I was still not sure whether I'd offended Judith by keeping her waiting while I explored the Old Light. I decided to mention who I had met there, partly to explain why I had been so long. It was of course simply playing the old justification game. I used to be an easy victim if anybody wanted to make me feel unreasonable or selfishly self-indulgent. I was slipping back into that frame of mind. A mistake. At least I was aware of it. I confined myself to telling her about the man gazing out to sea in the ground floor observation room, who had startled me. 'Oh him!' she said. 'I looked in too, after you had, and he seemed a bit odd to me. You know, creepy.' This wasn't how I'd found him, and I've usually got a sensitive radar for creepy people. 'How strange,' I replied. 'He was very pleasant to me, after he made his presence known. But I agree that he seemed to be hiding - and that would disconcert anyone.' Surely that was suitably diplomatic.
We walked on, past a curious series of tanks:
What was this? Lundy's water purification and storage plant? Or were they growing something? The map gave no clues.
We had been going east, now we turned south, towards the Village again. It was just a farm track, but the only one to head north up the full length of the island.
It struck me that it was too rough and muddy a track to make using it at night much fun, whatever kind of torch one had. The people staying in the most isolated let property, a mile and a half north of the village, would soon discover that they were way too far from the Tavern to rely on it for an evening meal. And no cars were available for visitors, and no bikes were allowed. Some hermits might not care; I would. If staying on the island, I'd want some social life in the evenings, every evening, as part of the Experience. I was independent, but still gregarious.
The Village came into view. We passed some large one-storey sheds, clearly where some of the vehicle servicing went on. Given the longevity of Land Rovers, I wondered whether the one I saw in 1996 still chugged around the island, or had it been relegated to a corner of one of these sheds? It had been painted white then:
Judith came into the shop with me, but went outside again while I made my choice. She said that a Land Rover was taking day visitors down the ship, and she wanted a ride. I said I'd prefer to walk down - there was still time - because there was so much I wanted pictures of on the way. So we parted, agreeing to meet up on the ship later.
I'd toyed with the notion of a last look at the Marisco Tavern, but decided to forgo that so that I could stroll down to the Landing Beach without feeling rushed. Back in 1996, M--- and I had slightly misjudged how long our North Point dash would take, and we'd had to walk very fast indeed down to the Landing Beach, arriving breathlessly at the motor boat only just in time to catch the Oldenburg's departure.
The sun was shining brightly now, and I got some excellent shots as I said farewell to the Village. What a difference from the dull weather on arrival!
Above, some old iron relics from Lundy's Napoleonic days as a Bristol Channel fortress.
I waved goodbye to the nice lady with the red hat, and wished her and her husband a lovely week on the island.
There was the Tavern, but no time to stop.
The puddles were still there on the track, but it was becoming quite warm.
A last look back at the Village before the track began to zig-zag downhill.
The young couple I'd seen at the Old Light caught up with me. All told, they'd had a great day out. They were all smiles. Like me, the boyfriend was a keen photographer, and was shooting every view that opened out.
The Land Rover went by. I wondered if Judith was on it, or had caught another one. That bungalow off to the left was one of the larger let properties. Another place with a view!
The 'road' next revealed a white-painted mansion in the distance. It was Millcombe House, formerly the island owners' home, but now divided into let flats that offered the most sophisticated self-catering accommodation on the island. Though not, of course, the most adventurous!
It enjoyed a sheltered position, with a fine view. It once had lush, irrigated gardens that island workers tended.
The track now took a sharp left, and headed downhill between wind-shaped trees. The only trees on Lundy. A strange sight! Before entering this little wood, I glanced to the right. There was the Oldenburg, a toy boat on an aquamarine pond.
It wasn't much of a wood really! But very pleasant after the bleakness of most of the island. Another hairpin bend. Left, the entrance to the grounds of Millcombe House. I wonder if the Landmark Trust will ever reinstate the gardens as they once were?
On now past the island's propane store, securely locked of course, and then a gradual descent to the Landing Beach and the pier.
The shot just above looks up the east coast of Lundy. In the middle distance - click on the shot to enlarge it - is the Sugar Loaf, a cone-shaped (or beehive-shaped) mass of rock that is marked on maps. The track went on, getting lower and lower until it reached shore level. It passed a beach that seals used, and there was a notice about pups being there:
There were rocks with strange shapes, and the odd cave, presumably used by smugglers in past times.
And then suddenly, around a bend, was the pier and its cluster of buildings - and the ship waiting.
Gosh, the tide was high! The Old Jetty in the foreground, and the original Landing Beach, were both submerged. Time to get on board. There was a seal in the water off to the right.
I stepped on board. Hmm. everyone was on deck, now that the sun was shining and there was a fabulous view to be had. I might have to stand. But then I'd be moving around the passenger decks anyway, to get the best shots of Lundy as we left the island behind.
I saw no sign of Judith at first. But I did see the young couple from the Old Light. I got chatting again with them. They were from an inland city - Nottingham - and were staying at a holiday centre I remembered passing on my way into Ilfracombe that very morning. They rarely saw the sea, and a trip to an island like Lundy was a real novelty. The young man was friendly but no great conversationalist, and chiefly attended to his picture-taking, but she was as chatty as myself, and we got on well, swapping little bits of our life histories.
After a while I said I'd like to find Judith, and went in search of her, though I promised to be back.
Meanwhile we had cast off. We were on our way. Many people had cameras out, or more generally phones, to capture the departure.
