Holy Island

Last night wasn't a brilliant night in the whole scheme of things. It didn't help by falling asleep on the sofa and was worsened by the trip to Bridgnorth to see my consultant except I didn't see him, I saw his nurse. It certainly wasn't a wasted journey because it was useful and informative visit but I did feel let down when I walked into his room and was told he was in Croatia. Mind you I was glad I didn't have to drive there to see him.

But no, last night wasn't feeling too happy and when I went to bed I desperately needed something to read that wasn't a woman's magazine. I picked up a book, that I've read several times before but it's kind of special because it has a link with two very special people in my life.

The book is the story of Peter Mortimer's one hundred stay on Holy Island, just off the Northumberland coast line. It's a fantastic read of a man who'd already decided that he was going to go there to write for one hundred days, what he didn't foresee was the death of his father, just before he went and his nephew having to have major surgery - however, he took the 'selfish' decision of a writer (and I don't mean that in any nasty sense) and went anyway, very concious of the fact he was leaving his elderly mother alone when she needed him most.

The book is written in a diary form and tells of his times there. His rather infrequent interaction with the locals, the isolation, the awareness that when the tide was in, he was cut off from everyone and everything he loved. I do wonder actually when reading the book other than his diary, how much writing he actually did but the diary itself talks about his experiences, feeling and emotions.

Holy Island for me is a special place. I first there when I was about eight or nine on a school trip when I lived up in Gateshead. We did the tour of the abbey on a drizzly day and then went into the gift shop. I was eagerly clutching my ten bob note (no you don't carbon dating to realise this was before 1972). As I wondered around the shop I saw the most beautiful cross and chain that I'd ever seen in my life and I knew it was perfect for my Mum. It cost seven shillings and sixpence but it was worth every penny. It was gold coloured and inside the shape of the cross were stones of different colours. It was large and totally unlike anything my Mum would ever wear, goodness she didn't even have her ears pierced, because as she said, if God meant you to have holes in your ears, he'd have put them in.

I never saw Mum wear that necklace and to be honest I don't blame her but I know she kept it safe in her treasure box until the day she died. I don't know what's happened to it now but Mum treasured it for all those years.

The second time I went to Holy Island the weather was in complete contrast - it was beautiful. And after wondering around the Island, which bore no resemblance to the one I half remembered from childhood we went up to the castle and had a wander round. Finally finding a spot at the top where we could sit down and have a very late lunch. It was stunning just looking over the beautiful blue of the North Sea that was until a strange asked if we were staying on the island.  Lunch suddenly forgotten about as we realised that sea would cut us off from the mainland if we didn't get a move on. I don't think it would necessarily have been a problem other than we were running a course in Alnmouth and there would be people waiting for us to show it - not a good time to be stranded.

We did make it back, I think with about twenty minutes to spare but to be honest I didn't find that much comfort after hearing about someone the previous weekend being caught in the tide and having to be airlifted to shore, minus their car. Those words still make us laugh today as well as remind me of a wonderful afternoon out.

So, last night after spending a bit of time on Holy Island with Peter Mortimer and two very special people. Although when I went to bed I was feeling fed up and lonely, I slept with a smile on my face - a good book and very happy, special memories.