I’ve got Man-flu.
It began the day before New Year’s Eve with a slight snuffle
and a faint burning sensation in my throat. By New Year’s Eve the snuffle had
escalated into a force 10 head cold and I felt so drained and rubbish that I
didn’t even have the energy to get dressed. I spent the day in my pyjamas,
draped on the sofa sipping Lemsips every 4 hours, sneezing so hard that I thought
my eyes were going to burst out of their sockets and using half a toilet roll
in 6 hours for blowing my nose. I left the house twice, once (with my
waterproof trousers and wellies on over the top of my pyjamas) to put
Wet-Dishcloth-Horse out in the field and to unconvincingly muck out and again
to bring him in to his stable at night.
This Man-Flu thing also meant that there was no point in
opening any fizzy stuff at New Year as I couldn’t taste anything apart from
garlic, curry and piccalilli. This was an enormous frustration as there was a
bottle of Bollinger and a bottle of Taittinger in the fridge that Other Half
has been promising to open for months.
Aside from being unwell at New Year, we had a good Christmas
in the Jodhpurs household and I personally had an almost perfect Boxing Day.
Boxing Day is a much better day than Christmas Day because
it is perfectly acceptable to have an enormously hefty martini and watch the
racing from Kempton
Park
This year however I broke my usual Boxing Day tradition and
after a late breakfast Other Half, Britney (Not her real name) and I hopped in
the car and went to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne just off the Northumberland
coast.
The 3 mile long island is reached by a causeway that is
covered over by the North Sea twice every 24
hours. If you are planning a trip to Holy Island
(and I honestly cannot stress this enough) check the Tide Tables. And I really,
really mean that. Check the Tide Tables and do not go if you don’t have plenty
of time. Please be aware that the safe crossing times to the island change
daily; like the tide. So if you were there last Wednesday don’t assume that the
safe crossing time will be the same next Wednesday.
Years ago when I worked for Miserable Finance Limited, I
used to go to Holy Island every 3 months to
complete a VAT job for a client. I recall one day in December the lady who I
worked for came into the office and told me kindly that I was “cutting it a bit
fine” to make the tide. I consulted my watch and replied that I still had 20
minutes until the end of the safe crossing window, to which she replied “they’re
big tides at the moment and there’s a strong wind today”. She then practically
threw me and my calculator into my car and waved me off to the mainland.
This wonderful lady also advised me that should I ever be worried
about the level of water on the causeway I was to turn back immediately. And if
this happened when I was trying to leave the island, she assured me that she
had a spare bed already made up should I ever require it. Clearly this woman
should be advising the visitors who believe it is possible to drive their
family saloon car through the rising tide. Some of these muppets even try to traverse the causeway 2 hours after the end of safe crossing time and have to
be rescued from the roof of their car by either the RNLI Lifeboat or Air Sea
Rescue.
Prior to Bristow Helicopters taking over the Air Sea Rescue contract
in 2015, we used to sit in our garden and watch the bright yellow RAF Sea Kings
flying over our heads as they flew from their base at RAF Boulmer to the Holy Island causeway. This occurred much more frequently during
the summertime and frankly I’m surprised that the locals weren’t standing on the
mainland firing stones from catapults at the stranded tourists.
The cost of a sea rescue is around £1,900 and an air rescue
costs approximately £4,000, yet there is no charge to these people who fail to
check the tide tables. This is because the RNLI is manned by volunteers, funded
by donations and Bristow Helicopters are undertaking the ASR contract on behalf
of Her Majesty’s Coastguard, which is again a free service. These services also
do not wish to charge for rescues in case someone really is in danger and won’t
ask for help as they cannot afford to pay for their recovery.
I would be one of those people.
I would be too petrified by embarrassment to request being rescued.
I would sit in the little white rescue box, on its stilts high above the waterlogged
causeway, right next to the sign that reads: DANGER
DO NOT PROCEED WHEN WATER REACHES CAUSEWAY and watch my car getting washed off
to Norway in total silence. I would then try to pretend that nothing untoward
had happened. I would even lie to Other Half and say that I had sold my car
because I no longer liked it. I would do anything to avoid admitting that I had
made a total idiot of myself by getting stuck on the Holy
Island causeway because I hadn’t bothered to check the tide tables
that are on a board at both ends of the causeway.
Anyway, I digress.
So, despite the fact that I had an invitation on my fridge
asking Other Half, Britney and me for coffee and drinks on the Island of Holy
between 11am and 1pm on Boxing Day; I still checked the Tide Tables to see what
time we could get on and off safely.
We arrived just after midday and walked through the village
in the biting wind, towards the church and down onto the South beach.
Inside the boat house the wood burner was roaring and
keeping warm a tray of sausages, an enormous pan of tomato soup and a vat of
Hot Toddy on its top.
After a mug of tomato soup I was then introduced to the
exquisite concept of Bloody Mary soup. I’m a huge fan of the original Bloody
Mary and this hot equivalent invented by The Assassinator a few years ago, is
just the thing on a bitterly cold day. You begin with the best homemade tomato
soup ever and then get Kamikaze Girl to administer a generous glug of vodka and
a hefty dash of Tabasco
whilst giving it a good stir with the handle of a knife.
Perhaps we should commission The Resident Vet and Kamikaze
Girl to make some of this amazing, forget-your-own-name-soup for all the people
who are rescued from the roof of their cars on the causeway. Or better still,
they could make it in cartons and send it to the insurance companies so they
only have to pop it in the microwave when they are laughing themselves sick at
their clients’ stupidity.
In fact, I could order a shipping container of digital
watches from China
and set an alarm on each and every one of them to notify the visitors that safe
crossing was coming to an end. I could make an absolute fortune if I had a
little stall at the mainland end of the causeway and charged £3 per watch. I
would even let the visitors take their watches home with them at the end of
their visit.
The Lady whose VAT I used to do all those years ago, once
told me that the islanders have their own tide tables. And from time to time,
when I was booking a visit to Holy Island to
meet her, she would advise me that I could safely access the island 20 or even
30 minutes earlier than the time given by Northumberland County Council.
But I had and still have the uttermost respect for the secret
tide tables of the islanders. The inhabitants of the Holy Island of Lindisfarne
understand and listen to the living, breathing creature that the sea becomes as
it engulfs the sandflats around their beautiful home. They know that a strong
North wind can considerably alter their secret tide tables and cut them off
from the mainland much more quickly than anticipated. They treat the sea with
the respect that it deserves. A respect that the visitor in his Mercedes trying
to get off the island 2 hours and 40 minutes after the end of safe crossing
time, does not have.
My Boxing Day was perfect because what else can you ask for?
Holy Island , Bloody Mary soup and making it
home safely in time for The King George at Kempton.
Bloody marvellous.
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