The Lundiary: Lundy-parture

It is my sad duty to report that today’s will be the final instalment of the Lundiary.  I think it will be important to dwell less on the lack of future episodes of my adventures on Lundy and more on the fun I had while I was there and have subsequently shared with you.  Nevertheless, you may wish to read these final words with a loved one or trained psychiatric professional: just in case you are over-taken by grief…

Lundy-parture

In which our hero leaves the island and is cruelly forced to return to his real life…

I rose before dawn to watch the sun come up over the Bristol Channel and make the most of my last hours in this alternate reality.  As I come to leave the island, I can’t help noticing how little of the entertainment I brought with me I have consumed: I haven’t even finished one book!  Instead, the island and my companions would seem to have provided all the entertainment I needed: albeit, not always wittingly..

During the night, N had prepared a limerick to be added to the house’s Log book: once again with a nod towards both the weekend’s theme and my more prophetic writings in this diary:

To Lundy came seven, all told,

Of whom one would return to the fold

What fell to the rest

None dared to attest

Lest the blood of the listener run cold…

 

I like to think we have provided a useful corrective to the slightly saccharine sweetness and one-upmanship of many of the previous entries in the Log…

I broke fast and performed some final packing.  I felt it was important to organise a group photo in our “garden” using the deckchairs that came with the house (alibis don’t make themselves!).  The sundial acted as a tripod for my phone, using its timer and a mad dash by the photographer (me) – as all selfies were taken in days of old. No doubt future historians will analyse this photo to identify which of the group were still alive at this stage and which are but bodies that have been posed to give the semblence of life…

Finding that I was on the fourth flight out, I had a couple of final, precious hours to enjoy the warm sunshine bathing the island.  I took the opportunity to visit the church (entry to which did not cause my spontaneous combustion) and to wander down to the slightly unimpressive castle (not one of Henry III’s finer offerings, perhaps he was too busy bickering with his barons) with its views of the southern tip of the island and across the blue waters separating us from the north Devon coast.

Then it was time for the short stroll up to the heli-field and the flight back to reality.  The waters of the Bristol Channel were crystal clear as I flew back to the cows of Hartland Point, who seemed singularly unimpressed by my return.

The long drive back was broken in Chittlehampton (a Swiss Littlehampton?) for a pub lunch, in North Devon’s CAMRA pub of the year.  To reach this pub from Hartland, one has to drive through Umberleigh – which I felt I could remember, from the Flanders and Swann song Slow Train, as having fallen to the axe of Dr Beeching.  A little research revealed that, Umberleigh-verbly, the village still has a working station with regular trains to Barnstable and Exmouth.  (No, I’m not sorry: I think that pun may be my finest ever work!).

I arrived home in time to enjoy a little supper before an hour of antagonist training to return my body to its fighting, hand-balancing best.  I then adjourned to South Hampshire’s CAMRA pub of the year – The Guide Dog – with its range of well-kept hoppy ales to ease myself back into my real life.

Before tucking myself into my own bed, I found myself wondering if any of these events had really happened – or was it all just an amazing, implausible dream?  Somehow, when my days have dwindled to a precious few, I must ensure that this diary is returned to the island as the definitive record of these events…

 

Feel free to continue the lunacy...

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