For almost 1,000 years, the Welsh yearned for their redeemer, a great leader who would march at the head of a host deep into Lloegyr. Ordinary people gathered on hillsides to hear tales of the heroes and the warbands of the past – of Cynan Meriadoc, the leader of the migration to Brittany, Little Britain; of Cadwaladr, King of Gwynedd; of Arthur and Llywelyn Vawr – and to hear prophecy. Owain of Rheged gained fame in Wales because the bards kept his name alive as one of Y Mebyon Darogan, leaders who would ride out to defeat the English.
The ebb and flow of events in the Dark Ages is rarely as clear-cut as the events of the seige of Ynys Medcaut. The picture is often very blurred, confusing, even contradictory. Apparently important names sometimes only appear once and nothing more is heard of them. Some academic historians pay attention only to Bede and other textual sources they think reliable and dismiss the bards, the genealogies and the traditions associated with native kings and their homelands. Nevertheless, twenty years of reading and writing about this fascinating period, the time when the nations of Britain were forming and its dominant languages emerging, have led me to some conclusions that are more than tentative.
The British – and Anglo-Saxon – kingdoms were not like modern states with defined borders, separate jurisdictions and different institutions. They were based on military power, on the royal warband, and loyalty. The more successful in battle or in raiding, especially cattle rustling, a king was, the more he would reward his warriors with gold, horses, privileges and other items of value, and his generosity encouraged more warriors to rally to his standard. The jewellery made on the Mote of Mark was not only for conspicuous decoration, worn like medals, it was also the currency of trust and obligation. Here is a passage from Taliesin, the great bard of the people the Welsh still call Y Gwyr Y Gogledd, the Men of the North:
Urien of Yrechwydd, most liberal of Christian men,
Much do you give to men in this world,
As you gather, so you dispense,
Happy the Christian bards, so long as you live,
Sovereign supreme, ruler all highest,
The stranger’s refuge, strong champion in battle,
This the English know when they tell tales.
Death was theirs, rage and grief are theirs,
Burnt are their homes, bare are their bodies.
All that exists to characterise the culture of these post-Roman kingdoms are the praise poems of their bards, and of course that is a picture painted with the vivid colours of exaggeration and superlatives. And the everyday lives of the farmers, servants and slaves of Rheged, Strathclyde, Gododdin and the other native realms are not the stuff of poetry. Bards were fired by the deeds of warriors and in a passage from the epic poem composed to commemorate the battle at Catterick, brave Gwawrddur was in the van, fighting in the alder-palisade, the shield wall. This passage is also famous as one of the earliest mentions of the warlord Arthur, leading some (myself included) to believe that he was one of the Y Gwyr Y Gogledd, the Men of the North:
He struck before the three hundred bravest,
He would slay both middle and flank,
He was suited to the forefront of a most generous host,
He would give gifts from a herd of horses in winter,
He would feed black ravens on the wall
Of a fortress, though he were not Arthur,
Among the strong ones in battle,
In the van, an alder-palisade, was Gwawrddur.
Despite the tone and substance of these heroic verses, the small armies of the Angles and the British were not ethnically defined. The reference to strangers in Taliesin’s poem may hint at that. Kings made alliances that benefitted them and their people and did not fight somehow to preserve Britain and its culture. Their motives were not often those of the myth-wrapped Arthur. Angles fought in British armies and the British sometimes made alliances with the Angles and Saxons if they deemed that to be to their advantage. The leader of the Gododdin coalition that was annihilated in the battle at Catterick was Yrfai, Lord of Edinburgh. His full name betrays his Anglian origins, for it is Yrfai map Golistan, a Welsh version of ‘the son of Wulfstan’.
My work in ancestral DNA has added some statistical substance to the rapid transformation of society at this time, when history raced across the landscape. Numbers are notoriously difficult to estimate at a distance of fifteen centuries, but if the overwhelmingly male population of Anglo-Saxons in Britain was only 10 per cent of the total in 550, geneticists reckon that within only five generations it could have risen as high as 50 per cent. The Anglian and Saxon warriors who began to dominate in the east of England almost certainly took native wives and they quickly subjugated and outbred indigenous males. Simple reproduction and not genocidal slaughter could have made incomers dominant in less than a century, spreading their language and culture widely and quickly.
