Seaside Pleasures: The anemonizers of Scotland


An anemone of medium size may be safely sent by post in a small tin-cannister, without water, but with a small tuft of damp sea-weed, rag, or blotting-paper, to maintain a moist atmosphere around the animal …”

gosse stomphia
Gosse’s illustration of Stomphia churchiae (bottom left)

The Victorian naturalist Philip Henry Gosse advertised thus for specimens of sea-anemones and corals to be sent to him — and soon small parcels “of a salt and oozy character” began to arrive from all over Britain. Gosse invented the marine aquarium and stocked those at the Zoological Gardens in London; he spent many summers collecting, watching and describing marine organisms — dredging from boats, wading in pools and striding across the shore — and his shore classes and delightful books triggered the craze for collecting. Soon he was in demand as a lecturer and, early in 1857, he gave a series of “chalk and talk” lectures in Edinburgh. Illustrated by freehand drawing on a blackboard, they were very well-received, apparently “full of charm”, and “popular and attractive”, so it is unlikely that the audiences knew of Gosse’s great and recent sorrow: just two weeks before his first scheduled lecture, on February 7th, his wife Emily had died, at home in Islington, from breast cancer.

Gosse had to leave behind his eight-year-old son Edmund at this critical time. He wrote to him frequently from Scotland: “February 24th 1857. My own sweet Boy, I cannot tell you how much I love you. I seem to love you better than ever, now that I have to be separated from you. And now that Mamma is gone to be with Jesus you are all that is left to me …”

He must nevertheless have conducted his talks and meetings in an entirely professional manner despite his grief, because he clearly made a great number of friends amongst the Scottish scientific community, and inspired many amateurs besides. When his advertisement requesting help in collecting sea-anemones appeared, the Scottish anemonizers were galvanised into activity. Gosse’s Actinologia Britannica  was published in book form in 1860. The detailed descriptions of the British sea-anemones (“actiniae”) and corals are beautifully illustrated with coloured engravings of Gosse’s drawings. Particularly interesting is his meticulous reference to the collectors to whom he was “indebted”.

So, we read about Mrs Murray Menzies of Oban, the Reverend William Gregor of Macduff (“pre-eminent in (his) contributions”), Miss J.C. Gloag of Queensferry (“who has long been a successful cultivator of Anemones”), James MacDonald of Elgin, and David Robertson who collected around Cumbrae and in the “Frith of Clyde”. Robertson’s researches into the Cloak Anemone, Adamsia palliata, which attaches to whelk-shells harbouring hermit crabs, are reproduced at length. He would be surprised to learn his experiments are still carried out: when I helped with courses for Glasgow University at the Marine Biology Station on the Isle of Cumbrae, students still enjoyed experimenting on  “shell choice by Adamsia”.

The antiquarian and naturalist Sir John Graham Dalyell sent anemones from the Firth of Forth. He did not send “Granny”: she (it) was a Beadlet Anemone who survived more than 20 years in his own aquarium. When he died Granny was, according to some sources, given to the palaeontologist Charles Peach who kept it for another 20 years. Peach had moved to Scotland in 1849, living first in Peterhead then Wick, where he studied fossil fish: he too sent anemones to Gosse. Peach lived in Scotland at an exciting time: he was part of the scientific élite that included geologists Hugh Miller and Sir Roderick Murchison, naturalist Edward Forbes, and the great Robert Chambers. Did Peach look after “Granny”? Gosse notes in Actinologia that the anemone was given to Professor Fleming (probably JDD Fleming of Aberdeen and Edinburgh) and lived for at least 40 years, producing more than 300 young in that time; perhaps Peach inherited Granny after Fleming’s death.

