Tall tales
Emma Schroeder reflects on stories from Britain’s lighthouses – before they got turned into luxury B&Bs...
ALMOST EVERY NIGHT during my walk, I would set up my tent overlooking the ocean and feel an enormous sense of peace. The endless expanse of water is humbling and awe-inspiring, the boundary between the familiar and the unknown. Occasionally, in the presence of a grand lighthouse, the boundary blurs as its beam slowly rotates and cuts through darkness and fog. The mother of all night lights, beaming down on me as I beamed back. I wanted to live in every lighthouse I passed.
When you encounter the pillboxes, crumbling castles and hidden coves used by pirates and smugglers – even a cave inhabited by an incestuous cannibal, clan legend says – you can’t help but feel a profound connection to the past and the souls who’ve stood on the same shores, gazing at the same horizon. Lighthouses – solitary structures overlooking the ocean, guiding seafarers to safety whilst weathering the brunt of nature’s tantrums – are particularly iconic.
In a pub in Pembrokeshire a bloke sat next to me and, without introduction nor niceties, proceeded to tell the tale of Smalls Lighthouse. Smalls Lighthouse is a remote structure sitting on some rocks 20 miles west from the Marloes Peninsula. But back in 1801 it was a simple hut standing on rickety wooden pillars. Two men, Thomas Howell and Thomas Griffith, were sent to tend to the lighthouse during horrific storms. They also happened to hate each other, and would argue in the street and fight in pubs. Griffith died from a freak accident or an illness – this bit is unclear – but, either way, his passing made things difficult for Howell. Given the history they shared of hating each other’s guts, Howell thought Griffith’s death could lead to accusations of murder. But, the storms continued to rage, and sharing a lighthouse with the decaying corpse of his former enemy became rather unpleasant. Not wanting to commit Griffith’s corpse to the waves and stir up more suspicion, Howell used his skills as a cooper to fashion a coffin, heaved Griffith inside and tied him to the outer ledge of the hut. The storms persisted and smashed the make-shift coffin to pieces. Griffith’s lifeless form remained tangled on the exterior railing near the window like a macabre puppet. At times the wind would catch one of his arms, giving the illusion that the corpse was waving. When Howell was finally relieved four months later, he was a shell of a man.
“What a spooky story,” I said to the bloke at the pub, who quickly left. I didn’t catch his name. I briefly considered the possibility that he was the ghost of Howell, his afterlife dedicated to asserting his innocence. This theory fell apart when I remembered he wasn’t very see-through and he had a pint in his hand. Ghosts don’t tend to drink pints because they’d end up all over the floor and it would be a waste of a fiver.
There are many stories of lighthouse keepers driven mad by isolation, storms and also quite possibly a touch of mercury poisoning. In the nineties, the last manned lighthouses in the UK became automated.
The transition, though practical, stripped away a bit of the charm. Now, the cottages are often let as luxury bed and breakfasts. As far as I know they no longer have corpses hanging outside waving at occupants.
Like I said, less charm.
Anyway, I love the sea – which is probably why I chose to walk around the coast of Britain. I love the mysteries, the history and the vastness of the ocean reminding you of the greater world beyond. It puts your own life into perspective and reminds you that all your problems – big, small, and even imaginary – are just a drop in the ocean.
“...the wind would catch one of his arms, giving the illusion that the corpse was waving”