With the causeway able to allow crossings from 9.45am, we arrived at its edge at 10.30am ready to explore what was thought by us to be a quirky place - along with hundreds of others who had chosen this day to invade the place. Yes, there was a fair amount of disappointment when we saw coaches everywhere. The first oddity was seeing the migrants who were on foot. They milled around on the side of the road, devoid of working brains and inviting vehicles to run them over. However, the convention meant that most strays moved over to the right and followed stakes in the mud that marked out the quickest route to the island. This was a popular route because we could see from our car that there were many dozens of people traipsing across the mud, most carrying their shoes. Noticing a pushchair causing some issues for a pusher, we laughed at the madness. Two of the pilgrims were carrying flags for some unknown reason. This oddness was matched by the mayhem that presented itself when we arrived at the car park. Instead of joining in with the awkwardness, I turned around and parked 100 yards away on the roadside - basically 10 yards back from the road on sand, alongside other vehicles. It was then a short walk to the car park, from where the hoards were marching towards the holy fucking grail.
The scene was reminiscent of a festival - Glastonbury, perhaps - but the benefit at the other end was most definitely NOT there. Like stations in a 'marathon' race, trestle tables to the roadside offered passers-by some wares that were rather less useful than water. The throngs moved towards the main areas with an affected disposition, what with most being elderly, infirm, disabled, or cuntin' nuts!
The ambiance was weird, and the purpose of our visit was not so much called into question as interrogated beyond fucking belief. We moved forward to the accompaniment of tapping crutches and dithering that led me to announce it was like a fucking pilgrimage to Lourdes, and I was seriously considering a swift exit from what could only turn into a cocked-up day. Passing bods wearing hi-viz vests they'd acquired from Poundland, I finally got to a crossroads. Not a 'crossroads' in my life, but the real-life place where a decision had to be made. Mrs MWSC wanted the loo, so a left turn was necessary. When we found the small block, there was a queue that prevented any possibility of a decent piss, and we aborted. Why the place has insufficient facilities to cater for visitors is a question that will no doubt be answered by a useless nun who prowls the priory and is in the habit (literally) of achieving fuck-all through the medium of prayer.
The walk towards the 'castle' was one that meant following the masses who'd arrived to marvel at not-a-lot. The pretty scene was ruined by hundreds of people milling around, and we considered our options. There was little to actually consider; paying over-the-odds for a visit to a castle that would be tainted by the proximity of every other fucker on the island was rather less than attractive. Plu, with about five rooms to view, I would have been able to report less of the attraction than some cunt's arse shuffling about in front of me.
Passing a short woman, we head: "If I was going to head-butt someone, it would be him." This was both odd and amusing, and I wondered whom she was talking about. Having abandoned further progress towards the castle, we were aiming for the Priory, and noting the complete weirdness of the people around, Hippies, were everywhere, as were women priests/vicars, or whatever it is that lesbians in the Anglican world are called. The mix of folk was perverse. After a loo-stop at a pub for Mrs MWSC, we encountered music and a crowd watching a performance. The performers were in fact twats waddling about with their arms in the air, while music played from an Hitachi portable stereo. WTF?
At the churchyard, there was a massive queue, and for some strange reason people were in line awaiting entry to fuck-all. I was desperate to regain my sanity and sought an exit route from the complete madness that surrounded me. Holy Fucking Shit.
The run-down nature of the place was surprising, and I could not understand how more effort had not been made by the local council to cater for the thousands of visitors who were all prepared to act weirdly and to spend money - as well as praise everything around. I seriously felt like Edward Woodward in "The Wicker Man" and expected that at any moment, the local in-breds would laugh as I was lured to the site for sacrifice. Rather than being burned alive, I had a burning desire to escape, and I led Mrs MWSC, Junior and our friend to safety, leaving the revellers and raving lunatics to continue in their communal trance.
Maybe a visit out-of-season would be, to some degree, rewarding, and the place is definiely of some interest, with natural beauty. However, the numerous nuns, and misguided pilgrims were a hazard, both physically and mentally. I should not finish this account without mention of the woman who pulled a face at Mrs MWSC. After finishing a cigarette, Mrs MWSC extinguished it and put it into a bin. In doing so, she encountered a cunt who sniffed and pulled a face that extended ugliness far beyond the realms of her natural look, as Mrs MWSC put the dead ciggie in the bin. The expression of disgust was profound, but as Mrs MWSC said to me - and admitted that she should have said to the pompous bitch - "you're the one who's leaning on a fucking bin".
Here endeth the lesson.
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