A Beginning, a Puddle and an End
by Guy Procter

I thought it was time we got a move on when the duck hit its head on the bridge. We were in the middle of the strait which separates Holy Island from mainland Britain, standing on the bridge which spans the only permanent channel of water. A short distance away was a group of stationary ducks, except they weren't really stationary. Instead they were enjoying a magic carpet ride on the current, which swept them smoothly towards us before they disappeared, still impassive, beneath the flat road bridge. As you will appreciate, a compelling sight.

After some minutes the coffee-coloured water in the channel had risen appreciably. It was 12.30 after all, the time when the tide tables dictated it would be unwise to start a crossing of the 5km causeway. The ducks were speeding up. Then, as we looked, one of them (we'll call him Stu) tonked his little head noiselessly on the lip of the bridge as he was whisked underneath. Just a little clip, but enough to let us know that it was time to run for home.

We had come to Holy Island (it also shares a name with a well-known early seventies folk-rock band -- that's right, Steeleye Span) to fulfil a long-held ambition. Call it some sort of distorted God-complex, but I've long wanted to ride on water. The idea of half pedalling, half paddling to a kingdom held in thrall to the tides and -- it's a dream, why hold back? -- perhaps liberate a damsel, guzzle mead and settle down, has a deep-rooted appeal. So when I got the chance to do something frivolous and fun on a bike, I knew where I'd be going.

Chris and I had decided on a ride, from a little further up the coast (Scremerston), along a bridleway and a quiet lane, leading after an enjoyable 12 kilometres to the start of the magnificent causeway crossing. Sadly, all was not to go according to plan, however, and we arrived at Beal (the last mainland outpost) at a nail-biting 12.20. Lightning quick mental arithmetic ruled out our leisurely ride in, and it was a battle against the clock -- oh, and the North Sea -- to get wheels on and away.

The country lane leads to a last-ditch car park, and then, without fanfare, onto the causeway. The coastline peels back and quite quickly you are out in that wet sand wilderness that characterises all estuaries. Except, at the end of this rind of sand... distantly... the land consolidates again and quite unexpectedly, there's what looks like green grass and a village. The two-carriage road looks firm enough, and certainly gives easy riding, disconcerting though the seaweed is on either verge. A marine tang in the nostrils confirms you have left land behind, although the sea remains distant across the sandflats to left and right.

They built the road in 1954, so they would have something to lay the red carpet on four years later when the Queen arrived. (Although the joke was on her because they didn't put a sewer system in until 1961.) Before the road, locals used a different path, slightly to the right of today's causeway. You can still see the route marked with tall posts, and the a weather-beaten and slanting shed on stilts that was where you went into if you'd misjudged the tide and were caught out.

There's still a refuge on the new causeway road; an even smaller shed, more like an enclosed tennis umpire's chair, at the end of the bridge. We pulled the bikes onto the verge, pop-popping on the bubble-wrap style seaweed and investigated. It's not somewhere you'd want to be stuck for the six hours the tide is in, unless you had a good book and a cushion or an absorbing scab to pick.

More interesting were the aforementioned ducks, and what they told us about the tide. Despite dire warnings from the signs, 12.30 had come and gone without sign of any real enthusiasm from the sea. Now, though, the channel beneath the bridge was fast reaching the tops of its sandy banks and overspilling into side channels. Things would happen quickly now. As we remounted, the sound of urgent revving alerted us to a grocery delivery van taking the bridge at incredible speed. He's done that before, I thought. We'd already seen the tourist exodus: streams of family saloons containing unnecessarily wild-eyed mothers-in-law gabbling exhortations to speed behind the glass. But this guy was in a class of his own. Surely he'd be trapped on the island and his toms would spoil?

We set off willing our own maroonment, but not until we reached the civilisation of the village. Each edge of the road was now encrusted with barnacles where it joined the sand; dunes were forming on the left. At one o'clock we reached the dunes area of The Snook, (not a particularly odd name in Holy Island company. How about 'Brides Hole', 'Scar Jockey' and 'Madge's Batt'?) a sandy rampart of land where you shed some of the sense of exposure to the sea. It's also a good place to experiment with the retarding effect of sand on front wheel momentum by veering accidentally off the road. (Answer: the effect is great.)

