Holy Island

Day one

Why go?

When I think of Holy Island, also known as Lindisfarne, I conjure up pictures in my mind of times long past. That's because the Island has some ancient abbey ruins and an imposing 16th century castle located high upon a volcanic mount.

In the 7th century, Benedictine monks established a priory near the southern shore of the Island. Peace, solitude and purity could be found on this outcrop of rock that is cut off by the tide twice a day. Indeed, even in our noisy era, the atmosphere has probably changed little - apart from the intermittent bustle of summer visitors, intrigued by the Island's history. Before the tide covers the causeway, those not staying in local accommodation depart from the island, their curiosity satisfied, but for me, with 'Micro' as my temporary home, the Island was to surprise me with a very personal experience.

As a young man I had aspired to visit the place with canoeing friends. We wanted to use it as a base for an expedition to the Farne Islands. These are a small basalt archipelago about six miles away to the south-east - a natural bastion defying the ravages of the North Sea. My ambition never materialised through lack of funds.

Many years later I sold a yacht to a gentleman who lived near Perterhead. Part of the deal was to help him deliver the yacht from Southend-on-Sea. Because our track would pass near the Farne Islands, I believed my chance to see them and Holy Island had at last arrived, but it was not to be, since when we were in their vicinity they were surrounded by dense fog. Although we had an efficient GPS, we deemed it unwise to venture close to the Islands. Prudence determined we should continue north without my ambition being achieved.

Journey to Holy Island

More recently, when I read about the Dinghy Cruising Association's Holy Island Rally, I determined to take 'Micro' there - that's if she had not been sold and if the weather forecast was satisfactory. Both criteria were met, and on Thursday the 30th May 2002, the little boat dutifully followed my faithful Ford Sierra; we dodged dense and dangerous traffic over a distance of 327 miles. (My conscience was not pleased with the pollution inevitably caused by my car's exhaust emission, although I used unleaded petrol. How could I fly my Micro Sailboat Club member's flag after such a blatant disregard of what its members cherish - a respect for the preservation of the environment? Ambition shamefully overcame idealism, and my weak commitment. Instead of minimising pollution I added to it!)

Heavy showers caused rainwater to collect in the cockpit, and unknown to me, it managed to seep into the partially waterproofed compartment under the cockpit deck, where I had stored my clothing and sleeping gear. Fortunately, very little moisture penetrated the plastic holdall containing my sleeping bag. It was a simple matter to remedy the situation of my wet shirts by spreading them on the car seats to allow them to dry overnight.

Arriving at the Island's causeway by 1600 ensured there would be ample time to cross it before the incoming tide would cover the road. High water being three hours later made it ideal timing for launching at the fishermen's slipway, except, when I came to do it, there was a fairly heavy swell. That necessitated using a length of rope to control the descent of the boat and trailer down the launching ramp into the advancing waves. Had I tried my usual procedure of backing the car until the water reached the rear wheel, I feel certain the exhaust pipe would have been flooded, perhaps causing the engine to stop.

We made it

As 'Micro' entered her element, several American tourists, carrying bags and cameras, awaited a ferry to their cruise ship. One of them was intrigued with the launching procedure. He offered to hold the painter until the trailer had been parked; then he observed, in a Californian drawl, how cold the wind was, and remarked that only a Brit would be wearing shorts! Thereupon, I explained the necessity for my scanty attire was to avoid getting my ordinary trousers wet.

Before dark 'Micro' was high and dry on a sandy beach, beyond the ebbing water. I was snugly ensconced in my sleeping bag, being protected from the rain and wind by the cockpit tent. It was difficult to take in that home was over three hundred miles to the south. If I had sailed there in a cruising yacht, it would have taken at least four days - perhaps up to eight.

Day two

Plan for the day

It had been a fitful night, as heavy rain lashed the tent, but not a drop entered the living area. Occasionally waking, I heard the sound of waves crashing on the nearby jetty. A bright sunrise heralded the start of Friday morning. Not another DCA boat could be seen. Had I got it right? Was the Rally due to start? How best to spend the day?

