust
animal health. As a memento of his visit the camera was brought on
the scene, and another addition made to our list of illustrious visitors.
Liberating him proved to be more difficult than his capture, for
when cut adrift he persisted in facing us instead of making for the
water, towards which we endeavoured to drive him. After some
manœuvring, however, he was driven to the edge of the gulley, but
even with his body half submerged he maintained a defensive
attitude, not seeming to realise that he was at liberty to depart. An
incoming wave, however, moved him to a sense of his position, and
with a defiant snort he slipped under water. Omitting, in his hurry, to
take proper bearings, he took the wrong direction, and, finding
himself in a cul-de-sac, made his appearance again on the surface,
and with a hurried glance at his position again sank, this time making
a bee-line for the outlet, being clearly seen, as he passed under
water close to where we stood, and was last seen buffeting his way
through the foaming breakers, evidently none the worse for his
compulsory detention on the Rock.
DECEMBER 1902.
The broken stones and other debris, consequent upon the late
alterations here, which had collected in various holes in the Rock
and maintained their position up till now, have nearly all been cleared
out by the severe gales of this month, and a couple of heavy iron
poles, erected lately to mark the boat tracks or entrances to the
landings, and which were sunk two feet in the solid rock and heavily
cemented, have been shaken loose in their sockets by the pounding
seas which have been besieging us of late. The rocks appear bleak
and bare, and utterly void of vegetation. The white whelks have
collected their scattered forces, and gone into winter quarters.
Secure in sheltering nooks, they lie huddled together in close packed
squadrons. Numerous small white banded whelks adhere to the
base of the tower with a tenacity that seems surprising considering
the swirling seas they are subjected to. This species, however, never
seem to dream of hibernating. The eiders and longtails, with an
unswerving attention to business, pursue their calling amid the hurly-
burly of broken, tumbling seas—evidently little concerned whether
the weather be fair or foul—and in the glassy hollows alternating
between the breakers they can be distinctly seen scurrying over the
rock surface like so many fish. Gannets this month are conspicuous
by their absence, and only a few parasitic gulls divide their attention
between the kitchen refuse and the hard won earnings of the eiders.
On several occasions during the month our fog signal was
brought into action through the occurrence of heavy snowfalls. A
silent, feathery fall on shore no doubt has charms peculiarly its own,
but at sea constitutes a very serious danger to the anxious mariner
as he steams at reduced speed through the fleecy curtain, shrieking
his every two minute warning, his vessel’s head scarcely visible from
the bridge. In snowstorms such as we have had of late our lantern
soon becomes plastered up with snow on the weather side,
necessitating constant removal to prevent it from completely blinding
our light in that direction. This is an operation often accomplished
with difficulty, especially when carried out in the teeth of a gale—an
experience somewhat akin to lying out on a yardarm under similar
conditions, only one doesn’t have the lift and ’scend of the vessel to
contend with; yet his grip must be equally as sure, or, as the old salts
phrase it, “Every finger a fish-hook,” on such occasions. Mounting by
an outside ladder to the grated gallery which encircles the base of
the lantern, one is exposed to the full force of the blast, and a firm
grip must be taken to avoid being blown away. Below, the seas in
wild tumult break against the building with a deafening roar, sending
a perceptible tremor through the entire structure with each impact.
Only by energetically hauling on the hand-rail can the slightest
progress be made in the desired direction, the wind’s eye being the
objective point, where possibly on arrival one may find himself
pinned flat to the lantern, like an entomological specimen, by the
force of the wind. The snow removed, the return journey is effected
by simply allowing oneself to be blown gradually back.
While relieving the Bass Rock on our way ashore last relief, a
good opportunity was afforded of witnessing the mode of effecting a
landing under adverse circumstances. On arrival there, it was
considered dangerous to attempt a landing at either of the two
landing places, owing to the heavy sea then running. The landings—
a flight of concrete steps from the water edge to the rocks above—
are situated on either side of a slight promontory immediately
beneath the lighthouse; and as deep water obtains to the rock face,
it will be obvious that similar conditions must frequently prevail at
either landing. The boat being loaded with the necessary stores, and
the relieving keeper on board, an approach was made to within
suitable distance of the Rock. A kedge anchor was then thrown
overboard, and the boat slacked down till within working distance.
