Lindisfarne, on the most northeastern coastline of England, is a part-time island, joined to the mainland at low tide by a causeway. It is a rugged, barren, beautiful place steeped in history and stories. The edge of the harbour is populated with the dark graceful shapes of overturned fishing boats, cut in half and finished off with doors at the flattened end. Sea-going vessels transformed into land-bound buildings that reminded me of beached whales, with their curved shapes and their dark ribbed structure. Some were covered in black tar paper, giving them an ominous presence, some with old sail cloth that was bleached and torn by the weather, and one with a vibrant blue oil cloth that was torn and mottled with black.