On the evening of 5 February 2004 twenty one Chinese illegal immigrants were drowned by the tide in Morecambe Bay while harvesting cockles, They were earning a reputed £1 per hour. Their call for help, they didn’t even speak English, was “sinking water” but it was too late to save them. The slave gang master was jailed for his involvement. There is a poignant statue, Praying Shell, located near Red Bank Farm farther north on Morecambe Bay.
You probably remember this tragedy, twenty years ago. I was reminded of it by a radio programme whilst driving up to the area today. As I look out across Morecambe Bay, with the tide well in, I feel shivers down my spine. This is the famous view with the Lakeland hills in the background but today is all cold water and mist, not a place to take lightly. There have been other deaths out there.
I wonder how many more immigrants, trafficked and enslaved here by criminal gangs, are earning £1 an hour in some illegal trades. There is talk on the street of carwashes and nail parlours.
I remember being in a dingy Indian Restaurant in Preston when Immigration Officials raided it. They were looking for a ‘Mr. Patel’ (one of thousands no doubt). “He doesn’t work here anymore” was the blank answer they received. Another time, in an even dingier café in Bradford, I attempted to find the toilets only to walk into a room with maybe a dozen ‘Mr Patels’ sleeping on the floor. It must still be happening, but now probably Afghanistanis, Serbians or Albanians,
The world is a cruel place at the moment. We may have to make room for disposed Ukrainians and Palestinians. The former were welcomed with open arms in a gesture of good will, but I can’t see that happening with the latter. Our, or more correctly our ‘make it up as you go along’ government’s, only answer to the oncoming floodgates of persecuted immigrants, once known as refugees, is to send them to Ruanda denying their human rights. Not only is the world cruel but the so called rich countries are in for an onslaught of deprived humanity. We regrettably have not got to grips with the problem or any idea of the solution.
All this was going through my mind whilst gazing across the bay from a seat not far from the Sunday diners in the Midland Hotel, a world away from the cockle pickers.
I had just pedalled in from Lancaster on my usual route on the cycleways. The promenade was busier than usual, I realised it was the start of half term. I had to be very wary of loose children and dogs and was glad to escape into the peace of the canal towpath. It was a grey day all round.
On a lighter note as I was cycling up a suburban side street in Hest Bank a passing motorist stopped to ask me “which house is Tyson Fury’s?” Of course I had no idea. Fury. the heavyweight boxing champion, lives with his wife and seven children in Morecambe and is apparently regularly seen around town. It must be annoying to have fans turning up outside your house for a selfie and an autograph. And who would want to annoy Tyson?