At 1.03pm the latest of late runners roared into view -- an X-reg Datsun Sunny running on four star and the power of prayer for dry land. Chris clapped encouragement as they went by and speculated on what might be passing between the occupants as they disappeared: "Keep the momentum going!" "I know your feet are wet but keep the revs up!" "No no, salt water's actually good for an engine..."

Then the road went back to its ghostly emptiness, and we rode in this lane and that on towards the island and safety. Up ahead the village had a mirage-like perfection, all neat flat-coloured buildings, orange terracotta roofs, a stubby churchtower, all atop an immaculate green headland. It was like riding into Denmark.

Though we tried to drag out our arrival to the point of heroic wading, we reached solid ground before the water began lapping on the Tarmac. Nevertheless, behind us the drawbridge was hauling up and Holy Island was assuming its true identity once more.

All those who were on the island now were going to stay for the next few hours whether they liked it or not. You could almost hear the shop owners unlocking their doors with scraping iron keys and child-catcher grins. The authorities ask that drivers park in the area provided on the fringe of the village, which leaves the streets largely car-free and relaxed for riders to cruise. There are a few places that are must-visits. One is the Priory, where you can see the Holy of the title: St Aidan, given the island by King Oswald as a base from which to Christianise the pagan Northumbrians in AD635. The rest is very literally history. Next up is the castle, or even better, the view of it from the bay. Here you can see the colourful lobster pots and the tarred hulls of fishing boats, now used as shapely sheds. There is a working harbour too, where walnut-faced fishermen can be observed at work, out of the corner of your eye because they look quite burly and they know knots.

Back up the narrow lane to the Priory end of the village and you must pop into the mead shop. They have thimblesful of the golden honey-based spirit indiginous to the island for free sampling. Like sherry, it's sweet and easy to drink: ideal for grannies and for knocking out hyperactive children at Christmas. Buy a bottle.

We felt no concern for our unlocked bikes outside. After all, there is no getting away for the casual thief. Back out of the mead house we contemplated a quick change of tops and popping back in for 'ooh look, they do free mead here, Roger' and helping ourselves again, but thought better of it.

By now we were beginning to recognise some of the other people similarly confined on the island as we recirculated the village. Had the tide stayed in a while longer I dare say someone would have organised a Gilbert and Sullivan production or a cricket match.

Most of the beachcombing, by virtue of the physics of bikes if not the byelaws, has to take place on foot. It has to be said this is a magical place to spend a weekend exploring, but for that two-week mountain bike blow-out you've been promising yourself, I'd tactfully suggest a rethink. After a pub lunch (they have several) Chris and I headed back to the causeway to do what we'd really come for: to flirt with the tide and get pictures of ourselves looking like we were "really deep in the water that time" and so on. And it was enormous fun. Even for the short time (road clear at 5.30pm) that the North Sea took the island away from Mother England, something of the Castaway spirit emerges. Enjoyment of the simple pleasures of exploring, mapping and, yes, splashing over white lines submerged in inches of seawater; roving from edge to edge of your delightfully small world; making-do along with people stuck in the same boat.

Round about five o'click people started queueing at the causeway where the road tucked itself under the water and waited until they were brave enough to drive through. As the first car went, something of the atmosphere perceptiby went. People started focusing on going their separate ways; strangers would soon be able to come across; shopkeepers began shutting up and examining what they'd extracted from the Tuesday crowd. And quite quickly, we were ready to go too.

The ride out was quickened by our incuriosity, although the now-slick road needed respect to avoid skids. Back on dry land we reflected inwardly on a day that felt like a holiday, some silly fun and a great, little, ride. As we removed the wheels from the bikes in sight of the draining causeway, ready to go on the car rack, the clattering diesel engine of a Transit van made us look up. The grocery van had been marooned for the day too. Looking at the serene expression of the driver we couldn't help wondering how much of an accident that was.

© Guy Procter
On Your Bike