'Micro' at Holy Island, part 6

Sailing at Last


I prepared a simple lunch that I could eat underway. Then Ian and Doug sailed by in their heavily reefed Wanderer, and I saw George retrieve his anchor and make sail. Liz was also sailing her Cormorant. I joined them, but ‘Micro’s’ rudder became snagged on a mooring line, so I quickly took down her sails and freed the boat by unshipping and replacing her rudder. Liz saw that something was wrong and asked if I needed assistance. When she knew that I had things under control she continued sailing towards the far end of the bay.


Liz and her Cormorant



Where she could go, I could follow. We took care to avoid going aground, because the water was still ebbing. We could see and hear a number of seals that were sunbathing on a sandbank which was beyond a stony ridge. I noted that Len Wingfield and his son Ed had sailed their boat into a protected cove by Guile Point, perhaps to beach her or anchor-off while eating lunch. Others followed, but I preferred sailing up and down the bay. Because there was smooth water, I was able to keep ‘Micro’ on a steady course by using her Huntingford Helm Impeder. This ingenious device held the tiller in a stationary position, which made it easier for me to eat lunch while on the go.


Prudent Return


After my meal I observed that tide had turned, and since my boat was not equipped with an engine, I decided to return to the harbour because the wind was beginning to fail and I didn’t want to row against the first of the flood tide. On arrival at the harbour I picked up a mooring and brewed a cup of tea. Not long afterwards the wind returned, but it was stronger and colder than before. I quickly improvised a wind brake, but it was ineffective. Therefore I set up the forward part of the boom tent, which did the job of keeping the wind a bay. Then I lost myself in the pages of MacGregor’s book. One by one the boats returned and anchored at the Ouse. This is an area adjacent to the beach. At low water it becomes a mass of sticky, dark brown mud, layered with spidery green weed. The weed insidiously wraps itself around anchor warps so securely that it is almost impossible to remove.


The Evening Meal


A combined evening meal had been booked for 1845 at the Ship Inn for a goodly number of us, but high water was around 2015, which meant our boats could not be beached until about an hour after the start of the meal. Tim Roberts used his rubber dinghy to ferry those who wanted to keep their boats at anchor. After setting up my boom tent I gladly accepted his offer.


The meal was a convivial affair. We ordered and paid for our own food and drink. I had a huge gammon steak, a portion of which I could not eat, but Len Wingfield gladly consumed what I couldn’t manage. We mostly chatted about our sailing experiences or exchanged information about computers and web sites. In view of the Queen's Golden Jubilee, the pub manager arranged a special quiz on the subject of the Royal Family. I was not madly enthusiastic about participating; therefore I retreated to 'Micro' with the help of Tim who willingly acted as my ferryman for the second time. After climbing aboard, I folded back the aft end of the tent so that I could row ‘Micro’ to the water's edge. There I beached her and she quickly settled as the tide ebbed. When the tent was back in place I made myself comfortable in my sleeping bag and promptly fell asleep.


Day four


The Return Home and Reflection


The Sunday morning forecast was rather gloomy, with the prediction of Force 6 winds. There would be showers and perhaps longer periods of rain. I therefore decided to make my way home. As I was leaving, newcomers were arriving, and a couple who had turned up earlier were preparing their boat for the water. Maybe they thought they would be able to have a sail before the weather deteriorated?


It took eight hours to complete the return trip to my home, and my wife was interested to hear of my adventures. I explained that I hadn’t done a lot of sailing, but I had had a good time. I told her of my encounter with the ‘angels’ and showed her the sea coal which I placed on my desk as a reminder of a very special and unique experience.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 5

Day three


The wait


Saturday morning’s Shipping Forecast predicted stronger winds than I wanted. High water was about 0800 hours; therefore I anchored beyond the moorings to wait until 1145 when the ebb would be manageable. I had plenty to occupy my time that sunny morning. Firstly I had to make myself presentable, not because I was going to be seen by anyone special, but for my own wellbeing. This meant having a shave and a body wash, plus brushing my teeth. Afterwards I had my usual daily Bible reading, followed by a quiet time which when cruising was not always possible. After those rituals I prepared the boat for sailing. I had to swap the working jib with the storm jib, and tie a couple of reefs into the mainsail. Then I hoisted my Micro Sailboat Club pennant, despite the fact that my conscience was not at ease because of the carbon emissions from my car on Day 1. At least, by flying the pennant, people may enquire about the Club, and I would be able to explain it was for sailors who were interested in eco-friendly boating.