The keepers meanwhile had been busy erecting an iron pole or
derrick on the rocks above the position now occupied by the boat,
and which, being slightly inclined seawards, a tackle from its
extremity was drawn by means of a guy-line to the boat, and the
stores hoisted ashore by the keepers in charge of the tackle-fall
above. Seated in a loop of the rope, the relieving keeper was then
hoisted, and his shore-going neighbour similarly lowered. As an
extra precaution, a second boat was sent from the ship to stand by
the working boat in case of accident. Fortunately, however, their
services were not required.
Our final relief here for the year was effected with some difficulty
on the 29th. Owing to the doubtful aspect of the landing, only one
boat was sent ashore instead of two as usual. The fortnightly supply
of coal and water being omitted on this occasion does not, however,
inconvenience us, as a three months’ reserve stock of necessaries is
always maintained during the winter months.
JANUARY-FEBRUARY 1903.
Warm, sunny weather in the earlier part of the month raised our
hopes of a change of diet, and, coupled with the early appearance of
the paidlefish spawn, our expectations of an early fishing ran high.
On the 8th, the capture of three small cods in “Johnny Gray” track
increased our hopes, and again on the 9th, eight were taken, but
since then we’ve had no other. Cold, blowy weather, with heavy
seas, has rendered all attempts in this direction futile; however, the
attraction—as evidenced by the stomachs of those captured—still
increases, and numbers of bloated paidle “hens,” with their lower
jaws protruding like a prize bull-dog, are seen cruising sluggishly
among the tangles in quest of a suitable nesting place. The nests
this season are unusually small; sometimes they contain as much
ova as would fill a quart pot. Each ovum is a sixteenth of an inch in
diameter, and were all permitted to come to maturity—instead of
becoming food for other fishes as most do—would soon fill the sea
of themselves. “All nature is at one with rapine and war,” and
necessarily so, otherwise we would soon be crowded out of
existence.
Our winter residents, the eiders and longtails, have gradually
disappeared. On the 4th, a representative pair of each alone
remained, but these have now thought better of it and gone the way
of their more sensible comrades. A few gulls, herring, and kittiwakes
hover about, and guillemots and gannets are now common.
The gannets, I am informed by the keepers on the Bass Rock,
commenced laying there on the 11th. The solitary egg these birds
deposit is heavily coated with lime, which, when scrubbed off,
exposes a pale blue surface. This coating is probably the origin of
the fallacy that these birds ensure the safety of their eggs by
cementing them to the bare rock. On the contrary, each nest is
composed of quite a barrow-load of material of the most
miscellaneous description. One of these nests noted on the Bass
this season was seen to have the end of a soft-soap barrel for a
foundation, armfuls of withered grass, dried tangles, bits of rope,
string, cotton waste, and other flotsam and jetsam picked up about
the Rock. Amongst the lining of the nest, pheasant and partridge
feathers were seen, which were certainly not garnered on the Bass.
The harvesting of the withered grass was accomplished between
dark and daylight, and, therefore, unnoticed by the keepers, but the
area of their operations, as seen next day, suggested the presence
of a lawn mower. Thousands of these birds are slaughtered annually
by the St Kildians as an article of diet, and the wonder is, considering
the solitary egg deposited and that three years elapse before the
adult stage is reached, that they continue so numerous.
Dr Wallace, in his “Natural Selection,” speaking of birds in
general, tells us that, if permitted to live, in the ordinary course of
production “in fifteen years each pair of birds would have increased
to more than two thousand millions. Whereas we have no reason to
believe that the number of the birds of any country increases at all in
fifteen or in one hundred and fifty years. On the average, all above
one become food for hawks and kites, wild cats or weasels, or perish
of cold and hunger as winter comes on.”