An examination of the tidal data indicated that low water would be around 1320 - ideal for looking at the layout of sand banks and rocks. Between two hours before and two hours after low water would be the best time to sail. That's because the dangers would more clearly be seen and currents would run at their slowest. Therefore I decided to walk around the entire Island to see were the hazards lay.

Starting the trek

The forecast was for a windy, but sunny day, and so it turned out to be. I packed a lunch in my knapsack, and at 0915 set off for the trek. On the horizon I could see the dark silhouette of the Farnes. The Longsgtone lighthouse and Inner Farne lighthouse marked the northern and southern extremities of the Islands respectively. Ahead of me, at the end of a rock path and directly before the blazing sun, there stood a gaunt castle on the crown of a conical mound. A National Trust sign indicated it was closed to the public that day.

Bypassing the edifice along a footpath, I followed its meanderings near the beach. Far out at sea, beyond a tide race, I could discern the grey shape of a freighter lumbering to the north-east. Emmanuel Head was about a mile to the north. There I could see a white pyramidal day mark. To reach this concrete structure I had to pass through a large flock of grazing sheep with their many lambs, one of which had sadly died and had been abandoned by its mother.

The strong west wind malevolently tried to remove my Nike cap. Its intention was to take it out sea, but I adjusted the peak, in Norman Wisdom style, so that it lay over my right ear, thus streamlining the cap to frustrate the wind's desire. The fiendish foe was more successful in causing havoc with some tiny mauve butterflies by mercilessly sweeping them beyond the cliff's edge. That was not the case with several longhaired, black and orange caterpillars that easily clung to short grasses. Nor were thousands of light brown snails daunted by the wind's evil design. Instead, they were intent on lovemaking in the sun, oblivious to the fact that a lumbering giant might inadvertently crush them, because he misjudged his step.

More to see

I rested at the day mark on a seat conveniently placed there in memory of some dear soul who departed this life after 63 years. A swig of cool Sprite revived me, along with a crunchy Toffee Crisp bar. With renewed energy I set off to explore the northern extremity of the Island. It was mainly composed of enormous craggy sand dunes. In between them were small valleys lined with various coloured flowers. This really was a Garden of Paradise. Song thrushes, blackbirds, wrens, jackdaws, skylarks and numerous unidentified sea birds populated the area. Open grass, shortened by munching rabbits, small bushes and undergrowth made an ideal habitat for the birds.

To seaward, rocks jutting into the waves gave protection to boulder-studded bays, where there were wonderful pools containing myriad crustaceans and weeds. I could hear the sound of a man singing, but could I have been mistaken? Indeed I was, because, on close inspection of the water near one of the peninsulas of rocks, there were many seals bobbing their heads in and out of the waves. They were the ones making these human-like, sonorous sounds.

A bit further along the dunes I discovered a motorbike, but with four wheels instead of the usual two. It had a shepherd's crook housed in a cylinder for immediate use. At first I could not find the owner; then I spied him way out on the rocks, searching for winkles. Cherishing my privacy, I hurriedly continued my walk. Clouds passed overhead at what seemed a colossal rate, just like those speeded-up film sequences one sometimes sees on TV nature programmes. Way to the north and west, I could clearly see the coast near Berwick-upon-Tweed.

A very personal experience

To make the going easier, I clambered down the sandy dunes between clumps of hardened grasses to a flat beach that was almost featureless - apart from a wavy pattern that had been shaped by the receded water. The scene was similar to one of those Salvador Dali paintings in which colours contrast; patterns and textures enrich an endless landscape. I was enthralled to observe an immense stretch of yellow and umber sand, bonded by a blue wave-capped sea to my right, but on my left, reaching to the sky, were towering, weirdly shaped dunes, splotched with green grasses. I thrust myself directly into the wind, while shading my eyes from the stinging blast of sand that was propelled against me. It was a truly surreal experience.

