Leaving Berwick behind I hit 'National Cycling Route 1' which runs down the East coast of the UK. Splendid isolation is soon found and the much vaunted Northumbrian coastline I had been reading about afforded spectacular scenery around every headland. Wide, empty beaches like Cocklawburn sounded a siren call asking to be explored. Rockpools and reefs in the shallows invited this landlubber to drink in the ozone.
Pausing too long to wonder at this Bull's fortitude I got chatting to Alex who was touring in her van. She had been 'wild camping' around Scotland but in a van which catered for her every need. Each night she would find a secluded spot and park up. Alex claimed she was never bothered or moved on as she was causing no harm. I suppose no-one would think she was there. It made me think of Rosie but I would be less incognito, rattling the sides of my LDV with thunderous snoring. This was why I would never be any good hiding in the jungles in Nam.
The landscape started to take on a mystical hue as the road hugged grassy dunes. On a bike there is a tendency to get your head down and push on so the bimbler needs to make a conscious decision to stand and stare occasionally. The flat tidal area of Goswick Sands was eerily quiet. Backed by salt marshes and fed by one of the ubiquitous sluices on this coast the panorama of sand sea and sky felt like a skeleton coast but belied a National Nature Reserve rich in flora such as wild orchids and a haven for wildfowl picking rich on the mudflats.
Robert of Whitley had cycled from Whitley Bay and put my amble from Berwick to shame. He had also found 'probably' the best camp-site in Northumberland in Beal with a view across to the Holy Island. A cafe served up a monster breakfast and the shower block was pristine. Fellow campers enthused while taking in the views. My shelter for the night was compact for my daughter and positively bijou for myself so a jug of ale and a hearty pie were required before inching into my cocoon.
The causeway beckoned. A pilgrimage I had longed for and the real start of the journey emulating St Cuthbert. A strong tail-wind bore us across the nine mile mud-flat full gas. Coming back was going to be a different story. Stopping only for selfies of an area of outstanding natural beauty we got to Lindisfarne before the four wheeled hordes. Two wheels good we took in the obligatory sights of ruined priory and castle. We bought trinkets to remember our visit. Eschewing the tea towel option Rob went for a Celtic tea bag holder and I opted for the plastic Puffin who was to peer out of my pannier all the way home. Mindful of the increasing tide of humanity we made it a fleeting visit. I suppose I was expecting to see more monkish behaviour but the holiness of the island had taken on a more commercial feel. With nary a Monk de Wally de Honk in sight we decided this was not a place of retreat and mindfulness in the middle of summer. The place that held our fascination was the parish Church of St Mary's which stands by the priory and looks across the Causeway. This was the oldest building on the island and the spirit of time and tides dwelt here. The Venerable Bede records this spot where Saint Aidan worshipped in the 7th Century and took the holy book to Northumbrian pagans. The church stands squat against the elements providing shelter and an imposing panorama. This hermetic brotherhood of man must have lived an ascetic life writing the gospels and then sallying forth into the badlands beyond the causeway. Like the St Chad gospels in Lichfield Cathedral The Lindisfarne gospels provide a record of early Briton and evidence the growing power of the Church amongst pious Kings like Oswald. Aidan made sure he was within sight of the royal castle of Bamburgh.
Inside St Mary's this wooden statue venerates the journey of St Cuthbert which was to parallel my own. This was the box office story; at least in Medieaval Hollywood.
St Cuthbert was 17 when he had a moment of clarity on a hillside and a vision which coincided with Aidan's death. He had found his vocation and became a man of God. At 30 he went to Lindisfarne where he ran the monastery, at 40 he decided he wasn't hardcore enough and moved to the smaller Farne Islands just off Holy Island where he could endure more austerity. Supplicants rowed out to seek healing from him and at 50 he developed second sight and toured the North Country bestowing health and wisdom to nobles and plebs alike. He would have been a serious Insta star today. He returned to his hermitage on the Farne Islands to die in peace in 687AD.
The story does not end there though or my journey would be a short one. It was a story that was to follow me as I headed South with constant reminders as Cuthbert became an omnipresent companion right through to Durham, a favourite son of Northumbrians. He was buried where the church stands at Lindisfarne for 11 years. Hoping to find a skeleton that they could use as a relic they got a shock when they disinterred Cuthbert. He hadn't decomposed ! The explanation of the exhumation was that this was evidence that he was a true saint with healing powers and the legend grew for the next hundred years as pilgrims flocked to his shrine.
Cuthbert rested easy until the Vikings came as Lindisfarne was easy prey for their longships. His remains then started a long journey to Durham which took another century. I was looking forward to meeting him at the end of own pilgrimage.
Rocket Rob Of Whitley Cuthbert's Shiel
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