CHAPTER XLIV 



LINDISFARNE IN FEBRUARY 



A 7 ULL gale of westerly wind sweeps the coast. From 

 the Cheviots, hazy and mist-capped in the distance, 

 thin grey clouds race at great speed away out over 

 the North Sea. At times the sun breaks through the cloud 

 canopy and floods the countryside with his rays, now visibly 

 strengthening with each day. On the eastern horizon stands 

 the grey island of Lindisfarne, or Holy Island, where, during 

 the months of winter and early spring, a multitude of shore 

 birds make their home. Holy Island is an island only for 

 a couple of hours or so of each spring tide. At other times 

 one can walk across the three miles of sand with feet 

 comparatively dry. Two rows of posts mark the track, for 

 on either side are quicksands ready to engulf the unsuspect- 

 ing pedestrian. To-day a trap meets me near Beal Station, 

 and the driver informs me that there is just time to get across 

 before the flood tide sweeps in. The westerly gale is banking 

 up the Atlantic off the North of Scotland, and here, on the 

 North Sea, the result is shown in an exceptionally strong 

 flood tide, racing down from the north. Before we can reach 

 the sands, Holy Island is cut off from us by a swiftly flowing 

 and rapidly deepening strip of turbulent waters several 

 hundred yards in width. However, the driver feels he can 

 make the passage, so we move slowly forward through 

 several feet of water. A curious feeling this, to be making 

 one's way in a trap through a waste of waters. The old horse 

 whinnies doubtfully, but brings us across to the dry sands 

 on the further side of the channel without incident. 



The incoming tide is driving in the birds from their 



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