Another Scottish collector was the Reverend David Landsborough (anemonising clerics seemed to have been common during those times); he was the Minister of Stevenston in Ayrshire, and he sent specimens collected from the Clyde around Arran and Cumbrae, the islands just offshore from his “patch”. He must have had time on his hands, as he wrote articles for the Proceedings of the Philosophical Society of Glasgow on dredging excursions and the “zoophytes” of the Clyde, as well as compiling the unofficial censuses for his parish.

In 1859, Gosse was lecturing in Scotland again and wrote to Edmund from Montrose, “My beloved Boy, You see that I have got to the extreme point of my travels, 650 miles from Torquay. I have just dined with some agreeable friends, and expect to deliver my first Lecture in about an hour. Montrose is a pretty little town, and the coast is said to be pretty good for Zoology.”

Who were his “agreeable friends”? Perhaps they were Dr James Howden and his family, for in Actinologia Gosse describes an unusual little coral, the Shetland Cup Coral, which had been dredged off the Shetland coast: “Looking over the cabinet of Dr Howden, of Montrose, my eye fell on this little Coral which seemed new to me. Its owner was so kind to transfer it to my possession”.  This may have been the same Howden who was Medical Superintendent of the Montrose Royal Lunatic Asylum, where his work led him to write a paper for the Journal of Medical Science, 1873, on “The Religious Sentiment of Epileptics”.

My favourite collector, though, was the intrepid Anne B Church, who collected a species of anemone brought up by a “turbot dredge” from Loch Long. Dredging in those days was an uncomfortable and potentially risky business, necessitating hanging over the side of small wooden boats that were powered by sail. Anne Church‘s descriptions are, however, delightfully feminine and Gosse deserves special credit for repeating them: the lips of the anemone’s mouth are scarlet “like the nectary of the hoop-petticoat narcissus”. Later, Peach and the Rev Gregor sent more specimens, but Gosse named the anemone after its finder – Stomphia churchiae. So Anne Church lives on, both in a specific name and, as a fictionalised version of herself, in my novel, Seaside Pleasures.

Although Gosse lived on the English south coast, he clearly made a big impression in Scotland: almost a third of Actinologia’s collectors sent specimens from Scotland. The Victorian craze for shore-collecting swept parts of the English coast clear “as with a besom”, but the Scottish shores were, and thankfully still are, “pretty good for Zoology”.


(This article, relating to Philp Henry Gosse and my novel Seaside Pleasures, first appeared in the Scots Magazine,  May 2006, pp514-516)

‘Seaside Pleasures’: the novel


When Matt Myers decides to spend the summer with his mother at the Shell House in Cornwall, he little guesses that he is about to step into the minefield of his family’s past and recent history …
Anne Church, a young Victorian; Matt, art student; Hazel Myers, his mother; malacologist and parasitologist, Elizabeth Wilson: their stories — of obsessional loves and conflicting beliefs — are inextricably linked with each other and with the life and tragic death of Victorian evangelist Emily Gosse, wife of the naturalist Philip Henry Gosse.

Seaside Pleasures ranges across time and geography, from Victorian Scotland to Africa in the 1960s and present-day England; the boundaries between fiction and fact become blurred, as the separate lives are woven together by the themes of shells and snails, science and religion, love and death — and the sea.

SP cover

ISBN 978-0-9544572-0-4
Littoralis Press, 1st edition, paperback 2003;still available from the author.

Second edition: ebook from Amazon Kindle,  Kobo and iTunes, in the UK and worldwide.

Paperback version still available from the author



Jane Gardam: ‘A big book with a MIND behind it!’.

‘Ann Lingard has written a thoughtful, compelling story … a very human account. The book is a rockpool in itself, concealing seaside secrets as well as pleasures deep beneath the surface.’ North Devon Journal.

‘A clever balance … that blurs the boundaries between fact and fiction’. Oxford Times

Ann Thwaite: ‘Immensely readable and extremely clever, Seaside Pleasures is a remarkable novel. Told in four distinct voices, three contemporary, one Victorian, the blend of past and present, fact and fiction is both curious and compelling.

