In late October 2009, myself and my wife, Sue spent
seven days and six wonderful nights on the island of Lundy,
off the west coast of Devon in the Bristol channel.

A Lundy reminiscence

by

Chris Luck

The Blue Bung

Our home for six days and nights in late October was a small blue hut, panelled with wood and clad with corrugated iron. A small living room no more than two and a half metres square, a bedroom just big enough for a double bed and a kitchen and toilet extension was the extent of our domain. Furnished with four old, but sturdy wooden chairs, a table and a lumpy sofa it spoke of life lived simply many years ago. This was the ‘Blue Bung’ so called by locals on the island of Lundy, and we fell in love with it immediately.

Lundy island itself lies just a few miles off the Devon coast in the Bristol channel. Just three miles long and half a mile wide it looks like it could have been dropped by a careless god or ancient deity into the sea on a stroll across the ocean. All surrounded by steep cliffs, the top is covered with heather and moor-land that provides a home to a surprisingly wide range of animal and plant life. Atop this plateau there are a number of delightful human habitations, some but not all, clustered round a village at its southern tip.

Our holiday home was such a building – once a Sunday school and still also referred to as the Old School house. In this building Sue and I settled down for a restful holiday break.

Our home was appointed with simple furniture but all the comfort that we needed. Warmth was provided by electric radiators and in the mornings the newborn sunlight streamed through the windows; at late afternoon and evening electric light sufficed, although not beyond midnight as the island’s electricity generator was turned off between the hours of midnight and six in the morning. This never inconvenienced us as we were always in bed well before the midnight hour!

The kitchen was well stocked with delightful patterned plates, cups and saucers, and with all the cutlery and pots and pans they we needed to cook up a hearty stew or tasty dish of pasta. A miniscule fridge served our needs and an electric kettle kept us well refreshed with tea or coffee.

Here it was possible to live a simple life. Our home, although adorned with some old framed photographs and the odd nick knack, never felt cluttered, but rather we felt refreshed by the simple frugality of the place. Without all the clutter of our ‘normal’ existence on the mainland we rediscovered time as a friend rather than an enemy. Here there seemed time enough for everything and the rush and blur of activity on the mainland was a distant memory.

Our lives settled into a comforting and welcome routine. We would wake slowly in the morning and make a cup of tea often to lie in bed awhile. Then rise and have a simple breakfast before popping to the shop to get daily supplies. After another cup of tea we would set out for a not too distant walk before returning for a simple but nourishing lunch often of vegetable stew or salad. After reading to settle our stomachs we would set out in the afternoon for a more extended walk, returning back before the light faded for tea and cake, followed by more reading or writing. Then tea, while outside the falling evening light began to surround our abode with velvety darkness, and then off to the tavern before finally retiring to bed with the sound of the wind rushing and whistling outside the hut. The wind would lullaby us into a deep and restful sleep.

Living such a life gave new meaning to simple tasks and observations. Suddenly a glance out of the window at birds passing by, or the act of peeling a potato for our meal - the knife revealing the shocking whiteness of the flesh beneath the mud covered skin - or the sound of the wind outside, all gained new form and substance. Our senses seemed heightened and our everyday experiences enriched.

We felt loved and welcomed by the Blue Bung as if she had decided that we were old welcomed friends. The holiday brochure described the Blue Bung as having ‘point and charm’ but this was too contrived. She had character. Her panelled wooden walls were not featureless surfaces but rather showed the pock marks of former activity and human habitation. The wooden chairs and table could have told endless stories of meals prepared and eaten off humble plate-ware by people long past. In short she had a history and having been loved by others in the past, now knew how to return that love to those that stayed there.

Light

The light on Lundy is not like the light on the mainland. It is made of different stuff – or so it seems.

Sometimes its rays are needle sharp and hit the shoreline to reveal a mosaic of autumn browns and greens or show in stark relief the sharp edges, outlines and shadows of the ruined buildings dotted and strewn about the island’s broad plateau. Yet at other times it appears softer and more gentle in mood, painting the landscape with muted colours and infinitely subtle shades.

But the light displayed its craft in full on the sea and sky. The blue! Such shades of blue I had never imagined existed. It was as if in attempt to show off and boast of his virtuosity a painter had created all the shades of blue possible with his palette and then spread them across the sky, with varying strokes and dabs of his paintbrush upon that wide and vast canvas of nature’s expanse. One did not so much as see the sky as drink it in – absorb it and digest the sensual delight of it. It was pure intoxication.

Neither was this a static display, for throughout the day a parade of wonderful shapes and visions crossed the sky as clouds formed and reformed into amorphous shapes to tantalise the imagination with images of animals and fantastic aerial landscapes.

