The sound of silence

A strange thing happened today and nobody knew. We have had fog for a couple of days, the fog horn had been our constant backing sound track, and I was quite worried that I might not actually be able to see the island before we leave on Friday. The view from our kitchen door was often restricted to just the front yard.

Out to sea a boat had appeared just off Pen Cristin and we heard on the grapevine that it was a Trinity House lighthouse ship, probably delivering water and fuel to the lighthouse. Then mid morning today both the lighthouse and the ship blew their foghorns in rotation, then both fell in to an eerie silence in the white out conditions.

It was only later that someone, surfing the net, discovered that the Bardsey Light foghorn had been decommissioned permanently. Modern shipping, apparently, no longer needs a foghorn signal. Well, maybe ships don’t, but what about the rest of us?

Mel Stacey has penned a poem to mark the passing.

Elaine

Sound Silenced

A notice came through in April

And I received it two days late, too late.

The sound once intermittent, then persistent

Had been silenced.

No reason given, no consultation, or explanation.

Merely stark information.

No further notice will be given.

By Order

That evening, when news reached me,

I had strained my eyes

Through milky sea-merged Ceredigion skies

For a one-fifth flicker of the beam.

And in searching for the light

No sound came;

And now to mourn

Not being there for its passing.

On south end, west side, beyond the stack and horn

We dodged the thistles and thrust

The spectral birds out into evening’s veil.

As fog drenched down a cabin-fever day,

What option, but time trial races,

Around the tower and cottage compound

To beat the horn?

Has what we say and how we say it

No meaning anymore?

Must spoken word and soft inflexion give way?

Must we alone rely on looking, seeing, but not hearing?

You cannot tell by sight alone

So close your eyes and listen, listen, listen.

To

Chiffchaff and Blackbird’s announcing song

And solitary Redshank pipe.

As east wind brings the rumbling trundles

From Great Western trains

Holiday children clamour for steam and whistle cries.

And under night’s thick felted blanket mist

Tucked in around the cliffs

Through island sleeping

The foghorn cores its note and rhythm

Deep into my soul.

Mel Stacey

22^nd May 2010

On the silencing of the Bardsey Fog Horn 19^th May 2010.