he ebb tide poured out of the River Tyne as a small potting boat struggled against it, crawling in past a broken plateau of rock and up towards a few yachts strung out on fore and aft moorings. As I trudged towards the giant Collingwood memorial towering over the harbour mouth, I read a tourist board which stated that the reef beneath me, the Black Middens, had claimed many a ship. One local told me, ‘Yachts still
