We’d tried this before.
A few weeks earlier, in the middle of August, we’d joined the caravan of cars crossing the causeway to Holy Island. At the other end, everyone spilled out of the car park and fanned across the village like zombies looking for lunch.
Too many people.
Not remotely our scene.
I promised Lucy that next time would be different.
And it was.
The causeway was delightfully empty.
“Summer’s over,” I announced as we glided along that strangely smooth strip of road, the sea sitting quietly on either side of us.
I found myself wondering how often you have to resurface a road that spends half its life underwater.
What I hadn’t told Lucy was that I’d timed our arrival rather carefully.
The safe crossing window was about to close.
Behind us, somewhere out across the sands, the North Sea was already beginning to reclaim the road.
We weren’t leaving for several hours.
“Nice,” Lucy said as we parked. “And empty.”
Then she looked around.
“Where is everybody?”
Coffee, sunshine and a murder
We wandered into the village and picked up two very good coffees on the way, eventually finding a quiet little spot just off one of the lanes.
Nearby stood a small wooden library hut.
Books by the Sea.
I had a browse.
And, entirely by chance, pulled out a novel called Holy Island.
Not a history book.
A murder story.
It seemed appropriate, so while Lucy enjoyed the sunshine and her latte, I read the prologue.
For a while I said nothing.
Then I closed the book.
“Well?” she asked.
“There’s a girl dying in the Priory.”
Lucy looked towards the ruins.
“Lovely.”
“She’s called Lucy.”
Silence.
“Put the book back, Tom.”
I didn't.
The old ways
“Oh, come on. Let’s go and see if we can find where she might have been lying.”
Lucy reluctantly finished her latte.
I had skipped through a few more pages by now and confidently pronounced the story an unoriginal version of The Wicker Man.
This assessment was based on approximately twelve pages of evidence.
Still, it started us talking about paganism, early Christianity and what people here might have believed before monks arrived on the island.
At the Priory, Lucy read that St Aidan founded the monastery in the seventh century after being invited by the Northumbrian King Oswald.
“Why here?” I wondered.
We looked around.
Even now, Lindisfarne feels remote. Back then it must have felt like the edge of the world.
“Maybe they were practising the old ways,” I said, “and needed a bit of guidance.”
Right on cue, a black cloud passed across the sun.
The temperature seemed to drop instantly.
Lucy looked at me.
I looked at Lucy.
We decided we’d seen enough of the Priory.
From the shore we stared across the water towards Ross Sands and, further beyond, Bamburgh.
The sun returned.
So did our mood.
And we began the slow walk towards the castle.
Stranded
“It’s much quieter than last time,” Lucy said.
“Told you. Holidays are over. Everyone’s gone home.”
A few more steps.
Then she stopped.
The tide was right up against the island.
Lucy looked at the water.
Then at me.
“Tom.”
“Yes?”
“The tide is in.”
“Yes.”
“Are we stranded?”
I thought it best to smile.
“Yes.”
Her face changed.
“I thought it might be fun. And it’s only until about four.”
Nothing.
“And it’s not like they still worship the old ways.”
“Just stop it, Tom.”
I should have stopped there.
Instead:
“I read that to guarantee a good harvest, the old gods sometimes required something in return.”
Lucy kept walking.
“Often a pretty young blonde.”
“Just. Stop it. Tom.”
I know the difference between Lucy pretending to be annoyed and Lucy actually becoming annoyed.
So I put the pagan-sacrifice material away and concentrated on taking photographs.
Which was remarkably easy.
There was nobody around.
Where is everybody?
That was when it started to feel odd.
I’d expected Holy Island to be quieter once the tide came in.
I hadn't expected it to feel abandoned.
We had seen perhaps two people in the best part of an hour.
The lanes were empty.
No cars.
No crowds.
Just us.
“Where is everybody, Tom?”
We wandered towards the castle, stopping whenever the view demanded it.
And that afternoon, it demanded it constantly.
The light had turned an extraordinary purple-grey. The sun was hidden behind cloud but still found the sea, throwing silver across the water.
Tall grass bent and danced in the wind.
Every so often a seal surfaced offshore and we'd try to guess where its head would appear next.
Lucy was quiet for a while.
Then:
“Can you believe people really believed all that?”
“What?”
“The old ways. Imagine growing up somewhere like this and wondering if it could be you next.”
I looked at her.
“Just stop it, Lucy.”
She smiled.
I'd succeeded in spooking her.
Unfortunately, she was now succeeding in spooking me.