And the sea, though more muted in its shades, was no more varied in hue, ranging from an azure mediterrain blue, where the crystal clear waters at the rocky edge of the shore revealed an underwater landscape of rounded boulders, to a steely blue where the region of the seaweed and kelp ruled supreme beneath the waves.

In the morning the light would often show off by putting on a display of the most rich golden orange sunrise imaginable, which would greet us creeping in through our bedroom window in the morning. What a wonderful wake up call!

And the glory of light was not limited to the day either. At night, if the sky was clear, the stars in all their twinkling display would disport themselves across the vast and open sky. The moon would brightly shine behind the church casting an ethereal light over the village. The moonlight seemed so intense that in the open fields one’s torch became redundant.

The East Coast

The east and west coasts of the island are very different in feel as well as providing different ecologies. Lundy is long and thin and aligned pointing directly north so that all of the west coast is exposed to the full force of the Atlantic whereas the east coast faces the mainland away from the prevailing winds and the fury of the open sea. The east coast is tamer, gentler and more restful than the west coast although perhaps less dramatic and exciting.

Outside the village there are relatively few buildings, but perched on a promontory on the east side of the island towards that gentler shore is a building known as the ‘Admiralty Lookout’ or more popularly ‘Tibbetts’. Being placed on a high point it is both clearly visible itself from much of the island but also commands expansive views across the whole island from coast to coast. ‘Tibbets’ is available to rent for a holiday period, suitable for four people with one wood panelled sitting room, a bedroom with bunk beds and a kitchen, shower and toilet. Although without electricity it does offer the warmth of a wood burning stove and gas lighting. The holiday brochures claim that fourteen lighthouses can be seen from its windows and this is not difficult to believe.

The island plateau is dominated by grass heather and moorland which stretches across the surface like the most expensive carpet, covering the land with a textured softness. Towards the east coast, the bracken continues to cover the steep hillside where rhododendron have colonised large stretches. There is now a programme to eradicate this foreign invader – no small task – and we saw groups of volunteers working away during our stay to cut back all the foliage. They left the bare braches lying scattered across the ground which whitened in the autumn sun and looked like thousands of strange animal bones from some fantastical hunt. I’m sure that this task will keep volunteers busy for many years to come but it demonstrates the care with which the environment is looked after by those in charge of the island.

The east coast is also dotted with derelict and abandoned quarries where granite was extracted from the hillside – a task which must have required huge manpower resources before the advent of large mechanical machinery.

In one such quarry, by a narrow footpath that hugged the edge of the hillside we came across a memorial. A simple slab of stone inscribed and set on a large granite plinth resting at a forty-five degree angle. The simplicity of the memorial added a touch of poignancy and significance to the monument, whose inscription recounted the death of John Pennington Harman, a former owner of the island who was killed in during the second world war and was awarded the Victoria Cross for his gallantry.

Further along the same path there was a pool – formed by a small abandoned quarry that had filled with water. The pool was enclosed on all sides save for an opening looking out towards the sea and the distant shore of the mainland. It provided a magical spot for a quick stop and encouraged one into reverie and contemplation. The water, slightly ruffled by the gentle breeze but still reflecting the quarry walls, bracken and vegetation clinging to the sides, seemed to draw the eye and calm the mind. One could spend much time just sitting there and letting the fleeting mind come to rest in a state of peaceful meditation and stillness.

Just above this pool, there is a terrace of old abandoned cottages, no doubt built for the masons and quarrymen who would have worked and toiled there so long ago. Although ruined now, their doorways invited us in to walk through the ruins and imagine the human life that must have breathed and lived here. A more evocative spot it is difficult to imagine.

The West Coast

The west coastline provides a stark contract to its eastern cousin. Here the full force of the sea, which stretches without hindrance from the shores of north America, breaks with unabashed measure on the hard granite rock, and the winds that have raced over the same stretch of open water batter the open plateau. Here is drama and a theatre for nature’s power.

Fingers of hard granite rock like giant claws, in mimicry of the talons of the hawks and falcons that ride the updrafts, reach out into the sea. The rocks themselves are blasted into strange rounded shapes and formations, often with huge boulder like structures that are left to topple on top of granite slabs as if they would tumble down the mountainside with but a gentle push. We fancied one such formation that particularly took our eye, looked for all the world like the profile of the face of an old man wearing a cloth cap! Indeed, it was not difficult to imagine all sorts of monsters, creatures, faces and countenances in the twisted and rounded granite shapes heaped on the mountain side.

One section of the land thereabout looked as if it had been rent apart as if by an earthquake, leaving gullies and scars within the surface of the plateau. Here one could imagine Jules Verne’s being inspired to imagine an entrance leading down into the very centre of the earth itself.

