The attraction, I assured my bemused companion, was that when the tide went out, we would be virtually alone on the island. Free to wander the seashore watching the sun descend into the sea behind the castle on the headland, against a sky of apricot and gold. Free to wander into one of the pubs in the village for a quiet pint and a chat with the locals. Free to listen to birdsong and the plaintive cry of seals massed out on the sandbanks….
So it was that we drove north, and further north, and turned right just before we got to Scotland.
And it could have been like that.
Indeed, it would have been like that if there hadn’t been several hundred Vikings camped out there, intent on pillaging and (dare we say it post-Tottenham?) looting, courtesy of English Heritage. Viking men, Viking women and Viking children (the latter clearly wishing they had been allowed to bring their Playstations) – and even the occasional Viking dog.
And with the Vikings came the spectators, their cars clogging up every little road, path and layby, their children shrieking and begging for ice-creams.
During the daytime, when the causeway was open, the Vikings did their Viking thing. They invaded the priory just like they did in AD 793 (when they must have been a lot thinner and consequently faster, or the monks would have had time to get away – even if it meant waiting for the tide to go out). They roared around fighting each other inside - admission charges applying, so that the massed ranks of spectators simply crossed to the opposite hill where they could get a free viewpoint. They set up a camp within the walls, cooking Viking food and making Viking artefacts. (I can’t vouch for the authenticity of these things as (a) I was too tight to pay to get in and (b) don’t remember my previous life as Pollyanna the Berserker.) Then, when the place was an island again, they were off-duty and did what they wanted. Which for most of them meant continuing to be Vikings, even though some of them (the thinner ones) had pink hair and the odd piercing.
There was no getting away from them. All day, their bellows drowned out the seals who gave up plaintively crying and shut up completely, their little faces glumly turning away from the racket. At night, they invaded the pubs so that almost every seat was filled, and amply filled, with a great big wobbly Viking arse. They used up nearly every glass in the bar – though some had brought their own drinking horns, which was obviously a point-scoring exercise.
Point-scoring and the odd bit of gentle pillaging was clearly the only exercise they ever got. Only the children and the younger ones seemed to be of normal size. The rest were not just clinically obese, they were so whale-like that one could not imagine the size of the loom used to spin their authentic garments. A loom that big would have to be housed in an aircraft hanger – one normally used for Jumbo jets.
Their desire for authenticity did not extent to food. Almost without exception, they opted for chips and I saw one (a Vegan Viking?) eat an aubergine. Had they no shame? Surely they should have brought plentiful supplies of sheeps’ stomachs and oatmeal with them?
But I digress. We ate two dinners on Holy Island, fortunately not in the company of Vikings, and both were memorable. Both were also very fishy, and none the worse for that.
The first dinner was at Café Beangoose, a tiny restaurant run by what I imagine to be enthusiastic amateurs rather than professional caterers. The service was a little nervous, the prices were confident – in fact, over-confident. We both had the same thing, a crab salad followed by sea trout. The crab salad was sublime; quenelle-shaped mounds of sparklingly fresh crabmeat, beautifully and simply dressed, with a few segments of pink grapefruit being its only adornment, and a leaf or two of greenery which was frankly superfluous.
The sea trout was fresh and well-cooked, though perhaps had been allowed half a minute too long in the pan. However, whoever plated it up either had a weird sense of humour or disliked me on sight. The piece of fish was placed on top of a heap of sweet pickled cucumber and then surmounted by three cylindrical dark brown shapes which would be instantly recognisable to any dog owner or street cleaner. Fortunately, they turned out on closer inspection to be potatoes (Pink Fir Apple, perhaps?) cooked in their skins and left whole. (Were there no knives in the kitchen?) But it was a nasty shock. The combination of textures and flavours did not delight – the sweet-sour cucumber pickle dominated the dish, and the sea trout and potatoes cried out for a sauce of some kind.
One of us had a pudding – the chocolate brownie - and it was OK. With two glasses of wine and a bottle of beer, the bill came in at £67. At least the place was Viking-free.
The following night we ate at the Manor House Hotel. We had crab again, and perhaps here the Beangoose had the edge; the mixed salad plonked on the side of the plate suggested that little or no thought had been given to how the flavour of the beautifully-fresh crustacean could be best enhanced. But it was nevertheless delicious. And the smiling Czech waitress was efficient and relaxed at the same time.
The fish and chips that followed were superb, though it was a pity that the chips were frozen. But the freshness of the fish and the lightness of the batter made up for this. And the fact that there was a decent pint of beer on handpump was a real advantage. The damage was a full twenty quid less than the previous night with the same drinks, so that was cheering too. And again, the dining room was full of normal-sized people (if the word “normal” is still allowed) who were not wearing homespun and brandishing drinking horns. Best of all was a truly breath-taking view of the castle and the sea. With not a longship in sight.
Verdict:
Café Beangoose
value for money - 6/10; service - 7/10; quality of food - 7/10.
Manor House Hotel
value for money - 9/10; service - 8/10; quality of food - 7/10.
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