Suddenly from nowhere there appeared two ageless figures of indeterminate gender. As we converged, they held hands. I acknowledged their presence with a short greeting, but secretly grudged their intrusion by infringing my solitude. At that moment I experienced something extraordinary - a feeling that God wanted to communicate in a special way. He wanted me to know of His infiniteness, of His eternity and of His greatness, but more than that - His holiness, His separateness and also His closeness. He wanted me to know of His love, care and concern. Somehow the two intruders were integral with this moment.

Were they believers too, and if so, why did I grudge their presence? Shouldn't I have shared these precious things with them? Could they have been angels in disguise, or were they two of God's earthly children with an assurance of God-given eternity? As quickly as they appeared, so they disappeared.

On the beach ahead was a mysterious shape. As I approached it my mind tried to make sense of what I saw. It did so look like the head of very fat man, but in truth it turned out to be the stump of tree! It had been moulded into shape by the tossing, turning and grinding received from sand and rocks through the motion of the sea. Other tree trunks and branches had been cast up on the base of the dunes. Several of them looked like prehistoric creatures or primaeval fish.

The lap before lunch

I paused to deeply breathe in the fresh air and glancing downward, I saw a pair of glistening cuttlefish shells that I could not resist inspecting closely. They were exquisite in design, being symmetrical reversed images; layered with a transverse comb-like, light brown pattern. Only a Master Designer could have invented such a perfect creation. I decided to keep them as a memento, but further along the beach I was struck by the appearance of a black, delta-shaped object, about the size of my hand, that contrasted with the rippled sand. It transpired to be a piece of sea coal polished by waves and sand particles. I carefully placed my first acquisition on the beach, exchanging it for the coal that seemed more precious.

The far western end of the Island was within walking distance before lunch. There, after climbing a mighty sand dune, I was able to survey the area of the causeway and its narrow channels. That was about an hour or so before low water.

I concluded conditions would have to be ideal for a clockwise circumnavigation of the Island, because there was only a short time to bring one's vessel under the causeway bridge on a rising tide. Afterwards, one would need to sail across an expanse of shallow water to the open sea, on the northern side. Even after successfully sailing around the rest of the Island, one would then have to battle against a fierce ebb tide to reach the security of the tiny harbour. Since my boat did not have an engine, I dismissed the idea, there and then.

Lunch and a welcome nap

A picnic lunch was in order. So I found a niche in the lee, behind a ridge of sand, and tucked into a salad feast. The wind whistled through the long dune grasses, causing a sound not unlike breaking waves. Near my feet some amazing tiny ants followed one another. They made an almost perfect course through dense foliage. It was as though they had an in-built magnetic compass, but I suspect their navigation was by the sun. Contented, I lay on my back, and closed my eyes in slumber.

Waking all of a sudden, I realized it was time to move on. It took willpower to articulate my limbs, since they were somewhat stiff and my toes felt red-hot - because of the unaccustomed demands that had been placed upon them. How old was I? Surely I ought to have had more spring in my gait, being only two years short of seventy?

There were another four miles to go before arriving back at my temporary home - my faithful 'Micro'. At least, the wind would be with me. No longer would I need to protect my eyes from the flying, stinging sand.

Penultimate hike

I heard a diesel train to the southwest, but strain as I may, I could not see it. Vehicles sped over the causeway and along the road upon which I now walked. Often I had to take evasive action by tramping through mud beside the pockmarked and frequently patched road. Glancing behind to see a car approaching, I recognized a familiar boat behind it - that of George Saffrey - and I waved him down. It was good to meet him again, but the strong temptation to ask for lift had to be resisted. I really was determined to make it completely around the Island unassisted.