It must be said that many of the place names on the island appear to have been created by someone rather lacking in imagination. Examples include the functionally named, “Quarter Wall”, “Halfway Wall” and, yes the “Three Quarter “Wall”. Even less inspiringly named is ”Halfway Bay” and “Three-quarter Wall Bay”. The northern end of the island is known as the “North End” and the land on the western side of the island is known as the “West Side Land’! Some of the little rocks that poke out into the open sea have more interesting names like, “Knoll Pins” and “Needle Rock” although “Rat Island” is now rather inappropriately named as rats have been successfully eradicated from the island.

But a part of the island that certainly lives up to its sobriquet must be the “Devil’s Slide”. Here along the western coast is a most remarkable formation of granite which looks as if made by hands other than nature’s. A steep and steady slope of more than forty-five degrees leads directly from the top plateau all the way down to the sea surface in a smooth and forbidding surface some 400ft (120m) in length. This rocky oddity provides a challenge for many mountain climbers who rise to that challenge and somehow, in a manner and with skills that defies my understanding, conquer that formidable structure. I prefer to stand in aware of it and marvel at nature’s hand.

However, the best treasure of the western coast revealed itself to us on the penultimate day of our holiday. Just along the coast, about a half hour walk from our own dear “Blue Bung” was a steep path, close against the contours of the hillside as it plummeted down to the sea, and bounded on one side by a dry stone wall that lead down to an abandoned battery. Walking down on my own, carefully over the steep steps to avoid slipping, I came at last to a ruined cottage, roofless, with tumbled walls of hewn granite that looked out over to the hillside opposite the narrow bay. Below this, a few more steep steps led to the battery itself, a squat building perched on the very edge of the lower cliff face with sheer drop to the rocky edge of the sea some twenty metres below. On either side of the ruined building were two cannons, rusted solid from years of exposure to the salty spray but pointing defiantly out to sea as if wishing they were still able to send a fearsome blast out across the waters to any enemy ship. The rocky slopes on either side were magnificent in all their awesome glory and here, close to the sea’s exposed edge one could feel the power of the waves as they rushed at the rocks and exploded into spectacular plumes of spray. I found myself transfixed by the sight and had to sit and contemplate awhile before reluctantly making my way back up the steep path.

The Village

The village on Lundy consists of a series of buildings huddled together on the southern tip of the island on top of the hill close to the landing jetty. Here there are a range of buildings, mainly built of the solid granite stone including farm buildings, sheds and barns. An open farm field next to the church serves as a simple but effective helicopter landing pad.

In the village is a shop, surprising well stocked with all the food items one would need to feast daily as a king, or overlord of the island, as well as a range of souvenirs of varying value both monetary and aesthetically that were available for purchase.

On a field set slightly apart from the main buildings of the village is the church, St. Helena’s. It stands proud there, indeed perhaps too proud as if slightly embarrassed by its presence. Curiously it is built of brick rather than stone for which reason I do not know. Inside, we took part in a Sunday service along with about eight other island villagers. The church held a church pipe organ which looked full of promise and a small electric organ which, thank goodness did not work. No one seemed to know whether the pipe organ would play but later in the week we revisited the church and Sue hand pumped the bellows while I depressed some of the uneven keys. The instrument emitted a feeble and weak sound like some distressed animal – a shame – obviously the organ was in need of major restoration.

But the heart of the village is clearly Marisco Tavern. Here people gathered to drink to eat to socialise, to gather prior to departure and in Sue and my case to play a nightly game of scrabble. Every night we would walk the short step from our Blue Bung along a dark path by a sturdy wall, our small torch throwing a small pool of feeble light at our feet so that we had to walk with care so as not to slip or tumble, to the tavern where we would sample a glass of the local beer or a single malt whiskey whilst settling down for a game of scrabble. After our ritual nightly game we would take the self same walk back with trusty torch to guide the way, although sometimes less steady of step from the effects of our imbibement, to our blue home and a welcoming bed.

Just below our little home lay Millcombe house, a Georgian style villa, set back in a small neat valley with gaunt and weather beaten trees and bracken on either side. It is a grand house with Grecian portico built for William Hudson Heaven and his family when he purchased Lundy in 1834 (for the princely sum of £9,870) and now available for rent for up to twelve people. It presents a very grand aristocratic appearance with its own grass frontage surrounded by a small stone boundary fence and  lower down a ruined, but clearly at one time, extensive walled garden. Less exposed than our little Blue Bung but still with magnificent views across the water it existed in its own little valley frequented by many birds that flew in and out among the tress all covered with lichen.

But the best views in the village must surely belong to the Old Light – the original lighthouse now replaced with two lighthouses at either end of the island, (rather sadly run automatically without the need for human lighthouse keepers I felt) on the highest point of the island just set back a way from the main village. Also available for rent it is possible to walk up the lighthouse tower and take in the view. We did not have opportunity to do so during our stay but could well imagine the panorama that the building would afford. Perhaps we will plan a visit to the summit of this landmark on a return vacation!

