A couple of bacon sarnies and cups of tea later, the cliffs of Lundy were looming above us. The ramblers on deck whipped out binoculars and cameras to try and spot some of the abundant wildlife, most probably the puffin, which is translated from the Old Norse word, Lundy. I told you this place had history. The ferry moored up and we stepped ashore and onto a land that commercialisation hasn’t caught up with – and thanks to the National Trust, probably never will. Usually when you alight somewhere your first steps take you past endless adverts for banks and mobile phones which you try to tune out as you focus on the adventure ahead, but right here, it had begun. The water under the pier was pristine, lichen covered the rocks and grass clung to the sloping cliffs almost down to the water’s edge. Birds, the names of which I’m too ignorant to know, where everywhere. Seals were popping up and giving us curious glances like nosey dogs in wetsuits. The ramblers all trooped off up the hill track to find their own adventures and soon all was quiet in the quay again.
