As we’re all aware, Hull has a long and storied relationship with cod, rooted in its proud history as one of Britain’s great fishing ports. For much of the 20th century, Hull’s economy and identity were shaped by the trawler fleets that ventured to the Arctic waters around Iceland and Norway in search of cod, a staple of the British diet. The city’s docks bustled with life, and generations of families built their livelihoods on the dangerous but vital trade. This bond was tested during the Cod Wars of the 1950s–70s, when territorial disputes with Iceland brought the industry to its knees and changed Hull forever. Today, while large-scale fishing has faded in Hull, the cultural legacy of cod endures – including the inclusion of Cod in Gordon Young’s Fish Trail. Except, the life-size cod was stolen from the Trail in August 2023.
When I was invited to respond to Cod for The Critical Fish Trail, I found myself reflecting on these themes of pride and loss, and the exploitation of nature – and how deeply they echo through Hull’s history and my own artistic practice. The city’s lost fishing heritage, shaped by the Cod Wars and the decline of an industry that once defined its identity, mirrors a wider cultural unmooring: the disappearance of stories, symbols, and the wisdom that once meaningfully and spiritually tethered us to the natural world. The fact that the Cod artwork itself was stolen only deepens this sense of absence – a tangible reminder of what’s been taken, forgotten, or left behind.
In my practice, I explore storytelling, folklore, and the more-than-human world, seeking to rekindle a sense of connection to the natural magic that slips through the cracks of modern life. I’m drawn to old magical practices – like divination and plant medicine – and the oral traditions through which such knowledge was once shared, recognising in their loss a reflection of our collective disconnection. Although I’m not a Hull native (being a Londoner who moved here 13 years ago), Hull does run through my veins – both in an ancestral sense and the fact that Hull is now my home. And through my creative response to Cod, I wanted to honour Hull’s vanished voices (of both the human and more-than-human kind), and to imagine what might surface if we listened again to the stories beneath the waves.
Ichthyomancy (or fish divination) is an ancient form of prophecy that interprets messages or omens through the behaviour, movement, or appearance of fish, or via their bones or entrails. Practised in various global cultures throughout history, diviners might study how fish swam, leapt, gathered, or even how they were caught or died, and draw meaning from their actions to predict weather, fortune, or fate. In some versions, priests or seers would cast sacred fish into water and read patterns in the ripples (much like scrying). There is also a type of ichthyomancy aligned with osteomancy, which is the practice casting bones to foresee fate. Bones are widely considered to magically potent and contain the knowledge of those who once animated them.
However, within the context of Hull – I honestly don’t know if cod bone divination was a real thing or if I made it up. I feel like I have actually read about cod bones being used by local wisewomen way-back-when… which would make perfect sense within small coastal communities, especially as seafarers are traditionally a superstitious lot. But when I went to research into this again for this project, I couldn’t find any evidence of it! I don’t think it matters either way though. And besides, whose to say that I wasn’t fated by the gods to bring this local cultural practice back into knowledge after years of being forgotten?
Ballad O Bones
Down Spurn an’ up t’Olderness bend,
Where t’North Sea’s mood can twist or mend,
Lives she who skegs at fish wi’ care,
Reads cod like tea leaves wi’ bones laid bare.
Nell’s no witch, nor wears a hood,
Jus’a top from Boyes, an’ boots caked good.
Request to learn of what comes hence
And hear her bones speak consequence.
Tossin’ ’em down, a Seer stirred,
Each rib a sign, each spine a word.
No charts, no news, no need to sleuth,
Insight found in brittle truth.
The air gets thick, the bones run white,
They whisper low by lantern light.
No preacher’s book, no doctor’s creed,
Just cod an’ fate an’ bloody need.
“That curve there? Storm. That crack? Divorce.
Those there? A bain born breach, of course.”
She don’t do chance, she don’t do guess.
The bones, they talk. She does t’rest.
“Come ‘ere,” she says, “see how that falls?
Luck comes close – yer fortune calls.
But this one’s angled – a’you been sick?
There’s illness brewin’, fast an’ thick.”
Some reckon she’s mad, but think on deep…
When cod bones speak Hull folk won’t sleep.
You laughed, at first. They laughed as well.
Just once ter neglect this warning bell.
One deckie came, they called him Jack,
She read the bones, stood solemn back.
“Avoid water, lad, ‘til Tuesday night,
Steel’ll buckle, the flood’ll bite.”
Chucklin’, he sailed, til trawler capsized.
Could’ve lived, like she advised.
Now even lads who’d scoff an’ jeer,
Keep cod bones close, an’ her more near.
They tell the story, the cod and ‘er,
Together with bones, prophecy stirs,
Cod ain’t caught to fry or shift,
It tell the truth, through bone and gift.
Hull folk know we’re one wit’ sea.
But codbones carry what will be…
An’ when Nell’s gone, who’ll read the text?
Who’ll know what bones say will come next?
Lauren Saunders (2025).
Artwork credit: Ballad O Bones (2025) Lauren Saunders, Photographic Print, Film and Ink.