Matt Ridley: ‘A very fine piece of writing that, uniquely among modern novels, makes real use of science rather than wearing science on its sleeve. Tremendously good plot, story and narrative style, fascinating history and even better science … A true two-culture achievement.

Jennifer Rohn, LabLit: ‘ … unlike Byatt, whose science comes across largely as contrived, pretentious showing off, Lingard’s portrayal is relaxed, natural and rarely gratuitous. … [And] perhaps more importantly, science through [Matt’s] eyes eventually proves to be exciting, and its purveyors, both passionate and refreshingly ordinary.’ Read Rohn’s long and thoughtful review on LabLit.



The Victorians were great collectors of shells; they used them to decorate the interiors and exteriors of  houses and grottoes, they made pictures and three-dimensional decorations, and they arranged them decoratively, although not always taxonomically, in Cabinets of Curiosity.

When malacologist (an expert on snails, or Molluscs) Elizabeth Wilson helps artist Barbara Lewisham repair a pattern of shells on the facade of her Shell House in Cornwall, she includes a highly-unusual shell at the centre: Tiphobia.

The inclusion of Tiphobia is a joke, for reasons which become apparent towards the end of the story.


Tiphobia and Bulinus: images from David Brown’s book, ‘Freshwater snails of Africa and their medical importance’, Taylor & Francis 1994. (For the explanation of the Tiphobia  joke, see p296 in the paperback.)

In the 1960s, Elizabeth worked in Ethiopia and Eritrea, surveying for the freshwater snails of the genus Bulinus, many species of which are responsible for carrying larvae of the parasitic blood-worm, Schistosoma, that causes the debilitating disease bilharzia in humans. Unusually for a woman scientist at that period, she lived under canvas in the field, collecting and sending snail samples back to the Natural History Museum (NHM) in London.

When she eventually retires from the NHM to live with her husband Allan on the south Cornish coast, her home becomes a centre for discussions and collaborations with other scientists – and she befriends Matt, an art student and Barbara’s grandson, who is staying with his mother Hazel in the Shell House.

Matt and Jim, a visiting American scientist, investigate the camera obscura and its clever attachments that Allan built in the attic before he died, and through the scientists – and their jargon which he describes as a ‘dance’ – Matt becomes intrigued and inspired by the colours of snails on the shore, and the shapes of the parasites that infect them. But more importantly, he gradually begins to learn about Elizabeth’s friendship with his grandmother.

Littorina obtusata, periwinkle

Colour polymorphism in periwinkles: citrina,aurantia, rubens and fusca – ‘Lovely poetic names’, see p99 of the p/b.


The stories of these three contemporary ‘voices’, Hazel, Matt and Elizabeth, are also intertwined with the story of the love between the Victorian naturalist, Philip Henry Gosse, and his wife Emily.

The Gosses (including their son Edmund, ‘Willy’) spent weeks at coastal towns such as Weymouth, Ilfracombe, and Tenby, while Philip (or ‘Henry’ as Emily called him) collected, observed and drew marine animals. He designed the marine aquarium as a way of keeping animals alive for observation, and he and his friend Charles Kingsley would go dredging to collect specimens, Kingsley often sending parcels of animals (including some lively cockles) to Gosse in London.


Soon Gosse was helping the Zoological Gardens in London’s Regents Park to set up large aquaria – and the fashion for small elegant aquaria in the home took off. People wanted to know more, to be able to find and identify shore creatures themselves – and Gosse began to run ‘shore classes’.


The fourth ‘voice’ in Seaside Pleasures is thus Victorian: Henry and his wife Emily, and their little son, are observed by a student on one of Gosse’s ‘shore classes’, Anne Church. Anne Church really existed – she is mentioned in Gosse’s classic book on the British sea-anemones and corals, Actinologia Britannica, as finding a new species of anemone in Loch Long, which Gosse describes and names as ‘Stomphia churchiae’ in her honour – but her character and story have been fictionalised in Seaside Pleasures. (Her fictional husband, Duncan Robertson, too, was a real-life collector of sea-anemones and is, again, mentioned and thanked in Actinologia.)

