Five hundred people marching across a shimmering desert plain is probably not what usually comes to mind when you think of a coastal walk in northern England. But that’s what I beheld crossing Morecambe Bay in mid-June.

And if “beheld” sounds Biblical, it’s fitting – because there was something epic about the scene of teens, kids, more mature walkers, families, dogs, hipsters and tabard-wearing stewards in a long, disorderly line travelling across the tidal estuary between Arnside and Grange-over-Sands.

They were moving at a lively lick, thanks to the deceptively pert pace of leader Michael Wilson – who, as official King’s Guide to the Sands, leads the walks. Everyone was smiling and laughing – it felt special, strange, a bit surreal.

I have dim memories of hearing about the Lancashire Sands as a child. Perhaps they were mentioned in family-holiday chitchat. I know we never visited. Arnside and Silverdale were for wealthy static-renters; we went to Rhyl and Colwyn Bay.

As for Grange and Ulverston, located in what is officially termed “Lancashire North of the Sands”, they were as exotic as Windermere.

But since I moved back to my home county three years ago, I’ve read a lot about this ancient region and route – and was keen to do the historic hike.

For centuries, the Sands were used to cross from the lowlands north of Morecambe to the Cartmel peninsula at the southern edge of the Lake District. Tramping inland before decent roads were cut through and long before the arrival of the railway meant traversing fells, crossing high passes and paddling across lakes, activities more arduous and sometimes dangerous.

Monks, pilgrims, traders and officials would cross the estuary at low tide to get to Furness Abbey and Cartmel Priory. After the dissolution of the monasteries, monastic lands passed into the possessions of the Duchy of Lancaster i.e. the monarch, and a royal guide was appointed.

Michael, a local fisherman, took on the post in 2019 following the death of Cedric Robinson, who had occupied it since 1963. The salary is £15 a year, but the Guide gets use of a Duchy cottage. A Trust manages the walks, which raise money for charities. Several Arnside to Grange walks are held each summer.

Michael gave a briefing at Arnside. “If anyone gets stuck while crossing the river, just leave them there,” he kidded.

But he meant it; if a gang of do-gooders rush on to quicksand or deep mud, things can get complicated.

The monies raised by our walk would go to support CancerCare, a local charity. Other walks this summer are helping hospices, foodbanks and ambulance services. Last year Michael led a group of naturists and members of the Wainwright Society. For equestrians, there are Bay Rides. There’s no obligation to fundraise, but a small fee, typically £15, is charged for the pleasure of joining.

After a rousing send-off by Lancaster’s Batala samba drummers, we began our march along the seafront towards the headland at Blackstone Point. Fairweather clouds boiled up towards Barrow but blueish skies over the fells meant we could see an array of rocky peaks.

The clarity of the air – some of the cleanest in the land – makes distances hard to measure. The Kent Viaduct railway bridge, also known as Arnside Viaduct – built in 1857, effectively making redundant the old Sands route – seemed close, but when a train passed over it looked like a toy.

The angle of the first stage of the walk was a surprise. Though we could see Grange across the Bay, the route took us north across a wide beach. I could see the nuclear power station at Heysham and, as we progressed, the grey blur of the Victorian terraces on the seafront at Morecambe. Grange got no closer.

The reason for the tangent was to ford the River Kent at its lowest and safest stretch. The narrow watercourse, which has its source in the Lake District, is the only substantial body of water left once the tide has gone out. We made quite a collective splash wading through barefoot, with labradors and greyhounds paddling and small dogs carried like babes in arms.

It’s well known what a tricky, even treacherous place Morecambe Bay can be; locals will never forget the tragic deaths of 23 cockle-pickers in 2004. Tractor-drivers recce the route before the walking groups set out. We could see their tyre tracks. Traditional laurel branches known as brobs are planted in the sand to serve as leafy cairns.

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Depending on the conditions, the walk is from five and a half to nine miles, though the point-to-point distance as the crow flies is just over three miles. If that seems slow going consider that the road trip is more than 14 miles.

We stopped twice, once to allow stragglers to catch up, the second time for a bite to eat and to get our trainers back on. When we finally walked into Grange, I was deeply satisfied with the experience.

It’s one thing to walk with a dozen ramblers or friends, quite another to join a fun exodus with hundreds of strangers. It was also a decent work out.

As someone born in Lancashire, I liked the idea of re-conquering a route that symbolically reclaimed my county’s ownership of the southern edge of the Lake District, also known as Cumbria – though, confusingly enough, that county council area was broken up into Westmorland and Furness and Cumberland in April 1923. Irritatingly, even Arnside was nicked back in 1974, when the Heath government did a hatchet job on age-old borders.

So the entire walk across “Lancashire North of the Sands” is inside Cumbria. For me, though, it will always be a corner of Lancashire – and one of the most beautiful ones.

We caught the train back to Arnside. Being a Northern service, and a Sunday, it was cancelled so we had an hour to wander around Grange – which was very pleasant. The train took just six minutes, and most of us had walked for about four hours, or five for those at the back of the long, snaky line.

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Three more tidal adventures

Burgh Island, Devon
This tiny island off Bigbury-on-Sea is cut off at high tide, with a sea tractor available to transport visitors and assist guests staying at the art deco hotel, famous for its appearances in the Agatha Christie novels And Then There Were None (1939) and Evil Under the Sun (1941).

Non-guests can pop into the 14th-century Pilchard Inn and enjoy short walks around the island to see an old chapel that doubled as a huer’s hut (hers looked out to sea for shoals of herrings and sardines), as well as a couple of secret beaches.

Lindisfarne, Northumberland
Islands have often drawn ascetic monks and other spiritual folk. Accessed by a causeway, Lindisfarne – often called Holy Island – boasts an ancient priory and a castle perched on a rocky plateau.

There are some lovely walks around the 1,000-acre island and a varied topography of tidal mudflats, saltmarshes and dunes which together form the Lindisfarne National Nature Reserve. Grey seals can be seen on the beaches, and pale-bellied brent geese from Svalbard spend the winter here. It’s still a place of pilgrimage today, and is the final destination of long distance walking route known as the St Cuthbert’s Way.

Mersea Island, Essex
A causeway-road called the Strood connects Mersea to the mainland; it doesn’t always flood, but high tides can cut you off for a few hours.

There’s evidence the Romans occupied the island and the parish church in West Mersea dates from Anglo-Saxon times. The population today is around 7,000 and there are plenty of amenities, including pubs, cafés and restaurants – since the days off the centurions Mersea’s oysters have been famous – boat trips and holidays parks.

West Mersea has a pretty south-facing sand and shingle beach backed by huts with views over the Dengie Peninsula.