Day 10 (July 24): Saints and Scotland

I must note a minor miracle: We were out the door this morning by 7:10, all packed, leaving behind a clean cottage, with trash disposed of, recycle properly stowed, and a guest book entry written. Soon we were tootling up the A1 toward Lindisfarne, that “Holy Isle” on which the saints Aiden and Cuthbert lived and oversaw a monastic community. It was a 2 1/2-hour drive—a little tiring, so it was with relief that we made it across the causeway before high tide and found a spot in the parking lot, outside the little hamlet of Lindisfarne, which boasts a population of only several hundred (most of them likely catering to tourists and pilgrims). 

First stop was the toilets, then tea and something to eat. We sat in the shade looking out to Lindisfarne Castle, built on a high rock by Henry VIII after the dissolution of the monasteries.

Arielle took a hike to the castle, while I fed crumbs to some hungry sparrows and then made my way to the pilgrim’s mecca: the abbey ruins. Passing through a museum/educational display, I found more Celtic designs carved into surviving fragments of stone crosses:

Before heading to the ruins, I took a moment to enter St. Mary’s Church, which sits next to the ruins. A place of peace and beauty, and I read and prayed for a while in the silence. I also appreciated the history of the saints.

The church is surrounded by gravestones, some from medieval times, some from the 1700s, and some from a few years ago.

The ruins themselves were peaceful (though windy), covering a much vaster area than I’d expected. The abbey must have been magnificent in its day. I was surprised to learn, however, that there were never more than 10-11 monks living there at a time, and often only 2-3. It seemed a bit of a waste of toil and resources for such a small community. (In Aiden and Cuthbert’s time, they lived in simple wooden structures.)

I was glad to have some time to sit and absorb the feel of this place, where centuries of worship and prayer have taken taken place. (We had to stay at least four hours to let the tide recede once again.) Another tendril of connection to others who have lived in faith.

As the tide receded, we set out again on our journey up to Scotland. My GPS said it should take about 2 hours and 15 minutes. Unfortunately, that stretched to about 3 hours, due to clogged traffic around Edinburgh. We crawled across the bridge that spans the Firth of Forth (love that name) and slowly were able to regain speed up into the north country. My brain was fried by then, so Arielle was invaluable in keeping me on track—looking for exits, taking the right way out of the roundabouts, etc. Finally we arrived in the little village of Falkirk and found Rosedale, our cottage.

Our cottage door is the one with Arielle unlocking it. 

I would have liked to sink into oblivion at that point, but she persuaded me to take a bit of soup and bread, and then we climbed into the car again to purchase some needed supplies (food mostly) at a nearby Morrison’s. Because we couldn’t figure out what coin to put into the shopping carts to free one up, we had to lug heavy baskets through the store—the last straw for my aching knee and tired brain. 

Home at last, I went right to bed, skipping the hot tub option. Aaahhhh….