Sunk Island Feeling

Give a man a map and he is in his element.

There is nothing more thrilling to the male population than opening up a crisp, brand new Ordnance Survey Sheet with everything that it implies and promises by way of new experiences.

The danger arises when a journey is undertaken by memory alone shunning all navigational aids and reference points.

That was my situation today when I set off for Sunk Island with a strong visual impression of my destination. The lady in the estate agents office availed me of the missing hours of the previous recipient of a set of keys for the property in question. He had got hopelessly lost out in the expansive flat lands which stretch for miles towards the northern marshland of the River Humber.

In a completely featureless landscape, that is if you disregard the dispersed houses, tree lined avenues, farmsteads and billowing fields of cereal crops and peas, it is easy to become disorientated and then the doubts and panic set in.

I laughed at the hapless individual and confidently asserted that I knew where to go.

I had, after all, been in the approximate area a few times in the last 25 years.

If I just headed for the evocatively named Stony Creek I could not go wrong.

Stony Creek is at the convergence of three long rural roads but because of the indentation of the land drain and lock gate which release the surface water into said Creek they do not actually join up.

My destination was at or close to that very location.

I knew that for certain but the trouble was selecting the right roadway. My map resource was not the ideal one for such a journey. It was a regional guide, intended to assist travellers in the larger towns and cities and fell well short in the critical detail of an open rural area. I doubted that even a sophisticated Sat Nav would be of any use unless you had the data upload for the Netherlands which would just about cover this remote corner of Yorkshire, England.

Turning off the main coast road brought me to my first choice route to try to find the quaint but functionally named Saltaugh Sands Estate.

It sounded idyllic and I could imagine something akin to a happy holiday camp, albeit more inter war than the latest Butlins. I had come across similar addresses in other parts of the country and these had included a peace camp, the shacks and chalets of conscientious objectors, a naturist commune and a temporary residence for seasonal agricultural workers.

The estate agent, now having fully debriefed the disillusioned visitor of a few days prior mentioned that I was not to be distressed when the metalled road surface ran out and to persist with the loose dressed track and hump backed bridges.

My first choice road seemed well surfaced and seemingly endless. There was no traffic at all although I could see, in the vast acres into the distant horizon, tractors and heavy machinery or rather the dust clouds that they churned up in the dry heat of a summers day. The atmosphere was ripe with country odours and these wafted through my open window. The hot corn smell was comforting and that of the freshly vined peas quite mouth watering. Less enticing was the heavy, sweet and sickly manure smells which were rapidly taking over as the huge agricultural operations churned out the muck to fertilise the freshly harvested land.

At one, if not the only bend in that road in 6 miles a large swine disease control sign forbad me and other motorists to proceed further. I was convinced that I was close to my destination and so completely ignored the ominous warning. In the hazy distance there seemed to be a group of slate roofs and chimneys which I was convinced was my destination.

As the car skidded to a halt at a cul de sac marked by a pile of topsoil I knew that the second choice would be the correct one.

Backtracking seemed to take longer than the outward journey and I was a bit anxious at passing by the pig farm in case a delegation had been sent out to teach me, an obvious townie, the etiquette of controlling fever amongst the pig population.

My start point for the next road brought the trip counter on the dashboard to 12 miles covered and no house found.

This route was a bit deja vu in that it ran quite close and parallel to my first abortive attempt. The outlook and any landmark features were therefore uncannily similar and quite disconcerting. This time the public road petered out even sooner and I crunched down onto a gravelled track. The surface was very well compressed from the passage of evidently quite large and heavy vehicles. I glanced around in case any of them sneaked up on me unannounced if that was possible by something of tangible tonnage.

This route went on for, it must have been seven or eight miles. I was sensitive to damaging my tyres and the prospect of having to be rescued in the middle of nowhere following a puncture or worse was not worth thinking about. A couple of fields away was a settlement made up of dwellings and barns.It looked promising as a candidate for my job but I had no idea, however, how to get to them as the track started to take me farther away.

Perhaps I could leave the car and walk along the headlands as a valid short cut. I decided against that for fear of getting even more disorientated. You sometimes read about people getting lost and perishing in a ditch or drain from fatigue and thirst. Two tractors pulling twin axle trailers approached and I had to pull up sharply onto the verge to give them room to pass. They were laden with fresh peas. I knew this from the fluorescent green liquid which drained out of the tailgate and splashed up and over my bonnet and windscreen.

I had reached another dead end. The Birds Eye convoy was some way away but I hung back in following to disguise my incompetence in navigation.

There was one route left.

Driving along I recognised a few of the farmhouses and some of the traditional cottages that had been built for the resettlement of soldiers from the First World War. Former memories were rekindled and yes, I was now definitely, for sure and for certain heading towards my intended destination.

There were of course more doubts as the tarmac ran out again but I crossed a couple of narrow, steep bridges and then saw the first signage referring to Stony Creek. A few cars were parked up, left by dog walkers, ramblers and twitchers giving the impression of a crowded metropolis after my many miles of lone travelling.

In turning around at the drain outlet parapet I saw a directional post with the name Saltaugh Sands Estate.

 I had arrived after some thirty miles and nearly two hours in a trek that should only really have taken a fraction of that time and distance. The house itself was, frankly, a bit of a dump with none of the elusive Shangri-La character that I felt that I deserved for my efforts. On returning the keys to the estate agent I lied that I had not had any trouble finding the place. I think they were not entirely convinced my by claims.