Sometimes, between the turn of a new day and the promise of lights dawn, the subconscious mind hears some rhythm of the nights symphony that does not play as the sheet music dictates. In a common place these irregularities, the two step of a passing train, the drone of air conditioning, the laconic blades of a fan, can be slotted into the play order and thus embraced as part of the symphony. In a strange place, even one high and away in the remotest reaches the minds conductor may fumble on any irregularity.

I awoke on Thursday morning in the dead pitch of night, alerted to concious by some discorded note that had now passed or was temporarily ceased. Sea blue light outlined the glass top of the table and the downy outline of a body beside me, on its side, facing away. This aqua luminance comes from the display of an enthusiastic device, devised to tell the time and artificially rouse minds from slumber. Its numerals are hidden, facing indolently towards the wall, arranged as such by a tired hand at the will of sleepy eyes intolerant of its unfettered glow.

My internal clock would have me believe this must be 4AM. I lay on my elbow, my breath teetering on the brink of expectation, waiting on the all clear from ears reaching out into the silent night. My minds eye conjures dark shapes in the deep black, some partially formed wolf man, blink and the shape has contorted, not through movement but of imagination.

Of course if Nabokov ever heard these words and were to learn their creation in this order had been inspired but his prose, he would be merrily spinning in his grave. I make no apologies though, other than to you patient reader, who invests precious life in reading this. The beauty of his prose, for me is in his unorthodox use of words and structures, layered upon his unhindered vision of existence. I dare anyone with any want for writing to not find themselves attempting to simulate this, if you have read it.

I did wake as described above, if not quite so dramatically. Rather than wrestle with escaped wolf beasts I lay on my side for two hours wide eyed at the exploits of dear Humbert, especially during his little swim to the centre of the lake avec wife and the hand Mcfate was idly waiting to play him. Eventually I did fall asleep again at the tender touch of Prideesh but was awoken again by the same not more than an hour later. Apparently she was quietly rummaging.

By eleven we were fuelled, packed and Bowness an ever shrinking cacophony of random lights as we weaved through a high sided, misty glen. We were headed towards Hexham via a beetle like crawl across, around, up and through the Pennines. Down we came the other side, skipped off the Newcastle border, skirted the Tyne and trundled up the A1 ever nearing the North sea, a distorted reflection of the grey sky above, courted by castles aplenty.

Our destination this day was for Holy Island and Lindisfarne, our timing to coincide with the tide which at low ebb, reveals the causeway connecting this mesh of tundra and volcanic rock to the mainland. This occasionally submerged road is cheerily described in our 'Rough Guide' as presenting a 'real possibility for drowning'.

A real tourist pull then judging by the number of cars lined up in rows on a grass field outside the small village at the heart of this island. Our 'guide' indicated this was a national trust site and we decided to take the trust up on its special membership offer. This offer hung rather limply beneath a portable rock on a temporary table, positioned next to a battered blue Volkswagen that guarded the exit to the parking area. Barry (we learned later this was his name) was busy selling a lost cause to a nubile blond wearing a pink top, beige combats and nothing in the middle. We waited increasingly impatient, “We have money, want to join!”, silently, as tradition dictates, in line. The sun reflected of the soft down on her lower back, pushed grass like by the playful wind.

Barry and his fancy were eventually left behind. We soon stood beneath the castle, which sits atop a rock feature known as crag and tail; This a result of volcanic rock shaped by retreating ice, its tail the detritus left behind. Its a small castle, very pleasing to look upon, in some part due to the moody grey backdrop of the north sea. You imagine some last bastion fighting off marauding men looking for pillage and other such nefarious wants. The reality is, it was built some 800 years after it may have served some use against Vikings. Although there has been a castle here for many years, atop this rock, it was only almost attacked by mistake once. The home that pulls the walls about for protection does so only against the weather. It was redesigned and rebuilt mostly within the last 100 years.

These descriptions of actual objects are not meant to be some semblance of any guide, but I would warn hardened visitors of historic buildings against entering this castle. If you are already a member of the trust it is owned by, then with free access available I would deliberate on whether I had time enough with the worthwhile Lindisfarne Abbey still to view, and presented with greater attention to historic context.

Begin Rant – So then Lindisfarne Castle or rather its innards, for which we redden at the jowls. History is of interest to me, that which resides outside of my lifetime attracts me most. The places in which people have existed draw me, and by the number of shoulders I jostle with, through all weathers, I am not alone. So then, if you would entice me to your historic building then the very least I expect, even in as sparse a torso as this Castle, is some context to the historic objects you seem to randomly place about the redesigned, rock bare walls. If you have a neat chair sat in some corner, do not expect me to just be grateful that this chair came from time past, tell me from which time and give it some context in relation to this castle or its inhabitants or that time!

Likewise, if you have rows of painted faces, apparently created at hands now dust, even if they have no connection to the floors and walls that surround us, just tell us from what time they come and give some context to its parallel. Do not expect me to scratch my stubbly chin, look knowingly at my bemused partners in audience, and move on. Surely you do not expect us to just be grateful that they are there; “Nice chair, Looks old!”. Dear grandmother, do you think fit this mindless fodder for our generation, just because we spawned 'reality' entertainment? - End Rant

If you walk back along the path, especially after midday, you should notice the sun, or some part of it illuminating the ruins of the abbey that has existed here since the 7^th century. Admittedly there is not much if anything here that dates back before the 12^th century, mainly due to Vikings and a leaning towards wooden structures during the first millennia. There are many ways in which you can get to the ruins, one is to bank left and head towards the fishing huts which will take you above and around to the back. The other is to carry on walking down into the village and follow the signs.

The Abbey site is owned by English Heritage, most frustrating if you forked out for a years worth of National Trust membership before entering the castle. These two organisations bitch like brother and sister and offer nothing in the way of concession.

So, if your looking to maximise time and pound sterling on this Holy Island, follow the path from the car park, walk round the base of the Castle, look out over the sun shimmering bay and head back to the abbey via the fishing huts. If need be, it is worth it, pay to stand amongst the different areas of the Abbey that once were and walk through the museum that stands just a few strides away. Much time has been spent in giving you some idea of local history, geography, function and context.

As we trawled back over the causeway it seemed that Berwick-Upon-Tweed would be a good layover before the last push into Edinburgh, especially given its pivotal part in English, Scots history. But it was not to be. Either we took a wrong turning or our 'guide' misled us, probably the former. Nothing took the eye that we could not have attained in any other city of these lands, so we passed on through.

Edinburgh is only 56 miles north of Berwick, so onto the A1 we headed and had reached the city limits as natural light departed the sky. A service station stop allowed for a biological refuel and appropriation of accommodation. To this we headed via the A720 bypass and the A8. We were in Edinburgh, Scotland, had cosy accommodation, were too tired to venture forth so sat in the large bar area reading Lolita. I could of course spend another 500 words painting some picture of our fellow patrons, and of the staff, but have put upon you enough for one day.