Stomphia churchiae

Rudolf and Leopold Blaschka were Dresden glass-blowers famous for their glass flowers, but also made exquisite glass models of invertebrate animals such as sea-slugs, octopuses, and sea-anemones; see Chris Meechan’s excellent article about their lives and work for more information. Their models of sea-anemones, the Actiniae, were based on Gosse’s coloured engravings  – and I was thrilled to find that the Blaschkas had also made several glass models of Gosse’s illustration of that Stomphia churchiae. One of the Stomphia models is in the Natural History Museum and I was actually able to use it when I gave a talk there for the Darwin Live series.

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Shells, religious beliefs, the patterns and shapes of things, love, and death – in Seaside Pleasures, these are all set against the backdrop and sound of the seashore, where both Gosse and Elizabeth Wilson spent many of the happiest, and also most tragic, periods in their lives.


There is more about PH Gosse and some unusual sea-anemones in my article from the Scots Magazine, May 2006,  The anemonizers of Scotland, and there are more images relating to the story on Pinterest


The art and science of seeing sea-weeds

When I was an undergraduate, I collected these green and red algae on a London university field trip at Liverpool’s former Marine Laboratory at Port Erin, Isle of Man. We were shown how to float the more delicate species onto white card; large polysaccharides like alginate and carrageenan would be released from the cells, swell as they hydrated,  and bind the fronds onto the card as the specimen dried. After all these years the algae have kept their colour and shape. Larger, thicker algae like the brown Fucus species common on rocky shores, were pressed and dried.

Collecting seaweed and displaying it in albums was one of the ‘sea-shore pleasures’ that entertained the Victorian middle classes. Ladies were not expected to be scientific in their collecting but, rather, to arrange their seaweeds in an aesthetically pleasing and artistic manner; the making and displaying of scrapbooks was a parlour pursuit, art rather than science.

seaweed and sentiment
‘Seaweed and sentiment’, 1865

(Collecting sea-anemones – actinia – and keeping them in marine aquaria was another craze, inspired by Philip Henry Gosse’s Actinologia Britannica (1860): so much so that he was to bewail, ‘They have swept the shore clean as with a besom!’)

Amelia Griffiths (1768-1858), the widow of a clergyman, had become singularly knowledgeable about seaweeds. From her home-base in Torquay she collected along the Cornish, Dorset and Devon coasts. According to Philip Strange’s fascinating blog-post, “she helped male seaweed enthusiasts in producing scholarly studies on the larger and smaller seaweeds, generously giving her knowledge and donating samples.” Amongst the men was the Irish botanist William Henry Harvey (1811-1866) who went on – with Mrs Griffiths’ help – to produce his handbook of British Marine Algae,  followed later by the 3-volume Phycologia Britannica, illustrated with coloured plates, and published in 1846.


 According to Philip Strange, Mrs Griffiths was often helped by her maid Mary Wyatt – who later ran a shop in Torquay selling shells and other seashore memorabilia to visitors, and who was encouraged by Harvey “to sell books of pressed and named seaweeds to help identification. Supervised by Amelia, she produced the first two volumes of Algae Danmonienses (Seaweeds of Devon) by 1833. Each volume contained 50 species …”

As an aside here, Philip Henry Gosse must surely have come across the elderly Mrs Griffiths (she lived to the age of 90) during his early sojourns on the Dorset and Devon coasts, during his own expeditions to collect and identify marine animals for his marine aquaria.

This was a time when science, in terms of enquiry, knowledge and new techniques, was advancing quickly. Scientists (‘natural philosophers’) knew of each other and, if they had been appointed members of prestigious establishment institutions such as the Royal Societies of Edinburgh or of London, they were sure to meet and talk and correspond.

