It was Boxing Day in 1962 when the weather forecast reported an unanticipated anticyclone in Scandinavia had drawn-in continental winds from Russia and formed a cold, easterly gale-force wind, bringing snow to South East England. By New Year’s Eve this blizzard was blowing across the country and as temperatures dropped, the snow drifted up to twenty feet high. Power lines were brought down under the weight of the snowfall, with roads and railway lines coming to a stand still. Then, in January of 1963, as temperatures continued to plummet to below minus two degrees, the unimaginable happened; the sea froze over. 

For nearly a week it was possible to walk a mile and a half across the ice, past the landing stage of the pier, almost as far as what was known locally as the crannog; a cluster of rocks which formed a small island. Nobody ventured that far of course, and as children we were mostly content just to venture out a few yards onto the frozen brine – thrilled at the notion of walking on water like mythological deities… until we took a tumble. Yet, the temptation to travel all the way to the mysterious outcrop of battered stone; to breach the fort that had intrigued us for all our years, was palpable.

Ordinarily, the island couldn’t be reached, for the rocks extended far down into the water, lying just beneath the surface – ready to tear apart any vessel’s hull. The currents around the formation were incredibly strong; several boats and souls had been lost in bad weather from the force of these undercurrents, as if the ocean itself had reached up with massive hands and pulled them down to Poseidon’s dominion. 

The adverse weather had traversed these perils, so there was a clear passage to this lure. Yet nobody would venture that close. There were reports the ice thinned out too much as it approached the crannog, and some said it stopped some yards short of the outcrop. Every young boy’s parents warned them of the danger and the consequences of trying it, especially the discipline they would receive if they were discovered, and none of the girls even thought of trying this stunt. Well, almost none. 

I was what was referred to then as a tomboy; I enjoyed taking the boys on at their own games, on their terms – I could run as fast, climb a tree as high, throw a ball as far and fight as well as they could. I wasn’t doing all this to be one of them, they were simply the kind of things I enjoyed, and if I’d known other girls who did the same I’d probably have knocked about with them. So when one of the young lads challenged me to walk out as far as the island, I didn’t think twice about it, I accepted the dare at once. 

I had heard the stories about the ice and the currents and the dashing rocks and the monsters and all of that, but on the day in question I just found it was something I wanted to do; especially as none of my companions were brave enough; they had all pleaded ‘beatings’ from their fathers, or a ‘swift clip ‘round the ear at the very least’ for going further than ten yards out, but they knew ‘as a girl’ I would forgo any parental retributions, say for a sermon by my mother on how it just wasn’t ‘the done thing’, and they were right. So without another word I started out onto the frozen brine, heading for the distant black isle. Their voices calling out at me, dissipating in the winter winds. In all honesty, I was nervous, but it was a rational fear; what would happen if I got out that far and a blizzard got up again? How would I find my way back..?

There was a strong head wind on the way out, which made progress hard going and it whipped up the snow a little around my Wellington Boots, which had at least a couple of inches of ice on their soles. Yet, I trudged slowly outwards. My thick woollen mittens, tied with strings about my neck, and matching scarf, which my Nan had made me, did well to keep out the cold, but a snowball fight earlier in the afternoon had resulted in white patches on both garments, and these damp spots were beginning to sting. Still I continued on my trek, simply putting one foot in front of the other, in front of the other. It was odd, but it seemed the further out I got the calmer the weather became; settling down to a mere breeze by the time I was halfway. 

It was an inexplicable feeling stepping foot somewhere no one else has been, and I imagine it was not too dissimilar to how certain astronauts would feel several years later when they took their own small steps. I daresay, however, the moon’s surface didn’t seem to bob up and down a little when they walked on it. This is when I first realised the ice was getting thinner and there was still some way to go before I reached the crannog, but I wouldn’t turn back.

It seems implausible, and a little sad now, but none of the adults on the beach that day did anything to deter me. My own parents and those of my co-conspirators were at home – baking bread and cosying up by the coals – but there were still plenty of grown-ups out with their own children, their attention duly on their infants instead of on the unattended girl, wandering off alone across the ice.

I was only fifty yards from the rocks when I noticed movement at my feet. Beneath the waning ice I could make out the sea and its remnants moving back and forth, and it at once made me feel quite nauseous to think there was only this thin crust between me and the deadly cold water below, but I was a headstrong child, determined to be the first and possibly only ever visitor to the crannog. Finally, I reached the edge of the glacier and the black rock was within inches of my frozen mittens. I looked about me, and just off to the left it seemed like the ice may have been slightly thicker. So, in the near-still air, above the imprisoned waters and across the undulating surface, I sidestepped slowly, until I was in the right spot and slowly, and carefully, I stretched out my hand and touched the sacred stone. That’s when I first heard it. 

I wasn’t sure what it was to begin with, thinking it may have been the ice cracking or groaning under my weight, but it seemed more rhythmical than that. For a moment I thought perhaps the isle may be a living thing and what I could hear was its heartbeat; for such thoughts can plague you in times like these. Quickly I ran my fingertips through the snow which had formed on the structure, finding a small piece of loose debris I could return with. I knew the boys wouldn’t take my word I had made it all the way out here, so this was my evidence. Again, I heard the sound. This time it was closer and I could feel the emitted vibrations – almost as if I was right on top of it. Instinctively I looked down. I could never be certain exactly what I saw, for it was only fleeting; the water was murky and I was cold and tired, but I swear I saw the pale, bloated face of… of something… something monstrous.

Of course I ran – blind panic had me flee instantly; my heart pounded in my ears and the ice splintered in my wake. I ran as fast as my tired, half frozen legs would carry me; my breath burning in my lungs with each intake, stinging my eyes with the exhale. My mind raced round and round, disorientating me, and I hoped I was headed for shore. I ran and I ran, from the pursuing terror. And I didn’t stop running until I had reached home. The boys had long since deserted the beach by the time I’d reached it; half scared I wasn’t coming back, half scared they wouldn’t get home before teatime, and would bear the brunt of yet another severe chastisement for disobedience. But I hardly noticed. 

When I did see them next and showed them the rock I had collected, they didn’t believe me; they said I’d ‘found it on the beach in the summer and had probably been home before they were’. Pah! I thought better of telling them what I had seen out there that day. That abhorrent creature trapped under the ice with its lifeless black, staring eyes. Jaw fixed in a silent scream, its taut claws hammering resolutely against the frozen sea. Determined to break through, desperately trying to reach me.