Walking the Northumberland Coast, Days 2 and 3 – Sacred Cave to a Blistered Foot.

On day 2, after a big, fried breakfast, which probably cancelled out the benefits of the previous day’s walk, we detoured inland to join part of another long-distance path: the St Cuthbert’s Way. This follows the route taken by the Lindisfarne monks as they carried the sacred remains of their revered former Abbot. Cuthbert was a Scottish shephard boy from the Borders who became a famous preacher and healer after he saw a vision of St Aiden’s soul passing into heaven. Eleven years after his death, Cuthbert’s body was found to be miraculously intact as if he was just sleeping. The famous Lindisfarne Gospels were written to commemerate his elevation to sainthood. The monks took Cuthbert’s body away from Lindisfarne to escape Viking pillagers in the 9th century.

Leaving our lodgings near Holy Island, Colin and I climbed gently away from the sea but still enjoyed wide ranging views of the coast. Inland, we skirted moors and through woods, getting views of the dark outlines of the Cheviot Hills. In a sloping wood of Scottish pines, we visited the sandstone cave where the monks and their sacred cargo came to rest for a while. It is a special place and has been dubbed: St Cuthbert’s Cave. ( see previous blog — “Getting up from the couch…”)

We walked on through a field with a very large white bull in it. Luckily it was more interested in its harem of cows than in us.In fact it was sniffing one of their rear-ends! We passed a little silvery lake in a woodland glade. On it, 2 swans glided gracefully and above it 2 buzzards circled on the thermals. Colin and I walked alongside newly ploughed fields of dark earth, with shiny furrows snaking off into the distance. Tractors trailing clod-breaking harrows worked their way up and down the post-harvest fields. Sudden explosions of feathers made us jump as startled pheasants broke their cover. Belford was announced by its church steeple and a crenellated tower called West Hall.

Belford is either a big village or a very small town. It has the old Bluebell Inn at its centre near the market cross. Having a drink there, the inn reminded us that this place used to be on the Great North Road, formerly doing a brisk trade servicing the stage coachies which plied up and down it in the 18th and 19th centuries. Now the A1 bypasses it about a mile to the east and it is a quiet backwater. Belford no longer has a school and lost its Post Office a few years ago, such that it briefly found fame on a TV programme about the decline of rural settlements. Tourism has led to a sprinkling of guest houses and on the edge of the village is another golf course. Big houses lurk up long drives. But for most of our time there, all was quiet in Belford, as it slumbered undisturbed in the late September sunshine. After a pub meal, Colin and I retreated to a comfortable guest house which unfortunately suffered slightly from an over-chatty landlady, but was otherwise very nice, especially when we discovered a decanter of Lindisfarne mead on the landing!

On day 3, fields, woods and country lanes led us back from Belford to the coast. We passed huge metal grain silos with roaring exhaust fans. Colin said they were for drying grain. We crossed the busy A1 and then the East Coast main railway line after we phoned the signalman ( on a freephone provided), to make sure that we were not going to be mown down by the Flying Scotsman.

We emerged from a short climb through another wood and there across the rolling wheat fields was the huge fortress of Bamburgh. It sits on a dominating platform of volcanic rock known as the Great Whin Sill. Beyond the dark bulk of Bamburgh were the white, guano-stained cliffs and white light-house of the Farne Islands. These are 2 of Northumberlands biggest tourist attractions. The imposing castle used to be the seat of the Kings of Northumbria. It now belongs to the wealthy Armstrong family. The Farnes are famous for their spectacular birdlife ( especially in the summer nesting season), basking seals and the legend of the Victorian heroine Grace Darling, who helped her lighthouse keeper father to rescue survivors of a shipwreck on the rocks one stormy night. The legend is milked unashamedly by the tourist industry. Coachloads of visiters are deposited at the Grace Darling Museum which some describe as charming but others find quite silly. Apparently, you can actually see a lock of the heroine’s hair on display!

Bamburgh is approached via a magnificent sandy beach made famous in films such as “A Lion in Winter.” This is where King Henry II met Thomas a Becket on horseback, although why they had to ride all the way up to Northumberland just to have a chat, I don’t know. Maybe it was something to do with the supremely photogenic location.

Before we could get to the famed beach, Colin and I had to negotiate another caravan site and yet another golf course! ( Play is continuous, rake the bunkers after use, respect the dress-code.) Prior to finally hitting the dunes we slipped by the mysterious, glistening mud-flats of Budle Bay, Northumberland’s very own version of The Wash. It is a paradise for birds with big, splayed wading feet and long, thin beaks which they endlessly poke into the mud in search of breakfast, dinner or tea.

In Bamburgh village we battled with the tourists pouring off their coaches to sit on every seat in the park below the castle walls. Luckily Colin grabbed a place to sit while the trippers were distracted taking photographs. When they all traipsed off to the teashops or perhaps to the famous Grace Darling Museum, we walked slightly wearily on to Seahouses, a few miles further south.

