Chapter II: Part 2

The extreme heat prevalent in the earlier part of this month was characterised by a number of unusual visitors but ill adapted for any lengthened sojourn here. Butterflies, bees, wasps, and moths innumerable were to be seen flitting about the rocks in the daytime and clinging to the lantern at night, numbers of them being drowned every time the rocks were submerged. Several daddy-longlegs and a single specimen of the beautiful painted butterfly were seen among the ill-fated host. Why they should have journeyed to such inhospitable quarters is not very apparent, but possibly the steady westerly wind then blowing was responsible for their presence here, and, finding themselves unable to stem the current, like many other unfortunates, they followed the line of least resistance--then, _Facilis descensus Averni_, and there you are! We have frequent glimpses at present of an exportation of which the statute-books take no cognisance. Quantities of thistledown are to be seen careering before the off-shore wind, probably with Norway for their future home. What a wonderful provision of Nature that enables these mute messengers of the fleeting summer to virtually wing their way to pastures new! suggestive in their silent flight of the

... whisper down the field,
Where the year has shot her yield,
And the ricks stand grey to the sun.

The sea in our vicinity is just now actually alive with shoals of immature fish, chiefly sand-eels, herring-fry, and what appears to us to be finger-long whitings. Incessant war is being continually waged upon them by the terns from above and the poddlies from below. Watch this particular shoal of “fry” as it swims with the current past our door; notice the orderliness which prevails amongst them, as of a disciplined army. But from below the poddlies have sighted them, and swift as light they are amongst them with a deadly rush. Completely disorganised, the “fry” scatter in every direction. Some seek shelter beneath the glassy domes of the passing jelly fishes; others, twisting and doubling like hares coursed by hounds, spurt spasmodically along the surface in their frantic endeavours to escape the enemies destined by nature for their destruction. The successful raiders are seen scurrying about, with their glistening prizes dangling from their mouths, dodging the thieving attacks of their less successful brethren in the foray. But suddenly a flash of bronze in the bright sunshine betokens the leap of the lordly lythe, as he in turn seizes his victim from amongst the attacking force and as quickly returns to his lurking-place among the luxuriant tangles. And so the war is waged, the strong preying upon the weak, right down the chain of life, till the unaided eye can but discern the destroyer alone. One is apt to experience a feeling of revulsion at the tactics pursued by the lythe in thus lurking concealed, while above him his prey sport in blissful ignorance of his presence. On the other hand, with what little compunction do we ourselves, by every available means, harry their numbers to supply our table, and a savoury dish they are at present; cooked when freshly caught they are simply delicious.

On Saturday the 10th we had a heavy thunderstorm; the lightning was extremely vivid, and appeared to zig-zag from the sea to the zenith, while the thunder, at first resembling the rippling discharge of small arms, gradually increased to the deep boom of heavy ordnance. The hitherto unbroken sea was threshed into white foam by the heaviest rain I have ever seen here. The poddlies, though busy amongst the “fry” at the time, would not deign to look at our “fly,” and, though we tried our best, we did not succeed in hooking a single one. A similar result is experienced during the operation of our explosive fog-signal. As an instance how fish of the same kind may differ, there is a circular pool on the Rock at low water, a couple of fathoms deep and about four fathoms in diameter, named Neill’s Pool, but which we have jocularly nicknamed “the hospital,” as the poddlies taken from there are, as a rule, extremely poor in flesh, often presenting queer abnormities. Some are twisted and deformed; others have constrictions upon their bodies, where at some period of their existence they had been almost cut in two by the snap of some larger fish, probably a lythe; others, again, have been taken with hooks embedded in their jaws and gills, and, though in the last stages of emaciation, do not apparently profit by their former experience. The full-grown lythe may be truly termed the poor man’s salmon, not from a food point of view--though in itself not to be despised--but as a source of sport. Equipped with a rod such as fishermen use who fish for a living, and for a lure preferably a fresh-water eel about six or seven inches long, skinned from the “busking” downwards, a struggle with one of these lusty fish imparts most of the pleasurable sensations of the salmon fisher. Possibly at the first cast your lure is flipped clean out of the water by a vanishing tail, denoting that his lordship has not quite made up his mind about your invitation. However, your next cast is almost sure to be followed by a swift rush, which carries him well out of the water, and your lure is off to the bottom and possibly your tackle along with it, for, despite your triple gut, unless great care is exercised in the first few mad rushes, there will be a dissolution of partnership. Easily fagged, once you succeed in getting his head above the surface, a little judicious towing will land your two-feet bronzed beauty at your feet.