Suffolk Beach Punt


Meanwhile Paul and Ian anchored their smart Suffolk Beach Punt nearby. She was festooned with flags in honour of the Queen's Jubilee. Her crew joined me in conversation while they cooked their breakfast. The smell of scrambled eggs and fried bacon was irresistible, but I wasn’t invited to join ‘Peregin’s’ crew to share it. There was much hustle and bustle on the jetty, because a trawler that had undergone a refit was being launched. Trippers arrived by boat to explore the Island. Black-headed gulls wheeled overhead, while others dived into the water in search of small fry.


George's Cruz in the distance


Later, as I was reading a passage from John Macgregor's, “A Thousand Miles in the Rob Roy Canoe”, George Saffrey arrived in his Cruz and anchored a short distance from ‘Pergrin’. He was followed by Liz Baker aboard her able gaff-rigged Cormorant.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 4

DCA Boats


Lunch, a Welcome Nap and Action


A picnic lunch was in order. I found a niche in the lee behind a ridge of sand, and I tucked into salad sandwiches. The wind whistled through long dune grasses, and near my feet a line of black ants made their way through what for them must have been a gigantic forest. It was as though each creature was being guided by an in-built compass, but I suspect they were keeping a course relative to the direction of the sun. Contentedly, I lay on my back, and closed my eyes in slumber.


Waking all of a sudden, I realized it was time to be on my way. It took willpower to articulate my limbs, since they were somewhat stiff and my toes felt red-hot, because of the unaccustomed demands that had been placed upon them. How old was I? Surely I ought to have had more spring in my step? There was another four miles to go before arriving back at 'Micro'. At least, the wind would be in my favour, and I would no longer need to shield my eyes from the stinging airborne sand.


I could hear a diesel train to the southwest, but I could not see it. A clutch of vehicles were speeding over the causeway before proceeding along the road where I was walking. As they passed me I had to take evasive action by trudging through mud beside the narrow, pockmarked road. Another car approached, and I recognized a familiar dinghy behind it - that of George Saffrey. I waved him down. It was good to meet him again. There would be a DCA rally after all! He offered me a lift, but I resisted the strong temptation, as I was determined to complete my trek on foot around the Island.


His car became a dot in the far distance, and I observed there was an elderly couple marching behind me. Soon they drew alongside, and after we exchanged a few words, they strode ahead. I was amazed at their energy and the speed at which they marched under the baking sun. In passing they told me they were walkers seeking temporary accommodation on Holy Island. I felt relieved that I did not have to compete with them, and that I could amble along at my own pace, while enjoying every moment. Over the mudflats, black-headed gulls twisted and turned in the air while they screeched and squawked at one another. At the edge of the dunes, colourful butterflies fluttered in the wind. Caravans where nestled together at a small car park, and the laughter of children gave me delight.


Not quite so easy


Those few remaining miles seemed to take but moments, and before I realized it, I was on the outskirts of the village, but by continuing along the road I would not have achieved my objective of walking around the entire perimeter of the Island. Therefore I took the more difficult route by picking my way over a rock-strewn beach and by clambering on earthworks that were, in fact, a huge rabbit warren, full of burrows designed to trip intruders like me. The last few hundred yards were impassable because of jagged rocks and an eroding cliff. I conceded that I could not fully complete what I had set out to do, and I found a footpath that led to the village.


