The distant light of ships

A lot of families have some sort of deeply entrenched tradition that just passes through the generations.

It could be something as simple as measuring the height of their children at regular intervals on the architrave of a door in the family home.

There could be a regular trip out to a tourist attraction or favourite natural feature, a fixed date on the wall calendar for a barbecue or picnic, meeting up with old friends at a specific location, attendance without fail at a Festival or other annual event and many other things in between which have a special meaning, happy or not so happy.

I know a family out on the coast who have a bit of a morbid and fatalistic tradition.

Theirs is the measuring of the distance between their house and the rapidly eroding clay cliff line.

Unfortunately , although not perceived as a livelihood threatening issue when the parents  bought the property some 40 years ago, they find themselves exposed to what is now the fastest eroding coastline in Europe.

The boulder clay forming the low slung cliffs, about 5 to 8 metres in height, just tends to slump and slip onto the beach or into the surf with alarming frequency and this has become significantly worse in the last few years as a direct consequence of seemingly irreversible climate change.

At the time of purchase back in the late 1970's there were two good field depths behind the detached farmhouse. The landed area and perceived remoteness of the place, although only two miles from a traditional seaside town, had been amongst many of the most attractive features that had elevated the property above the attributes of a good few on the "to view" list.

Moving from the South of the country with its considerably higher property values had enabled a cash purchase from the proceeds of the sale of a fairly ordinary, suburban semi within a 30 minute commuting distance of London.

The prospect of throwing off the modern manacles of a mortgage loan for good was another plus point in the upping of sticks and migration in a Northerly direction.

So, the deal was done.

At that time it was quite a nice activity of an evening for the parents to walk, romantically hand in  hand out of the back door, across the meadows  and stand on the cliff top gazing out to the distance horizon, beyond which was Denmark and Holland.

Any evening across the seasons would be suitable as there was always something to see.

In the winter months the twinkling light of a fishing boats or illuminations of a large freight carrying ship were a reassuring pinpoint in the darkness. Spring brought the high tides and the impact of waves at the foot of the cliffs would throw up cobbles and rocks into the air like an artillery barrage. That was seen as fun although quite dangerous if too close. Summer mornings and the emergence of the sun seemingly from the depths of the sea gave inspiration and the chance of soulful reflection. Autumn brought with it the strong storms from higher up in the Arctic which hastened the migrating flocks of birds to warmer climes.

As a bit of an activity with some educational merit  the new members of the growing family when at walking age were encouraged by Mum and Dad to start the practice of measuring from the back wall of the house to the cliff top.

Thus the tradition began.

Over the first few years there was a lot of arguing that the tape, a 100 metre retractable one left behind by someone working for the Electricity Board, was not deployed properly as the readings were never constant.

Granted, over two fields there was plenty of opportunity for the vinyl tape to become snagged on a fence post, strands of old barbed wire hidden in the grass or the inherited galvanised water trough from when livestock had been grazed there.

Pulling the tape tight often caused it to work lose from its nail fixing and no-one in the family group wanted to volunteer to go back and secure it.

In this way the first ominous crumblings of the clay cliff went unnoticed.

(to be continued)