Dogger by Andrew Shephard

A young hunter ponders his future...

Cracking, splitting -

the shining ice retreating.

Shrinking, stinking -

our sacred lands are sinking.

Rising, raging -

storms through our shelters tearing.

Raining, soaking -

muddy mammoths’ legs are sticking.

Warming, swarming -

dark insect clouds are stinging.

Hunting unrelenting -

but the reindeer herds are leaving.

Watching, waiting -

our worried elders meeting.

Dancing, praying -

entreaties are not working.

Fighting, killing –

while our lands are disappearing.

Starving, despairing –

angry voices loud and wailing.

Staying, or going?

Some await a low-tide crossing.

Following, I am leaving

for green hills beyond our knowing.

Sea area Dogger is named after Dogger Bank, a shallow fishing ground once visited by Dutch fishing boats called 'doggers'. During the last ice age Doggerland connected Britain to the rest of the European continent. As the ice melted the seas rose, creating a group of islands cut off from the mainland.

Irish Sea by Suzanne Hudson

Every Summer of my childhood
We packed the car to bursting
And began the long journey from
Buckinghamshire to the Wild West.

Each child could take one teddy

Which sat on our laps
On either side of our
Little sister’s sick bowl.

I looked out the window
At the funny welsh sheep
Dotted on the steep grassy slopes
Like balls of cotton wool.

I tried to ignore

The churning of my stomach
As our car dipped up and down hills
And navigated narrow bends

On the ferry from Holyhead

The Irish Sea was rough
A nun held her head in a sick bag
As the boat swayed from side to side.

The heavy doors slammed behind us
As we emerged onto the blustery deck
And tried to walk but were held back
By the power of gale force winds

Then the rush of disembarkment

A mass exodus down metal stairs
The slam, slam, slam of car doors
And the revving of the engines.

We drove out of the ferry’s mouth
And in a magical moment
Crossed onto the sacred soil
Of the Emerald Isle.

This was before the motorways
So we began the final three hour slog
Crossing the country towards the West
On winding roads, through one horse towns.

At Kinnegad we always stopped
For a Club Orange and a sandwich
My sister and I sat on high bar stools
And ate bags of Tayto crisps

We finally arrived at our Daddy’s home town
To familiar smells of peat and dampness
We found the front door unlocked
And a warm welcome within.

Fitzroy, née Finisterre by Emma Harding

This is not what I wanted to write. 

I wanted to write about Finisterre. The shipping area that claims the northwest corner of Galician Spain before stretching out into the Atlantic Ocean. 

Finisterre - full of romance and mystery. Literally the ‘ends of the earth’. Named by the Romans who knew of no other land beyond its wild and rocky tip, Capo Finisterre. Here, leaving the coast meant a journey into the unknown. A journey from which you might never return. Perhaps this is why it sits at the end of a famous pilgrimage route. Indeed, according to Celtic legend, this is the place the souls of the dead gather to follow the sun across the sea.

I can imagine you shaking your head. Never one for romanticism were you? You, always so practical, so grounded. So impatient with my flights of fancy. 

Before I met you it was like I’d reached my own finisterre. Nowhere to go. Stuck. Settled. And then you came along, offering me adventure, a new world and I leapt aboard without a second thought. Cast off into the wide blue yonder, my eyes fixed on the distant horizon. What new lands might we discover together? How far might we go?

But it turns out you weren’t in it for adventure. When we floundered I, like any good captain, lashed myself to the mast, preparing to go down with my vessel. And you? You abandoned ship. 

I can hear your voice. There’s laughter in it but not a little exasperation. Don’t you think you’ve squeezed all the juice you’re going to get out of this metaphor? you ask. 

Maybe. But that’s what metaphors are for, aren’t they? They’re not just so we can transform the quotidian into things of beauty. They help us ensnare that which we cannot comprehend. Make the unthinkable imaginable. Because I don’t understand. I cannot comprehend why you left. 

I’m lying here, caught like a fish in the bedclothes. Sleep is about as far away as Newfoundland. The shipping forecast is on in the background, radio waves breaking against my thoughts. 

Moderate to good, occasionally poor. I didn’t see it coming. That whole period is shrouded in fog. Only brief glimpses - of your hand on mine, then not, your bag packed and waiting by the door, the sound of you on your voicemail welcome message that I listen to at least three times a day. 

Finisterre no longer exists. As a shipping area at least. They changed its name to Fitzroy - a name with its own romance, perhaps - in recognition of Robert Fitzroy, officer of the royal navy and scientist. He captained the Beagle during Darwin’s voyage to the Tierra del Fuego (another 'land', this time of fire) and pioneered the science of meteorology. He developed the shipping forecast to prevent the numerous shipwrecks caused by sailing blindly into bad weather. If only he’d been around to save us.

Without Finisterre, without you, I can’t write what I wanted to write. So I wrote this instead. It seemed only fair to leave you a note. I'm off to chase my own sunsets.

The Message by Dave Rigby

The phone hasn’t rung.

Five twenty. Couldn’t sleep. Up and about, radio on. Toast under the grill, tea brewing. Stare at the phone, willing it to ring.

……Forth, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher……

Butter the toast. It’s hard to swallow. Sip the tea. Another sugar. The dog’s at my feet.

I turn things over and over. Why did it have to happen to her? Why did it have to happen to us? All our years together, then clear blue sky to utter darkness in seconds.

I read their text yet again, re-check their final deadline - 5:30 a.m. my time. For them, far away in that debilitating heat, it’s noon. If the money reaches them in time, they’ll call. If not that’s it.

Here, too ill to leave the house, waiting, waiting for that ring.

The phone stays silent.

…..Thames, Dover, Wight, Portland…..

Another bite of toast. Add some marmalade. Rays of sunlight. Normal things happening on a normal day, except there’s nothing normal about today for me or for her.  

If only I could stretch it out, make the next few minutes last long enough for it all to be resolved. But each movement of the second hand on the mantelpiece clock is taking her away from me.

…..Biscay, Trafalgar, FitzRoy …..

I picture each name as it flows through the air, carrying a part of me across the sea, like it used to on those early mornings years ago. Distant places, unvisited, yet so familiar.

Today the words feel like a tidal surge sweeping her away from me.

Ring, damn you, ring!

The neighbour’s pick-up starts noisily and trundles away unseen. Birds hover over the feeder, waiting for the cat to move on. More tea from the pot.

…..Irish Sea, Shannon, Rockall…..

The disembodied voice moves on relentlessly, the far northwest is looming, their deadline a minute or two away.

Only silence.

A dog barks in the garden beyond. The gutter creaks in the warming early sun. My cup is empty.

….Malin, Hebrides, Bailey…….

It’s not going to happen. There’ll be no last minute reprieve. After all we’ve been through, there’ll be nothing left.

….Fair Isle, Faroes……

I walk slowly towards the back door to let the dog out.

The phone rings. I pick it up.

….South East Iceland.

The Shipping Forecast is broadcast at 5:20 each morning