_SEPTEMBER 1901._

The Rock has taken on quite a wintry appearance. The vegetation on the more exposed portions has entirely disappeared under the influence of the heavy seas experienced during the greater part of this month. The acorn barnacles with which the higher parts were encrusted are following suit owing to the ravages of the white whelk; the terns have deserted us, and, to complete the prospect, on the morning of the 19th we had the first visit of our winter boarders, the eider duck. A chip of rock covered with acorn barnacles becomes an interesting object when placed in the aquarium. Each conical shell is packed as close as possible to its neighbour, apex upwards. The apex is open, and fitted with a lid composed of four shells. Under water these lid-shells are seen to separate, and a bunch of “fingers” set on a stalk are thrust out, make a clutch, and are withdrawn. The “fingers” have extremely fine hair-like processes fixed at right angles to them, the whole forming a sort of net through which the water is filtered and the minute food-forms retained. It is interesting to know that although now fixed immovably to the rock these animals began life as free swimmers, and, strange to say, closely resembled the young crab. Another object we had under observation at the same time was one of the sea anemones, named the dahlia wartlet. A fleshy-looking disc studded with pieces of broken shell and sand, it appeared anything but attractive; but seen in the aquarium, the connection with its floral namesake was at once apparent. Unfolding itself from an orifice in the centre, as one would “flype” a stocking, rows of beautiful coloured tentacles were disclosed. These tentacles have the property of adhering to any object they come in contact with, and contain within themselves some wonderful mechanism. Placing a fly on the extremity of one of the tentacles, it was immediately held fast. The whole of the tentacles then curled inwards, carrying the fly with them, thus clearly showing their function.

The heavy easterly surf has deprived us for the present of our fishing, forcing the fish off the rock to deeper water. There are evidently plenty about, as the gannets are to be seen busy diving in the vicinity. It is extremely interesting to watch these birds pursuing their prey. Flitting near the surface, they enter the water at an angle of about twenty degrees; again, at a higher altitude, they drop like a plummet, describing an arc of bubbling foam from their entrance to where they emerge with a bounce a few feet further ahead, beating the water with their wings for several yards before being again fairly on the wing. The air cells pervading various parts of the body of a bird, and which contribute to its buoyancy, are probably vested in a greater degree in the gannet, an extremely large one being situated in front of the forked bone, or clavicles. Several instances are recorded where a bird which had its windpipe temporarily obstructed was able, by means of these cells, to carry on the function of respiration through the wing bone, the broken end of which protruded through the skin. The voluntary compression of these cells, by expelling the air, destroys the buoyancy of the bird, and explains the amazing rapidity of its descent. An objectionable method is practised in some places for the capture of these birds. A submerged piece of planking with a herring fixed to its upper surface is set adrift, or towed from a boat, in the vicinity of their fishing grounds. Swooping from an altitude, say, of a hundred feet, they apparently see but the herring alone, with the result that their necks are dislocated by impact with the plank, the impetus of their descent being sometimes so great as to bury their bills to the base in the wood. It is a common sight here, during the breeding season, to see these birds trooping past in Indian file to their home on the Bass Rock, in batches of a dozen or so, each preserving a regular distance from his neighbour. Though I have frequently watched them pursuing their vocation, I have never seen them bring their prey to the surface, nor could I say whether their dive was successful or not; but occasionally they emerge from their dive with a satisfied “honk,” which may be translated “got ’im.” Gifted with an insatiable appetite, they sometimes gorge themselves to such an extent as to be incapable of rising from the water, when they may be easily captured, as they make no attempt to dive. An instance of this was witnessed by a large crowd one Sunday, a few summers ago, in Arbroath Harbour. Some conception of the carrying capacity of these birds may be had when it is known that a sitting mother bird has been seen to insert her bill into the inviting mouth of her returned partner and deftly extract, one by one, as many as six full-grown herring.

A “false alarm” was occasioned at the end of last month by two cormorants or scarts appropriating the signal poles as a roosting-place. One of these poles is fixed on either side of the balcony, and projects horizontally. When a signal is made from the Rock, two-feet discs are suspended from them in pre-arranged positions. A wire stay from the balcony railing supports the extremity of each pole, and on this stay the birds were seated, one at the outer end, the other in the middle. Discs in this position, but pendant from the pole, by our code reads “Send boat,” and this the keeper on shore duty in Arbroath construed it to be and acted accordingly, with the result that we were somewhat alarmed by the appearance of the harbour tug about eleven the same evening. Our impression was that something serious had happened on shore, and that one of our number was urgently wanted. On the tug hailing us, and saying they had been sent out in response to signals shown from the Rock that afternoon, our minds reverted to the birds, and our fears set at rest. Considerable alarm prevailed amongst our families, and not until the tug returned with the news that “All was well on the Rock” were their fears allayed.

On the morning of the 27th the sea round the Rock was seen to be strewn with apples, a few dozen of which we managed to secure. Their presence here is a mystery, and we trust has no connection with the long spell of fog we have had. On the 24th we completed a fusillade of forty hours, a record run of fog.