And still—
where was everybody?
The black rabbit
I stood to photograph the long grass in the field below the castle.
The wind was running through it in waves and, under that strange purple light, the whole scene looked cinematic.
I lifted the camera.
And stopped.
There was something in the grass.
Someone.
For perhaps a second — probably less — I could have sworn I saw a man.
Tall.
Dressed in black.
With the head of a rabbit.
I lowered the camera.
Lucy had seen it too.
Unfortunately...
so had Meg.
And she was off.
“Meg!”
Nothing.
Now, Meg is a Border Collie and her recall is normally excellent.
Not this time.
Through the gate she went and straight into the long grass.
“I hope she doesn’t bite him,” Lucy said.
The six-foot rabbit dropped suddenly into the grass.
Gone.
Meg slowed, circling where we'd seen it, trying to find a scent.
Then something exploded from the grass.
A rabbit.
An actual rabbit.
Black as coal.
It shot onto the mown path.
Meg went after it.
And within seconds both had disappeared around the back of Lindisfarne Castle.
Lucy turned to me.
“Tom... this is all your fault.”
Technically, I felt the rabbit deserved some responsibility.
“First you get us stranded here. Then you scare me. I don't know what we just saw. And now we've lost Meg.”
She started walking.
“And we better find her quickly because I want to go home.”
There seemed little value in reminding her that going home wasn't currently an option.
Something in the wind
We hurried towards the castle.
I confess I was beginning to panic.
The question of how a six-foot man dressed as a rabbit had apparently become a twelve-inch rabbit would have to wait for the drive home.
We had a dog missing in action.
And if I didn't find her before the tide went out, I suspected the old gods would be the least of my worries.
Then the wind changed.
The same wind I'd been admiring in the long grass now carried something else towards us.
Voices.
Singing.
Lucy stopped.
“Can you hear that?”
I could.
A hymn perhaps.
Or a chant.
Faint words drifted in and out.
Oh, let us rejoice your wondrous light...
Then nothing.
Then—
...please accept our...
Oh, crap.
We followed the sound.
It seemed to be coming from the old lime kilns beside the castle.
Three great dark arches faced us.
The singing was coming from somewhere inside.
Or at least we thought it was.
We stood looking into the darkness.
No Meg.
No people.
No movement.
“Go on, Tom.”
I looked at Lucy.
“No.”
“What about Meg?”
Good point.
“All right. I'm going.”
“No, don't!”
I took another step.
“Woof! Woof!”
We both froze.
Meg.
But not from the kiln.
Somewhere off to our side.
We scrambled up towards the castle as quickly as we could.
And there, coming towards us, was a young National Trust chap.
With Meg.
On a lead.
“Is this yours?”
I don't think either of us has ever been so pleased to see another human being.
Back to the real world
We attempted to explain.
There'd been a man.
Or possibly a rabbit.
Actually both.
Then singing.
From the kilns.
And Meg had—
We pointed towards the three dark arches.
The more we explained, the more his expression suggested he'd already decided exactly what sort of people we were.
He handed over Meg's lead.
“Please just keep your dog under control and on a short lead while you're here.”
Fair enough.
Whatever had been singing had stopped.
The black rabbit was gone.
The sun was out again.
And suddenly Holy Island looked entirely normal.
We walked back towards the car park without further investigation.
For once, Lucy didn't complain about sitting in the car waiting for the tide to retreat.
Eventually the sea released the causeway.
The road appeared again.
And we went home.
On the drive back I tried once or twice to explain the rabbit.
A trick of the light.
Long grass.
Distance.
An actual rabbit being in roughly the same place at roughly the same time.
Perfectly logical.
The singing probably had an equally ordinary explanation.
Probably.
Lucy stared out of the window.
After a while she said:
“Tom?”
“Yes?”
“Where was everybody?”
I didn't have an answer.
And I'm not entirely sure we're going back to find one.
Tom’s Notebook
- Best for: Holy Island after the crowds have disappeared — although perhaps not too completely.
- Take seriously: The causeway crossing times. The sea moves quickly and the island really does become cut off at high tide.
- Take even more seriously: Keeping dogs under control around wildlife and livestock. Meg's little adventure was funny afterwards. It wasn't funny at the time.
- Worth doing: Don't rush straight between the village, Priory and castle. Some of the best moments are simply looking back across the water towards the Northumberland coast.
- H&S tip: If you deliberately choose a crossing that leaves you on the island over high tide, take food, warm layers and something to read.
Just perhaps choose the book carefully.