Myriads of white whelks are now scattered over the Rock surface,
and already patches of mussels and acorn barnacles have been
cleared by their voracity. Their ova, which is to be met with in almost
every nook and cranny, is left to take care of itself. A patch of this
ova is situated in a position which a paidle-hen subsequently fancied
for a nursery, and, scorning all rights of possession, plastered her
ova indiscriminately over that of the whelks, with the result that they
are now under the special care of the guardian “cock.”
A stranded cuttlefish was an object of much interest one evening
this month. What a queer-looking object it appeared, with its eight
long tentacles squirming in all directions, its body a slobbery mass of
animated mucilage. Although only a foot in diameter it required some
force to detach it from the rock, as each of the tentacles is furnished
with rows of suckers on its under side. By extending the tentacles in
front, the animal was able to move along the Rock surface, not in a
jerky fashion, as might be expected, but with a continuous gliding
motion, clearly showing that each sucker acted independently of its
neighbour. If taken hold of, one or other of the tentacles is
immediately twisted round the hand with a tenacity that seems
surprising considering the size of the animal, and one can then
realise to some extent the stories occasionally heard of its giant
relatives of the tropics. Irritated, it appears to have the properties of
the chameleon, flushing through all the gradations of colour in quick
succession, and latterly discharging a jet of fluid of inky blackness.
This resource, however, was utterly useless in the present
circumstances, but, on placing the animal in a shallow pool of water,
its use was at once apparent, for on being touched it immediately
rendered itself invisible by the inky fluid discharged. Frequent
irritation, however, exhausted its stock of ink, and latterly only clear
water was expelled. This expulsion, when effected on the Rock, was
accompanied by an audible murmur. The narrow slits of eyes closely
resemble those of a dog-fish, and the head, with the anterior tentacle
elevated in the air, grotesquely reminds one of an elephant in the act
of trumpeting.
MAY 1903.
During the first few hours of this month our lantern was the centre
of a twittering throng of feathered migrants. Wheatears, rockpipits,
starlings, wrens, and robins fluttered erratically through the rays or
clamoured in their innocence against the glass, apparently desiring a
closer acquaintance with the source of light. Puffs of feathers floated
away on the easterly breeze as some unfortunate, less discreet than
his fellows, crashed against the invisible barrier. The coming dawn,
however, reveals to the survivors the absurdity of their position, and
ere the light is extinguished they have resumed their journey
shorewards. Frequent fogs occurred in the earlier part of the month,
and during the prevalence of a long spell a long-eared owl was
captured on the balcony and held prisoner for a week, during which
time various samples of our commissariat were offered for his
acceptance without avail. A luckless sparrow, the only one by the
way I have seen here, was then captured and placed at his disposal.
This proved more in his line of business, for on the morning after the
rump and tail feathers alone were left. Next day the indigestible
portions, feathers, etc., were cast up in the form of a compact ball.
Later a thrush was similarly offered, but after a couple of days in
each other’s company remained untouched. It was amusing to see
the spirited attitude assumed by the thrush when in the presence of
his natural foe. Screaming aggressively at the slightest movement of
the owl, he would lunge furiously in his direction, his bill all the while
snapping audibly. The fog having cleared somewhat, both were then
set at liberty.
Another very rare visitor seen here this month was a sheldrake,
which passed close overhead flying south. This is the first I have
seen here, but in Orkney these birds are very numerous and are
there known as the burrow duck, or sly-goose. Sly they certainly are,
as evidenced by a pair which nested regularly within a couple of
hundred yards of the lighthouse at which I was then stationed. A
covered drain was the site annually chosen, the nest being placed
several yards from the mouth, which opened out on a spacious
grassy hollow. The bright brown and white plumage, with vermilion
bill and feet, render these birds most conspicuous objects in an
ordinary landscape; but squatting on a shingly beach, where their
colours harmonise better with their surroundings, their presence is
less easily detected. Frequently I have watched their movements
with a telescope from the lantern, and though no one was stirring
within seeing distance of them, the greatest caution was always
exercised in approaching the nest. Lighting a hundred yards from the
nest, a pretence of feeding diligently was made, though their heads
could be seen frequently lifting in the direction from which intrusion
was to be expected. Gradually circling nearer the nest, passing and
repassing it with apparent indifference, till within a few feet of it they
would then suddenly vanish. The exact moment of their entrance I
was never able to note, as they appeared to assume an invisibility
during the remaining few feet of their journey that was really
astonishing, but which is less a matter of surprise when one has
witnessed the squatting in concealment of a hen pheasant on sparse
grassy ground. Burrow duck is a name applied to these birds from
their habit of nesting in disused rabbit burrows. I have counted as
many as forty young ones following a single pair, while others may
have only three or four juveniles in their train. It is said they do not
scruple to steal the young ones from each other. If alarmed while
feeding among the decaying seaware on the beach, some of the
parents will fly to meet the intruder and endeavour to divert his
attention in another direction, while the others fly seawards, followed
by their callow broods flapping their little wings, while their feet tip-tip
the surface—a veritable walking on the waters.