_OCTOBER 1901._

The flock of eider ducks which keep us company through the winter increases daily, and now numbers over thirty. Swimming and diving amongst the breakers from daylight till dark, it is astonishing how they escape being smashed on the bare rocks. The receding wave may leave them almost stranded, and just as the incoming breaker is about to engulf them, they pop through its base and come up on the other side in a smother of foam. They are sometimes quite close to the tower, and then we have an interesting view of their proceedings. The diving of one is generally the signal for the remainder to follow, and the whole flock may be clearly seen, a couple of fathoms down, scurrying over the rocks in eager quest of the different dainties on their menu, consisting chiefly of small crabs. The capture of one of these crabs by no means ensures that it will ultimately contribute to the duck’s sustenance--this is not intended as a reflection on their digestive power, which appears equal to anything short of nails, considering the quantity of hard-shelled crabs they assimilate during a day’s fishing--for, on gaining the surface with his prize, he may be immediately assailed by the marauding gulls and compelled to dive with his prey. This may be repeated several times, until he reluctantly surrenders the succulent tit-bit, or is compelled to swallow it under water--a proceeding they are evidently averse to, otherwise the gulls would fare but poorly in their nefarious calling. The uncertainty of the crab’s final lodgment is again demonstrated in the case of the successful “blackmailer.” Hastily swallowing his booty to avoid being plundered in turn by his fellows, he is again on watch for the reappearance of his unwilling providers. But retribution occasionally overtakes the despoiler as it does his human prototype, with the difference that in default of imprisonment, he is mulcted in the contents of his stomach, the nemesis in this case being the dusky-coated skua or robber gull, who with his hawk-like flight easily heads him at every turn, and the chase terminates only when the contents of the stomach are disgorged, or the excrement voided, either of which is adroitly caught by this foul freebooter of the sea before it reaches the water.

A hazy moonless night, with a sou’-easterly breeze and drizzling rain--given these conditions, at this season of the year we have numerous visits of various birds, members of the autumnal migratory flight. Making straight for the light, they dash themselves against the heavy plate-glass of the lantern; many of them are thus killed and swept by the wind into the sea. Others, again, arrive with more caution, and though taken in the hand and thrown clear of the tower invariably return, and remain fluttering against the glass till daylight reveals to them the futility of their exertions in that direction. The most numerous of these visitors are the redwings and fieldfares, but blackbirds, larks, starlings, wheatears, finches, tits, etc., may be met with in the course of the season. It is somewhat startling, when on watch in the lightroom, to hear the thud with which they strike. The woodcock, owing to his rapid flight, strikes hardest of all, and the other extreme is met with in the smallest of our British birds, the tiny gold-crested wren, whose presence on the lantern is announced by a feeble tinkling sound, which a robust butterfly might easily imitate. The heavier birds do not always strike with impunity; instances have occurred where ducks have gone clean through the lantern to the derangement of the revolving gear of the light, the splintered glass bringing the machinery to a dead stop. An incident of this nature happened a few years ago at Turnberry Lighthouse, on the Ayrshire coast, the intruder in this case being a curlew or whaup. A storm-pane is considered a necessary adjunct to every lightroom, and is always held in readiness to be shipped in case of such emergency. At some shore stations it is customary on the approach of a favourable night, during the migratory period, to keep the cats indoors to prevent them mangling the expected catch. In one particular instance the birds collected of a morning filled an ordinary clothes-basket, and a few nights later included five wild geese, which were secured out of a large flock that came to grief on the dome.

An hour before daybreak on the 22nd it appeared as if we were about to suffer a bombardment, and that daylight was to witness the commencement of hostilities. No less than seven torpedo-boat destroyers were seen creeping close up to the Rock, their low black hulls scarcely discernible in the feeble light, and not until daylight disclosed the white ensign were we assured of their intentions. A little later they were joined by three gunboats and, after some clever manœuvring, formed into three lines, the gunboats occupying the centre. They then steamed away in the direction of the Firth of Forth. Two hours later other three gunboats passed us, going in the same direction, escorted by four destroyers, and followed shortly after by a solitary gunboat. Extremely interesting it was to witness the precision and dexterity of their movements as they swung into their respective positions for the advance, their semaphores all the while going like windmills. Again, on the 24th, about 11 a.m., a fleet of about a dozen battleships, headed by a dispatch boat, was seen moving in stately procession from the Tay, evidently bound for the Forth.

We have had several heliographic communications from our shore station in Arbroath during the month, and providing there is sunshine there is now no difficulty in transmitting messages to the Rock by this means. Four years ago the late Dr Russell, Arbroath, while on a professional visit to the shore station, for which he was medical attendant, witnessed our initial attempts in this direction, and, convinced of the feasibility of the method, urged upon us, in his characteristically vigorous style, the necessity for persevering in our attempts, at the same time predicting that it would ultimately prove successful. Little did we then dream it was soon to become the means of conveying the sorrowful intelligence of this estimable gentleman’s death.

