[photos to be added]
Monday morning. Glorious weather for driving north. But first to get the car. We had driven past the Alamo car rental place on our way the the National Health Service Walk-in Centre, and if I'd thought about it a bit, I would have known better than to get confused by the Googlemap directions I had printed out. So, instead of walking a block and a half round under the Tyne Bridge, I crossed the river into Newcastle and wandered in vain, looking for Church Street. I finally asked three young women opening up their flower shop for the morning. None of them knew, or seemed any clearer after looking at my various maps, but they eventually agreed on where it must be and then Googled the way for me. Finally back on the right side of the river and at the rental desk. That went smoothly enough. But I had overestimated my muscle memory for driving a stick shift and stalled out at least six times just trying to get out of the rental parking lot. Not good on a Monday morning in an unfamiliar town with hills and a mix of medieval and 18th century streets, modern highways, and six-way roundabouts in a left-handed car on left-handed roads with impatient drivers. But somehow we made it out of town alive and heading north (after first heading south and then later west and having to double back each time). I had printed out driving instructions to Lindisfarne, but the route signs were often confusing or hard to find, and the roundabouts, though marvelously efficient once you get the hang of them, are a terrifying slalom if you don't know where you are going and don't really have control of your car.
The countryside, what I dared to see of it, was beautiful--flat and green with the North Sea peeking between dunes when the road curved near enough. We stopped in Amble to take a look at the harbor, as it had seemed from my researches to still be active as a fishing village. A little hard to tell, but we poked about a bit, then headed up the coast to Crasters, where there is a fish smoking concern that is supposed to produce excellent kippers and smoked salmon and have an onsite restaurant. But the counter lady said no--neither the salmon nor the kippers would last long enough without refrigeration for us to take any as house gifts for our hosts later in the week, and Pop and I have both reached the point that we can't keep eating three large meals a day, however tasty. The coastal route was winding, at times dropping down to 1.5 lanes (if that), many of the villages not on the map. And there was a detour (amazing enough well marked). The causeway to Lindesfarne was open an hour earlier than predicted, and we drove across with the receding tide just inches below the road edge. Patches of red sand on the roadway and patches of deep sky blue water still on the road and on the red sand mudflats stretching to either side. Lindisfarne village was acrawl with tourists, and it took a little slow and careful wandering down narrow streets (I'd gotten a little better at the shifter) before we found our hotel. Sean the proprietor welcomed us cheerfully and brought us tea in the gardan, then sent us off wandering. He poopooed the castle and priory and museum in the village and urged us to head north into the nature preserve. But we did want to see the museum, which turned out to have nice, though small exhibits on the island's history, the Viking desecrations, and the Lindisfarne Gospels (now in the British Museum, but scheduled to make a trip north to Durham Cathedral at the end of this month).
Sean had assured us that the north end of the island would be peaceful and empty, but the walk to and slightly past the Castle wasn't reassuring in that regard. The crowd did, however, drop away rapidly as we headed up the east coast of the island. By the time we reached the first cove and sand beach, we were alone, save for the birds and the wind. When I had first exchanged emails with Sean in making reservations, he had suggested skinny-dipping with the seals in the island's northern coves as an experience not to be missed, and that sounded very fine to me. And it was, though I took only the briefest of dips, nothing like a proper swim or even a proper float, as the water is still very chilly. But the sand was clean and firm and rippled and the water pleasantly salty without bitterness and the sun warm and the wind quick-drying, so it felt quite lovely to sit at the foot of the dunes and eat crisps and cookies in the sunshine while my hair dried out a little. The shingle was clean and smooth enough to walk barefoot and the dune paths either sandy or carpeted with stiff moss and stiff, short-clipped grasses, soft enough to continue barefoot on to the next cove. Then shoes back on for wandering back through the dunes and sheep pastures to the village and dinner at the Crown & Anchor (fresh crab salad for Pop, pan-fried lemon sole with lemon butter on a bed of just wilted spinach with a side of new potatoes for me). By the time we returned to the village, the day tourists had gone, and the streets were empty and quiet except for the cooing of the pigeons. We wandered through the churchyard, with its close views of the priory ruins, and then back to the hotel, where Sean handed us a still warm pile of freshly laundered (and ironed!) clothes we had left with him earlier. Now Pop has just tucked in, and I am heading out to watch the sunset (again following Sean's so far excellent suggestions).
Sunset pretty; not spectacular. But the beach at sunset was well worth the visit--a few people came and went, but quietly, honoring the peacefulness. The tide still out, the mud flats yielded treasures. Two stalking herons, a dabbling red-crested white and black grebe-like water bird I haven't yet identified, a mottled brown duck (perhaps an eider?), limpet shells, empty bivalve and snail shells, sea glass, a mussel clinging tight when I nudged it, a ghostly crab skeleton beneath the surface of a tide pool, a tiny bird preening itself and a creeping woman in a flowing skirt watching it (she was disappointed when she asked if I thought it was a pipit and I had to say I'm afraid I don't know British birds). And all around, increasing as the sun set, the moaning and keening and barking of seals on the distant mainland shore and on nearer exposed shoals of mud. With my binoculars I could make out individuals in the groups closest to me--some lounging, some galloping along in their flailing, humping way, one lying on its back, waving its flippers in the air.
No comments:
Post a Comment