Just as the rocks were being overflowed the other day, we had a
visit of another bird which is but rarely seen here, namely, the oyster-
catcher. The plumage beautiful black and white, the feet and bill a
brilliant red; the latter, which is flattened vertically, suggestive of a
stick of sealing wax. Though fairly well acquainted with this species, I
never had the good fortune till now to see them in the rôle of limpet
pickers, by which name they are known in some localities. From the
balcony, with the aid of the telescope, his movements were brought
within a few feet of us. Wading an inch or so deep, where the limpets
were probably opening to the influence of the incoming tide, he
appeared to make a judicious selection; then, with a single sidelong
blow of his chisel-like bill, he turned the no doubt astonished mollusc
upside down. Seizing it in his bill, he carried it to a still dry portion of
the Rock, and in a twinkling he had the limpet out of its shell, and
journeying up his long bill to its doom. The tip of the upper mandible
appeared to do the scooping out, while the lower merely acted as a
resistance outside the shell, the operation being performed more
quickly than even the adroit oyster-man turns out his wares on the
half-shell. Though not web-footed nor in the habit of diving, I
remember seeing one of these birds, which had been winged with a
gun-shot, dive repeatedly in order to escape further injury.
On the afternoon of the 16th, two days earlier than last year, a
loud chorus of discordant voices floating to our bedroom windows
announced the presence of a large flock of terns—their first arrival
here since wintering in the sunny south. Screaming and diving, they
appear tireless in the pursuit of their prey, which, with the aid of the
telescope, is seen to consist of inch-long “fry.” How trim and neat
they appear as they cluster on the rocks as the tide recedes, pruning
their feathers and chattering vociferously; the head enshrouded in a
black, glossy skull-cap, the back and wings a bluish grey, the under
parts of unsullied white; the long sharp-pointed scarlet bill tipped with
black in harmony with the legs, and small webbed feet. This active
little bird is also called the Sea Swallow, an alias assumed from its
long narrow wings and forked tail.
The sea has been literally alive with large poddlies this month.
Morning and evening they can be seen “breaking” on the surface in
pursuit of “fry,” splashing loudly in their efforts. Though somewhat
averse to our lure, we generally manage to secure a breakfast. On
quiet, still days, good sized cod are seen prowling over the rocks;
and, though lines were set at low water, they were seen at high
water to pass the temptation with indifference. Fishermen aver that
all fish have times when the most tempting delicacy fails to attract
their attention; and possibly this is the case with those which have
been lately under our observation. Hermit crabs at present are seen
to be carrying spawn; and one which was removed from its shell was
seen to have the spawn so far advanced that, when placed in a
shallow pool, they released their attachment with the parent, and
began life as free swimmers. A small fish of the blenny species,
when taken from the crevice in which the tide had left it, was quite
dark coloured, but when placed in a pool was seen to adapt itself to
the colouring of the bottom on which it rested, assuming a mottled
grey scarcely distinguishable from the pool bottom.
Painters have been busy for the latter half of this month repainting
the outside of the building. Favoured with suitable weather, a
fortnight sufficed for the operation of donning the triennial coat,
which will explain the apparent proximity with which it has been lately
viewed from Arbroath.
JUNE-JULY 1903.