Priory Ruins



Delights of the Village


While exploring the hamlet I discovered St Mary's church. Although it had an historic connection with the ancient Abbey it was not in itself architecturally pleasing to me. The Abbey ruins, or more correctly, the 11th century Priory ruins, were fascinating with their Norman arches, multiple pillars, and solid red sandstone walls. This fine example of Norman English architecture was built by Benedictine monks from Whitby. I continued to the old Coastguard Station that was no longer operative, but from its commanding position I was able to see the entire expanse of the bay, including Guile Point to the south, with its distinctive obelisks. A beautiful red yacht lay at anchor in the pool immediately below the cliff.


My return


From there I finally made my way back to 'Micro' where other DCA members had gathered. I introduced myself to Tim Roberts who had a Leisure 23, and Chris and Doug who had a Wanderer dinghy. The duo had booked shore-based accommodation, with the intention of day sailing. Liz Baker and Len Wingfield arrived in their boats after visiting the Farne Islands and spending an anxious night there because of the strong wind. Other DCA members arrived with their camper vans. That evening a number of them went to the Ship Inn for a meal, but I preferred my own curry and rice. Later I joined the party before being ferried to my boat which was anchored off the beach.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 3

'Micro' beached and the Anchorage beyond


A Very Personal Experience


To make the going easier, I clambered down a natural cleft from the sand dunes, between clumps of grasses, to a flat beach that was almost featureless, apart from a wavy pattern formed by receding water. The scene was similar to one of those Salvador Dali paintings of contrasting colours, patterns and textures, describing and enriching an endless landscape. I was enthralled by an immense stretch of ochre sand, bounded to my right by a turquoise, wave-capped sea, and to my left, by towering, weirdly shaped dunes, splotched with the abstract shapes of viridian grasses. I thrust myself directly into the wind, while shading my eyes from the stinging blast of airborne sand that pummelled my face. It was a truly surreal experience.


Suddenly from nowhere, there appeared two ageless figures of indeterminate gender, clothed in amber garments that blended into the maelstrom of golden light. As we converged, they held hands. I could hear the sighing of the dune grasses when they bowed to the whirling wind. I greeted the couple, but they did not reply, and I grudged their intrusion upon my solitude. It was a graceless act on my part, but at that moment I experienced something extraordinary - a feeling that God wanted to communicate in a special way. He wanted me to know of His eternity, His greatness, His holiness, His separateness and of His nearness. He wanted me to know of His love, His compassion, His care and concern. Somehow the two intruders were integral with this moment.


Were they believers, and if so, why did I grudge their presence? Why hadn’t they stopped and let me share my precious thoughts with them? Could they have been angels in disguise, or were they two of God's earthly children with an assurance of God-given eternity? As quickly as they had appeared, so they disappeared. The maelstrom ceased and I could only hear the wind-blown surf and the sighing of the grasses.


Lying on the beach ahead, there was a mysterious shape. As I approached it, my mind tried to make sense of what I saw. The sun-bleached object resembled the head of very fat man, but in truth it turned out to be the stump of tree! Sea and sand, friends together, had combined to form this work of art. More tree trunks and branches had been cast up on the dunes. In my imagination they were transformed into prehistoric animals and primeval fish with pointed snouts and bulbous eyes.


The wind eased and I paused to deeply inhale the fresh invigorating air, and glancing downward I saw a pair of glistening white cuttlefish shells that I could not resist. I closely inspected their exquisite design. Each shell was layered with a transverse comb-like sepia pattern. Only a Master Designer could have created such perfection. I coveted these treasures and placed them in my knapsack, but further along the beach I was taken by the appearance of a black, delta-shaped object, about the size of my hand, that contrasted with the golden sand. It turned out to be a piece of sea coal that had been polished by the ever-moving sand. I succumbed to the allure of the shiny coal and exchanged it for the priceless shells.