_NOVEMBER 1901._

Boisterous weather prevailing for the greater part of this month, we have been closely confined to the house. Our connection with the amphibia being so extremely remote completely disqualifies us from enjoying our usual “constitutional,” the grating, even at low water, being occasionally swept by the heavy seas. Our winter boarders, the eider ducks, have been reinforced, on the morning of the 14th--somewhat later than usual--by the arrival of a flock of long-tailed ducks. These, with the eiders, will keep us company till April again calls their attention to domestic affairs. Our relief, which was due on the night of the 11th, was effected just in time; had it been delayed another day a “missed relief” would probably have been recorded. The morning after brought a severe north-easterly gale, which precluded all possibility of making a landing during the three succeeding days. That is usually the time allotted by the steamer in the attempt. Should she fail to make a landing on the third day, we are abandoned for another fortnight, minus the time engaged in the attempt. As our stock of fresh provisions is generally consumed by the time the relief is due, a missed relief means a fortnight’s _regime_ of “hard tack” and “beef embalmed,” of which during the winter months we have a three months’ reserve stock on hand in case of such emergencies. Fortunately, this is not of common occurrence; during the past six years but three reliefs have been missed, and only one in the preceding ten. This speaks much for the ability and skill of those concerned in the handling of the boats, for during the winter months the landings were until recently effected in darkness, and an exciting scene it was to see the two boats buffeting their way through the foaming channels, with jutting rocks so close on either side that an oar’s length deviation would entail serious disaster. A powerful searchlight has of recent years been added to the equipment of the relieving steamer, and is of much advantage in the guidance of the boats, though it has the peculiarity of grossly exaggerating the tempestuous appearance of the sea. The sea, which on the evening of the relief was comparatively calm, was the next day rolling down on us like a solid wall, and viewed from the balcony in all its magnificent grandeur what a puny, frail, unstable structure our habitation seemed in comparison. Each succeeding wave seemed imbued with the sole motive of accomplishing our destruction, and as they struck and sliced away on either side in two mighty crescents of hissing foam, blinded our kitchen windows seventy feet above the rock. Clashing together again to leeward with a roar, as if incensed at our stubborn resistance, they drive their way furiously along the remaining portion of the reef in foam-capped ridges, and where the cross seas meet them the spray is flung high in the air from their points of intersection. The appearance of the reef at this stage, as seen from our elevation, is of a number of rectangular enclosures, each about the size of an ordinary bowling-green, with well-defined walls, the whole under a heavy coating of snow, with each corner marked by a snow-laden tree. At high water--the sea having flowed about twelve or fifteen feet on the building by that time--the waves, generally unbroken, slip past harmlessly; an hour before or after high water is when we experience the heaviest shocks, for then the depth of water is such that the waves are arrested by the rock when close to the tower, and their whole volume flung violently against the building. The effect of such weather on the tower must be felt to be understood. The nearest description I can give of the seas striking is as if a log of wood were hurled by each sea, striking end on, and a short, sharp, tremulous motion--sufficient to rattle the crockery in the kitchen cupboard--is imparted to the tower by each impact. This tremor is more particularly felt when the gale subsides and the heavy swell sets in, for when the gale is at its height, the seas are so broken and tossed about that their assaults are but feeble in comparison with those of the long curly-headed combers of the after-swell. The bell-shaped formation of the base of the tower is admirably adapted for withstanding the assaults of the sea, and is built solid to a height of thirty feet, above which the seas never strike, though I have seen the spray carried right over our balcony, a hundred feet from the rock. That the building remains to all appearance as intact as when completed, almost a century ago, speaks volumes for the skill and ingenuity displayed in its erection. In weather such as I have described we are as completely cut off from outside assistance as though we were at the North Pole; indeed, it is doubtful if there is another situation--save similar ones, of course--where men could live so comfortable and unconcerned and yet remain for the time being so completely “ungetatable.”

_DECEMBER 1901._

As a consequence of the stormy weather which has been prevailing here of late, we have been visited by numerous “Travellers.” This may seem strange considering the inclemency of the season, but stranger still when it is known that our reception of them is fiercely hostile, and our duty only considered accomplished when we have completely annihilated them. Huge boulders of hard red sandstone, sometimes weighing over three tons; these are our “Travellers,” and their appearance on the Rock is at once resented and their speedy removal effected by blasting and hammering whenever the tide and weather permits. This is absolutely necessary, for if allowed to remain lying in the boat tracks they constitute a serious danger at relief times, besides the possibility of their carrying away portions of our cast-iron grating, which occasionally does happen in spite of all precautions. Where they come from is a mystery; ever since the tower was built they have been in evidence. Although composed of the same material, the Rock itself does not suffer any apparent diminution, nor can their original abode be located even at the lowest tides. Many of them carry a crop of seaweed and tangles, and have their angularities rubbed down and water-worn; none of them, however, bear any trace of recent detachment, but probably from their similarity of structure they at some remote period formed a part of the reef. They generally effect their entrance from the south side of the reef during the prevalence of a heavy ground swell. This side of the reef forms a steep declivity, sloping to 35 fathoms at a distance of ¾ mile, while at a similar distance on the north side the depth, though not exceeding 11 fathoms, presents a more precipitous barrier to these wanderers of the deep. A dull, rumbling noise, distinctly audible in the light room, announces their presence at the base of the tower, and at low water a dotted line of chips and abrasions marks their passage across the Rock to where they are again hurled to the depths. Others, again, may bring up in some sheltered corner, where, if not considered dangerous, they may remain a fixture for years.

