Numerous are the parties walking, riding, and driving on the sands within a mile of Redcar; but so far as a wayfarer may judge, liveliness is not one of their characteristics. Now, the confused line of houses resolves itself into definite form; and, turning the point, you find the inner margin of the sand loose and heavy, a short stair to facilitate access to the terrace above, all wearing a rough makeshift appearance: the effect, probably, of the drift. There is no harbour; the boats lie far off in the shallow water, where embarkation is by no means convenient. Once arrived at the place, it appeared to me singularly unattractive.
Wide as the estuary looks, its entrance is narrowed by a tongue of sand, Seaton-Snook, similar to the Spurn, but seven miles long, and under water, which stretches out from the Durham side; and on the hither side, off the point where we are standing, you can see the long ridges of lias which are there thrust out, as if to suggest the use that might be made of them. Twenty years ago Mr. Richmond drew up a report on what he names an “Asylum Harbour” at Redcar, showing that at that time forty thousand vessels passed in a year, and that of the wrecks, from 1821 to 1833, four hundred and sixty-two would not have happened had the harbour then existed. “To examine and trace,” he remarks, “during a low spring-ebb, the massive foundations, which seem laid by the cunning hand of Nature to invite that of man to finish what has been so excellently begun, is a most interesting labour. In their present position they form the basis on which it is projected to raise those mounds of stone by whose means, as breakwaters, a safe and extensive harbour will be created, with sufficient space and depth of water for a fleet of line-of-battle ships to be moored with perfect security within their limits, and still leave ample room for merchant vessels.” There is no lack of stone in the neighbourhood; and seeing what has been accomplished at Portland and Holyhead, there should be no lack of money for such a purpose.
Cockles and shrimps abound along the shore: hence visitors may find a little gentle excitement in watching the capture of these multitudinous creatures, or grow enthusiastic over the return of the salmon-fishers with their glistening prey. And in fine weather there are frequent opportunities for steam-boat trips along the coast. But the charm of the place consists in the broad, flat shore, and, looking back along the way you came, you will find an apt expression in the lines:
“Next fishy Redcar view Marske’s sunny lands,
And sands, beyond Pactolus’ golden sands;
Till shelvy Saltburn, clothed with seaweed green,
And giant Huntcliff close the pleasing scene.”
William Hutton, at the age of eighty-five, journeyed hither for a summer holiday, and wrote a narrative of his adventures, from which we may get an idea of the place as he saw it. “The two streets of Coatham and Redcar,” he says, “are covered with mountains of drift sand, blown by the north-west winds from the shore, which almost forbid the foot; no carriage above a wheelbarrow ought to venture. It is a labour to walk. If a man wants a perspiring dose, he may procure one by travelling through these two streets, and save his half-crown from the doctor. He may sport white stockings every day in the year, for they are without dirt; nor will the pavement offend his corns. The sand-beds are in some places as high as the eaves of the houses. Some of the inhabitants are obliged every morning to clear their doorway, which becomes a pit, unpleasant to the housekeeper and dangerous to the traveller.”
I saw no sand-beds up to the eaves, but there were indications enough that the sand-drift must be a great annoyance. The town is comprised chiefly in one long, wide street, which looks raw and bleak, even in the summer. There are a few good shops at the end farthest from the sea; and if you ask the bookseller to show you the weekly list of visitors, it will perhaps surprise you to see the number so great. The church was built in 1829; before that date church-goers had to walk three miles to Marske.
And now my travel from Humber to Tees is accomplished, and I must say farewell to the wide rolling main with its infinite horizon—to the ships coming up from the unseen distance, and sailing away to the unseen beyond—to the great headlands, haunted by swift-winged birds, which, when winds are still, behold a double firmament, stars overhead and stars beneath; and so, not without reluctance, I turn my back on what the rare old Greek calls
“The countless laughter of the salt-sea waves.”