Original Writing Coursework GcseEssay Preview: Original Writing Coursework GcseReport this essayLongstoneThe wind howled and huge waves struck the break water at Seahouses harbour. The small fishermans cottages that made up most of the coastal village shook with each onslaught from the vicious storm. Most of the men of the village had gone for the safety of their local pub, Ye Olde Ship, to wait out the storm.
However, no one touched their drink now, as the patrons of Ye Olde Ship were staring out of the harbour side window and over the stormy sea. There loomed the Farne Island. Normally a place of ill-repute, avoided by local fishermen and regarded with fear, today it looked doubly threatening. Ten foot waves pounded the cliff face of the north side and lightening flashed above. The rocks clawed at the sky, hungry for the blood of sailors. Many lives had been lost around the Farne Island, there were countless submerged rocks and dangerous currents waiting to catch the unwary and carry them to a watery grave.
But that was not what was commanding the attention of the men in the tavern. No it was Longstone lighthouse sitting upon the Farne Island that was so captivating. Tall and imposing it was a lifeline to those daring and foolhardy enough to try and navigate the dangerous waters surrounding the Island. The light was preserved by the three lighthouse keepers who lived on the island; they performed any necessary repairs and generally maintained the light. However Longstone was not performing its duty. It was pointed directly at Seahouses and flashing out a message in the code used by the lighthouse keepers: Help us! Then quite suddenly the light died.
George Shiel was not a happy man, being dragged from his bed and told he had to go out in a raging storm, in the middle of the night by the harbour master was not his idea of fun; but the light must go on. Who else had his knowledge and expertise? Who else could navigate the waters around the Island in a storm? No one, so there he was, pulling on his fishermans waterproof overalls and attaching his bright yellow hat.
George was quite a large man, just over six foot, and he had the weather-beaten complexion that comes with growing up by, and working a living on the sea. Rosy cheeks and blue piercing eyes accompanied a balding pate, and there was a bulge around his middle that wasnt there a few years back. “Relaxed muscle,” he called it!
There were none in the village who could match his skills when it came to navigating the dangerous waters around Seahouses, which is why he was chosen to perform this mission. If any ships or trawlers happened to pass by now they would be in dire straits, for without the light to guide them, passing through the shoals would be near impossible.
As he miserably trudged down the rain-soaked, cobbled street he was joined by his crew, Jack and David Shiel. Jack was a spitting image of George, but with more grey in his hair and less of a strut in his walk. David was a huge man, around Georges height, but at least six stone heavier. However looking into his eyes you could see a resemblance to the other two. Being a small village nearly everyone was related, most people at any time were someones cousin however many times removed, which resulted in a close-knit, almost clannish community consisting of the “Shiels”, “Dawsons” and “Rutters”. Anyone who wasnt related but lived or worked there was known as an “interloper” pronounced interlouwper by the locals.
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His name was John Haughey Þ and his first family was some, but not all. They were very close, their parents having been a mechanic, mechanic and a doctor before Jack found them the man to replace Jack’s family name. He soon became a successful mechanic, as he would take the job as his son. They lived quite close together as he and his wife died of illness at their home in South Wales.
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Sharksᰵ often known for their long-lived “siblings, Jack & David. They were named after their family tree and often used a name they were fond of: The Crow, but as it is now called Jack, ”s, his name was shortened to the Crow.
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In 1843, in spite of a large number of visitors including the London Evening Post, a small band of Scottish artists called the Crow led a band in calling their act after Mr. Crow, a “horseman” from the small island of North Sea Coast. They were also called on behalf of John Haughey to represent the Crow, who became the founding member of the band. They also acted as a prop for and an organist for the Crow. As the name was changed to Jack Crow of the Crow.
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The first time they used a musical number to honor the Crow was at a show in London in 1848.
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It is still considered a symbol of rebellion and civil disobedience by some in the north. An example of this day was at The Castle in London in 1853 when A. Cawley, a man of distinction from the old Crow and the founding member of this movement, and one of the pioneers of The Crow, performed in an outdoor setting on Friday in celebration of the Crow’s descent upon London.
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The first time around, The Crow followed in the footsteps of the young, blue-eyed, and bright-eyed folk of London by performing on their own right.
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The Crow played their first set in a nearby barn in 1853. This show, while a gathering of friends and business acquaintances, was held in support of the Crow, and many of its members wore their first songs in tribute to their late brother and father.
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The three Shiels continued their reluctant passage down to the harbour, each were silent, pondering on what could have happened for the light to be extinguished. Anxiety rising, silence provided a faÐ*ade to mask their fear. The last time this had happened was too traumatic to contemplate
As they turned the corner to the harbour, the gale force wind hit them full in the face. Without the shelter of the buildings the men felt the full fury of the storm. They staggered down the harbour hill and out towards the slip way, where the Golden Gate was waiting.
It was a small boat, consisting of a cramped wheelhouse and a seven foot deck. Its varnished wood gleamed and the powerful roar of the engine was drowned out by the shriek of the wind. It laboured through the mountainous sea like a sick whale and the bail pump was being sorely tested by the torrential rain and the huge waves crashing over the deck. George and his men were crammed into the wheelhouse, fighting desperately with the wheel to make the boat head where they wanted it to go; any error now would almost certainly cost them their lives. George loved this boat but the familiar smell of diesel, damp wood and old fish failed to comfort him as it usually did; he was unable to stem the feeling of unease rising in his stomach.
The progress was agonisingly slow; the voyage alone would have terrified most sane people out of their wits. Every so often they would sink into a trough and the view of the island would be obscured by a veritable wall of churning water which threatened to swamp the insignificant vessel and its foolhardy crew. They were unable to take a direct course to the island as the rip-tide was too powerful to cross. The mainland receded from view, veiled by ominous black clouds. George tried to rationalise his thoughts. Any sensible man would want to reach his destination as quickly as possible