a pilgrimage in two parts

II.

To the island.

In cities that
have outgrown their promise people
are becoming pilgrims
again, if not to this place,
then to the recreation of it
in their own spirits.

R.S. Thomas

The first pilgrimage I joined – entirely by accident – was to Santa Faz in Alicante.  I woke one morning to see the street below me thronged with people, all heading in the same direction, all carrying a sprig of rosemary, and I made up my mind to join them.  That was how I learned that rosemary (ros marinus, the dew of the sea) shares its Spanish name with the act of pilgrimage, romero, of which it is a symbol.

Alighting from the train in West Kirby, with a packed lunch and a copy of Laver’s tide table, I stop to pick an overgrowing sprig from a nearby garden to carry with me on my journey.

I have returned, as promised, to walk across the sands to Hilbre, a tidal island in the estuary of a river which was once reputedly a goddess so sacred that her name could not be spoken.  My destination is the “church in the sea” recorded in the Domesday Book; the home of St Hildeburgh, whose chapel stood here for 400 years but leaves no traces now.  The last permanent human resident, a warden, left two years ago; since then, although we visit in our hundreds, the only residents have been non-human; island fauna which, like the flora, flourish in our absence.

The route across the estuary sand is strewn with walkers, all heading in the same direction but (because we are in Britain now) all solitary, making their own way out to the islands.  I follow in their footsteps, feeling the soft shore-sand give way to denser, wave-patterned riverbed and – further out – channels of wet silt where lugworms and razor clams wait for the returning tide.  Following advice, I am wearing walking boots, but I long to sink my toes into the soft silt; so I unlace them, sling them over my rucksack and pick my way across the broken mussel shells to the low, sandstone ridge of Little Eye, and onwards.

Seashores – like riverbanks – are great levellers: everybody has a reason to be here.  Young families push prams across the sand, looking for the shelter of the cliffs.  Teenagers carry plastic bags of sweets and soda, hoping to escape the watching world.  Keen birdwatchers forge on ahead, laden with equipment and shod in even more sensible shoes than my own.  All around us, wet channels snaking through the drier sand tell the story of the shifting tide, how easily it leaves you stranded.

Middle Eye rises up abruptly in a sandstone cliff, with rough-hewn steps leading from the sand to the turf-covered plateau above.  English bluebells bow gently in the shelter of the island’s ferns.  The non-native hybrids have yet to cross this stretch of water.  Away from the wind, the air is heavy with their perfume.  Huge bumblebees tumble from bluebells to thrift and birdsfoot trefoil on the turf.  I pause to drink in the sunshine with the flowers, and lace up my boots for the final stretch.

The tides here play a trick – not breaking in receding waves, but steadily advancing, with a vanguard of white foam.  As I walk towards the sea, the sea walks towards me, at an equal pace.

Finally reaching Hilbre, I feel I am really on an island.  The Northern tip touches the Southern reaches of the Irish Sea.  I sit down on springy turf to eat my sandwiches, looking out to the open water, beautifully bereft of words.  I could not say how long I stayed, but it was long enough to fall in love with that strange, liminal place, between England and Wales, river and sea.

As the tide comes in, seals swim over from their sandbank in the channel, breaking the waves to watch us departing.  The walk to shore seems much shorter, somehow; I am walking towards a known quantity.  Home.  An ascent of steps and, suddenly, I am back on dry land.  A quick left turn towards the station puts the sea behind me, and all the colours of the town suddenly seem so solid – bricks, painted ironwork and broad-leaved trees; no sea-light to illuminate their mystery.

On the train home, the music in my headphones sounds tinny in my throbbing ears.  I take them out.  After a while, I realise I am humming to myself.  The absence of the sea leaves a space that only song can fill.

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a pilgrimage in two parts

I.

From the Mersey to the Dee.

You may chat with the neighbours of this and that
And close to your fire keep,
But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell
And tides beat through your sleep.

Rachel Lyman Field

Ten months have passed since I last wrote.  I left my studio by the South coast, spent the summer in a field in Somerset, and settled in the garden flat of a townhouse in Liverpool – a city that was once a gateway to the world.  I celebrated Christmas by the Mersey, New Year by the Thames, Twelfth Night by the North Sea and my birthday (a big one) on the shores of the largest lake in Africa, further inland than I have ever been before.  And in the midst of all this movement, I lost sight of the sea.

Today, the call of the tide was too strong to resist, so I packed my pannier for a full day’s cycling and rode down to the river; past the Baltic Triangle of derelict warehouses and refurbished galleries; past the long, narrow streets of the Ropewalks; to the train that would take me under the Mersey, to the Wirral, to the sea.

In all honesty, I have no idea why I chose the Wirral.  I could have chosen Formby, or the Sefton coast.  I hate the Wirral, as a human place – suburban sprawl spreading out over the hemmed-in headland; each last pocket of countryside turned inwards in a desperate grasp for a last gasp of rural air… But, in spite of my misgivings, there is something about this place that draws me onwards, and I keep travelling to find out why.

I disembark at Leasowe on a whim, inspired by the oystercatcher on the station sign.  The first sight that greets me is a factory; the cycle trail leads me alongside it, next to the Birket stream, on a towpath fringed with cow parsley and sheltered by willows.  I keep cycling, breathing in the sun-warmed green, tasting the air for a trace of brine.

The trail meets the coast at Leasowe Common, a broad sweep of duneland rising up to an abrupt embankment which separates land from sea in a severe concrete causeway.  Beyond the causeway is another world, a world of shifting light and sandbanks, sunken forests and fortifications – all watched over by a lighthouse, the oldest of its kind in Europe, fallen now into genteel disuse.

After weeks spent following the gridlines of the city, the skies are suddenly huge.  The wind takes my breath away.  I veer inland, tracing the line between the marshes and the dunes, demarcated by the Birket and the gravel trail.  Apple trees blossom in the shelter of the lower land; beneath them, children fish for tadpoles in a reed-fringed pool.  Wheatears trill, flashing their fabulous tails from point to point along the common on my other side.  Kittiwakes fly overhead.

At the edge of Hoylake, urbanity encroaches, and I move to the embankment once again.  Clouds are gathering over Wales, turning the light silver, silhouetting the boats that are moored along the foreshore.

Image

As I stop to take a picture, a couple notice me and nod a greeting.  They live in a house that faces out to sea, and like to spend their Saturdays sat on the wall of the embankment, passing the time of day with friends and strangers alike.  “Once this place gets under your skin,” I’m told, “you’ll never want to leave.”  I smile and politely agree, my mind quietly working to solve the riddle of the Wirral.  Because, in spite of all this concrete, there is something magical about this place, this land bordered by water; something that keeps calling me back to its shores.  I cycle on.

At Red Rocks beach, the sandstone mass of the Wirral peters out into the silt-sands of the Dee, and I lose the trail.  This is a treacherous shore: tufts of marram grass concealing saltmarsh pools, firm causeways sinking into quicksands.  I pick my way across the with care, guiding my bike where I can find a pathway, carrying it when I can’t.  There is no embankment here, no promenade, yet scores of people are out walking; some dressed up in heels and jewels, simply heading to West Kirby by the quickest route; others pausing, like me, to watch the dunlins and the sanderlings grouping in the estuary. 

I find a driftwood log at the foot of the dunes and sit down to write, looking out across the sands to Hilbre Island and, beyond it, Wales, where the land rises up in waves from the basin of the Dee.  Behind me, skylarks rise and fall, their song a pattern threaded through the wind and the low, constant roar of the tide, timeless and hypnotic.

I am at the edge of everything.

Tomorrow, I promise, I will return.