Way back in the day in October 2017, as a 22-year-old American studying abroad in Scotland, I decided to take a day trip to see Lindisfarne Priory on Holy Island — a trek that proved to be anything but simple! Blundering my way through the English countryside, terribly lost, it was thanks to the good graces of a local farmer that I managed to get to my final destination. Maybe I should have brought a travel partner? #ThrowBackThursday
Starting the day in Berwick-Upon-Tweed
It was a crisp fall morning on Wednesday, October 25, 2017, when I departed from the YHA hostel in Berwick-upon-Tweed. I was a young study-abroad student at the University of Stirling, and it was Reading Week — a whole week off when students caught up on work. Of course, I did my fair share of studying, a few days’ worth, but I also itched for adventure. Whereas my friends went to Dublin, Paris, London, and other major cities, I decided to go somewhere off the beaten path. My solo backpack trip took me to the historic Lindisfarne Priory on Holy Island.
I first stopped at a local bakery for breakfast and treats for the long day ahead of me. Nothing like savory Cornish pasties to replenish your energy. I then climbed up Berwick-upon-Tweed’s old town walls and found a spot on a bench, from where I watched the town slowly come to life. A stone viaduct bridge, the Royal Border Bridge, stretches over the River Tweed, connecting the town with England’s railroads to the south. On its tracks a passenger train rolled over — glass windows sparkling in the morning sun. Finally, it came time to continue on my way.
Down the town’s cobblestone roads, I walked to the main depot, where I boarded a bus heading south. We proceeded on the A1 motorway. Looking around, I noticed that none of the passengers seemed too enthralled by the Northumberland coastline, except for one American tourist — me. Having come down from the foothills of Scotland, I had not seen much of the North Sea.
Too timid or too proud to ask for directions
About twenty minutes had passed since we left the depot. Closer, and closer, the pinpoint on Google Maps on my phone edged towards the island. Next stop: West Mains/ Beal. I zip up my backpack and prepare to get off. We passed the intersection with a road leading to the shoreline less than 3 km east. Why no turn? No matter, the bus stopped in front of a gas station and would circle back, or so I thought.
We never turned around. Instead, we went further south, farther away from Holy Island. I was too timid, or too proud, maybe a combination of both, to ask where to get off. My assumption that the bus traveled onto the island proved to be incorrect. When planning out the trip, I skimmed over the detail that the bus I was on did not go directly onto Holy Island. The only bus route that goes onto the island is the 477 — twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays.
The bus pulls into Belford, a small sleepy village, and I get off. Looking at the schedule posted on the shelter, the next north-bound bus would arrive in an hour. I opened the map on my phone — a complete blur. Apparently, my T-Mobile plan did not work well in the English countryside. From what I could tell, Holy Island was not too far away. All I had to do was reach a “straight road” that ran parallel to the coast, a straight shot to Holy Island. Well rested and nourished, I put on my backpack and set off on foot.
An American bumbling his way
After leaving Belford, I made my way onto the A1 Road, also known as the Great North Road, which connects Edinburgh with London. I headed north and cautiously so. The speed limit for vehicles was a whopping 70 miles per hour… as trucks with trailer beds sped past, gusts of wind rocked me off my feet. Not so safe. Finally, I got to the exit from where I could soon reach that “straight road” to Holy Island.
Walking past enclosed pastures and fields, with ancient hedgerows and a sprinkling of farmhouses, I reached the approximate intersection of the road, but all I found was a railway line. More an hour of walking only to have my heart broken! Frustrated, with the GPS on my phone not working properly, I continued deeper into the countryside, hoping that some other road this far east would take me to the island.
The solid blue line shows the approximate route of my failed trek to Holy Island. After getting off the bus at the wrong stop, I walked from Belford to Elwick, with some of the journey taken alongside the side of the A1 Road. Whether I got onto the A1 at the north end of Belford or north of Middleton, I do not recall. Regardless, I had walked for 5 miles!
Eventually, I found myself in a pitiful state. Frazzled, hot, and hopelessly lost, desperation overpowered my ego. I came upon a farm in Elwick and noticed an older gentleman in his front yard. Approaching him, I finally asked for directions to Holy Island. He informed me that I would have to go back the way I came and head north on the A1 — another couple of hours of walking, at least. I explained my situation and politely asked if he could give me a ride, and that I would compensate him for the trouble. Understandably, he shrugged off the request from a stranger and went back inside his home. Was I out of luck? Thankfully, the farmer had a change of heart and returned outside.
Robin, my hero, saved the day. He drove me fifteen minutes to where I would cross a tidal flat to reach Holy Island. Refusing compensation, he wished me safe travels and left a bumbling American on the shore. As fate would have it, one more misfortune awaited me that day.
Taking the “Pilgrim’s Way” to Holy Island
Historically, visitors to Lindisfarne Priory would walk across a tidal flat at low tide to reach Holy Island. This route is called “Pilgrim’s Way.” It entails walking 1 mile over mud and sand to reach the nearest point of the island or, if a pilgrim is feeling adventurous, over 2.5 miles to reach the southern tip, where the priory’s ruins lay. A more convenient causeway accessible at low tide allows vehicles onto the island — which I avoided. I came to follow the footsteps of untold thousands of pilgrims before me. Choosing the longer of the two pilgrim routes, I donned a pair of cheap rubber boots, brought with me from Scotland, I ventured away from the shore.
Chilly winds cut across the North Sea and whipped all around me. Seagulls soared overhead, making their way to open water, with hungry, beady eyes searching for a meal. Along the way, two refuge shelters stand tall and ready for any unfortunate pilgrim caught by high tide.
Thankfully, the tide stayed out at sea for the duration of my walk. The refuge shelters remained unoccupied for the time being. Something unexpected, however, did happen. As I sloshed my way through deep mud, the dark, rich, slop sucked my right boot in and my foot slipped out — landing straight in the mud! From toe to ankle, I was a dirty mess. My backpack may have bulged out, but an extra pair of pants or towel were not inside. Locals do recommend bringing a towel with you for this exact scenario, just in case!
Finally getting onto Holy Island, I paused to reflect on my accomplishment, having walked in the same footsteps of untold thousands of pilgrims before me. The island is home to Lindisfarne Priory, which Irish monks established in 635. An important Christian site for centuries, the priory produced the Lindisfarne Gospels in about 710-25 which has survived to this day as a masterpiece of early medieval art. Viking pirates would also ransack the priory on June 8, 793 — their first recorded major raid in England. The priory would evolve and expand but eventually fell into ruin, its surviving stonework becoming a popular tourist attraction.
Were all my bumbling and mishaps worth the trek? They most certainly were. As a history student, I felt like a child on the island, mystified by what I saw. My memories of that day are still fresh in my mind almost a decade later.
