Isles of Scilly, England
Scilly is sinking. It's the truth. As the crust of the earth slowly shrugs and readjusts, released from weighty ice blankets of the past, the northeast corner of Great Britain rises. As a counterbalance, here in the south and west the land subsides. Short (in geological terms) hundreds of years ago the rocky archipelago known as the Isles of Scilly was perhaps one contiguous island, dry above the ocean. Now treacherous shoals lurk beneath the waves waiting for the unwary, the vessel feeling its way through the fog.
Fortunately we know where we are every step of the way, aided by modern means. And even if we didn't the bright clear day would have afforded us many clues. But as the eighteenth century came to be navigation was no where near as precise as it is today. Longitude could only be surmised not scientifically calculated. Sailing back from Spain, Sir Cloudesley Shovell confidently led the British Naval Fleet smack into the shores of Scilly. Two thousand men and several vessels met their end. They were not the only ships to flounder on these shores. Rumors circulate. Were sailors lured here by mysterious lights flickering in the night? Now, one light shines strong. As if it were rising directly from the deep, the one hundred and eighty feet tall lighthouse of Bishop's Rock is often the first sight seen by trans-Atlantic travelers.
There are treasures to be found on shore and not those plundered from sinking ships. Tresco, the second largest island of the group draws one's eyes from afar. One doesn't expect to see tall trees marching up hillsides where gale force winds whip salty spray from the tops of the waves and scatter the saline particles on any projecting plant part. But there they were the legacy of Augustus Smith who had the foresight to realize that a border of hardy salt tolerant shrubs would buffer tiny saplings from the storms. With careful planning the microclimate could be altered enough to grow exotic species. Aeonium in shades of brilliant green or deep maroon are commoner than cabbages in a cabbage patch growing everywhere in the Abbey Gardens and on the rooftops of local cottages. Giant leaves of Gunnera could have served as umbrellas to protect us from a brief shower if one had the means to strip the stem of sharp and nasty thorns. Protea species with their grandiose flowers almost seem lost among the proliferation of color lining a myriad of paths. The careful cultivation has spilled out across the land until the villages of Grimsby (New and Old) could be confused with the formal gardens. On the trails gladioli mingle with native willows edging nearby ponds where swans drift gracefully and gadwalls dabble.
Tonight we sail to the west, leaving England behind. It's off to Ireland we go.
Scilly is sinking. It's the truth. As the crust of the earth slowly shrugs and readjusts, released from weighty ice blankets of the past, the northeast corner of Great Britain rises. As a counterbalance, here in the south and west the land subsides. Short (in geological terms) hundreds of years ago the rocky archipelago known as the Isles of Scilly was perhaps one contiguous island, dry above the ocean. Now treacherous shoals lurk beneath the waves waiting for the unwary, the vessel feeling its way through the fog.
Fortunately we know where we are every step of the way, aided by modern means. And even if we didn't the bright clear day would have afforded us many clues. But as the eighteenth century came to be navigation was no where near as precise as it is today. Longitude could only be surmised not scientifically calculated. Sailing back from Spain, Sir Cloudesley Shovell confidently led the British Naval Fleet smack into the shores of Scilly. Two thousand men and several vessels met their end. They were not the only ships to flounder on these shores. Rumors circulate. Were sailors lured here by mysterious lights flickering in the night? Now, one light shines strong. As if it were rising directly from the deep, the one hundred and eighty feet tall lighthouse of Bishop's Rock is often the first sight seen by trans-Atlantic travelers.
There are treasures to be found on shore and not those plundered from sinking ships. Tresco, the second largest island of the group draws one's eyes from afar. One doesn't expect to see tall trees marching up hillsides where gale force winds whip salty spray from the tops of the waves and scatter the saline particles on any projecting plant part. But there they were the legacy of Augustus Smith who had the foresight to realize that a border of hardy salt tolerant shrubs would buffer tiny saplings from the storms. With careful planning the microclimate could be altered enough to grow exotic species. Aeonium in shades of brilliant green or deep maroon are commoner than cabbages in a cabbage patch growing everywhere in the Abbey Gardens and on the rooftops of local cottages. Giant leaves of Gunnera could have served as umbrellas to protect us from a brief shower if one had the means to strip the stem of sharp and nasty thorns. Protea species with their grandiose flowers almost seem lost among the proliferation of color lining a myriad of paths. The careful cultivation has spilled out across the land until the villages of Grimsby (New and Old) could be confused with the formal gardens. On the trails gladioli mingle with native willows edging nearby ponds where swans drift gracefully and gadwalls dabble.
Tonight we sail to the west, leaving England behind. It's off to Ireland we go.
