WEEKEND COLUMNISTS There is perhaps no stretch of coastline in England quite as enticing as this, especially on such a heavenly June afternoon.
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| Cedric Robinson MBE, the Queen’s Guide to the sands |
The West Craven Bridleways Association had chosen this perfect day for its annual ride across the bay from Kents Bank to Arnside. It looked ideal for everything else too. A stride out on to the beach with the dog and the kiddies, perhaps? Catching shrimp in the rockpools? A nice long picnic, miles from shore? Lovely.
But this is Morecambe Bay and that way lies perdition. No one knows how many people have died out there over the centuries. “In Cartmel Priory alone, there are 150 people in the registers listed as having been lost while crossing the bay,” says Cedric Robinson, the man who knows more than anyone else about the dangers.
We don’t even know for sure how many died that terrible February night in 2004 when at least 21 (but probably 23) Chinese cockle-pickers were drowned by the incoming tide, a tragedy that shed a glaring light on the dangers of the bay and the even darker underside of the British labour market.
The sign as you approach the tidemark in Grange-over-Sands makes the point – CAUTION: FAST RISING TIDES. HIDDEN CHANNELS. QUICKSAND. And everyone round here knows the rule. Don’t do anything unless Cedric says it’s safe. “We wouldn’t go on the sands without Cedric,” says Phyllis Capstick, organiser of the ride, with a shudder at the very idea. “There’s nobody else we’d trust.”
Cedric Robinson MBE – always just Cedric in these parts – has been the Queen’s Guide to the Kent Sands of Morecambe Bay since 1964. The title dates back to medieval times but Cedric has become the embodiment of the job. He has never actually guided Her Majesty, though he has piloted her husband in a carriage, plus thousands of walkers, who have raised millions for charities. He has counted them all out, and counted them all back. He is paid an annual salary – amounting to £15 – and gets the use of Guide’s Cottage and a smallholding. He has produced eight books, and is not averse to the odd tip to cover the public liability insurance. He is certainly not averse to his celebrity status.
This bay is not something you learn the way a London taxi driver learns the streets. It changes all the time. The River Kent, which flows down from the mountains to reach the sea here, has shifted its course over the decades, mooching eastwards and altering the terrain around it. Once there was sand – or at least mud – off the promenade at Grange: now it’s Grange-over-grass, hence the sheep. Near Arnside, on the east side of the bay, the grass has, conversely, become sand.
It changes every season. Each April, Cedric and his helpers trek across the sands, wading through the still-frigid Kent (“It’s like needles sticking in your legs,” says his tractor driver John Barber), assessing the effects of winter: where the sand is welcomingly firm, where treacherously soft. The sands can stir again with each change in the weather. Before the walks – which usually take place on alternate summer weekends – they re-check the route, planting “brobs”, laurel branches, to mark the route. If there is rain or fog, and the shore becomes invisible, the brobs become the only landmarks. The traditional killer out there is disorientation. The lifesaver is attention to detail.
The tide does not come in here the way it does on a normal beach. It creeps round its potential victims like a gang of muggers, filling the dips and gullies until they are surrounded. Then it pounces – faster, so they say, than a horse can gallop. That’s how the cocklers died, trapped on a bank on a winter’s night, as the tide rose inexorably. Cedric had been observing their habits for weeks, powerless to intervene. “I’ve never seen anything so daft in my life,” he said.
But now the birds are singing, the sun is blazing down and Cedric is in control of the situation – although even he is taking no chances. The time of the next high tide is written on his palm.
Leading his walkers – sometimes hundreds of them – he has been compared to Moses, guiding the tribes across the Red Sea. This is a different kind of procession: John’s tractor-trailer leading the way, then a horse-drawn carriage, then the two dozen lady riders from the Bridleways Association.
Our leader is in the carriage with an air of command: hair flying in the breeze, dark glasses, natty black sweater, old trainers, jeans rolled up above his ankles in case there is wading to be done. He is General Cedric, leading his fearsome cavalrywomen on some desert campaign, perhaps to subdue a recalcitrant sheikh in the name of Queen Victoria.
But this is no desert, as became obvious when the last traces of vegetation died away, the sand became softer and the pools more regular. We were actually on the Irish Sea, which had popped out for the afternoon but would be back before nightfall to reclaim its territory. Already, out at Heysham, the tide was on the turn.
We were fine, though. Cedric’s aim was to reach the Kent at “seven hours ebb”, leaving enough time to cross to Arnside, pause, then return well ahead of the tide. The river is several hundred yards across, and the tractor led the way, leaving the horses on the far side. Then we stopped, and the riders could go. They galloped through the water at full pelt, emerging drenched but laughing their heads off with the thrill of it all. I could swear the horses were grinning too. It was a moment of pure joie de vivre.
For Cedric is a life-enhancer as well as a lifesaver. The flair and charisma he has brought to what might have become an anachronistic sinecure have enabled thousands of people to enjoy and appreciate the bay – to respect its power rather than just fear it.
There is, however, a looming problem as unforgiving as the tides. Cedric is 76 and still full of vigour. But the sorcerer has no apprentice: even his helpers are baffled by some of his tricks; there are times when he will ignore his own brobs and take a different route. Mention the succession and he replies: “My father died aged 102 and, do you know, he was fit to the end.”
His employers are aware of the issue. They are the “Charity for Providing Guides over the Kent and Leven Sands”, which is entrusted with the job by the Duchy of Lancaster. The charity long ago concluded that Cedric was well worth his 15 quid a year, but also that he would one day have to be replaced. “We are considering contingencies,” says the clerk, Dickon Knight, cautiously. In the meantime, long live Cedric.
matthew.engel@ft.com
Matthew Engel’s dispatch appears fortnightly
