Fordyce Maxwell: ‘I took boots and socks off, rolled trouser legs, and plodded along’

Even with the tide on its way out for the past hour – technical explanation: someone else’s turn to have it – I felt slight apprehension.

Wouldn’t it be better to start the day’s walk along the causeway road, even if it was already busy? “Holy Island Crossing Times” is one of the most popular items in the local paper and as soon as the tide dips below the causeway cars flow on; most leave before full tide, but in recent years an increasing number have been stranded, rescued at public expense.

I wondered about that as I left solid ground and began to follow the poles, pausing several times to look back. Holy Island looked beautiful against wet sands and sea reflecting gold in morning sunshine from a blue sky. It is an obvious attraction for holidaymakers, and many locals. Unfortunately, some leave too late and some are testosterone-fuelled half-wits trying to drive through several feet of seawater.

The warning signs are big. There are enough of them. Locals are against barriers being installed, probably because they know the difference between the “official” safe crossing times and a safe crossing time. Visitors don’t, and the idiots don’t want to, showing neither embarrassment or contrition when rescued.

Rescued. There’s a word to ponder, I thought, realising there were still many rivulets and runnels across my path, some deep. Skirting too far from the pole route led into muddy sections, some too sticky and soft for my suspicious nature. Well down my list of ambitions is appearing on a front page rescued by helicopter. I took boots and socks off, rolled trouser legs, and plodded along the straight and narrow. I think most who walk this Pilgrims’ Way to Lindisfarne as part of religious festivals also walk barefoot. Bracing, but pleasant.

Then I saw, in the distance, I had company. So much for the Ranulph Fiennes “man alone” impersonation – coming towards me, from the mainland, was a family of four. However, just before we met, the father out to impress wife and sons – we’ve all done it – didn’t make his jump across the deepest, muddiest, runnel I’d seen. He yelled and scrambled out, leaving a trainer behind. I managed to extract it for him, but the mud suction was astonishing and I couldn’t help thinking what it would feel like, alone, with a booted foot stuck in that depth of mud and the tide on the turn.

The walk across the sands ends at the only bridge on the causeway, where, even at low tide, the channel is too deep to cross. The flow of vehicles was unrelenting, drivers and passengers showing little interest in someone silly enough to walk anywhere, let alone barefoot. I looked along the line of poles, sunlight still reflecting golden on wet sands. Some three-mile walks seem longer than others.