The Esk tumbles down 16 mountainous miles from beneath the Scafells to meet its estuary near Waberthwaite church. High tides sometimes lap against the churchyard walls, but all is dry here today. I park nearby, and meet a couple of walkers who tell me they are heading along the shore that gives on to views of Waberthwaite marsh and Eskmeals Viaduct. But first they enter the churchyard, holding the gate open as I limp through with my trekking pole and camera.
God’s acre has been refreshingly fertiliser-free for centuries. Dog daisies are attracting bees to the tiny yellow disc florets in the eye of these flowers. Spineless thistle-lookalike purple knapweed draws a fast-fluttering cabbage white butterfly.
“Oh, look, Tom,” says the woman, “a sundial!” She indicates a plinth among the gravestones. “Over there! See? It has a gnomon on top.” He looks baffled. “A no-mon?” “It’s the raised part that casts a shadow, to show the time of day. How do I know? Well, I did do Viking studies at uni. Viking boats carrying sundials landed just along the coast at Ravenglass.” She leads him through whispering grasses here and there beaded with cuckoo spit.
At the plinth, she has to go on tiptoes to bring her chin level with the dial’s brass plate, which is coated with verdigris, as green-blue as a blackbird’s egg, to locate the gnomon’s shadow. “Why did they build it over five feet high?” asks her companion. “So horseback riders can read it,” she explains. She checks the time, then totters back down two sandstone steps. Shooting the cuff back on his wrist, she laughs: “Oh no! Your swish new Apple Watch is half a second slow.” Their hilarity sends starlings soaring into trees.
A flock of black and white pied wagtails fly in from the estuary, followed by a dunlin with its distinctive down-curved bill. “Quick!” says Tom. “I want to log these for my records. What time does the gnomon give?” But the sun has vanished. He has to consult his smartwatch instead.
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