I reached the western extremity of the Island before lunch, and from there, atop a mighty sand dune, I was able to observe the causeway and noted a narrow channel under a low bridge. I concluded it may have been all right for me to make a clockwise circumnavigation of the Island aboard ‘Micro’. There would have been sufficient water under the causeway bridge on a rising tide to row under it, before sailing across the expanse of shallow water on the northern side to the open sea. Then, having sailed to the entrance of the tiny harbour I would have had to overcome the ebb before reaching the security of the anchorage.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 2

Day Two


Plan for the day


It had been a fitful night as heavy rain lashed the tent, but not a drop entered the living area. Intermittently between sleeping I woke and heard the sound of waves breaking on a nearby jetty. A bright sunrise heralded the start of Friday morning, but I couldn’t see another DCA boat. Had I got it right? Was the Rally due to start? How best could I spend the day?


An examination of the tidal data revealed that low water would be about 1320 - ideal for discovering the whereabouts of sand banks, rocks and other hazards. Between two hours before low water and two hours after low water I would be able to see the dangers; therefore I decided to walk around the perimeter of the Island to reconnoitre a route for a circumnavigation aboard ‘Micro’.


My Home



Starting the Trek



The forecast was for a windy, but sunny day, and so it turned out to be. I packed a lunch in my knapsack, and at 0915 I set off for the trek. On the horizon I could see the dark shape of the Farne Islands. The Longstone lighthouse and Inner Farne lighthouse marked the northern and southern extremities of the Islands respectively. Well, at least, I had seen them, albeit at a distance. Ahead of me, at the end of a path and silhouetted before the blazing sun, there was the ancient castle upon its mound. A National Trust sign indicated it was closed to the public that day.


Bypassing the mount I followed a meandering footpath that hugged the beach. Far out at sea I could discern the grey shape of a freighter lumbering to the north-east. Emmanuel Head was about a mile to the north, where I could see its white pyramidal day mark. To reach this concrete structure I had to pass through a large flock of grazing sheep with their lambs, one of which had sadly died and had been abandoned by its mother.


The strong west wind malevolently tried to snatch away my Nike cap with the intention of taking it out sea, but I adjusted the peak, in Norman Wisdom style, so that it lay over my right ear, thus streamlining the cap to frustrate the wind's desire. The fiendish foe was more successful in causing havoc with some tiny mauve butterflies by mercilessly sweeping them beyond the cliff's edge. That was not the case with several longhaired, black and orange caterpillars that clung to short grasses by my feet. Nor were thousands of light brown snails the least interested in the wind's evil design; instead, they were intent on lovemaking in the sun, oblivious to the fact that a giant might crush them by misjudging his step.


Tending the boat


More to see


I rested at the day mark on a seat conveniently placed there in memory of some dear soul who departed this life after 63 years. A swig of cool Sprite revived me, along with a crunchy Toffee Crisp bar. With renewed energy I set off to explore the northern border of the Island. It was mainly composed of enormous craggy sand dunes. In between them were small valleys lined with various coloured flowers. This really was a Garden of Paradise. Song thrushes, blackbirds, wrens, jackdaws, skylarks and many unidentified sea birds populated the area. Open grass, shortened by munching rabbits, small bushes and undergrowth made an ideal habitat for the birds.
To seaward, rocks jutting into the waves gave protection to boulder-strewn bays, where there were wonderful pools containing myriad crustaceans and weeds. I could hear the sound of a man singing, but could I have been mistaken? Indeed I was, because, on close inspection of the water near a peninsular of rocks, there were many seals bobbing their heads in and out of the waves. They were the origin of these human-like, sonorous voices.