Nevertheless, there were some important distinctions between natives and incomers, particularly in the sixth and early seventh centuries. Not only did the British see themselves as Y Bedydd, ‘the Baptised’, fighting to preserve the light of God against the pagan darkness of Y Gynt, ‘the Gentiles’, the Angles, there was also an ancient political and cultural bond that occasionally united the British. Cymru, the Welsh word for Wales, and Cymry, the Welsh, both derive from a Latin term, combrogi. Loosely, it means ‘fellow countrymen’ and it harks back to the Roman Empire, the old province of Britannia and a sense of citizenship. Cumbria remained Welsh-speaking for centuries and its name also comes from combrogi. And this notion of an ancient community and its hoped-for restoration is embedded in the long traditions of the Sons of Prophecy.
As the Northumbrian kings grew more powerful in the first half of the seventh century, two elusive names suggest that there were close links with the fading prestige of Urien’s kingdom of Rheged. Nennius noted something remarkable. It appears that King Edwin, the first Christian king of Northumbria, was baptised by Rhun, the monkish son of Urien, and brother of his successor, Owain. He may have been Bishop of Carlisle. Bede ignored this inconvenient link with the Celtic past, claiming that the king was converted by Paulinus, a missionary sent north from Canterbury. And most importantly a priest in the Roman tradition.
Rhun’s brief appearance is a reminder of Rheged’s Christian traditions. They were venerable long before Aidan founded the monastery on Lindisfarne. Some time around 450, a man called Latinus was grieving over the loss of his little daughter and he had a stone inscribed in her memory and set up at Whithorn. This grief-stricken father is the first Christian in Scotland whose name is known. At about the same time, Ninian founded the church at Whithorn, probably on a mission from the Christian community at Carlisle. It was called Candida Casa, the ‘shining white house’, probably because it was built in stone ‘after the Roman manner’. Soon after that, another church remembered by a series of inscribed stones was set up at Kirkmadrine. The name is a homage to St Martin of Tours, a man Cuthbert and Bede admired and who is generally thought to be the pioneer of monasticism in the west. This network of Christian communities in Rheged was literate and valued the fading memories of Rome as the Empire collapsed and Romulus Augustulus, the last emperor to reign in Italy, was finally deposed in 476.
As I walked back through the lines of concrete cubes, I could still make out the hum of the A1 behind me. But across the wide sands, Lindisfarne looked far, far away, much farther than a mile or two. Perhaps this was part of the process of it becoming a place apart. And maybe the sounds of the twenty-first century would be carried away by the winds. Before I reached the beginning of the causeway, I had to run a gauntlet of warnings and prohibitions. Not only was there to be no shooting, there would be no drowning either. A poster carried a photograph of a half-submerged car and loud letters said ‘THIS COULD BE YOU. Please Consult the Tide Tables’. I had, and reckoned I had at least two hours before the sea reclaimed the sands. And so I set off, following in the footsteps of Cuthbert and of a fifteen-year-old boy I once knew.
It was mid-morning and traffic was pouring across the causeway: delivery vans from the supermarkets, an oil tanker, several vast tourist buses with blacked-out windows and very many cars. Hundreds of vehicles passed me and I had to get off the road often. Everyone seemed to be rushing, anxious to get off the causeway and on to the sandy terra firma of the island. This was not at all what I expected, especially in late September, the tail end of the tourist season. I had imagined an altogether more tranquil introduction.
But as I made progress, the sound of the A1 grew fainter and the seaweedy smell of the sea stronger. When I reached the refuge, I saw that its stilts and steep stairs stood next to a large pool of standing water. This was part of the course of the South Low. An inscription on the bridge across it surprised me. It was built in 1954. Before then, Lindisfarne was much more of an island and I discovered later that most goods and people moved between it and the mainland by horse and cart. Passengers in the two taxis that plied the crossing were advised to lift up their feet to keep them dry as they splashed across the sands and through the pools. Apparently the taxis did not last long, quickly rusting as seawater ate at their bodywork.