An instance occurred recently where one was wheeled against our grating after occupying a safe position for many years. Those that take up positions in the boat tracks are of course assailed at the earliest opportunity, an operation which generally entails a bit of submarine mining on our part. The reef consists of hard, red sandstone, arranged in irregular layers, with a dip of 15 degrees towards the south-east and extends in a north-easterly and south-westerly direction, having an area of about 500 yards by 100 yards considered dangerous to shipping. The north-east end, on which the Lighthouse is built, is slightly higher, and has an area of about 140 yards by 70 yards, the highest portions of which do not exceed 10 feet above the lowest tides. The geological formation of the Bell Rock is similar to that of the Redhead, in Forfarshire, and can be traced northward through Rossshire, while in the opposite direction the shores of Berwick present the same features, and continues as far as Cumberland. Soundings prove the existence of a ridge or shallower part of the sea bottom extending a considerable way in these directions, and as the adjacent coasts present ample evidence of the sea having at some remote period in the world’s history occupied a much higher level, the theory that the Bell Rock did not always occupy the isolated position it now does, but stretched continuously from the Red Head to Berwick, damming the waters of the Forth and Tay, appears highly tenable. Possibly our present day “Travellers” are, through some great seismic disturbance, wandering evidences supporting this theory.

An item of interest to Arbroath Freemasons is the laying of the foundation stone of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, on the 10th July 1808, with Masonic honours, by the builder, Robert Stevenson, who, in his own words, applied the square, the level, and the mallet, and pronounced the following benediction:--“May the Great Architect of the Universe complete and bless this building,” on which three hearty cheers were given and success to the future operations was drunk with the greatest enthusiasm. Another interesting feature of that period was the existence of the “Pressgang,” which, owing to our war with the Northern Powers, was considered necessary. Centres were established at Dundee, Aberdeen, and Arbroath, and were the means of rendering the Lighthouse operations popular with seamen, as they stood protected from impressment while in that employment. Prior to this there was a tendency among seamen to shun the works on account of the hazardous nature of the undertaking. As the impress officers were exceedingly active in their duty, it was found necessary to furnish each seaman engaged in the operations at the Rock with a “ticket,” descriptive of his person, to which was attached a silver medal, emblematical of the Lighthouse Service. On one side of the medal was a figure of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, and on the other the word “Medal,” referring to the Admiralty protection, and a description of the person by the engineer. One of these medals is at present in possession of an Arbroath gentleman, and is said to be the only one in existence. The following is a copy of one of the “tickets,” taken from “Stevenson’s Bell Rock Lighthouse”:--

BELL ROCK WORKYARD,
Arbroath, 31st March 1808.

“John Pratt, seaman, in the service of the Honourable the
Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses, aged 35 years,
5 feet 8 inches high, black complexion, and slightly marked
with the smallpox.”

(Signed) ROBERT STEVENSON,
Engineer for Northern Lighthouses.

_Obverse._

“The Bearer, John Pratt, is serving on board of the ‘Sir
Joseph Banks’ tender and craft, employed at the erection of
the Bell Rock Lighthouse.”

The signature of the Master of the tender.

(Signed) DAVID TAYLOR.
The signature of the bearer (Signed) JOHN PRATT.

Notwithstanding these precautions, so rigorous were the impress officers that they actually pressed a Bell Rock seaman named George Dall, while on a visit to some friends near Dundee, in July 1810, and this despite the fact of his having the protection medal and ticket in his possession. These proofs the officer chose to ignore, holding that a seaman only stood protected on board the ship to which the Admiralty protection had been granted, or in a boat belonging to the ship. This was absurd, as it was impossible for each man to carry the ship’s protection with him. However, Dall was kept a prisoner, and only on the representations of the Lighthouse Commissioners did the Dundee Magistrates order his release.

_JANUARY 1902._

A ramble round the rocks at low water just now discloses a scene of bareness quite in keeping with the season of the year. The upper surface of the higher lying rocks is as bare as a street pavement, and only an occasional patch of acorn barnacles remains of the encrustation with which they were invested during the summer. The white whelk, so much in evidence here, have all gone into winter quarters, and underneath projecting ledges and in sheltered nooks they may be seen in myriads, their position being so judiciously chosen as to be completely protected from the heavy north-east seas. So closely are they wedged together that were a given space to be cleared it would be found almost impossible to replace them in the same area. Detaching one from its anchorage, it seems quite dormant and inert, and appears to have lost the alacrity with which, in summer, they withdraw themselves into their shells, and only with apparent difficulty is the operculum or door of their domicile closed against intruders. To witness the continual thumping and pounding to which the Rock is subjected during the winter, one is surprised to find that life in any form should continue to exist under such conditions. A close search reveals exceedingly minute forms of life. Here in this stony basin, originally but a shallow depression in which a stone had lodged, and by the swirling action of the seas converted to its present shape, with its sediment of broken shells, is a small crab, so small indeed that a split pea might easily conceal him. He is not a youngster either, but fully adult, in proof of which we have frequently found them, in the proper season, with their spawn attached. Deep in his little pit he seems quite immune from the furious seas that tumble overhead as the tide makes. Numbers of small white-banded whelks, which one may easily crush between the fingers, maintain their position on the base of the tower, despite the constant swirl of waters, though they may be detached with a flick of the finger.

