September 1-14, 2019

Holy Island, Northumberland, UK

Holy Island is a tidal island, meaning that the causeway which connects it to the mainland is covered by the sea during high tides, cutting off access to the mainland until the tide recedes again. There is a wonderful inverse relationship between the tides and the tourists who do not have rooms on the island as the tide recedes and they flood the island. For some hours during the day, the tiny two-street town and its attractions are flooded with visitors from the mainland, the streets and sidewalks choked with pedestrians, the pubs filled, the shops busy. But anyone without accommodation for the night must leave before the tide comes in, and its urgency herds the visitors back across the causeway before day’s end. Their tide ebbs as the sea’s tide flows. And the solitude of the island at night is almost perfect. With the day-trippers gone, peace returns. The night is dark enough to see the hidden stars, and devoid of human voices as I walked the beaches. There is a strong and surging wind. The eerie sound I heard is the singing of seals out beyond the dunes.

I was visiting as part of an archaeological dig for two weeks in early September. Fellow members of the dig often complained about the sense of isolation induced by their stay on the island, and feeling stir crazy, overwhelmed by a need to “return to civilization” and the mainland. My feeling was quite the opposite. I was grateful for the separation and never felt any pull toward the mainland. Daily relief came for me once the tide of tourists had washed back over the causeway that brought them, the sea came in, and everything went quiet again for a few hours. I couldn’t imagine feeling the pull of that crowd back toward the mainland. There are too few places to find genuine solitude, and so few offer even a sense of it for a time. I suppose it is always a surprise to me to discover that not everyone treasures solitude when they find it the way I do, which is perhaps why it has become such a rarity.

I worried in coming that a place called “Holy Island” might be some kind of religious commune, but the guesthouse where I stayed had a book of poetry in the nightstand instead of a Bible. That made me feel less like a trespasser. To be sure, there were some people there on personal pilgrimage, but there was nothing overtly spiritual about the place, and plenty for the secular visitor to enjoy in addition to the archeological dig, of course, which was my main purpose for the trip.

Of particular interest was the nature trail which encompasses a large portion of the island. About three miles long, it passes Lindisfarne Castle and the Gertrude Jekyll Garden, then follows along the beach, cutting inland to a bird-watching station near a natural feature called “The Lough,” a marshy pond which attracts a variety of local wildlife, then past extensive dunes, and down through tracts of open farmland back to the village.

I was a little surprised to see Lindisfarne celebrating the Vikings as much as it did. After all, it as they who had raided and looted the monastery here, first in 793 and again in 875, and not only devastated the heart of early English Christianity, but sent it into retreat from its island stronghold for a time. I have to admit, this is the aspect of Lindisfarne’s past that most intrigued me, but I was happy to find that—even here—so many others shared my appreciation for these early seafarers and their lasting impact on the island and beyond. Much to the dismay of that early Christian world, Lindisfarne is essentially where the Viking Age began. And while the advent of the Viking Age inevitably means different things to different people, no one can deny its significance in shaping the character and course of the medieval world and history in general.

Lindisfarne is a liminal place; a place of contradictions. Most of all, it defies anyone to possess it for very long. Its boundaries change, its availability changes. It passes hands from one people to the next, but no one ever seems to fully claim it. The Vikings are gone now. But so are the Anglo-Saxons. And the Christians still don’t command it—not fully. Only the tides rule Lindisfarne, making us fortunate, but brief, guests.