The traffic on the causeway did not slacken and I decided to take the direct route and follow the Pilgrim Poles. These were set up in the nineteenth century along the line of much earlier markers known as the monks’ stones. The Poles run arrow-straight across the sands and make landfall at a place called Chare Ends. But when I set out for them after the bridge over the Low, I found that the sand was sinking more and more with each step. Perhaps I was going the wrong way because I could see two groups of people following the Poles far in the distance. I tried another approach but the sand was muddy and very sticky. Having only a limited time to get across, I decided upon discretion and returned to the tarmac of the causeway.
The sun had climbed high and once again I shed my body warmer. The shore breeze was perfect; cooling but not cold. I began to swing in a rhythm towards the tussocky grass of the island and the dunes beyond its fringes. When I finally reached dry land, I found that my memories from 1965 had not been accurate. On that frantic day I thought the road rose up a little as we splashed on to the end of the causeway but any incline was too slight for me to notice. But one thing had not changed. Unmissable in bold black on white, a large notice read ‘No Camping on Holy Island in Tents, Caravans or Motor Vehicles’.
PART TWO
LINDISFARNE
8
On the Island of Tides
After a long morning’s walking, I made the mistake of thinking that by making landfall on the island I had arrived at my destination. There was still a long way to go. The causeway across the sands is about a mile long but the stretch that curves around the foot of the high dunes to the north turned out to be at least two miles more. Lindisfarne is a saucepan shape, and before I reached the main area of the island I had the length of the handle to walk. My rucksack was beginning to cut into my shoulders (why did I need to bring books?) and for some blessed relief I carried it like a suitcase for a while. Each time I looked up, the houses in the village looked about the same size. Was Lindisfarne slowly drifting out to sea? Would I ever reach it and be able to put down my rucksack?
On the land causeway, there were pools of seawater left by the retreating tide and that exposed another gap in memory. In 1965, I had the strong impression of dry land. Later I discovered that this stretch of road had only been metalled in 1964 because the queen was coming to visit. Apparently she arrived by boat but all the dignitaries who would line up to shake hands needed a smooth surface rather than hard-packed sand for their limousines. Perhaps the tarmac was higher when we squelched along it in wet socks and boots. Perhaps we were so knackered we didn’t care.
Help, or at least encouragement and distraction, arrived with two swallows. In what was clearly a passage of play from two young ones, they flew around me, often in perfect synchronicity, wheeling and doubling back on themselves at astonishing speed. Their flight reflexes took them to within an inch of the surface of the road or the sides of the dunes. Sheer exuberance. The little birds lifted me, and instead of thinking how weary I was I began to notice the deposits of the tide: tiny white crabs, mussels and the dead waves of driftwood lying on both sides of the road. I suddenly realised that the hum of the A1 had faded completely behind me, somewhere after I had crossed the course of the South Low. Fewer cars were passing, and coming in the opposite direction were the delivery vans, having stocked up the pubs, cafes and shops. I realised I was hungry, very hungry. Reasoning that I would be arriving at a place where I could easily get lunch, I had not packed the usual cheese sandwiches. I wished I had.
After what dragged on like an eternity, I rounded the last few yards of the land causeway to arrive at Chare Ends, where the land rises abruptly and the road leads to the main part of the island. There I saw something that seemed to form part of an emerging pattern. On a rubble-built stone plinth that in other places would have carried a welcome sign, it said ‘No Parking’. It looked like an altar to prohibition. On my weary way along the causeway, I had seen other signs warning of ‘Danger, Former Military Target Area’, of plant attacks from the non-native Pirri-pirri burr (problematic for dogs), more ‘No Camping, No Busking, No Vehicles Except Permit Holders’ and several other cautions about safety. Had I arrived on the Island of No? Not a warm welcome or a good start. Looking back down the line of the Pilgrim Poles, I could see that several groups were making slow progress across the sands that were drying out, and in so doing had avoided this barrage of negativity. Maybe there were signs saying ‘No Praying’.
When I passed the main car park, hundreds of vehicles glinted in the sun and the four or five main streets of the little village were crowded with processions of visitors. I found my hotel and, too early to check into my room, dumped my groaning rucksack, stopped groaning and wandered around in the crowds, thinking I could be almost anywhere, any tourist destination. If I was to discover the essence of the peace of Cuthbert, it would not be amongst this day-tripping throng, and yet Cuthbert and his cult were the reasons why visitors started to come to Lindisfarne all those centuries ago.
