Delayed pleasure.

Hello peeps,

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Today has not gone quite as I had hoped.

My friend and I had an outing planned , in order to compensate ourselves for the Friday Night Fever debacle .

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We had decided to go to visit Holy Island, also called Lindisfarne, which is known as the birth place of Christianity, because St. Aiden travelled there in 635 AD to convert the local populace.  After that a Monastery was built by those early Christians.

The most revered of the island’s saints was St. Cuthbert.  His remains were found to be still undecayed eleven years after his death, and this was believed to be a great sign of holiness.

It is, apparently, still a place of pilgrimage, especially in the summertime.

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There is also  the very picturesque Lindisfarne Castle which is built on the top of a volcanic mound known as Beblowe Craig.  I think that the castle was built in 550 and it is well worth a visit.

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Access to Holy Island is quite a breath taking experience.

You get there by walking or driving across a long, metalled causeway, and you must carefully consult the tide tables, displayed at both ends, in order to find ‘safe’ times to cross.

The tide makes the island inaccessible twice a day.

If you are not careful, then  you can be trapped, by  quickly rising tides which sweep across the sands.  Definitely not something to be taken lightly, as stranded people must use the ‘refuge boxes’ provided for just such an occasion, until the water retreats again.

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We had planned have a picnic and wine (mostly for me),  before taking a slow walk on the beach and visiting the village , Castle and Priory.

Anyway, my friend had to cancel our trip because of family business, so that will  need to be a future thrill now.

I hope your own day went exactly to plan…..if not even better.

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Long ago, when Big H was a little boy of about seven, there was no metalled causeway across the to Holy Island.

There were just markers stuck into the sand, at regular intervals, to show the way.

A fleet of old Taxis waited in a little car park near the beach, in order to ferry passengers across .  The cars had no brakes at all because the seawater had eaten them away.  Even the floors of the cars were full  of holes because the metal was also corroded.

Big H has memories of being in a taxi, speeding  over the beach, whilst he, his parents and their friends, sat holding their legs up off the floor and watching the sands racing by through the jagged, rusty gaps.

It was so not safe.

Away the taxis would race, getting up a good head of steam, in order to make it up the incline to the island, where they would then slowly drift to a stop.

The shaken passengers would get out, no doubt feeling quite exhilarated to still be alive and safe from drowning for a while.  With another surge of adrenalin to follow on the return journey.

I think that I would rather do it that way!

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No wonder Big H loves motor racing.

These same friends of his parents used to enjoy getting up to high speeds in their very pretty Sunbeam Talbot  sports saloon car .

He has a fantastic memory of being in that car with the four adults, and the driver asking him if he had ever been in a car while it was doing one hundred miles an hour.

As he liked the idea, they stood,him on the armrest between the front seats, with his head and shoulders poking out of the sun roof, and then accelerated.

He ended up hanging on for dear life while the car reached one hundred and five miles an hour.

It was magnificent .

A lasting memory for the seven year old boy that he once was.

And sometimes think that he still is !

j

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