Life is better without maps

We drive directly to the rock art.


Thanks to last year, we know where it is. Disappointing. Not the rock, the driving straight to it.


It takes us no time at all. That is quite sad. I enjoyed the moment I couldn't guarantee I was going to have.

Which asks, isn't life more interesting when we're not sure? When we're without maps? Maybe I want life without prior knowledge of the way ahead. I want life filled with exploration and discovery and mistakes and diversions and my daughters, surprising bogs with sticks.

But today, when our rock-art goal simply falls into place, we look at the clock and know that we have time to visit the Holy Island of Lindisfarne.

Crossing the sands is thrilling.




I mean, once on those sands, we might suddenly realise we misread those tide timetables and then we would be engulfed by the sea! When we are rescued, the coast guard could say of us, 'people don't realise how dangerous it is, driving into the North Sea'.

But of course we read the timetables right. We know the folly of driving into the North Sea, so we don't do that. We take two hours to stroll about the sights of Lindisfarne instead.




Our experiences there are all very predictable. We run about the abbey, photograph the nineteenth century castle, take a half hour in the museum, then the place shuts down at five o'clock, sharp.

The day sort of ends as it began. No dramatic turn of events, no startling announcements, no unexpected conclusions.

There is a weeny little bit of me that is disappointed by that as well.