At the same time as Harvey was working on the accurate representation of British seaweeds through coloured engravings, lengthy papers and postcripts and addenda were being presented to the Royal Society on other methods of capturing images, on paper or metal plates that had been made sensitive to light.

fox talbot's window lacock
The oriel window at Lacock Abbey, an image of which Fox Talbot captured in a calotype

William Henry Fox Talbot was developing a method of recording images as negatives on high-quality paper sensitised with a solution of silver iodide, which became known as the ‘Talbotype’ or calotype process.


At the same time, the astronomer and chemist John Herschel (1792–1871), who – like many natural philosophers of the time – had wide and eclectic interests, had been testing the effect of the spectrum of light in changing the colours of plant extracts. He presented his findings to the Royal Society in a lengthy paper “On the Action of the Rays of the Solar Spectrum on Vegetable Colours and on Some New Photographic Processes,” on June 16 1842, with a postscript added in August.

As well as using extracts of various flowers, he also used a solution of the gum guaiacum, and experimented with the effect of chlorine gas and solutions of salts of chlorine, iron, ammonium and more.

Extract from John Herschel’s 1842 paper

He began to home in on the underlying chemistry and the best methods of producing – and fixing – the colour change of the pigments on exposure to sunlight, and to use this to produce negative images of objects placed upon the sensitised paper: a process he called cyanotype.

Extract from the postscript to Herschel’s 1842 paper

Rather than plant extracts, with their cocktail of constituents, he sensitised paper with a mixture of iron salts, ferric ammonium citrate and potassium ferrocyanate. Exposure to sunlight produced a background of ‘beautiful and pure celestial blue’ – Prussian Blue – around the object that was being recorded.

John Children was Keeper of the Department of Zoology at the British Museum from 1837-40, and was also a chemist and an entomologist. He too was a Fellow of the Royal Society and served as its Secretary from 1830-37. Naturally, he knew Fox Talbot and John Herschel; indeed, they were friends, and along with other scientists such as Humphrey Davy, visited his home – with its well-equipped laboratory – in Kent.

Children’s wife Hester had died soon after giving birth to their daughter Anna in 1799, and it seems that Anna later “received an unusually scientific education for a woman of her time”

In 1825 she married John Pelly Atkins, a London merchant, and they moved to Halstead Place, the Atkins family home in Sevenoaks.

anna-atkins-1861 from Indie article
Anna Atkins, 1861 (from Wikipedia)

Atkins was also acquainted with Fox Talbot, and so, through her husband’s and her father’s friends, Anna learnt about calotypes and cyanotypes, the new techniques of photography.

At the same time as William Harvey was being helped by Amelia Griffiths, Anna Atkins too began recording the variety of British seaweeds, but using Herschel’s photographic technique of  ‘blueprinting’ or cyanotyping; she placed pressed algae under glass on paper that had been sensitised with a mixture of soluble iron salts, and exposed them to the sun. After washing in water, the background colour deepened to a uniform ‘celestial blue’, leaving the detailed outline of the algae in grey; washing, then drying, fixed the colour and the image. Since the object was placed directly onto the paper, these were strictly cyanograms.

Between 1841 and 1853, Anna produced the several parts of her Photographs of British Algae: Cyanotype Impressions, each of which contained around 400 images. It is not known how many copies she made but fewer than 20 still survive, all slightly different, and those at the British Library and the New York Public Library have been digitised and made available online. Inside the NYPL’s copy is the hand-written inscription, ‘Sir John F W Herschel, Bart. With Mrs Atkins’ compliments’. It is even possible to download a Kindle version (in shades of grey) from Amazon.

(All these images are from the New York Public Library’s digitised version)

Much of her work after 1853, such as the beautiful  Cyanotypes of British and Foreign Ferns , was made in collaboration with her lifelong friend, Anne Dixon (1799-1864), a second cousin of the writer Jane Austen.