A bit further along the dunes I discovered a vehicle resembling a motorbike with four wheels. It had a shepherd's crook which was housed in a purpose-built cylinder. At first I could not find the owner; then I saw him way out on the rocks, searching for winkles. Cherishing my privacy, I quietly continued my walk. Clouds passed overhead at what seemed a colossal rate, like those speeded-up sequences sometimes seen on TV nature programmes. Way to the north and west, I could clearly see the coast by Berwick-upon-Tweed.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 1

Map of Holy Island


Day one


Holy Island, otherwise known as Lindisfarne, is steeped in history. The Abbey ruins and the 16th century castle built on the summit of a volcanic mount is testimony to some of it. This latter monument has a commanding position overlooking the Island, and beyond to the Farne Islands - even along the coast northwards to Berwick-upon-Tweed. In the 7th century, Benedictine monks established a Priory on the southern side of the Island. The location was perfect for their monastic lifestyle. There they found peace and solitude on this outcrop which is cut off by the tide twice daily. In these respects, little has changed, except when summer tourists intrigued by the Island's history and beauty invade to pillage and take away their trophies, just as the Danes in their longboats in 793 AD. As of old, today’s visitors must be mindful of the times of high and low water to ensure they are not stranded on the Island. I, on the other hand, could stay for as long as I wished. With 'Micro' as my temporary home, the Island was mine to explore, and my curiosity led to an extraordinary personal experience which I shall later describe.


When I was a young man I had wanted to visit Holy Island, along with canoeing friends. Our aim was to set up a base camp for exploring the Farne Islands. This small basalt archipelago lies six miles to the southeast of Holy Island, and over centuries they have survived the relentless onslaught of North Sea storms. For reasons I fail to remember, we did not make it, but years later I sold my Kingfisher 26 junk-rigged yacht to a gentleman who lived near Peterhead, and part of the deal was to deliver the yacht from Southend-on-Sea to the Scottish fishing port. While on passage I thought I might see them, but they were enveloped in fog.



Abbey Ruins



Journey to Holy Island


When I heard that the Dinghy Cruising Association would be holding a rally at Holy Island I decided I would take 'Micro' there - that's if she wasn’t sold beforehand, for she had been advertised for sale. The long-range weather forecast looked reasonable; therefore I set off on Thursday the 30th May 2002, with ‘Micro’ in tow behind my ancient Ford Sierra. We dodged dense and dangerous traffic, and after the milometer recorded that we had travelled a distance of 327 miles we duly arrived at our destination. I tried not to think about the carbon emissions from my car, but I couldn’t entirely feel happy about it.


Heavy showers during our journey resulted in water entering the cockpit, and unknown to me it managed to seep into a compartment under the foredeck where I stored my clothing and sleeping gear. Fortunately, very little penetrated the plastic holdall which contained my sleeping bag and spare clothing. It was a simple matter to spread the wet articles on the car seats for them to dry overnight.


Having arrived at the Island’s causeway shortly before 1600, we had ample time to cross it before the incoming tide would cut us off. High water was at 1900, which was perfect for launching the boat at the fishermen's slipway, but when I came to do it, there was a fairly heavy swell. The only way I could launch ‘Micro’ without jeopardizing the car was to control the descent of the boat and trailer by the use of a piece of rope turned around the tow bar. Had I tried my usual practice of backing the car down the slipway until the rear wheel was at the water’s edge, I feel certain the exhaust pipe would have been flooded.


Afloat



We made it


As 'Micro' entered her element, several American tourists carrying plastic bags and holding cameras were waiting for the ferry to take them to their cruise ship which was anchored offshore. One of them was intrigued with the launching procedure. He offered to hold ‘Micro’s’ painter until her trailer had been parked. When I returned to the slipway he remarked how bitterly cold the wind was, and qualified his observation by drawling that only a Brit would be wearing shorts! I explained that I didn’t mind getting my shorts wet , providing I could keep the rest of my gear dry.


By nightfall 'Micro' was high and dry on a sandy beach and I was snugly ensconced in my sleeping bag as heavy rain and wind attacked the cockpit tent. It was difficult to take in that I had travelled over three hundred miles in one day, and if I had sailed the same distance it would have taken me many, many days.

Photos of 'Caleb', part 2

Here are a few more photos of 'Caleb'.


On the beach at Teignmouth
Reefed at Roadford
Roadford Reservoir
Exe Estuary
Dawlish

Arrival at Exeter Canal