Our boat pushes against the tide to reach the Ness. We feel intrepid: Marco Polo, Dr Livingstone, Indiana Jones. We clutch our water bottles and sandwiches, our binoculars and cameras. We have worn our sensible shoes, hats, and sunscreen. Baden-Powell would be proud of our preparedness.
On the quay we are shown the trails we are to follow and where not to tread. We are to stay on the path safe from the remnants of war machines and unexploded ordnance which lurk beneath the marsh and shingle. Our eyes lift to the landscape and survey it with a sudden apprehension. Grey buildings, concrete and squat against the easterly storms that must ravage this place in winter, glower through the heat-haze. Rusting metal curls out of the marshes, overrun with brambles and gorse. This could be a dystopian future or the aftermath of an extinction level event on a distant moon...
Lagoons have formed in the space left by what we are told was the airfield. Long neck outstretched, a mute swan lumbers to take-off, heavy as a bomber. A squadron of lapwings wheels and circles; black-headed gulls and skua rocket overhead; a marsh harrier surveilles a flotilla: widgeon, mallard, teal. We lift our glasses searching for the rarities: glossy ibis and great egrets have been seen here amongst the water rails, moorhens, and coots.
Over the bridge, the shingle shimmers, Chinese water deer and long-eared hares nibble the sage green plants that have taken root sporadically. This place is a small miracle that our clumsy boots must not disturb. We stick to the paths, make our way towards a cube of concrete and climb the metal stairway to its vantage point roof. Spot distant deer, nibbling the sedges at the edges of pools. Take in the empty vastness of this place. Below us, a circle of concrete invites our speculation, and the ghosts of cold war scientists stride the paths – all brill-creamed hair and pipe smoke with white coats flapping in the breeze.
We crunch our way across the pebbles, walking in the footsteps of bygone men and women to the black beacon tower- it sits still and silent like a sail-less windmill on the horizon. From its tiny peephole windows, we peer out at the disintegrating coastguards cottage and the place where a lighthouse crumbled dangerously and was removed. Bunkers hunker down the beach and in abandoned buildings, artists have left their comments in shining steel. Beyond the lip of the beach, we are told, seals have returned once more to raise their pups in peace.
Retracing our steps, we see the village on the other side – church, castle, pubs and tearoom – foregrounded by ancient lampposts posing at jaunty angles. A skylark sings high over the marshes as the last of the adventurers board the boat and are borne back to the world.
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