They are in Liz's old Peter Rabbit dish - I cannot use it for food anymore, as it appears to have got cracked when we moved house, but it is just the right size to display last Sunday's collection. I found two useful identification guides to British shells here and here
When we were young, people told us to hold a whelk or conch shell to our ear and listen to the sound of the oceans. It was such fun, imagining where that shell had come from, what distances it may have travelled. Here's 'Seashell' by G L Lindsay
I stopped and picked it up: a little curled seashell,Warm to a gentle touch; light to an open palm.There was a ghost of a whisper silent, beggingTo be heard – and I smiled, for I knew its secretIt carried the ocean within it; in it; breathingA storm from far away, or the lap of a tideFrom an early morning, grey, misty, and silentI held it up to hear its own little storyThe soft memories that came from long ago andHow they were carried in its small heart for so longIt whispered the story to my heart, and I putThe little seashell back on the sandy shorelineAnd although every shell sounds the same, rememberThat each remembers its own story, once uponA long, long ago timeAnd carries it in its heart, and whispers it out
Like the tides of the sea
Our world is a busy, noisy place, and sometimes it is good to stand back and just listen quietly, letting those gentler sounds come through. In the midst of a society where so many are clamouring to be heard, and get their point across, there is also the voice of God speaking to us, telling us He cares, He loves us, and we are worth something to Him.
An extract from Wordsworth's 'The Sea Shell'
The still, small voice of Calm. Even the winds and waves obey Him.Even in such a shell the Universe itselfIs to the ear of Faith: and there are times,I doubt not, when to you it doth impartAuthentic tidings of invisible things;Of ebb and flow and ever-during power;And central peace, subsisting at the heartOf endless agitation