Appropriately and gratefully, I found Pilgrims Coffee House and joined the queue for an excellent latte and a substantial scone (not microwaved), almost Scottish in its size and Cornish with the amount of clotted cream. The interior being full, I sat out in the garden with about twenty others and, like them, immediately fell prey to a flock of ruthless, predatory sparrows. Feeding off scone and other sweetmeat crumbs, they were very bold indeed. One hopped up on the edge of my table, and instead of waiting for crumbs pecked at my scone even though the plate was at my elbow. Gerroff! And then when I was rummaging around in my pockets looking for a hankie, another two stuck their beaks in my scone. A genuine nuisance, thirty or forty of these little scavengers fed ceaselessly on what was left or dropped and were unabashed when shooed away by the wave of an arm. Cuthbert loved birds and I had a feeling he was laughing at our discomfiture.
I abandoned my scone, finished the excellent coffee and went off to the post office to buy a newspaper, something I could read over lunch in a sparrow-free zone. Both choices were a mistake. Thinking that local is freshest and best, I ordered what was advertised as a Holy Island crab sandwich with ciabatta bread. The fact that only one other table in the restaurant was occupied and the sandwich cost £10 should have sounded alarm bells, for when it finally came the whole thing was inedible. Hard as a brick, the ciabatta would have broken a tooth, and the crab meat was hot, none of it white, while the garnish was a scatter of soft tortilla chips and a none-too-well-washed salad with a dribble of what might have been dressing. Or might not. Oh dear. No sparrows, but instead a predatory, touristy rip-off. After my long walk, the sofa was very comfortable and I pushed my plate away, sat back and opened up the newspaper. Another mistake. On this beautiful island, a timeless place of spirits and saints, I found I simply did not want to read about the Labour Party Conference or indeed
about any of the other cares of the world that lay beyond the causeway.
When I left the terrible lunch, still hungry, and stepped back out onto the village streets, they were almost deserted. The tide. Of course. That day the latest safe crossing time was 13.50 and drivers were advised to set off well before then, since it might take longer to cross if cars and buses all departed at around the same time.
As I looked for a bin for my unread newspaper, I passed only four or five people and they seemed to be going about their daily business. As the line of cars streamed along the land causeway, the island seemed to let out a long breath and become itself again. Later in the week, I spoke to a lady at St Coombs Farm, not far from the village and the only farm on Lindisfarne, and she told me that without checking the tide tables or looking at a clock or watch, she knew when the tide shut. Something in the air shifted. But shut? That was the verb used by all of the islanders I met. The tide shut off the mainland, like shutting a door. Over my time on Lindisfarne, I realised that there were two islands and two histories to understand.
Since there would be no queues or crowds, I decided to visit the priory. I was too tired to walk far. Armed with a Mars Bar, I tried to buy a ticket. But in another repeating pattern, I found that the ruins of the medieval priory were closed to visitors when the tide shut. It was not because of a lack of demand. There were still people on the island who were staying overnight, like me. The ticket office and the visitor centre’s shop and exhibition closed because the people who worked there were not islanders and had to cross the causeway with the departing day-trippers to get home. When I grumbled about this, an officious English Heritage official pointed out the small print at the bottom of the board that advertised a closing time of 5 p.m. – except in exceptional circumstances (that were entirely predictable) or some such rubric.
Beyond the visitor centre, a close led to the gate to the priory grounds and because it also led to St Mary’s, the parish church of Lindisfarne, it was open. I passed boards that detailed with great formality and precision ‘The Services Rendered by the Holy Island Life-Boats’. Dating from the early nineteenth century to 1965, it listed all of the notable call-outs. An impressive and moving roll of honour, with the date, the boat or ship that was rescued or assisted, and the number of lives saved: from the SS Coryton out of Cardiff, twenty-seven people were rescued on 16 February 1941, and on 27 August 1953, the yacht Mermaid of Poole was saved, along with three passengers. As I read this recital of bravery, selflessness and duty, I was not only awed but reminded that Lindisfarne was once a community that lived off the sea – its bounty and traffic – and that, around its singular beauty, savage seas could claim lives.
To the Island of Tides Page 18
