Holy Isle

Out of Berwick we pottered on the falling tide. A glorious morning and with bacon to frazzle, and no great distance to cover, I was happy to let the sails push us along sedately. For a while. And after motoring, well, blow me (and the boat), rounding the Triton buoy we suddenly got a perfect breeze to sail for half a mile right into the anchorage. Life’s little pleasures.
Ashore! We rambled. We ambled. We saw the place where St Cuthbert’s tomb was. We had a pint in a beer garden; we wandered past the castle, visited the lime kilns and Gertrude Jekyll’s garden. We saw stone piles on the beach, visited the Emmanuel Head obelisk, and stopped to let Rog photograph every bird and butterfly that had ever lived.
The evening meal unfortunately was a bit guff - the guy running the Ship Inn should go back to shovelling pigshit on a farm.
But hey, let’s not get down about that. Onto the wee inflatable and we scooted back to the boat. Time for a tot of Goslings sitting out the back. And then we retired below. Night, all.