Vegetation now exists only at low-water mark; above that, broken tangle roots, or, to be more correct, the claspers are seen still adhering to the rocks, the tangles themselves having been shorn clean from their moorings. Away towards the south-west, in the deeper water, a boat may float among whole groves of storm-torn tangles as they flaunt their tattered banners in the frosty sunlight, suggestive of leafless trees in a winter landscape. Over the recently emptied contents of the cook’s slop-pail a flock of gulls are circling and screaming, actually hustling each other in their attempts to capture anything edible. A solitary “black-back” is seen amongst the noisy crowd, and as he swoops at some tempting morsel, his black, beady eye watches our every movement with suspicion. What a handsome bird he is as he swings past within a few feet of us, the back and wings presenting a dead black appearance in startling contrast with the immaculate whiteness of the fan-shaped tail and the remainder of the body. Despite his handsome appearance, he is a veritable vulture, and nothing comes amiss to him in the way of food, be it fish, flesh or fowl. Frequently I have seen them make a meal of a wounded duck, and once witnessed in Orkney a tug-of-war between two of them for the possession of a dead lamb, resulting, thanks to its decomposed state, in an equal division.

More gruesome meals are credited to them by those who have witnessed their proceedings on a wreck strewn shore where loss of life had been involved. A terror also on the grouse moors, they devour both eggs and young, and even the sitting grouse herself is not safe from him. One can scarcely credit such a sweeping indictment against this handsome bird, but the proofs are all too plain. Consequently we find him outside the pale of the Wild Birds Protection Act, an Ishmael among his kind, whom any man may slay when and wherever found. Except when harrying the eider ducks of their legitimate spoil, he may be seen riding gracefully, head to wind, in front of our kitchen window, with his weather eye always lifting in our direction. A hand thrust from the window is sufficient invitation, he is up at once, and the smallest morsel tossing among the foaming breakers does not escape his keen eye. How gracefully he floats back to his former position, lighting on the surface like a fleck of foam. What a contrast to the eiders, who, when changing their fishing ground, wing their way with such rapid wing beats as to give one the impression that they are barely able to support themselves, and finally strike the water with an awkward splash, reminding one of the somewhat inelegant term with which boys designate a bad dive--a “gutser.” Should a flock of eiders be fishing to leeward of the tower, an amusing sight may be witnessed if advantage be taken, while they are under water, of pouring a little paraffin oil from the balcony, so that it will drift in their direction. No sooner does the head of the first emerge in the greasy track of the oil than he is conscious of something unusual having taken place. Flippering hither and thither with outstretched neck, he becomes quite excited, and each as he bounces to the surface joins in the commotion, frequently colliding with each other. Finally, with loud cacklings, the whole flock takes wing, evidently in high dudgeon at the insult offered to their olfactory organs.

Sea pheasant is the name by which the long tailed duck is known in some localities, and as we watch a flock of them crossing the reef in full flight the synonym is at once apparent. In style of flight and shape, to the long tail feathers, they are similar to the pheasant, but only half the size, with beautiful plumage of black and white. Here they are known as “candlewicks,” their call notes needing but little stretch of the imagination to be rendered “Here’s a candlewick,” repeated several times in shrill falsetto, which on a quiet day becomes somewhat annoying as it clamorously floats through our bedroom window. Some queer visitors we have here at times in the way of birds. Once we captured a large owl dosing sleepily in one of our windows. During the week of his captivity he would not deign to partake of any food we offered him. Coming off watch one night I took one of a flock of larks which were making suicidal attempts to pierce the plate glass of the lantern. Placing it in the room where the owl was roosting, it fluttered to the window, when, like a flash of lightning and equally as noiseless, from the other side of the room the owl came crash against the glass, a few feathers later on testifying his appreciation of this form of dietary.

_FEBRUARY 1902._

Piercing cold weather here of late, with a good deal of frost and occasional snow showers. No matter how heavy the snowfall may be here we only see it falling, as it does not lie long round _our_ doors, and only when our gaze is directed Arbroathwards--which, you may be sure, is not seldom--are we reminded of its occurrence. The close of last month saw our barometer taxed to its utmost intelligence, and though a tenth higher would have seen its limit, nothing of a phenomenal nature was noted. The solan geese or gannets, which are pretty much in evidence here during the breeding season, foraging for their families on the Bass Rock, gradually disappeared, till during the month of November not one was to be seen. A solitary one was seen in the first week of December, and since then the number sighted has gradually increased, till in the middle of the present month, as many as eight in one string were counted winging their way southward. The Bass Rock, Ailsa Craig, and the outlying stacks of lonely St Kilda, are said to be the only breeding places of these birds in Scotland. At the beginning of the past century they were considered a dainty article of food by the Edinburgh gentry, and the Bass Rock was rented for the purpose of supplying the market, the birds selling at the rate of half-a-crown a-piece. I have seen it stated that the _modus operandi_ of these birds when engaged in fishing is to flit along the surface till fish are sighted, when they rise to a high altitude, close their wings, and drop hawk-like on their prey. This, I venture to think, is scarcely correct. My experience is that when flitting near the surface if fish are sighted they are invariably struck at without rising to a higher elevation. It is a well known fact that objects under water are more easily distinguished from a height than from near the surface, so that it may be taken for granted that the higher these birds are flying when in pursuit of prey the deeper the fish are swimming. Again, when diving from a high altitude, the wings are kept rigidly outspread, and as the tail is never seen spread rudder-like, as in the case of the hawk, any deviation from their line of descent is controlled by the long narrow wings, and only when nearing the “plunge” are they partially closed.

