The winding staircase was narrow and dark in places, but when I reached the glass light chamber at the top I thought I had arrived in heaven. Certainly the ground seemed a long way down. The emptiness of the sky engulfed me, and when my eyes became accustomed to the sun’s dazzling glare I could see not only the entire island but across the channel to North Devon in one direction and Wales in the other. A circular metal terrace, just a foot or two wide but thankfully with a tall safety rail, surrounded the top of the lighthouse and I wrenched open a door and stepped out onto it. The silence was deafening — only the cries of the birds disturbed it, and the whistle of the wind. Eventually the wind forced me back inside. Somebody had thoughtfully left a deck chair right in the middle of the glass chamber. Smiling to myself I sat in it and lifted my glass to my lips. This must surely be the best gin and tonic seat in the world, I thought.
The island exceeded my expectations, and at first my stay was all that I had hoped for. Four peaceful days followed of reading, walking, watching for Sika deer on land and seals and dolphins at sea, enjoying the gin and tonic seat, and eating surprisingly good meals at The Tavern in the evenings. I dutifully did all the things you should do on holiday on Abri, like buying the unique Puffin stamps, getting them franked, and sending postcards. In the shop I also bought a book called The Flora and Fauna of Abri, and amused myself considerably searching for plants I barely believed existed with extraordinary names like mouse-ear chickweed, bladder campion and hairy pepper-wort.
The Tavern was convivial. There was company when I wanted it and not when I didn’t. I started to sleep well again. I even began to feel almost happy. I might have known it wouldn’t last.
The fifth day was exceptionally bright and beautiful. Unusually for Abri at any time of year let alone approaching the latter end of the Autumn, the wind dropped away almost to nothing making the island unseasonably warm. In the late morning, having packed myself a few sandwiches as a make-shift picnic lunch, I walked across to the far north to the point from which you have the best view of the narrow phallic rock known as the Pencil, which juts a hundred feet or so out of the sea at low tide. In spite of the bad weather I had left on the mainland, it hadn’t rained on Abri since I had arrived there, and the ground, covered in this part of the island by heather, was dry enough. I lay on the purple carpet, relishing the moment, propped on one elbow, my eyes half-closed against the sun’s glare, gazing idly out to sea.
‘I could take you out there if you like,’ said a voice right by me. I nearly jumped out of my waxed jacket. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
It was Jason, looking even more handsome than ever, still standing like a seaman, legs akimbo.
‘The seals nest in the caves on the far side of the Pencil,’ he went on. ‘You’re here at the right time of year. They’ve got young now, and in this weather they’ll be out basking on the rocks. The conditions are perfect for dolphins out there today, too. If you get lucky they’ll dance right up to you.’
To hell with it, I thought, while at the same time lecturing myself on not indulging in any more fantasising.
Jason guided me down a steep path to a little rocky inlet. An inflatable dinghy equipped with a reassuringly powerful-looking outboard motor had been dragged onto a small patch of shingle above the high-water line. I began to help him push the inflatable into the water. He was wearing waders. I had on only ankle-length walking boots. Jason grinned as I hesitated and, slightly to my embarrassment, lifted me easily off the shingly beach and into the boat. I know I’m only five foot three and slimmer than I deserve to be considering the amount of booze and bacon butties I put away — nonetheless it was pretty impressive.
We took about fifteen minutes to reach the Pencil. The sea is often inclined to look deceptively calm studied from the solid comfort of land. In reality on this day the breakers crashed into the steep sides of the rock, and the water foamed like the top of a warm pint of lager, spilling over the base of the abruptly vertical landmass. The inflatable rose and fell crazily with the swell, and I couldn’t imagine where it would be possible to land.
Jason yelled above the tumult. ‘There’s a gap there, see. It’s easier than it looks. You step onto that ledge and the entrance to the tunnel is just above, an easy step up.’
I was beginning to have qualms. ‘The tunnel?’ I queried.
‘Oh, didn’t you know? There’s a tunnel that leads up right through the rock to a higher ledge on the other side overlooking where the seals nest. You can’t get to it any other way. And it makes a spectacular viewing platform. Everybody who comes out here loves it.’
He must have been aware of my doubt.
‘It’s OK. The tunnel’s less than thirty feet long. You can see light all the time.’
One of my big problems in life is bravado. The number of daft things I’ve done because I am more afraid of stopping than carrying on is legion.
‘Right then,’ I said, trying to look and sound butch, which is difficult when you are my size.
Jason was using the engine merely to keep the boat steady now and was carefully studying the sea.
‘We go in on the seventh wave,’ he said. Suddenly he tipped the outboard so that the propeller was no longer in the water and grasped a single oar as a particularly big wave carried us forward. He used the oar to give us some steerage. And he was right. It was easier than it looked. Our boat tossed and pitched its way through a bunch of scarily treacherous-looking rocks and suddenly settled in their lee so that he could bring the little craft quite gently alongside the ledge he had pointed out to me. He slung a line around a rocky outcrop with easy familiarity and helped me scramble across the bow of the inflatable so that I could clamber up onto the small ledge below the tunnel. That too was easier than it had looked. It seemed in fact as if someone might have carved footholds into the rock.
Jason reached up out of the boat and passed me a torch. ‘Just in case,’ he said. ‘Don’t stay longer than an hour because at high tide the bottom of the tunnel is flooded.’
My heart lurched again. ‘Aren’t you coming with me?’ I asked, trying to make my voice sound normal.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t moor the boat here,’ he said. ‘I’ll hover just a few yards out. Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting and I’ll be watching. We do it all the time. I’ll come back in as soon as I see you on this side again.’
That, of course, was the moment when I should have stepped smartly back into the inflatable alongside him. But I didn’t. Foolhardy as ever.
‘Enjoy,’ he called, sounding more like a Californian waiter than a North Devon boatman, as he steered his way out through the rocks.
I tried to wave cheerily. Well, I thought, not much choice now. I looked around me. The sides of the Pencil were sheer. The only way of leaving the narrow ledge on which I stood was through the tunnel Jason had described. I heaved myself into its entrance and, as Jason had promised, I could see a reassuring circle of light above me and not that far away. I didn’t really need the torch but I was glad of its comfort. I struggled to suppress my fears and groped my way gingerly forwards and upwards.