Animals and plants

Lundy is bursting with life both on the wide plateau, in the clear air above and the blue sea below.

On those open grasslands sheep of two kinds feed on the luxuriant and verdant grass. Soay sheep look delicate and refined whilst the domestic sheep have blunted heads and more brutish appearance. Both races of sheep it must be said have the habit of staring at you as if you were the first human they had ever seen and the strangest creature on earth, which at least as to the latter point is probably true. Closely related but of what often seems to me a higher intelligence are the many goats that graze on the mountainside seemingly unperturbed by the steep and treacherous angle of the rocky ledges. With impressive horns that sometimes look oversize for their heads they are generally more reticent of man. Less so are the horses and ponies that live on that plateau. With coats of deepest chestnut brown, speckled white or dark black they look probably the most elegant of all the creature that make Lundy their home. They seem used to man and appear to tolerate his presence out of a kind of resigned acceptance.

In the air a wide range of birds sail upon the aerial currents from small sparrows to the ever vigilant hawk and falcon. Lundy is a haven for bird watchers who travel to the island armed with binoculars to spot their treasures. I have little knowledge of birds, a fact that I am not proud of, but I know this – the caw of the crow in the field, the swirling flocks of starlings that cavort in the sky, the hovering hawk with sharpened eye and claw, and the cheeky sparrow skittering over the grass. It is enough for me.

In the sea surrounding the island seals bask and play. On our first day on the island when only a few hours old in our holiday time we spotted a seal pup, still with white fur upon a rocky ledge down by the jetty’s shore. And often during our stay we would spot the head of some seal as it bobbed out of the water to view the world around. On Wednesday on a trip down to the landing beach we saw an adult seal lying on a concrete jetty, who entertained us with her attempts to move her large bulk up the jetty out of the water, and lazily scratch her whiskers. Out of water she seemed almost comical, but we knew she would be transformed in an instant into a sleek underwater torpedo when she slid silently back into those blue waters.

Not all the creatures of the island were large – we frequently came across black and orange striped caterpillars crawling through the grass fields and grassy paths. Although at the time of year we only saw a few butterflies we could easily imagine butterflies flitting over the open grassland and bracken slopes during the warmer months.

Among the most interesting flora on the island included the lichen which decorated the tress and stones with a range of colours from muted greens to dazzling orange and reds, with amazing textures, and fungi of varied colour and shapes all among the grasses.
Farewell

Farewell

There were tears too on that blessed island. On the barren moor-land and fields of Lundy’s plateaus and by the crashing song of the waves upon the cliff Sue and I opened our hearts and tears flowed. Lundy listened and she whispered “I know, I know”. She was willing to provide us the place and the space to express our deep and darkest fears and know that she was there. Here we were safe, held within a deeper and more ancient heart than our own. On that isle I may have supposed that I could for a while forget the cancer that lurked inside but it was not to be. Some mornings I woke with that gentle ache that told me the cancer was still there and I then would imagine that I could hear it gloating with sly intent. The island offered me consolation but not denial that I perhaps had naively sought.

The day we left the sky was drear and the horizon vague and indistinct, echoing my glooming thoughts about the future. I thought about how, prior to diagnosis, my life like a clear horizon had seemed so definite but now the future was uncertain and my new horizon blurred and unclear.

We had a few hours to kill before the helicopter would take us back to the mainland and our life, that in such a short time had become blurred and seemed long past, so for the last time walked the eastern shore and back to the village as rain started to fall and soak our clothing. Too soon we were called to await the helicopter and then scrabble on board to leave. As the angry roar of man’s engines and technology lifted us over the cliffs of Lundy, and the helicopter tipped its rotors towards the mainland and the life we had so willingly left behind, I heard a small still voice, say “come back, come back” and I knew that we would return some day.

On Lundy,
The sunlight, needle-sharp,
Hits the rocky coastline,
And illuminates the autumn colours,
Of green and brown,
While the sea,
With shades of blue and green,
Breathes and sighs,
Like some gigantic beast,
And by the rocky water’s edge,
The seals bask and play,
Or nonchalantly drift,
In the steely water,
As if made of the sea itself.
High above birds ride,
The furious winds,
That race and squabble over the land,
And then at night, the stars,
Like diamonds strewn carelessly,
Upon the velvet sky,
Shine in cold intensity,
So far and yet so near,
That they may be plucked,
From their heavenly home,
And held with wonder in the hand.

This is a place set apart,
Blessed by God with wind and rain,
With sea and sky,
To be forever a haven for the soul.