For the past fortnight we have had the company of a solitary seal. His fishing does not seem to be very successful, either in quantity or quality, as the only catch we have seen him negotiating was a saithe the length of a man’s forearm. Playing with it as a cat would a mouse, he would allow it to swim feebly for some distance, then diving he would bring it to the surface, till latterly, with a toss of his head and a thrust with his fore flipper, he quite disembowelled it, an act of charity which the screaming gulls were not slow to appreciate. Although so long here he has not been seen to rest on the rocks; indeed, I only once saw one ashore here, and as we had a somewhat amusing experience with him it will perhaps bear relating. For several days it was seen, as the tide fell, to rest in one particular place a few yards from the base of the tower. Our outer door opens outwards, and is always closed at night, not that we are afraid of burglars, but merely to prevent the entrance of the seas, and for our own general comfort. The opening of this door always alarmed the seal, and sent him into the water _instanter_. Dropping a line from the balcony at low water, we made the end of it fast within a few feet of his accustomed resting place. Next day, as the tide fell and the rocks began to appear, he was seen to take up his former position, yawning lazily as he rolled from side to side in the sunshine. Fixing a four ounce charge of tonite to our electric cable, we quietly lowered it down the line we had already made fast till within about six feet from where he lay, apparently in blissful ignorance of what was happening overhead. When yawning at his widest, we, by means of our magneto-exploder, fired the charge, and, well--he stopped yawning and went away! and his going was about the smartest thing I ever witnessed. The force of the explosion, being unconfined, merely tilted him on his side, but quickly recovering himself he flopped into the water and shot seaward through the gully like a flash, a black line under water denoting his course. Rounding the outer end of the gully, he doubled back on the outside of the reef, and when opposite his original position, made his appearance on the surface, a very much startled seal. His aspect was quite comical as he stood, so to speak, on his tip-toes evidently investigating the cause of his hurried departure.

Several schools of porpoises have been seen this month, presumably in pursuit of herring. To anyone who has seen these animals gambolling in front of a ship’s bows when travelling at her best, the ease with which they maintain their distance is a matter of surprise--always on the point of being run down, but ever ahead, snorting playfully as if in derision at the possibility of their being overtaken by their lumbering follower. Off the island of Anticosta, in the Gulf of St Lawrence--where these animals attain a size several times larger than those of our home waters, and are of a cream colour--I had an interesting view of their manner of suckling their young. I have seen it stated that the mother by muscular compression expels the nutritive fluid, which is absorbed by the young one as it floats to the surface. The operation appeared to me to be one of actual contact. The young one--which, by the way, is of a slatey-blue colour--snuggling as close as possible to the mother as she lay somewhat on her side on the surface, all the while exhibiting the tenderest solicitude for her offspring. Truly the one touch of nature which makes the whole world kin. It is surprising to learn the evolution these animals have undergone in order to accommodate themselves to their altered circumstances. Land-dwellers at one stage of the world’s history, but acquiring a taste for fish, they gradually became aquatic in their habits, dispensing with such portions of their anatomy as were no longer necessary, while developing others more appropriate to their new sphere of existence, till, like their big brother the whale, from being a four-footed animal they became quite fish like in appearance, even to the cultivation of a dorsal fin, though still possessing rudimentary traces of their former construction. Change is apparent on every hand in the plan of nature; ages were necessary for the evolution of our present day horse from his five toed ancestors; and after all it does not seem so very startling when the transformation is enacted before our very eyes in a few short stages, as in the case of the common frog, from the gill breathing tadpole to the lung breathing adult. More startling it is to learn that man himself was at one time a gill breather, and, as biologists affirm, still exhibits traces of gill clefts at one stage of his embryonic development.

_MARCH 1902._

Signs of uneasiness and unrest are now apparent amongst our winter boarders, the eiders and long-tailed ducks. Taking wing on the slightest provocation, they wheel aimlessly round the Rock, and instead of their usual steady persistence in diving for a living, they seem quite discontented with their lot, and plainly making up their minds to desert us for the summer. Advances by the males are as yet met with scornful rebuffs by their less showy plumaged partners, but soon a mutual understanding will be arrived at, and before the month closes they will have gone house-hunting, eiders possibly to the Isle of May, while the long-tails, being migratory, seek their homes in the frozen North. It seems a strange anomaly that the less robust looking longtail should choose such rigorous latitudes for the rearing of its brood, while the sturdy “dunter,” swathed in his arctic coat, should elect to stay at home. On the other hand, we have been visited on hazy nights by numbers of larks and thrushes returning to our shores, after wintering in “Norroway ower the faem.” These members of the spring migratory movement often come to grief on our lantern, and when one considers the number of lighthouses round our coasts, it will be understood that the death-roll from this cause alone must be extremely high. Designed to save life, we unwittingly lure our feathered friends to their destruction.

