'Twas a dark and stormy night in the winter of 1873... so goes the beginning of a long-winded, repetitive tale I used to recite with friends back in the 1970s. In our cups, naturally.
In real life it was a night of gale-force snow and sleet in March 1897.
The SS Nornen was a barque, that is, a type of three-masted sailing ship laden with sails - a small mast with triangular sails at the rear, and forward of that main and fore masts with big rectangular sails. There would also have been additional triangular sails attached to the front bowsprit as well. I am not attempting to use the precise terms, nor indicate where or how the sails were attached. If you are interested, this website page gives a most useful run-down of the various types of sailing ship and how they were rigged, and makes it all very clear: https://wrecksite.eu/docBrowser.aspx?3598?3?18.
Suffice it to say that the Nornen had a lot of sails, and the crew had much to do.
She was built in France in 1876, and was therefore twenty-one years old when wrecked. Her owners at the time were Norwegian - as was her captain, by name of Olsen. There was a crew of ten (which to me hardly seems enough). The cargo was resin and turpentine, presumably in barrels.
The ship was caught in a ferocious storm in the Bristol Channel. The captain would have sent the hands aloft to tightly furl the ship's sails, let out the anchors, and then attempt to ride out the storm. In this case, to no avail. The gale that blew that March night was much too powerful. The Nornen's anchors dragged, and she was forced inexorably towards Berrow on the Somerset coast. The Burnham-on-Sea lifeboat arrived just in time to take the crew off before the ship ran aground on the Berrow sands, to be relentlessly pounded by the sea and eventually broken. She was declared a wreck, and left there.
And she is still stuck in the sands at Berrow.
I'd got to hear about the Nornen during a visit to Burnham-on-Sea, in conversation with a man out with his family on the beach. He urged me to go and see the wreck. So I did so, on 25th October.
I'd driven through Berrow before, but never stopped, and had never seen the beach there. So I was very inclined to take that man's advice, merely to see a new section of the Somerset coast. As it happens, Berrow was currently in the news in connection with a local murder the previous February, and the court case was going on at the time of my visit. But that had nothing to do with my going there. I wanted to see what was left of the Nornen.
Parking Fiona at the church, I set off across the golf course and then through the dunes, coming out onto a seemingly vast expanse of sandy beach.
Despite the grey sky, it was sunny. But very windy, as this shot makes clear.
I knew roughly where the wreck must be, and started walking across the sand, heading diagonally seawards. I wasn't fooled by the look of the beach. The 'proper' sand would soon peter out, to be replaced by a thin layer of sand over mud, and then finally real gooey grey mud. I was doubtful about being able to approach the wreck closely. Indeed, there were official signs warning you of the danger of trying.
My main goal was to get some good photos near to the Nornen, but not necessarily right up close. So impassable mud in the last few yards wouldn't thwart me. Even so, I trod with care from the start. Surprisingly, however, the sand remained perfectly firm.
I soon spied something that could be the wreck. I gradually got closer.
I was placing my feet very carefully now. The 'sand' was wet, and the next step could see me ankle-deep in mud if I didn't watch out. I wasn't alone. Coming towards the wreck from the opposite direction were two girls. I didn't begrudge them the chance of bagging some nice shots, but I hoped they'd wait until I'd got my own first. Thankfully, they came to a halt a hundred yards off, and didn't spoil my pictures in any way. But I soon became aware that a man had been following me to the wreck, and he approached within talking distance just as I began to assess what shooting positions looked possible. He seemed OK, and had a camera, so we got talking.
His name was Alan. He was up from Cornwall for the day, and he was giving an evening class in Bristol later on. But for now he wanted some moody pictures of the wreck, and had brought a rucksack full of camera gear, also a tripod. He was clearly a craftsman where photography was concerned. I hoped he considered me just as serious in my own way, as I had only my fixed-lens Lili. However, I'm pretty certain he realised that my camera was a Leica, and that I was composing my happy snaps with proper deliberation. But it was still very good of him to stand around and keep out of my shots until I'd got what I wanted.
He assured me that the light was presently a little too bright for his purpose, and he was happy to stand around a bit while we chatted.
Once I was done, he made his own survey of the wreck, and almost immediately sunk halfway up his wellies in mud.
And my goodness, he found it hard to pull his in-deepest boot out! I watched with some concern. He slowly managed it, his foot almost coming out of the boot in the process. He did at least keep his balance and stay upright. Having retreated a few feet onto sand again, he was rueful about what had happened. I knew exactly how it must have felt, to be in the grip of that mud. I told him of a similar experience I'd had in 2014 when alone in the dusk at Hilbre Island, off The Wirral, and how I thought the mud there would never let me go, but would swallow me up in the gathering darkness! And how relieved I'd been to escape the suction.
I left him to it, but I asked him if I could take a picture of him, to remember our meeting by. He obliged.
And my pictures? Here they are. I was aiming for stark silhouettes.
I was reminded very strongly of the fossilised lower jawbone of a dinosaur. It was surprising that there was so much to see of a wooden sailing ship after 124 years, but I understand now that for many years the ship was more deeply covered by sand, which would have protected the timbers.
I walked back towards the dunes, glancing back now and then to see what Alan was doing. He had set up his tripod, and was clearly waiting for the right shot. I was able to see his red jacket a long way off. The two girls had come and gone. I don't think they ever got really close to the wreck. Perhaps Alan and I had put them off, or else they didn't want to hang around in the breeze.
Close to the dunes was a lot of driftwood, cast up in the highest tides hereabouts, and I was reminded very much of the typical New Zealand beach, which would always have a good collection of driftwood, some of it quite substantial, entire tree trunks. At least, that was so in 2007, as in these four shots taken in South Island.
Dawn on North Beach, Westport:
At lonely Ship Creek:
Or these two North Island shots, near Mahia, and at Kaupokonui Beach:
Back to Berrow. Some of the smaller pieces of driftwood had been built up into a pyramid, possibly as an artistic creation, possibly as the basis for a good old bonfire on November 5th:
Hmm. Strongly reminiscent of this more elegant structure at Collingwood - on South Island again - which I am sure must have been a hymn to the emptiness of the New Zealand seashore:
I often wonder whether I will ever see New Zealand again. It depends not only on finding the money, but on having the appetite, medical clearance, and neuter conscience for all the long-haul flying involved. Or, if I do go that way, might it not be Australia rather than New Zealand next time? Who knows.
One last look at the Nornen, just before I re-entered the dunes and re-crossed the golf course. If you click on this shot, and enlarge it with your fingers, you can just make out Alan's red jacket to the right of the wreck, where he might get a fine (but moody) sunset shot. I do hope he had a flask of hot coffee in his rucksack. Such patience!
