Holy T H E ISLAND

Pamela Wade finds bucket-loads of natural beauty and some proper characters on northern England’s Lindisfarne Island.

Gorse, blackberry, old man’s beard, Scotch thistle, dock, ragwort … the list of invasive weeds brought to New Zealand by British settlers goes on and on. But we have got our own back, a bit.

Feeling a familiar rasp around my shins as I walk along a track on Lindisfarne, an island just off the Northumberland coast, I look down and there they are: dozens of prickly bidibidi seeds stuck to my socks.

Accidentally introduced in sheep fleeces, the plant is a real problem on the Holy Island. Using (almost) its Māori name of piripiri, there are scattered signs asking people to try to prevent its spread on the mainland by removing the seeds before leaving. It certainly seems to be growing here luxuriantly, and I guiltily resolve not to mention it to Sean. He’s bound to have a strong opinion.

Sean is my host at Lindisfarne Hotel, and he’s a character. I suspect him of having deliberately chosen to be a character, but he does it so well that I can’t hold it against him. On arrival, he welcomed me to his manor house hotel with a spiel so practised, but so funny, that resistance was futile.

Delivered in a broad Geordie accent – Newcastle is just a 90-minute drive away – it covered choice of room (“You’ll not want the poky one at the back overlooking the bins”), the island’s must-dos (“The castle, it’s a big house on a hill, you can’t miss it. And the harbour, it’s got boats on it, you can’t miss that either”), and urged me to ask for anything I needed (“Shy bairns get nowt”).

Connected to the mainland by a mile-long causeway that floods at high tide (“Do not chance a crossing: you will appear on national TV”), Lindisfarne or the Holy Island is on the ancient Pilgrim Trail, with the picturesque ruins of an 11th century Priory one of its main attractions.

Though there has been violence here too, throughout a century of regular Viking raids, it’s as a cradle of Christianity and because of the intricately-illustrated Lindisfarne Gospels that the island is famous.

There’s a reproduction of these illuminated texts in the thorough little museum, which

also celebrates the island’s designation of

AONB: Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

While this description seems uncharacteristically boastful for the usually selfdeprecating British, it’s absolutely accurate. From the little village of brick and stone cottages and pubs – the permanent population is 180 – to the cluster of picturesque ruins by the sea; and from the unmissable, in both senses (Sean was right), castle growing out of its isolated rocky crag, to the wild beaches where grey seals sun themselves, the island is a delight to the eye.

Drystone walls fringed with red valerian – and bidibidi – line inviting pathways across and around the island, where deserted coves await discovery (“The sweet spot if we get a canny sunset,” Sean advises). There are birds galore, deer, a walled garden designed in 1911 by Gertrude Jekyll, picturesquely stacked lobster pots, upturned boats and, once the tide floods the road, hardly any people.

It’s as though the island sighs with relief when the sea cuts off it from the mainland. Heartbeats slow, there’s no more bustle or noise, and it’s no longer necessary to seek out the remote coves recommended by Sean for switching off and finding your inner spirituality (“Mine is usually around 40% proof”). The road is up to five metres underwater, only the basic wooden refuge shack on stilts – known to locals as the Idiot Box – halfway along the causeway, showing where it lies.

Easier to locate is the original Pilgrim’s Way, marked by a trail of tall poles reflected in the still, silvery waters. Now there’s nothing to do but potter about the village, look into art gallery windows, investigate the gin distillery and the meadery, or just have a cup of tea and wait for dinner at one of the two pubs.

The Ship Inn is a traditional pub that welcomes dogs and makes the most of local seafood, but it’s the apple and blackberry crumble with custard

that’s the real triumph.

Only slightly distracted by the eerie moaning of seals on the distant stony beach, I’m still remembering it fondly on the wander back to Sean’s when a barn owl swoops so low over the road that it nearly parts my hair for me. It’s a surprise on several counts, one of them being that, despite my watch reading 10pm, it’s still so light on this summer night.

The bed is so comfortable, however, and the island so quiet, that sleep comes easily; and in the morning, Sean is reinvigorated in the breakfast room. “Would you like something hot? Apart from me, that is?” he asks, hissing as he slaps his hip.

The poached eggs are so perfectly cooked that I can overlook his asking every other guest the same question.

There’s time before the tide retreats for a last look at the splendid 16th-century castle, converted by Sir Edwin Lutyens into a country retreat in 1902. It seems to grow organically out of the volcanic plug it sits on, buttressed against the worst that the North Sea can throw at it, its steep approach challenging still to pedestrians.

Now a National Trust property, inside it’s decorated with period furnishings that include a quaint wind indicator like an illustrated compass. High, elaborate timber ceilings soar overhead, while huge portraits hang above the wainscoting.

Up on the battlements, cannons point out to sea – a reminder despite the now comfortable interiors that the castle was originally built for defence against raids.

These days, the only invaders are migratory birds, and on the way back to the village, the Window On Wild is a hide full of information about local wildlife, with sneaky views of the many birds busy on the wetland just below.

Finally, the causeway emerges from the sea and Lindisfarne is back in the 21st century. But only for another eight hours …

PHOTOGRAPHS FROM TOP TO BOTTOM

Lindisfarne Hotel is where you’ll find the irrepressible Sean. Gertrude Jekyll’s garden is just one of Lindisfarne’s delights. The island is cut off twice daily, to its inhabitants’ satisfaction. The Ship Inn is a classic English pub with excellent food. The castle dominates Lindisfarne’s views.