After a great evening (watching Django unchained) and a late finish, it was hard to drag myself from the pit on a rare flexi-day. Of course, that's what flexi days are for - snuggling up under a warm duvet but traditionally I always organise something that means these pleasures will have to wait until I have reached pension age (86 at current estimates).
So the early morning sun greets me a Cresswell, togged up in foul weather gear for the Big Sea Survey Bioblitz at Cresswell. A beautiful and warm morning, we gather (all three of us, Anne, myself and ably led by Dr. H) - prospects look intriguing.
However, we arrive at the shore and ....OMG..... where has Cresswell beach gone?
The steps are fully revealed, and a long section of WWII tank traps sit proudly on the high tide line, still uttering defiance at those Jerry schemers. There is virtually no sand and the bed rock shows through, so much so that we thought the outfall pipe had been renewed, so fresh was the concrete on the usually encrusted structure. (Sorry Northumbrian Water, by the way, you haven't done this covertly as we feared).
Add to this that the tide is slow to fall because of a "fresh" northerly wind and this is turning into a morning of surprises.
Our first quadrat is thrown down on the limpet and wrack covered rocks, beyond the end of the outfall and into the middle of the outgoing (?) tide. Amid the calls of curlew, turnstone and redshanks, groups of knot huddle behind any potential cover, look at us wearily, too cold to feed. Once out there we know exactly why - its is bitterly cold, blowing a hoolie and, as a result, damn scary.
So, one quadrat is enough - we wend our way back across, the first abandonment of a survey. Not because of the cold but because the wind looks like it may maroon us out there and the lack of sand means this area is deep and unknown.
|Rommel treats the lads to a cornet from Cresswell Ices|