The weekend before last we travelled up to Newcastle to see our old friends Carole and Kevin and found ourselves on an outing to Lindisfarne, the Holy Island. It's the third time I'd been there and the memories of those earlier visits dogged my footsteps as we strolled around the island on a cold and unsettlingly bright winter day.
The first time was in the early eighties with my ex-wife Rosemary for a camping holiday in our brand new little Fiat Panda. Thinking back to the younger me I could hardly bear the thought that I am the same person. I was so ignorant of myself and my peculiar preoccupations and Rosemary and I were, well, so young and so naive.
The second time was in 1993, en route to the Edinburgh Festival with my friend Rob, his wife Vivian and my girlfriend at the time, Annabel. I was just getting over divorce and a fucked up rebound relationship and was feeling full of myself, little knowing that within the week one of us would be dead in a car crash and the rest of us weighed down by the consequences which would haunt us for years.
This time things are easy and we stroll companionably, happy to the enjoy the sunshine and our memories. Unbothered that the castle is closed for renovation.
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