As his car disappeared in the far distance, near the outskirts of the village, I became aware of an elderly couple marching behind me. It was not long before they drew alongside and purposely made their way ahead. I was amazed at their energy and efficiency under that baking hot sun. In passing, we exchanged a few words from which I gathered they were walkers seeking accommodation on Holy Island for the night. It was a comforting feeling not to have to compete in a race with them, but simply saunter along, while enjoying every moment. Birds twisted and turned in the air while they screeched and squawked at one another. Visitors by car and caravan where nestled together between the dunes, where there was a small free car park; the voices of cheerful children were a delight to hear.

Not quite so easy

Those few remaining miles seemed to take so little time to travel and before I realized it, I was nearing the road that entered the village, but by taking it I would not have walked the entire perimeter of the Island. Therefore I chose the more difficult route around the rocky shore and over some low earth cliffs that were, in fact, a huge rabbit warren full of hidden holes to trip the unsuspecting. The last few hundred yards were impassable because of jagged rocks and the hazard of an eroded cliff. I therefore conceded to walk along a short footpath leading into the village.

Delights of the village?

While exploring the village I discovered St Mary's church. Although it had an historic connection with the ancient Abbey it was not in itself architecturally pleasing or interesting. The Abbey ruins, on the other hand, were fascinating with their unusually delicate Norman arches. I continued to the old Coast Guard Station that was no longer operative, but from its commanding position I was able to see the entire expanse of the bay, including Guile Point to the south with its two distinctive obelisk marks. A long, lean red yacht lay at anchor in the pool immediately below the cliff. She looked purposeful and well-travelled.

The return

From there I finally made it back to 'Micro' where others had gathered. I introduced myself to Tim Roberts who was staying aboard his Leisure 23 yacht and also to Chris and Doug with their Wanderer class dinghy. They had booked accommodation ashore, with the intention of doing some day sailing. Liz Baker and Len Wingfield arrived in their boats after having stayed the night at the Farne Islands. Apparently they had experienced a few anxious moments because of the poor sea state and strong wind.

Other DCA members arrived with their camper vans and they visited the Ship Inn for a meal, but I preferred to cook my own curry and rice to be eaten with a delicious yoghurt. Later I joined the party at the Inn for a low alcohol lager.

Day three

The wait

The Shipping Forecast on Saturday morning predicted winds a little stronger than I wanted. High water was about 0800 hours. Therefore I anchored in the harbour in readiness for sailing before and after low water. That meant waiting until 1145 when the current would be manageable. I did not feel like fighting a three to four knot ebb that was currently in progress.

It was a pleasant sunny morning and there were several things to occupy my time. Firstly I had to shave and clean my teeth; then consider the Bible reading for the day. After that I needed to prepare the boat for sailing. The jib had to be swapped with the storm jib, and the mainsail required reefing. It was an appropriate opportunity to fly the Micro Sailboat Club pennant, although my conscience concerning the exhaust fumes still pricked me.

Meanwhile Paul and Ian anchored their Suffolk Beach Punt nearby. It was festooned with nautical signal flags in honour of the Queen's Jubilee. Since they were within easy conversational distance, many pleasant words were exchanged while they cooked a full English breakfast. The smell of scrambled eggs and fried bacon wafted across to me. There was much hustle and bustle on the jetty, as a trawler that had undergone a refit was being launched. Trippers arrived by ferry to explore the Island. Small black-headed gulls wheeled overhead and some dived to the water, only to rise back into the air with much screeching.

Later, as I was reading a passage from Macgregor's 'A Thousand Miles in the Rob Roy Canoe', George Saffrey anchored his smart Cruz class dinghy nearby. When I was a lad, the book had inspired me to build a small canvas sailing and paddling canoe. I used to sail it during the school summer holidays on Plymouth Sound. Uffa Fox was also one of my sailing heroes.

Shortly after George anchored, Liz Baker followed suit in her trusted Cormorant dinghy. Her boat lay but a stone's throw beyond the Cruz. The simplicity of the Cormorant's highly peaked gaff sail was attractive and seamanlike.

