This is the second in a proposed series on peculiarities I’ve encountered when walking. I originally intended these posts to appear only on Medium, but that’s a platform where most readers subscribe with a small annual fee for the opportunity to read from a vast collection of posts covering an enormous range of interests. It allows authors to be rewarded for their time and effort. But it’s quickly become clear many of my regulars don’t belong to Medium, so I’ve decided to post the series here as well.

If you missed the first post, which explains the premise, you can find it here on Medium. And, for those not on the other platform, I’ll repeat the introduction here:

‘When I’m out and about, whether in urban chaos or rural tranquillity, I’m often attracted by the odd, the misplaced, the unusual, the item that smacks the eye with its inappropriate situation; probably something to do with being odd myself, eh?

It seems, since I tend to record such encounters on whatever recording device I’m carrying, a good idea to share these oddities with a wider audience to see what others take from them. Who knows, might we learn something? And, even if we don’t, some of the images will amuse, some will shock, some may cause possible disgust, and all invite comment or even discussion. So, nothing to lose, I think.’

On to today’s post:

I guess we’ve all encountered beach stones with odd holes bored in them, and wondered how they came by these strangely perfect decorations. Believe it or not, they’re created by a small bivalve mollusc (in other words, a shellfish), called Pholas dactyl. But, known more colloquially as the common piddock. Mind you, I’m not sure I’d want a moniker that labelled me a lower-class twit.

Of course, it does have an even less complimentary popular name, which is the nominative deterministic ‘boring piddock’. I mean, hardly likely to elevate self-confidence, is it?
But enough about the name.

How does this wee beastie perform its apparent miracles?

It’s small and needs a shell to protect its fragile body from attack. So, how does it bore holes in solid rock? Apparently, although its shell is thin and brittle, the design is such that it can withstand unusual pressures. And the small inhabitant has a locking sucker-like foot that anchors it to the selected stone. It then twists and twists, and the thousands of tiny file-like rasps that coat the shell allow it to slowly drill into the stone. Isn’t nature amazing? Once attached within its hole, it is safer from attack, it seems.