Since December 2021, I have sent out 91 of these Stymies. The first one reached two people; the latest was sent to (somehow) over 700 of you. People are either very bored, or they share the same fascination with this daft game that I have sought to rekindle in this last year or so. Or perhaps a mix of those two factors.
In order to get some of the earlier ones in front of a few more eyes, I will be sharing a selection of re-issued Stymies daily until Christmas Eve; a Stymied Advent Calendar. If you have enjoyed reading them, please share them and encourage others to subscribe. Thank you very much indeed!
18th March 2022: “Life in the Dunes”
In those rare strips of land that have not yet been taken by the sea, but where the ground is too acidic and free-draining for farming, and not stable enough for other development, the strange phenomenon that is life on earth persists. In between the towering dunes, whose sands gently shift as slowly as the mountains rise, lie these little hollows where the ancient grasses thrive. Biological time is at play here, on the coast.
On the banks either side, the green-grey tufts of marram grass wave in the breeze, their fibrous, black roots knitting together the delicate piles of sand, but in the valleys we find the fine-leaved bents and fescues, which can survive on the limited nutrients such soil can retain. These sheltered carpets of grass will, at dusk, become runways for the seabirds that we hear and spy all around us, and high above, like nature’s own drones, sing the skylarks - a tireless symphony that never ends, the sublime music of the links.
Here a sand scrape, where animals might shelter from the storms; there a quiet hollow, where a sturdy bush might persist despite the salty air, and regular, brutal soakings. Few trees will survive the elemental challenges here, but under the spiky branches of the hardy gorse you spot some scat - perhaps a rabbit hid from the last heavy shower here. The slow process of that waste rotting down will provide a rare spike of goodness in the nearby sand, and the encouragement for other plants will slowly grow as a result. And so the cycle goes on.
Every now and then, in the rare spots where the land sits wet, near the inlet, the stiff leaves of the rushes might crackle as something moves through this rare zone of ground coverage. It could be a grass snake; they’ve been seen here before, though mistaken for adders as usual. With water nearby and some low, waxy foliage for protection, they’re safe from the occasional raptors that survey the rolling landscape from the swirling thermals above.
Sometimes you’ll hear the mew of the common buzzards, soaring in a majestic family dance; other times you’ll catch the trademark, focused flap of the kestrel, as it hangs still in the wind, scanning for occasional prey in this barren environment. Once in a blue moon, the sharp, strong flight of the peregrine will flash across, travelling from tower block to cliff in a few, breathtaking moments, and all around the smaller birds fall silent, flying in patterns of random panic until the danger has passed.
On the lip of the sand scrapes, the scruffy roots of the grasses protrude, and in this unlikeliest of havens, the spiders spin their intricate webs, hoping to snare in that swaying frame an insect or two, for lunch. A bloody-nosed beetle shuffles past, purposeful, its glossy black armour shining in the rays of our star.
Further along a ridge is a solitary orchid, thriving in this unspoilt paradise, its rarity just a label. For all the precious flora and fauna in this priceless wildlife corridor, life is not a series of categories or designations, or achievements. It just is.
This is no “Site of Special Scientific Interest” to the barn owl, patrolling at dusk, or the common lizard, basking on the southern slopes when the sun peers out to bestow light and shadow in equal measure, and leaving the most delicate of footprints in the warm sand. It is simply home. Nature existing where it makes most sense, without complication, beyond the realms of logic or language.
But if you look carefully, and keep still so as not to distract them, there is another species on the move. A nervous biped, presumably connected by some shared genetic ancestry to homo habilis, if their use of primitive tools is to be taken as informative. From a distance, through a telescope that shakes in the breeze, you might spot them emerging from a giant red and white hive, often travelling in fours. They will gather on small green plateaus, and in turn withdraw strange, shiny sticks from a quiver.
Drop your gaze to the grass beneath them, and in front of the hide shoes that cover their hooves, you might catch sight of what must be a dimpled egg. One at a time, these mysterious specimens will gracefully swing a stick past the egg once or twice, before settling into a period of silent intensity, which is then suddenly shattered by a violent, lunging attack.
One can only assume that they are out there to extract whatever nutrients are to be found within the eggs, but instead of cracking them with stone axeheads like their Paleolithic forebears might have, they seem hell-bent on persisting with their existing tools despite growing evidence that this approach is doomed. One after another, these eggs evade fracture, flying off at all angles from the crashing blows of the irate creatures, an unearthly metallic sound echoing all around at regular intervals, occasionally accompanied by a primal scream or two.
It seems that they are incapable of learning from their own mistakes or those of their fellow hunters, for this charade of hope and failure persists for sometimes hours on end. As the forage wears on, frustration is evident on the ruddy faces of these ape-like enigmas, but when the pack retreat wearily towards the nest, their grimaces soften into a peculiar upturned expression, and their upper paws come together for a moment. Those wearing a sort of flap on their head will often remove it at this stage, and the still intact eggs are pocketed for a further assault another time. And then, the dance is over, and the fragile ecosystem that is the links once again falls quiet.
Of all the millions of species that this planet supports, there may not be a stranger one than what the latest ecology journals are calling the golfer. But out here in the fresh air, you get the feeling that perhaps this particular hominid is never so alive and happy as it is in the daft pursuit of a handful of disobedient eggs.
For there is magic in the air, and life in the dunes yet.