As the tide recedes, the vehicles snake across the causeway. The water draws back and where once there was only the surface of the sea, now there is a ribbon of tarmac, steaming dry.
A millennium ago, I trod that path on tidal mudflats more times than I can count. A humble subject of nature’s relentless rhythm, I too waited for the path to rise from the sea. Not even a Bishop can command the waves to part. Oh, how often I wished to follow in the footsteps of my Lord and walk upon those waters! The mile to the the mainland was where I fixed my gaze on what lay ahead, each time prepared for death at the hands of pagan England - my blood poured out or my bones trampled like dung in the streets - while praying it would not be so.
Even now, the end of the journey for the visitors is on foot, as they make their pilgrimage from the carpark. Where there was only the quiet hum of village life, now there is a buzz of approaching voices, like the distant swarm in the monastery’s apiary where gentle Ambrose would collect honey for mead.
I have my back to them. Not my choice, you understand, but who has the luxury of deciding how they are portrayed? My way was always to visit face to face, to speak the milk of gentle doctrine to my people in their homes and villages. I walked until my feet were blistered and broken, a servant of King Oswald and of my God. And then always, back here, back to Lindisfarne, to peace and healing.
Why do they come? Is it the novelty of the causeway alone, for there are more than enough castles and fine abbeys, from Melrose to Tintern? Perhaps there is a Moses in every human heart that wants to believe he can command the waves. For me, I have faith that the transformative power of one small island has lasted down the ages and amidst the necessity of stalls and cafes and memorabilia, there is stillness and peace to be found here.
My face is lifted to the sky, where gulls circle and cry, swooping to the sea. To my left, the lofty castle. Ahead of me, what remains of my beloved Priory upon whose walls I leant and, one day, died. The visitors stroll the transept and nave. So many languages, like Babel I muse, although my stony gaze gives nothing away. I am photographed from every angle, in groups, in silhouette or moody shadow. Quite the celebrity!
The tide turns, and the water creeps back. In just a few hours it begins to lick the causeway and the last of the visitors return to their cars and dice with danger to journey back to the mainland. Above me, the gulls whorl, the clouds pattern the sky below jet stream. I remain.
A millennium ago, I trod that path on tidal mudflats more times than I can count. A humble subject of nature’s relentless rhythm, I too waited for the path to rise from the sea. Not even a Bishop can command the waves to part. Oh, how often I wished to follow in the footsteps of my Lord and walk upon those waters! The mile to the the mainland was where I fixed my gaze on what lay ahead, each time prepared for death at the hands of pagan England - my blood poured out or my bones trampled like dung in the streets - while praying it would not be so.
Even now, the end of the journey for the visitors is on foot, as they make their pilgrimage from the carpark. Where there was only the quiet hum of village life, now there is a buzz of approaching voices, like the distant swarm in the monastery’s apiary where gentle Ambrose would collect honey for mead.
I have my back to them. Not my choice, you understand, but who has the luxury of deciding how they are portrayed? My way was always to visit face to face, to speak the milk of gentle doctrine to my people in their homes and villages. I walked until my feet were blistered and broken, a servant of King Oswald and of my God. And then always, back here, back to Lindisfarne, to peace and healing.
Why do they come? Is it the novelty of the causeway alone, for there are more than enough castles and fine abbeys, from Melrose to Tintern? Perhaps there is a Moses in every human heart that wants to believe he can command the waves. For me, I have faith that the transformative power of one small island has lasted down the ages and amidst the necessity of stalls and cafes and memorabilia, there is stillness and peace to be found here.
My face is lifted to the sky, where gulls circle and cry, swooping to the sea. To my left, the lofty castle. Ahead of me, what remains of my beloved Priory upon whose walls I leant and, one day, died. The visitors stroll the transept and nave. So many languages, like Babel I muse, although my stony gaze gives nothing away. I am photographed from every angle, in groups, in silhouette or moody shadow. Quite the celebrity!
The tide turns, and the water creeps back. In just a few hours it begins to lick the causeway and the last of the visitors return to their cars and dice with danger to journey back to the mainland. Above me, the gulls whorl, the clouds pattern the sky below jet stream. I remain.
Rosemary McBryde
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