Lindisfarne & Berwick (4th April)
We listened for the tide times on ±«Óãtv Radio Newcastle and headed for Lindisfarne Priory on Holy Island. Crossing the causeway is an eerie experience with the seawater on either side of you and the wisps of sand snaking across the road in front.
Once on the island you're encouraged to leave your car in a pay 'n' display car park just outside the village. A five minute walk, really, but it feels longer with the wind whipping at your face as you climb the hill. We immediately took refuge in the Oasis cafe where I studied the menu and then stupidly asked the waitress if I was in time for the "all-day breakfast". This prompted much hysteriical laughter from Mrs Z. and the Zedettes and of course the remark and laughter was repeated ad nauseam for the rest of the day.
The Lindisfarne Priory was where me met Geoff Porter from English Heritage. He sold us our tickets and then asked Mrs Z. if she was from "north of the border."
"Yes, " she said, "we are."
This turned out to be one of Geoff's trick questions because he then went on to ask us if we were from "north of the Northumberland border."
"Er..."
"You see, " Geoff explained (he was now on a roll), "the original Northumberland border stretched as far north as the Firth of Forth. We actually claim Edinburgh as part of Northumbia. It's Edwin's Borough really."
Sensing that this revelation had left us crestfallen, Geoff consoled us by handing out little treasure maps for the Zedettes and we went to look at the priory. It was an amazing sight and left you wondering how such an intricate structure could have been built on this site so many centuries ago and frankly astonished that any of it still survives. It left us eager to learn more, but not so eager that we were prepared to buy the guide book of course.
We called in at a nearby gift shop which contained the usual array of lettered rock and souvenir jars of lemon curd. I'm convinced these things are all made in some big factory in Slough and then badged with the appropriate tourist destination. I can't imagine giving them as present to anyone who would be happy to receive them.
Back in the car, back across the causeway and we headed north to Berwick-on-Tweed. We were so close to the border I was able to pick up Radio Scotland on FM and was happily enjoying the Tom Morton Show until Mrz Z realised what I was up to and switched us back to Radio Newcastle.
"You're supposed to be on holiday." she scolded.
Berwick has many peculiarities, including petrol stations which ban the use of CB radios in the forecourt. Does anyone still use CB radio? And Berwick also has a pleasing shortgage of American burger bars and other fast-food outlets. We had dinner in a little bistro on Hide Hill called Popinjays which appeared to be run by Filipinos. The food was good but I did get a bit of a fright when the chef stormed out of the kitchen to ask if I'd ordered rice or baked potato with my chile con carne.
"Rice," I replied, rather nervously.
"Good. Good." Then he marched away, wiping his hands on his apron.
Just think, if I'd ordered the baked tattie I might not be here to tell you about it.
