7 to 12: 36 Views of Coquet Island
View Seven: Antony Beal and his painting Puffin Cruise
In this jaunty and exuberant painting, reminiscent of Alfred Wallis, Antony captures the sheer fun of a boat trip around the island.
View Eight: Greg Freeman and his poem Puffins at Coquet Island
Continuing the puffin cruise theme, here’s Greg’s memory of one particular voyage.
PUFFINS AT COQUET ISLAND
Partygoers reluctant to depart.
Last stragglers of the colony line
the turf below the lighthouse.
The engine’s cut; August
wind chills faces. Some still
clump in, puttering outboard
motors frantically clattering
over us and terns on the rocks.
Wintering on the ocean,
returning with sand eel cargos.
The chicks spend years at sea.
What makes us think of them
as doleful, painted clowns,
our island trip an end-of-pier show?
You’re lucky to see them, the boatman says.
By rights they should be gone.This poem has also been published on The Beach Hut. Greg can be found on Facebook here.
View Nine: Dorothy Lamb and The Lighthouse Keeper’s Children
Dorothy has lived in Amble for many years and shared this special memory of the lighthouse keeper’s children, who lived in the town.
Thanks to Phil Rowland for editing this conversation.
View Ten: Angie Hodges and her painting View
Angie is intrigued by the almost calligraphic line of the island and evokes its mysterious floating presence in this delicate watercolour.
Angie can be contacted via email: angelskeep@ hotmail.co.uk
View Eleven: the extraordinary Visions of St Henry of Coquet
A saint who spent solitary time on the island was St Henry of Coquet in the beginning of the twelfth century. A Dane of noble birth, he is said to have been directed by a vision to make good his escape from a marriage his parents were endeavouring to force upon him, and to serve God all his days as a hermit on the island. Like St Cuthbert, he was credited with second sight. One day, as some merchant ships were sailing smoothly past the island, he said to some of the numerous visitors hermits ironically attract: ‘Do you not see someone following those ships?’ They then perceived the figure of a woman gliding on the sea. ‘That woman will presently strike the sea and raise a storm that will engulf those vessels and most of their crews.’ Before long came the news that the ships had indeed been driven on to the rocks, nearly all hands being lost.
Adapted from the Amble and District Local History website.
View Twelve: George Martin and his prose memoir COQUET ISLAND – Reflections of an Ambleite
George was born and bred in Amble and has vivid memories of family visits to the island before it became a protected bird sanctuary.
Being brought up in Amble, Coquet Island was an ever present feature. During the day it commanded the outlook to the North Sea and during the nights the Coquet Light would flash, red across the sky. And, when it was foggy, the Coquet Gun would regularly boom out as a warning to shipping, and to disturb the sleep of visitors – we just got used to it.
At times the island looked so inviting with its green surface fronted by the stretch of clean white sand on the small beach facing the land. When the sea and sky combine in a certain shade it appears as if the island is floating on air.
The Island has always impressed me with its presence, particularly when you approach Amble from further north. You are navigating the winding road from Alnwick when you reach the brow of one of the hills and suddenly you are presented with a sighting of Coquet Island. This first impression is as if a huge aircraft carrier is floating immediately to the east of Amble! Then you realise, no that is an island - but it could be an aircraft carrier, if I want it to be.
As a child in the 1950s we were permanently playing on the shores of Amble (The Little Shore. The Jumpy Shore, The Big Shore, The First Shore, The Second Shore and the Third Shore then you were onto Hauxley Shore (pronounced HAXLEY if you were local).
An occasional special day out was a family picnic on Coquet Island. Strictly not allowed nowadays since the island became a protected bird sanctuary. Back in those days regular boat trips were made to man the Lighthouse and take provisions to the Lighthouse Keepers. Relatives of ours were fishermen and occasionally they would take some of the family over to the island for an afternoon. Mams loaded up baskets with food, drinks and whatever else Mams took to picnics. We kids felt great that we were heading for a special place for the day, it was different and quite peaceful, and no Toonies (caravanners or day-trippers).
We played on the island having been warned not to go anywhere near any seals that might be lying around –“ they’ll bite your leg off”.
I remember most the spongy or sinking grassland. The land was undermined with hundreds of burrows from rabbits as well as puffin burrows so every step you took the land seemed to sink away from you. The white sandy beach on the strip facing the mainland always seemed so very clean and white, almost like sugar. The big rocky beach on the eastern side was home to seals lying around and howling – wide berth.
On the southern edge of the island were some wooden frames on which were fastened metal panels painted with different colours or types of paint. These were monitored over years to check how the paints coped with the weather of the North Sea.
There were loads of birds, of course but I know we never picnicked while the chicks were in nests because you would be constantly dive bombed by birds to chase people away from their nests.
It was a great treat to spend a day on the island – it was a site of enjoyment to us.
Part 2 of George’s memoir, which includes a tablecloth, coble and sea rescue, follows soon.
It has been a pleasure to exhibit these six views this week. We hope you have continued to enjoy them. Another six will follow next weekend. If you haven’t already subscribed, please consider doing so (it’s free!) and share this artistic collaboration with others.
This is such a wonderful project 💕🎉
Every week you manage to let me see long forgotten memories of my youth. Wonderful writing.