It was good to see Cedric Robinson again. The Queen's guide to Kent Sands, in Morecambe Bay, had that prime indicator of health - a good colour.

I inquired about his father, William, and was told that he was about to celebrate his 96th birthday. Apart from being a little stiff in his limbs, he was in good health and spirits.

Cedric, whose normal views are of the far-flung sands and mudflats of a Bay well-known to West Yorkshire trippers, and those energetic folk who have joined his parties crossing the Kent between Silverdale and Grange, was visiting an art exhibition at Linton Court Gallery in Settle (the last day for the exhibition is tomorrow, between 2pm and 5pm).

Tony Roberts, a Londoner who established a studio at Bentham, was exhibiting a collection of his distinctive paintings under the title From Morecambe Bay to Gordale Scar. Tony had been taken for a trip on to low-tide Morecambe Bay by Cedric, who knows its forms, whims and moods as well as anyone.

Cedric had driven him 12 miles by tractor from Kents Bank to somewhere off Heysham and Tony made sketches en route. There he had momentarily wondered what he could have done if Cedric had suddenly felt unwell, or if the tractor had broken down, but he was bolstered by the quiet confidence of the man who has been nicknamed Sand Pilot.

When I first followed Cedric on the old Sands route, which in pre-railway days was taken by pedestrians and carriages, we had begun at Hest Bank and walked to Kents Bank, a distance of eight miles, crossing two rivers - the Keer and Kent. The tides being favourable, several of us rested for a few minutes, then walked back (to where we had left our cars!).

Now, with the Kent running on the Silverdale side of the bay, the route taken by walkers is shorter but no less invigorating. A steady pace is maintained. If anyone feels like slacking they have only to be reminded that the tide waits for no-one. It flows across the rippled sand and mud of the Bay at the speed of a good horse.

I had walked, bare-footed, under a big sky, surprised when out in the Bay that there was a splendid view up the valley of the Lune to Ingleborough. William Wordsworth, who knew the cross-Sands walk, said that this was not just a case of derring-do but distinct proof of good taste.

It is good to have a spell in the Wilderness, with Cedric as a latter-day Moses, before reaching the Promised Land of the Lake District. I remember, as we waded across the rivers, that occasionally a walker leapt in the air, having trodden on a fluke, the distinctive flatfish of the Bay.

A companion on early expeditions was Gordon Handslip, a grocer of Grange-over-Sands, who once returned home with a slightly grazed leg. When his wife inquired about it, he said he had been brushed by the wheel of an aircraft.

Indeed, he had. The pilot of a light aircraft had brought his machine down on a stretch of high sand and Gordon was caught up in a surge of interested walkers.

Many thousands of West Riding folk have been in the company of Cedric in what one romantic called "the wet Sahara" of Morecambe Bay. And, of course, this is the vast tidal inlet seen by thousands more who years ago felt a tremor of excitement when catching a train from Bradford to Morecambe for holidays.

So much Bradford brass went into Morecambe during its formative days that it became known as Bradford-by-the-Sea.

There have been changes. The once-large fleet of Morecambe trawlers is now small and few of the traditional craft remain. Cockling is no longer the major industry it was, when Cedric's forebears joined in the routine of going to the Sands at low-tide by horse and cart and using an implement called the Jumbo to agitate the sand, bringing up the cockles, which were collected by a fork-like object called a kraam.

The Bay, with its restless tide, retains its ancient charm and in winter is a feeding and roosting ground for myriad wild birds that have nested in far northern lands. They enjoy a winter in temperate conditions.

Walk along the promenade at Grange and, at certain times, Morecambe bay is bird-busy. Shelduck waddle across the wet sands. Oystercatchers probe for food with their orange-red bills, which resemble sticks of sealing wax. Flocks of knot and dunlin are so dense in flight they resemble dark clouds one minute and silver clouds another as they turn to reveal their lighter underparts.

Cedric told me of some of his plans for this year. He is taking one party across the sands of the Leven estuary to remote little Chapel Island where, in ancient times, the monks of Conishead had a chapel where prayers were said for those who were bravely crossing the Bay.

Some of the bodies of those who did not reach the other shore, when recovered, were interred in the big yard at Cartmel Priory.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.