No, this is not an animal. It is a place.
About 50,000 years ago, in the days of antiquity when the whole of Europe was cemented together, when the land stretched endlessly across the face of the earth, wild and dark forces were awakening. These forces were so extreme and so powerful that rivers and oceans rose. Land was forever engulfed. New Islands appeared where previously there were none. In this fashion, Britannia was born. But where the vanished land once connected Britannia with France, the sand and tidal flats fought back for survival. They moved, they grew, they were overwhelmed, recovered and were buried again by a merciless sea which seethed for countless miles from horizon to horizon. But still they fought for survival. And the Gods watched with an impartial amusement.
Amongst this churning confusion was an island called Lomea. This beautiful island, much loved by the Gods, survived the turmoil for thousands of years and became a thriving port with a large community of traders and fishermen. The Romans knew it as the Low Island and it was a convenient stopping-off place, a fertile staging post for their trade and travel to Britannia. There was a deep and safe harbour which was protected by prayer and sacrifice.
But all this changed soon after Christianity came to these shores. The Island and the surrounding ocean were given for safekeeping to St. Augustines Abbey in Canterbury.
The pagan Gods were outraged.
A vast storm was summoned from the depths in the year of 1099 which was so great that it was recorded in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles. The island was inundated, countless lives were lost, buildings including the early Christian church disappeared for ever. But there remained a vengeful, calculating spectre which lurked beneath the seas. This was the Prowling Predator which, to this day, shifts its presence; it cannot be contained in any one place and soundlessly moves to cause destruction to those whom the Gods have never forgiven. These unseen sands move in what appears, to mortal understanding, to be a random fashion. To lure passers-by into death and retribution.
This place is now called the Goodwin Sands and lies about six miles off the Kent coast. It has a long history of destruction and despair with passing ships foundering and death being handed out with a callous ruthlessness of which the Gods would be proud. On cold, fog-bound winter nights even the bells from the old church can be heard across the water summoning the faithful with a baleful invitation to prayer. This echoes and rebounds between the sea and the fog banks and seems to come from all directions in a desperate attempt at resurrection. It is as if the Gods are laughing while punishing humanity because on a clear day it can be seen that no such church exists. Even Shakespeare saluted these horrors in
The Merchant of Venice:
“…..that Antonio hath
A ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas;
The Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very
Dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many
A tall ship lie buried……”
Over the last 600 years or so these moving sands, these Prowling Predators, have claimed an endless procession of ships and their companies. To note just a few…in the storms of 1624 a large number went aground. In 1703 another huge storm caused the wrecking of over 50 merchant vessels and men-of-war with over 2000 lives lost. It has been whispered that the last sounds these unfortunates heard was the harsh cry of a seagull in a ghostly harmony with the church bells. In the years between there was a constant succession of single ships lost. However the most infamous casualty is the Lady Lovibond which was wrecked with all hands lost in 1748. It is said, in hushed tones within local sailors’ haunts that she will reappear every fifty years. She is next expected in 2048 when she will once again drive remorselessly onto the sandbanks. The list of other casualties is unbroken with consistent tragedies in the 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries. For those with long memories the era of pirate radio was ended in 1991 when the Radio Caroline vessel was wrecked on these same sands.
But a darker thought for the future. In the press recently was announced the salvage attempt of a Dornier from the second world war, the only surviving aircraft of this type. It is not known why it crash landed on these sands. And it was about that time that a lookout on the sands saw an old paddle steamer getting wrecked, but no debris was ever found, and nothing to fit that description had been reported missing. It turned out to be the SS Violet which had been lost in the 1840s, a good 100 years before his sighting. So it is a sobering thought that our leaders are wanting to fly in the face of history by creating a new London airport over this area which has, mysteriously, been drenched in blood over the millennia. One hopes that suitable offerings will be made to mollify the Gods.
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