For some reason a party spirit seemed to prevail. Now why? This was in fact quite a sad occasion. Most of us would never see Lundy again. But 'going home' is nearly always an uplifting prospect, whatever the actual reality on arrival.
I found Judith at the stern, taking pictures with her camera. She did in fact carry two. A proper one, a fiddly one, which she kept out of harm's way, and the one in her phone, which was quick and easy to use. She was using the phone. She's on the left edge of this shot:
She obligingly took one of me, with my camera:
Then she went to find a good seat. I lingered. I wanted to say goodbye to the island.
Lundy gradually changed from a real place we had walked on to just a misty silhouette in the setting sun.
And then suddenly it wasn't in sight any more. There was only the calm sea and the white water at the bows. I went back to my young friends. We watched the coast of North Devon get closer. I identified Morte Point, Bull Point with its lighthouse, and Lee Bay, a place they had actually visited on their present holiday. They were quite impressed that I could tell which place was which from the sea. I laughed that off by explaining that I was map-mad.
Then Ilfracombe approached. Judith was still where I'd left her last, enjoying the sun. I noticed again that she didn't engage nearby people in conversation. Surely it wasn't a lack of social skills. She could of course just be shy, or for some reason not confident. But that didn't quite square with what I'd learned about her. I'd considered her more than adequately confident with other people. It was a puzzle. I recalled her saying how easily I got talking to the several people we had met when walking around the island, as if that were somehow remarkable. And how she tended to walk on, not joining in. Perhaps in her world, the one back at Orpington where she lived, one didn't start gushing to total strangers at the drop of a hat. Only to people one knew fairly well. That standoffish London thing. But there wasn't anything stuck-up about her. No, it was a puzzle, something I couldn't understand. I wasn't going to make it my problem.
She was now talking to me about a gallery she'd discovered on the top of Lantern Hill, which overlooked the harbour at Ilfracombe, the one on the left edge of the bottom photo above. She described the kind of pictures and other things they had on display there, and wanted to show me - it would still be open, though it was now early evening. But it didn't sound like my sort of art. And I was an hour from the caravan, and getting hungry, and once ashore my plans didn't include a gallery or whatever else she might suggest. If I were being completely honest, I wanted to be alone and would decline any definite invitation. I hoped she wasn't counting on making an evening of it. Surely not. And yet...
The harbour entrance came near. You could see Verity. She looked like a female sword-wielding Colossus. I think the local council were right to have done a deal with Damien Hirst. Love her or loathe her, she definitely added distinction. The crew got busy.
And then we were alongside the upper pier (it was now very high tide) and the gangway was about to be run out. I waved goodbye to the young couple. They waved back. She was the red-headed girl in the picture below.
Where was Judith? The captain had announced that they were collecting for the island Church Renovation Fund, and they had a bucket ready for any donations passengers wished to make. Judith had clearly come forward to help, and was now at the bottom of the gangway, holding the bucket on the Landmark Trust's behalf, and smiling winningly at every passenger. She'd done this before! Out of nowhere she had produced a glove puppet, a cheerful mole, and was making him wave to everyone. Here she was, cheerful herself:
I thought this was a cracking good effort, and as I came off the gangway I dropped a few pounds into the bucket to encourage everyone else.
Only big-hearted people bother to put themselves forward like this. And this particular big heart was holidaying on her own, and deserved a companion. But I ducked out. I smiled at her, thanked her for joining me in a tour of the island, and said, 'Goodbye, Judith! Take care!' and walked away.
A clean break. Deftly done.
I felt I was being true to my independent nature, but at the same time behaving rather shabbily, short-changing her. That feeling persisted all the way back to Fiona, and beyond. Not even the fey evening light over Ilfracombe harbour could banish the bad sensation of having let Judith down.
No, I don't have a big heart. I had no heart at all. I was mean-spirited. I thought only of myself, and what I wanted to do. I sometimes wondered whether I cared about anything at all. Had my lifetime experiences really shrivelled me up so much?
Well, there were immediate needs to satisfy. I wanted a gin and tonic. And something hot and tasty. I remembered there was a decent pub at Knowle, just off the Barnstaple road, a mile short of Braunton - the Ebrington Arms. I went there. And ran slap into six hearty golfing men at the bar, fresh off the local course. Hey ho! No quiet time for me!
They offered me a measure of good-natured banter, and some grown-up leg-pulling, all with twinkling eyes - the kind of thing slightly bibulous middle-aged men offer when a reasonably attractive, unattached woman comes in. Even women as tatty as myself. I turned on 'the charming older woman who definitely appreciates a bit of male attention, but is politely determined to pay for her own drink'. It went down well. I remembered this sort of thing from my working days. It was a good game to play, a fun game, and although long retired my part in the general exchange came easily.
I spoke with two of the men particularly. One said he looked forward to seeing me there again, told me his name was Gerald, and next time he'd buy my drink. The other, a Scotsman now living in North Devon, had a more serious nature. I preferred him. I liked him even more when his student-age daughter came in, and I could see (while I ate my moussaka) how comfortable they were with each other. I spoke with them both. I was sorry when they went home.
I had encountered an awful lot of people that day. All of them ships that pass in the night, never to pass close by again. I found that sad.
Next day I tried on my souvenir Lundy hat:
It's not really my colour, is it? (I've since bought a dark grey knitted bobble hat)
As for Lundy itself, it quickly became again just a long low dark shape on the far horizon, something you had to peer for, as in this sunset shot at Westward Ho! taken a few days later. Lundy is at the right-hand edge of the picture:
I wonder if I'll ever set foot there again.
