By seven ‘o’
clock last evening, I was so bored with the diet of soaps on
television, I decided to try something different. I had long had it
in my mind to drive down to Skateraw Harbour, south of Dunbar, and
walk with the little dog along the Torness Coastal Pathway, a path
that skirts the water’s edge on one side and the giant grey shoebox
that is the nuclear power station on the other. The evening was mild
and calm; there was no wind. Cloud was drifting in from the west, but
it scarcely threatened rain.
The first part of the walk is up a steep
hill, with the East Coast Main Line in view inland, nestling between
embankments and the landscaped rubbish dump where all of the county’s
non-recyclable waste is buried. At the summit of the hill, the path
flattens out then winds downhill again, down shallow yet awkward
steps fashioned from timber and earth and now overgrown with grass
and weeds. Overhead, an oystercatcher emitted its shrill, almost
panic-stricken cries.
The next part of the walk is on two levels.
The lower is concrete and the upper aggregate. From the upper level,
you have panoramic views of the sea on one side and the fertile
agricultural land of the county on the other. From the lower level,
you can only see the sea. When the winter storms arrive, with strong
winds from the east, the lower walkway is often swamped with sea
water and the entrance gates are locked at either end. The trouble
with the upper walkway is that it isn’t continuous and you have to
keep walking down, then up, stairs to regain it on at least three
occasions when it mysteriously comes to a halt.
The path sweeps in a
long, broad curve until it meets the soft sand of Thorntonloch Bay.
Except for a gaggle of boy scouts with their scoutmasters, heading
along the lower level back to the car park, and three lonely
fishermen at the edge of the ancient rocks, I saw no-one. Even the
power station seemed deserted and I couldn’t help thinking of
Chernobyl. I counted just one car in the staff car park. In the sky
I could hear the trilling of a number of skylarks, but that
represented the sole sound, apart from the occasional rustle of the
gentle sea.
In the distance, looking out over the ocean, I saw three
huge ships, all motionless, guardians of the horizon. The hundreds of
strange concrete obelisks, placed at the water’s edge to act as sea
defences in protection of the power station, might have been dropped
from an alien space ship. The place now seemed suddenly to be eerie
and, for once on my travels, I felt quite lonely.
We turned around and started to
walk back the way we had come. As we returned, the light fading, we
passed the section where the lifeboat is moored. A low sun suddenly
burst through the clouds and spread a pool of gold on the slumbering
grey sea. The lifeboat was transformed momentarily into a shining
beacon of light. The effect lasted for only a few seconds before a
curtain of cloud closed over the scene. It was a magical moment, one
that stays long in the memory, and I quite forgot my loneliness.
Back
at Skateraw Harbour, I watched a man, a speck in the firmament at
first, but growing larger by the minute, rowing a canary-yellow kayak.
Eventually, he ran it up onto the shore and disembarked. He stowed his oar inside
the vessel, and set up a tripod at the water’s edge, onto which he
placed a long fishing rod after he had cast his line some distance
out to sea. He stood contentedly in the shallows, legs akimbo, in it
for the long haul. There were just the three of us on that lonely,
desolate beach, surrounded by miles of emptiness. It made me quite
keen to be at home, so I drove back rather more quickly than perhaps I
ought.
On the way, I recalled some text from the Book of Exodus: “I
have been a stranger in a strange land.”
