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| St Andrews Cathedral, with Rule's Tower in the foreground. |
My first thought for an opening sentence for this blog post was "there are many consolations for living and studying where I do", but on reflection that struck me as being rather more negative than I intended. I think I am happier, both domestically and academically, living in Crail and studying in St Andrews than I ever have been before. So perhaps I shall say instead, there are some unexpected moments that provide sudden and lovely illumination to a daily life that is already pretty contended.
Mr S and I experienced one such moment a few days ago, whilst at a loose end due to the later-than-usual opening of the university library that day. Fortunately, St Andrews is a pretty lovely place to wander around - I could probably spend hours wending through the gravestones in the old cathedral site, absorbing hundreds of long-gone names, all in the skeletal shadow of the ruins that provide the archetypal image of the St Andrews skyline. That day, however, we decided to wander down past the castle to watch the waves rolling in on the (imaginatively-named) Castle Sands. However, the sight of a great flurry of waves breaking on the pier down by East Sands drew us further along the coastline, and down onto that narrow stone spur, which at high tide on a blustery day looked almost impossibly fragile against the great weight of the sea.
We just stood and watched. We didn't venture too far out - unlike the people standing at the very end of the pier, we were none to keen to experience the sensation of the sea dumping an entire wave's-worth of water upon our heads, as it did repeatedly during the time we watched. The waves crashing against the terminus of the pier seemed to almost fling themselves up its sides, creating a great plume of water which was then caught by the wind, fully dowsing the outcrop and any foolish enough to stand upon it. Even the point at which we had planted ourselves, barely a third of the way along the pier, seemed to affront the waves so much that every fourth or fifth surge made a valiant attempt to reach us, with water roaring up and onto the pier-top a metre further down the narrow way.
We just stood and watched. We didn't venture too far out - unlike the people standing at the very end of the pier, we were none to keen to experience the sensation of the sea dumping an entire wave's-worth of water upon our heads, as it did repeatedly during the time we watched. The waves crashing against the terminus of the pier seemed to almost fling themselves up its sides, creating a great plume of water which was then caught by the wind, fully dowsing the outcrop and any foolish enough to stand upon it. Even the point at which we had planted ourselves, barely a third of the way along the pier, seemed to affront the waves so much that every fourth or fifth surge made a valiant attempt to reach us, with water roaring up and onto the pier-top a metre further down the narrow way.
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| Looking towards St Andrews Castle. I didn't even try to capture the sensation of looking out from the pier - concerns about the bad combination of water and technology aside. |
Although occasionally distracted by the rushing water that seemed so keen to make our close acquaintance, we spent most of the time gazing further out to sea, watching the hypnotic movement of the water, as smooth, concave rifts grew higher and higher - quite incredibly high - until they broke into a frothing and raging crest. And then there were the cross-currents, as waves which redounded against the pier surged back to meet their fellows at right angles, causing mountains of spray to fly up where they collided with one another. And then there was the noise - booming, crashing, whooshing. It was like watching fireworks as a very small child: every huge wave was a new surprise, every plume against the pier a reason to exclaim in sheer joyful surprise.
One of the concepts which I know I'm going to have to confront and analyse in my work on early modern reactions to mountains is that of 'the Sublime' - the idea that there is a certain type of aesthetic response to certain aspects of nature, in which the sight of something great but slightly terrifying or horrifying inspires a type of overwhelming awe. I have problems with the idea of using the category to judge past reactions to nature, but I'm also not sure I could find another word to describe the feeling of standing, tremulous and fixed, upon a man-made outcrop of rock, and staring out at a display of the roiling power and energy of the sea. It was frightening - every one of those waves would have swallowed me whole had I been standing beneath them - but also thrilling, and joy-inspiring. It was, in a word, sublime.
Being a PhD student can, I am told, sometimes be a hard slog. I am fortunate that I have not yet encountered the moment in my research where I feel that sheer exhaustion with my own topic and research. But, when I do, I will try to remember to prescribe myself a moment or two upon the pier, on a wild and windy day, breathing in the breath-taking. Because there is something about the sublime that energises the spirit.
One of the concepts which I know I'm going to have to confront and analyse in my work on early modern reactions to mountains is that of 'the Sublime' - the idea that there is a certain type of aesthetic response to certain aspects of nature, in which the sight of something great but slightly terrifying or horrifying inspires a type of overwhelming awe. I have problems with the idea of using the category to judge past reactions to nature, but I'm also not sure I could find another word to describe the feeling of standing, tremulous and fixed, upon a man-made outcrop of rock, and staring out at a display of the roiling power and energy of the sea. It was frightening - every one of those waves would have swallowed me whole had I been standing beneath them - but also thrilling, and joy-inspiring. It was, in a word, sublime.
Being a PhD student can, I am told, sometimes be a hard slog. I am fortunate that I have not yet encountered the moment in my research where I feel that sheer exhaustion with my own topic and research. But, when I do, I will try to remember to prescribe myself a moment or two upon the pier, on a wild and windy day, breathing in the breath-taking. Because there is something about the sublime that energises the spirit.
