Although it was low tide, the sand I stepped out onto could not be described as dry. It was like the sand right at the edge of the sea – dark, compacted and sodden. It was quite yielding, too – more in some places than others, for reasons I couldn’t work out. Before I’d even walked to the second marker-post, there were a couple of points where my boot squelched an inch or more into the ground.
This was the first indication that the environment wasn’t quite as uniform as it appeared to be from the shore, and as I walked on, this fact became increasingly evident. The falling tide had left little pools of water here and there, suggesting there must have been small, localized variations in the lie of the land, otherwise undetectable. Then, on two occasions, I came across channels of running water blocking my path. They weren’t very deep or wide, but I still had to deviate from the route set out by the posts so that I could find a sensible place to cross; and when I did, the water flowed almost up to my bootlaces.
On the far bank of the second channel, the sand was covered with tiny white shells, thousands and thousands of them, stretching ahead like an elaborately patterned carpet. I’ve no idea why they had clustered like that, on this particular area of sand – whether by blind chance or according to some obscure underlying principle – but they seemed to go on and on for ever. They crunched underfoot like broken glass, and for a long time this was the only sound I heard. The wind was barely a whisper, and, behind me, the occasional rush of traffic on the causeway had already faded to nothing.
After an hour or so, I reached the first refuge point, and there, I stopped for a break. Although I’d grown accustomed to walking everywhere on Lindisfarne, the soft ground of the sand flats was more tiring than I was used to, and I thought it would be nice to take the weight off my feet for a short while. I knew I still had plenty of time before my route started to flood, so there was no need to rush on yet. Besides, I wanted to take a better look at the refuge point, which prior to now I’d only seen at a distance, from the causeway.
It was hard to guess when it had been put there. It looked as old as a storybook shipwreck; but, then, anything built out here, among the salt and the sand and the water, would probably start to look like that in a matter of months, if not weeks. The rounded stilts that supported the four corners were identical to the marker-posts – a little more than a hand’s span in diameter and darkly water-stained to a height a few inches above my head. In one corner was the ladder, rising about twelve feet to the platform that perched safely above the highest waves at high tide. After a short hesitation, I climbed up.
It wasn’t a difficult climb, even with my rucksack. The planks that formed the rungs of the ladder had been spaced about a foot apart, and at the top were iron handrails affixed to the chest-high fence that enclosed the platform. I eased myself through the narrow entrance point, then removed my rucksack and set it down in the opposite corner.
The platform was a perfect square, about eight feet by eight feet, formed by ten wooden boards in varying states of disrepair. There was lichen growing on most of them, and a couple had started to rot and splinter. But the floor still seemed solid enough underfoot. There was very little give in the boards, and I assumed that someone, somewhere must have had the periodic job of ensuring the structure was fit for purpose. In any event, it didn’t seem in imminent danger of collapse.
Once I’d satisfied myself of this, I stood at each side of the platform in turn and took in the panorama. It was hard to gauge distances across such an empty and almost featureless landscape, but I thought I must be somewhere very close to the middle of the sand flats. Looking ahead from this height, I could just make out the point where the marker-posts appeared to end; and looking back, I could likewise see the sliver of grey where the road met the beach on the curve of the headland. The mainland was off to the right, perhaps less than a mile away, and on my left was a mulchy saltwater marsh, stretching back to the causeway and the pale sand dunes beyond.
Having taken all this in, and having reassured myself that I didn’t have so far left to walk, I sat down next to my rucksack, in the corner opposite the entrance point. I ate my sandwiches and then smoked a cigarette, using the empty food packaging as an ashtray. I didn’t want to leave any mess behind.
I’m not sure when I decided to stay, or even if I did decide, as such. I suppose if I did make a decision, it was made through conscious inaction rather than action.
Midday came and went, and I told myself that I’d wait another fifteen minutes, smoke one more cigarette, and then get up. Then, very quickly, it was twelve thirty and I was aware that if I left things much longer, I’d be hard pressed to finish my walk. I could actually see the water pushing in at this point; what had started as a narrow trickle in the middle distance was now a swelling river, running faster and broader with every passing minute. And still I did nothing other than watch.
By one thirty, I could see that the water had reached some of the more distant posts on either side of the refuge. I was on a shrinking peninsula of sand, and the marsh stood between me and the dunes beyond the causeway – the nearest high ground. From this moment on, I was effectively cut off.
Oddly, I didn’t mind. In fact, I felt a little lighter now the point of no return had passed, despite the glaring consequences of my lack of action. For the next seven or eight hours, minimum, I was staying put. But realistically, it would be even longer than that. If high tide wasn’t for another three hours, then it would be pitch-black by the time the water had receded far enough for me to continue my crossing. The moon was already up, and it wasn’t much of a moon: a very slender crescent, barely noticeable in the still-bright sky. It certainly wouldn’t provide much illumination after the sun went down. It was going to be a dark, dark night, and in all likelihood, I wouldn’t be leaving the refuge point until morning.
I still had good phone reception, so I sent my mother a text saying that I’d changed my plans and wouldn’t be back in Exeter for another night. Then I stood facing the mainland for the next hour or so, watching the water creep and creep until it was just a few metres away.
It was at this stage I realized that if didn’t want to hold it in for the next seven hours, or go in the corner – which I didn’t – I’d better nip down the ladder to urinate on the sand. So I did; except, of course, it was a little more complicated than that. I’d never had to pee outside before, or not in the large portion of my life that I remembered. To say it was a challenge would be an understatement. In the end, I half squatted with my jeans around my ankles and my back braced against one of the support stilts, facing away from the road. This last precaution was probably unnecessary – from the road, you’d have needed a telescope to make an accurate diagnosis of what was going on out here – but still. It’s hard not to feel self-conscious when you’ve just exposed yourself in the middle of a wide-open space. I got through the whole procedure as quickly as I could, and then scrabbled back up the ladder to safety. Then I resumed my position overlooking the oncoming waves, and thought some more about the situation to which I had irrevocably committed myself.
On the face of it, the choice I’d made was just plain crazy – as crazy as anything I’d done over the past six months. Yet that was not at all how it felt. In all honesty, it seemed the obvious and inevitable conclusion to my time on Lindisfarne. It was very peaceful out here, with the sea now swirling below me, and a perfect cloudless sky overhead. Now that I was back on my platform, I didn’t feel at all vulnerable, and I certainly wasn’t in any imminent danger. The weather forecast had said it would remain dry, and even if the temperature was now dropping, it was meant to stay well above freezing overnight. I had spare clothes in my rucksack, along with the two small bottles of Diet Coke, as yet untouched. All in all, I felt very calm and self-assured, and this sense of wellbeing only increased as the minutes ticked on.