Sailing at last

I prepared a simple lunch that could be eaten while underway or hove-to. Then to my amazement it was time to sail. Ian and Doug had already tested the wind in their Wanderer dinghy and had found it necessary to reef fairly heavily. The Cruz was also on the move.

I hoisted sail and retrieved the anchor. There followed a very pleasant tacking to and fro, until the rudder accidentally caught on a mooring buoy line. I quickly downed the sails, rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and loosened the offending rope by reaching over the stern. Meanwhile Liz wondered what had happened and sailed near to provide assistance. But it was not required, and when she saw that the situation was under control, she made a course into the bay.

Where her boat could go, I could venture also; therefore I followed the Cormorant's wake. We sailed up and down the bay as far as we were able, taking care not to be stranded on the hard, sandy bottom. A few seals could be seen and heard while they sunbathed on neighbouring sandbanks that had been revealed by the ebbing tide.

Len Wingfield and his son Ed were spotted sailing their day boat against the last of the ebb with a failing wind while trying to make their way into a protected cove by Guile Point. The others followed, but I preferred to continue sailing up and down the main expanse of water, with the intention of eating lunch while under way. Because there was smooth water, Micro was able to sail as straight as a die by using the Huntingford Helm Impeder. This ingenious device could instantly hold the tiller in a stationary position. With her helm thus locked, she could sail a straight course irrespective of wind direction.

Prudent return

I noted that the flood tide was making, and since my boat was not equipped with an engine, I decided it would be prudent to return to the harbour before the wind may completely fail. There I picked up a mooring buoy and brewed a cup of tea, but it was not long before the wind suddenly returned - this time stronger and colder than before. I quickly arranged my rain cover over the boom to protect me from the onslaught, but that was ineffective, and I therefore replaced it with the front part of the cockpit tent. That made an adequate wind break. Then I settled into a reading session with the MacGregor book.

One by one other boats returned to anchor over the Ouse. This is a portion of the harbour where the tide recedes to reveal a sticky, dark brown mud, layered with spidery green weed. The latter has an insidious tendency to wrap itself around anchor warps in such a way as to prevent its removal.

The evening meal

A combined evening meal had been booked for 1845 at the Ship Inn for a goodly number of DCA members, but the time of high water was around 2015; that meant our boats could not be beached until about an hour after the start of the proposed repast. Tim Roberts therefore offered his service as a ferryman, with the use of his inflatable tender. Because of Tim's kindness, those who wished to do so could leave their boats at anchor. After fully erecting the cockpit tent I gladly accepted his offer and left 'Micro' on a more than adequate length of line.

The meal was a convivial affair where we ordered and paid for our own food and drink. I had a gammon steak that proved more than I could devour, but Len Wingfield gladly consumed what remained. During the evening, my table partners mainly chatted about their experiences aboard their boats or exchanged information on the subject of computers and web sites. In view of the Queen's Golden Jubilee, the pub manager arranged a special quiz on the subject of the Royal Family. It did not exactly 'grab' me, therefore I decided to retreat to 'Micro'. Tim willingly acted as a ferryman a second time.

Once aboard my little craft, I downed the tent sufficiently to allow me to row her to the water's edge - because the tide was ebbing quickly. Tiredness and the recent meal made me feel it was time to 'hit the hay'. Within a short while I was soundly asleep.

Day four

The return home and reflection

The Sunday morning forecast was rather gloomy, with winds of force 6 predicted by the end of the day. There would also be showers and perhaps some persistent rain. For me, it was time to leave and to make my way home. As I did so later that morning, newcomers were arriving and some were about to launch their boats.

The eight hours return trip to my home in Essex was uneventful, and by six o'clock in the evening my wife and I were together again. She was interested to hear of my adventure that had entailed only a short time sailing, but nevertheless had brought about a unique experience.

Had I really encountered angels on that mystical Island?

The cherished lump of burnished coal now resides on top of my bookshelf to remind me of the reality of it all.

Bill.

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