A couple of seals have been sporting round our door of late, and they also exhibit signs of exuberance in keeping with the season. At high water they come quite close to the tower, and their antics are seen to advantage from our balcony. Rolling over each other, they make for the bottom, gliding along the rocks like hounds hunting in couples; then with a rush they are on the surface, floating bolt upright, with their muzzles almost touching, staring with their large, expressive eyes into each other’s face. An almost human touch was given to their play by one taking the head of the other between his fore-flippers, as if about to salute him, or more likely her, in the orthodox fashion. One was seen the other morning in possession of a large fish, while a number of gulls sat at a safe distance round him, waiting for the fragments when the feast should begin. By the way he glared at them, he was evidently annoyed at their presence. Sinking for a few seconds, he appeared on the surface minus the fish. This was evidently intended as a ruse, and meant to imply that he had lost it; but the gulls seemed to know better, and kept their position. Diving, he made his appearance some distance off, this time with the fish in his mouth, only to find himself, to his annoyance, again the centre of wistful expectations. Presuming these gulls to be up-to-date birds, their exulting cacklings might be literally rendered--“You better begin, Mister Phoca; it’s no use trying, you know; you can’t possibly dewett us!” At least, the seal seemed to think so, for he there and then opened the banquet with a rip of his teeth that distributed the offal amongst the hungry cordon.

The rocks become at this season of the year invested with a slippery coating of algæ, which renders it extremely difficult to maintain one’s footing, and also necessitates repeated applications of hot lime to our gratings in order to render them passable. Myriads of minute whelks, no larger than turnip seed, strew the rocks and crunch under foot as we walk, while great patches of mussel spawn delight the heart of the more venturesome of the white whelks--a prospecting party who will doubtless communicate the promising state of the commissariat to their fellows still in winter quarters.

Fishing in the Rock pools has been tried for the first time this season, and resulted in the capture of a solitary “cobbler.” It may be a month hence before we meet with any success.

This month has been extremely mild, though the hills behind Arbroath are still seen to carry portions of their winter coat, while the higher ranges inland are completely snow-capped. On a clear day our view is limited by Tod Head, about twenty-five miles to the north, and St Abb’s Head thirty miles south of us. The coast-line presents a uniform flatness, which becomes monotonous in comparison with the more picturesque raggedness of the West Coast. A most conspicuous feature in the landscape in the vicinity of Arbroath is the clump of trees on the summit of the Law Hill--a landmark well known to navigators, and easily discernible, as it stands sharply defined against the sky-line. Arbroath, when not enveloped in smoke, is clearly seen, and with the aid of our telescope the after-church promenaders can be distinguished on the Protection Wall, or wending their way towards the Victoria Park.

_APRIL 1902._

The extremely low tides prevalent at the opening of the month enabled us to extend our hunting grounds somewhat further than usual, and also to reach and demolish several “travellers” which the heavy seas had hurled into the boat tracks, thus constituting a serious danger at relief times. Quite a forest of luxuriant tangles now cover the lower lying portion of the reef. Their dripping blades appear on the surface, scintillating in the brilliant sunshine like so many diamonds, till the receding tide permits the warm sun to rob them of their freshness, their beauty vanishing in a perceptible vapour, leaving them flaccid and inert till the returning tide restores their pristine beauty. The badderlock or henware is here also in great profusion, and usually selects a position the reverse of peaceful, being generally found where the wash of the seas is most constant. Of rapid growth, they attain a great length, some measuring fully sixteen feet; one we had under observation was seen to increase a foot in length in six weeks time. Owing to hazy weather we had a number of compulsory visitors to dinner yesterday. Seated outside our kitchen window was a party of fog-bound travellers, consisting of a pigeon, a starling, a wagtail, a robin, and a couple of wheatears. The starling was sitting bunched up by himself, preserving a stolid indifference at his enforced detention, and appeared to treat the animated expansion and flirting of the wheatears’ tails as undue levity, unbecoming their sorrowful predicament. The beautiful black-throated wagtail is all alertness, and the slightest movement on our part sends him circling round the Rock till, unable to sight the land, he is fain to regain his resting place. The pigeon has been here a week now, and evidently has no intention of leaving. Should the window be left open he makes bold enough to enter, although but the other day he gave us a somewhat dramatic illustration of the proverbial hen on the hot “griddle” by rehearsing a fandango on the top of our cooking range, a position from which he had to be forcibly removed. To-day, the 21st, he has been joined by a companion of his own species, a red-chequered homer; but instead of the mutual demonstrations of pleasure one would expect to witness at their meeting in such isolation, they remained quite indifferent to each other’s presence, the newcomer possibly from motives of disdain, as he appears to belong to the aristocracy, seeing he sports an aluminium bracelet, on which are the letters “U.B.” and the year 1901, besides a number composed of three figures, which, unfortunately, I took no note of. A strong southerly breeze on the 22nd deprived us of their company. Losing the shelter of the tower, they were unable to make headway against the wind, and, fortunately for themselves, were driven landwards.

On the 20th a small patch of paidle-fish spawn was seen cemented in a sheltered nook of the rocks. This is unusually early for nesting operations, as it is generally May before they are much in evidence here. The extremely small quantity may denote a change of mind on the part of the depositor; besides, the site is badly chosen, as the nest is a couple of feet above low water, and consequently without the cock’s guardianship for some time each tide. Possibly the heavy seas prevalent during the past fortnight may have warned the builder of being somewhat premature in her operations.