Misty Causeway

The day before yesterday Thunderthighs and I drove up to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne to witness the Northern Cross pilgrims crossing the sands.

It has become our own Good Friday tradition.

Daffodils decorate the road verges, the first primroses are coming out, fields of rape are turning.yellow as they flower.  Stands of trees are showing the damage caused by the winter storms with trunks broken off like pencils and the remains being held up by survivors, or lying on the ground.  Mounds of shavings lie where they’ve been cleared away

There was a little mist as we passed Alnwick but it cleared the further North we went; unless you looked towards the coast where there were low clouds obscuring the sea.  The A1 is a fast road and it’s always a little shock when you turn off at Beale and suddenly find yourself on a windy country lane.  We crossed the East Coast Mainline safely and wound down to the shore, where the mist was waiting for us.

The last time I came to Holy Island I crossed the causeway by cloudy moonlight, which was eerie enough.  Crossing in thick mist was more so.  We wound the windows down, lit the headlights, and proceeded at something less than the 30mph limit.  There was no noise except our own tyres and engine, and nothing to see except the occasional vehicle appearing out of the yellowy murk.  

Fortunately just after ten on a Bank Holiday morning there wasn’t that much traffic, I was surprised at how full the carpark was when we arrived.  We walked into the village and bought a pair of Craster kippers as an Easter Egg for Fester (who never reads these blogs).  We had a look into St Mary the Virgin’s Church, next to the ruinedpriory, where I lit a candle for our family.  Then back to the carpark to buy a 99, dump the kippers in the boot, and a short walk over to where the Pilgrims Causeway reaches landfall.

The mist was clearing but it was still impossible to see the mainland.

The line of poles marking the safe way disappeared into whiteness, yet we could hear the trains tooting for the level-crossing.

We heard the larks and curlews calling; “The curlew calling rain” as Mum and Grampa used to say.   

Over to the South the seals were a mass of little black dots on their sandbank, and the sea was creeping up.

Eventually figures began appearing, not just single or pairs of walkers, but a group. 

The support drivers parked nearby (the only cars allowed there and only ever for this occasion) brought out the boots they’d been looking after, bowls and containers of warm water for foot washing.

Then at a quarter to twelve first the Lanark, then the Carlisle leg, made it onto dry sand, and leaned their crosses against a wall.

It was getting close to the end of safe crossing time so Thunderthighs and I made our way back to the car.  The mist had cleared completely off the causeway, taking its magic with it, and somehow it seemed to take no time at all to get back to the A1 heading South.