Still, even without the odd four-by-four stuck in several feet of rising water, there’s something pleasingly apocalyptic about watching the road get swallowed by the sea every day. I’ve been down to the causeway to watch the water rushing in over the road at least once a week since I arrived here, and it really doesn’t get boring. I even wrote an article about it. It was called ‘Imagining the End of the World’.
A little more than half a year ago, Miranda Frost told me that she lived miles from anywhere, and this was not too much of an exaggeration. Hers is the last house on a lane that rapidly becomes a dirt track and then a footpath leading down to the sea. The nearest building – a barn – is about two hundred yards away, and the nearest streetlight is a further two hundred yards back towards the village. The village, I should add, has no name and doesn’t need one because it is the only settlement on Lindisfarne. The island’s entire population numbers fewer than two hundred people, plus maybe a couple of thousand sheep.
Of course, there were many more people in the late summer and early autumn – I think the car park outside the village can accommodate several hundred vehicles – but they were always clustered in the square, or at the castle or priory. It was still rare to see more than a handful of hikers passing down this road at any one time. Since November, whole days have gone by when I haven’t seen a soul.
Aside from the lack of people, the thing that most struck me when I arrived was the darkness. The darkness and the silence. Both, at times, can be absolute.
It’s ironic, but after so many nights in London praying for peace and quiet and darkness, I found that the first few nights here I couldn’t sleep. The truth is I’d had no prior experience of this kind of environment. I’ve always lived in the city, and I wasn’t prepared for how the total absence of sound and light would feel. On nights when there isn’t any wind or rain, you can’t hear anything beyond your breath and the occasional creak of a cooling floorboard. On nights when there isn’t a moon, you can’t see even your own body in the darkness. You feel as if you’re nothing more than a thought in the void.
That first night, I didn’t fall asleep until the sun came up and the birdsong started. The three subsequent nights, I slept with the landing light on.
I’ve never been good at identifying accents, especially northern accents. Yorkshire, Lancashire, Geordie – they all sound pretty much the same to my ear. After more than three months on this island, I think I’m getting slightly better, but I still couldn’t say for certain whether there is a specific local accent, much less describe it. All I know is that everyone I’ve spoken to is from the north, and every time I open my mouth, I might as well be holding up a sign that reads NOT FROM AROUND HERE.
I speak the Queen’s English, and I’ve always taken this fact for granted. But what I’ve become aware of, more recently, is that people from outside London and the Home Counties actually regard this as an accent. It was brought to my attention in the Crown and Anchor one evening, when I got into a small argument with one of the barmen and confessed that, as someone without an accent, it’s quite difficult for me to differentiate between the various regional dialects.
He looked at me with this slightly irritating smile on his lips, then said, ‘But you do have an accent, pet.’
I’ve since discovered that if a man addresses you as ‘pet’, it means he’s from Newcastle.
‘Excuse me?’ I replied.
‘You do have an accent.’
This was so patently absurd that I assumed, for several moments, that he must be winding me up. That or there was something wrong with him.
‘No, I don’t. Of course I don’t. What accent do I have?’
He shrugged. ‘A posh one.’
I spent the next ten minutes trying to explain the difference between being ‘posh’ and having clear enunciation, but I’m sure the distinction was lost on him.
Of course, when I first arrived here, I didn’t even have to open my mouth to identify myself as an outsider. The problem was I’d had very limited packing space, and most of the clothes I had packed were inappropriate. I was still going through the phase where I was hyper-conscious of my appearance; I was making an extra effort to take care of myself, and a big part of this was ensuring I looked nice every day – because I knew how easy it was to let things slide. One day you go without make-up, and before you know it, you’re wearing last week’s jeggings and haven’t washed your hair for three days.
So the first time I walked into the village, I was probably a little overdressed. Not London Fashion Week overdressed – just my smart three-quarter-length coat, pumps and some moderately expensive fitted jeans – but still. In a place like this, anything more than a fleece is considered glamorous. And I suppose the fact that I’d painted my nails a sparkly silver the night before did not help.
The man behind the counter in the post office looked me up and down, slowly and without subtlety.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’d like a book of twelve first-class stamps, please.’
It took him a couple of seconds to nod and snap into action. No one here does anything quickly.
‘You here fo’ jus’ the dee?’ he asked.
Scottish is one of the few accents I can identify with some confidence. In fact, I can even draw some sort of distinction between the different areas of Scotland: if you sound a bit Scottish you come from Edinburgh and if you sound extremely Scottish you come from Glasgow. But that doesn’t mean I’m able to decipher it at pace, and by the time I’d started to translate what was being asked of me, the man had already moved on.
‘It’s jus’ that the tide’ll be in soon. You’ll no’ want to be leaving it too late.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I obviously looked like a rescue mission waiting to happen. ‘No, actually I’m staying for a bit. And I know about the tides.’
The man squinted at me for a while.
‘You in film?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Film, TV. We get a lot o’ film and TV people on the island. Lots o’ those historical pictures.’
‘Oh. I see. No, I’m not in film.’
‘Ah, you’re a pilgrim, then?’
This, I think, was intended as a joke.
‘No. Clearly not.’
‘On the run?’
‘Escaped from a psychiatric ward.’
‘Ha!’
‘Actually, I’m a house-and cat-sitter. Miranda Frost’s house and cats. Do you know her?’
‘Aye. One o’ the few that do. Strange lady. Bit of a recluse.’
‘Yes, that’s her.’
‘You a friend o’ Miranda’s?’
‘No, not exactly. Not at all, actually. We’ve only met once. For work. It’s a little complicated. I’m a journalist – that’s the day job when I’m not cat-sitting. I interviewed her.’
It was a lot of information, I knew, but with each additional sentence, the man looked a little more bemused.