Ritual and Meaning

It happens every year, at about this time. As the weather becomes colder, windier and wetter, we find ourselves face-on to the winds battering the small isle of Lindisfarne.


Quite rarely for us, we don't go there with any particular objective. We don't take kayaks, climbing gear or any of the usual accoutrements. We just go there to raise the drawbridge for a while. We wait for the tide to cut the island off from the mainland, and we wander.


We stare at sand, watch in wild amazement as the tide pushes arcuate shapes over sandbanks. We laugh at the way the sandpipers run with a thousand little footsteps.
For such a tiny scrap of land, an afterthought of geology, it never fails to surprise and delight. We can wander for hours, and not get bored. With each turning year, we unearth new things to gaze at whilst making simple pilgrimages to see those we already know.

In St. Mary's church, we found Fenwick Lawson's great sculpture for the first time. It is arresting in its scale, sombering in its mood. And here it was, resting in a pool of soft, winter light.

The sculpture represents the journey of St. Cuthbert's body, taken around Northumberland after his death. It is extraordinary.

And so it is that we have spent another year together. In this, the simplest of ways, we stand, battered by wind and rain, knowing that we couldn't have enjoyed ourselves much more. It is a ritual with great meaning.