I belatedly came across Anna Atkins’ cyanotypes when my daughter Rachel gave me a copy of the Horniman Museum’s publication, Bloom, related to the exhibition by artist Edward Chell. In 2011 one of theHorniman’s librarians discovered that ‘in the darkness of the archives’ of the collections were folios of a rare and valuable copy of Atkins’ British Algae: Chell’s work during his residency at the Museum was inspired by the cyanotypes as a way or representing plants.

 The technique

Atkins’ cyanotype ‘photographs’ are so striking because the background is so even in colour, and the outlines of even the most delicate algae are shown in such fine detail.

I already have a small collection of pressed seaweeds; I take people on low-tide walks on the Solway shore where we wander amongst weed-covered rocks; Rachel and I for several years developed and printed our own black-and-white photos; there is plenty of information about the cyanotype technique online (the Alternative Photography website is especially useful) … The technique is reputedly ‘simple’ – so of course I had to try it.

Basically, just two iron-containing chemicals are required: potassium ferricyanide and ferric ammonium citrate. Make them up separately – Solution A: 25 grams Ferric ammonium citrate (green) and 100 ml. water; Solution B: 10 grams Potassium ferricyanide and 100 ml. water – and mix in a non-metallic container.

Then – in dim light – paint the mixture onto paper using a soft, broad paintbrush (without a metal ferrule); leave the paper to dry in the dark; place your object  or negative  on the sensitised paper, preferably under glass to flatten and hold it in place, and expose to sunlight until you see the outline of the object.

garden plants cyanotype
First attempt: leaves and seed-heads

The pale green-yellow of the sensitised paper darkens towards blue in the sun, but is unchanged beneath the object. In bright sunlight the image develops within a few minutes but on a duller day it takes longer – and during a longer exposure the sun moves, so the outline of the object becomes fuzzy.

Wash in cold water for about 10 minutes until no greenish-yellow colour washes out (the startling Prussian Blue colour develops most strongly during washing) – and hang up to dry.

The chemistry:

In the first step of the reaction, ferric (FeIII) ions from the soluble ferric ammonium citrate are reduced in a photochemical reaction,  by UV in the sunlight, to ferrous (FeII). In the second stage, these ferrous ions then react in a complex way with the ferric ions in the potassium ferricyanate.

The result is an insoluble, dark blue compound – ferric ferricyanate – or Prussian Blue.

3Fe2+  + 2Fe(CN)63-   →  Fe3 (Fe(CN)6)2

After exposure, the colour is brought out further by oxidation during washing in tap water (dilute hydrogen peroxide can also be added).


My first attempt, using leaves and seeds from the garden, worked astonishingly well, and I was thrilled with the colour; it was either ‘beginner’s luck’, or else the marine algae really are more difficult.

To make such fine and accurate prints as Anna Atkins’, with a uniform background colour, will require more experimentation, but I have been pleased with the results so far, and I’m enjoying the challenge. Each attempt shows me new variables that need to be controlled. Unfortunately I can’t control the amount of sunshine!

I’ve experimented with different papers, with different ways of coating them, with different ways of arranging the algae, and with different washing-times.

Careful arrangement of each specimen on the paper with forceps before lowering the glass is tricky – but important.

I’ve learnt that thick seaweeds, even after pressing, may throw shadows that blur the edges. With very delicate algae, or colonial animals like hydroids, the finer details often appear during washing.

Art meets science: different points of view

Anna Atkins’ cyanotypes of marine algae and British ferns are a mixture of artistry and science, which she intended to be used as an aid to identification.

Mine cannot yet be used for accurate identification of species, but I’m enjoying the multifaceted approach:  cyanograms, photographs of fresh specimens, pressed and dried specimens, and algae that have been floated onto card and dried.


There is the possibility to play with different ways of recording shape and colour.

There is the possibility to gain different perspectives, and to hint at different points of view.