Isle of May, Scotland and Holy Island, England
Could it have been just this morning that we left the Port of Leith? The day has been so diverse, a full a week could easily have gone by.
The engines started early and we slipped away from the pier and through the lock into the Firth of Forth. The water was inky black and the sky a charcoal gray, but a ray of gleaming brightness lit the path ahead to where the Isle of May lay.
Driven by the wind, rain pelted down as we wove our way on shore between carpets of white sea campion that marched across the hillsides and butted against ancient garden walls. The precipitation stopped as suddenly as it had begun and the sky transformed to blue with billowing white cumulus towers. We stared in amazement at the plethora of life revealed. Clusters of humans stood at the edges of cliffs observing the antics of congregations of nesting seabirds. Like busy bumblebees, fast-flapping puffins arrived bearing beaks full of fish for nestlings hidden deep within their burrows. Tails quivering to steer, kittiwakes appeared suspended in space by updrafts from the sea below. Their mates cried their rhythmic onomatopoeic call from precariously positioned nests. Guillemots and razorbills, patterns in black and white, accentuated every available ledge on sheer rocky faces. Female eiders sat motionless on down-lined nests tucked into lush green vegetation or hustled their fluffy gray ducklings towards the water’s edge. Arctic terns creaked their strange hoarse territorial calls. Oystercatchers tootled defensively as they pursued a threatening gull. One hundred thousand or so birds occupy the Isle of May in spite of almost fifteen centuries of human use and occupation. Pilgrims seeking healing powers from St. Adrian’s grave, smugglers, fishermen, marauding Vikings, lighthouse keepers and more, came and went, leaving remnants of their lives. Now the island is for the wildlife and those who care for them. En route to the ship, Zodiacs paused on the freshening sea only to be surrounded by stealthy curious gray seals, their Roman noses stretching for a view of this strange multi-headed creature.
The water turned to polished ebony tossing back reflections of the world above. Against the sky, glowing white gannets drifted like snowflakes. They seemed to fall gracefully to earth in only one spot, on the monolith known as Bass Rock. The ship crept closer until it seemed we could step from the bow to inspect the mossy nests constructed by these golden-naped birds. Then the gods spoke. A great crash of thunder echoed around and the skies opened once again. We circled the island counterclockwise only to find the sun spotlighting the opposite side and a majestic lighthouse hiding there.
As is so often the case with the weather here, as afternoon wore on, the wind chased the clouds away and wrinkled the ocean’s skin. An island at high tide, a peninsula at low, Holy Island hosted our return to England’s shores. Weathered sandstone blocks, once precise and square, now curved and rounded to reveal their internal cross-bedded planes, seemed to tell tales much older than the ruined priory walls could recount. A fragile arch against the sky joins one remaining wall with yet another and frames a living tree. Tiny purple fairy foxgloves creep between the stones and spleenwort splays in lacey fans against the golden rock. Riotous flowerbeds hide behind the walls. Lindisfarne is known as the cradle of Christianity, the birthplace of the Lindisfarne Gospels. But on a warm and sunny day, the beauty of the site seems to overshadow its history.
