The clingon power of the barnacle is astonishing, as anyone who ever tried to prise them off the rocks in childhood acts of discovery will know.  My memory of summer holidays by the English sea, or day trips to the seaside, includes endless coasts of weed-slithered rocks and barnacle-encrusted boulders, interspersed with sole-torturing pebble beaches and even, now and then, a lonely stretch of sand.

‘Weed-slithered rocks … and barnacle-encrusted boulders.’

 

Source: Adam Nicolson, Sea Room: An Island Life (London: Harper Collins, 2013 (2002)), p. 368

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