Seahouses is a little working fishing port. It is also where the boat trips to the Farne Islands set off from. It sounds as if it should be charming, quaint and picturesque, but it’s actually full of tourists, crowded car-parks, fish and chip shops and ice-cream parlours. It’s convenience as a base for visiting many of Northumberland’s tourist attractions has squeezed any charm out of it.( in my opinion.) We trudged into the town and had a drink in the beer garden of the Olde Ship Inn with great views of the busy harbour and the Farne Islands beyond. Then we retired to another very nice guest house. It was time to relax.

Unfortunately we were now ambushed by the great blister crisis! I already realized that my feet felt pretty sore. But as I peeled my boots and walking socks off, I was not prepared for the shock of the largest blister I had ever seen — and it was on the ball of my very own left foot! It looked like a small, partly inflated balloon. It was accompanied by an array of smaller blisters on the ends and sides of my poor toes. “Oh my God!” I exclaimed melodramatically, and Colin, a look of alarm on his face, uttered the dreaded words: “We may have to abort!”

I had been too blase. Apparently I should have upgraded my walking boots and socks, put in special insoles and soaked my feet in cold tea before setting off on such a long trek. I had not been scared of the distances ( they were not that long anyway — averaging about 11 miles a day), but it was the day after day nature of a long-distance walk and the carrying of a heavy pack that I had not accounted for. I actually had an aching shoulder as well as a blistered foot. Curiously it was my right shoulder but my left foot. ( Yes, I know it was a film with Daniel Day Lewis!)

Thankfully the crisis subsided. After limping to the Olde Ship Inn for a veggie lasangne in the cosy Captain’s Cabin, I had a good night’s sleep and in the morning, my blister had hardened up. So I bravely decided to walk on. I would tape my poorly foot up, put on 2 pairs of protective socks and walk in my softer trainers. The only trouble was that I now had to carry my boots, which made my heavy rucksack even heavier! But I was determined to carry on. I reminded myself that I was not a wimp ( not anymore anyway). I thought of Ernest Shackleton, James Bond and Michael Palin — and walked manfully on into the unknown!

Walking the Northumberland Coast — Day 1.

INTRODUCTION. — When my friend Colin suggested tackling the NCP, I at first imagined we would be walking around a very large car-park! But then I realized that this wouldn’t take 6 days, even if it happened to be a multi-storey! It was in fact the Northumberland Coastal Path that we were to walk. It goes from Cresswell, near Ashington to Berwick upon Tweed, a distance of around 66 miles.

Wanting to be different, we decided to walk it backwards — not literally of course, but starting at the end and finishing at the beginning, if that makes sense. Colin’s reason was that we would be walking home.( he lives in Morpeth, not that far from Cresswell.) This made good sense, except that when we actually did the walk, we were constantly meeting more conformist walkers who never failed to ask us why we were doing it “the wrong way round.”

As explained in my last post ( “Getting up from the Couch…”), we were to do the walk with our mutual friend: Clive. However he was tragically killed in a road accident  2 months previously. So we did the walk in Clive’s memory. He may not have accompanied us in the flesh but was with us in spirit every step of the way.

BERWICK UPON TWEED. — We started in Berwick, the town that for much of its history hasn’t known whether it’s English or Scottish. Even today, though officially part of England, its football team Berwick Rangers, plays in the Scottish League. Then there is the accent — definitely more Scottish than English. At times it was difficult to decipher as it was usually spoken at speed and I kept having to say “pardon?” or had to get Colin, a born and bred Northumbrian, to translate for me.

Up to 1836, Berwick was technically an independent state and even after that was mentioned separately in international treaties. There is a delicious and persistent rumour that Berwick is still officially at war with Russia due to its “independent” participation in the Crimean War but its omission from the subsequent peace treaty. However, this story was debunked by a report on the BBC’s “Nationwide” programme in the 1970’s, so we cannot argue with that can we? Also in the 70’s, a nice man from Pravda smiled and shook hands with Berwick’s Mayor to ensure that hostilities would not erupt again in the near future.

Colin and I stepped on to the platform of Berwick railway station one sunny morning in late September, 2011. This is the station responsible for the near demolition of the town’s medieval castle, the sorry remains of which you can see if you look left as the train pulls in. The railway smashed through the castle courtyard in the mid 19th Century.

We slipped into England’s most northerly town with slightly sheepish expressions on our faces. We quickly took cover in the dense foliage of a park that descended to the river. This was not because we were Russians or Ukrainians from the Crimea, but because we had failed to pay for our train journey from Morpeth up to Berwick. We had tried twice but the ticket man didn’t have his machine to hand. So as we got up to disembark, I muttered to Colin:” We’re on the run!” Perhaps I had watched too many episodes of “The Fugitive” when I was a kid!

We emerged from the park right on to a path by the river, spanned by its 3 bridges, 2 for road traffic and 1 for rail. The Royal Border Bridge is the most magnificent. Opened in 1847 and  officially “blessed” by Queen Victoria 3 years later, it triumphantly sweeps the railway across the Tweed on its 28 slender arches. Today, its classic outline is marred slightly by the pylons carrying the overhead powerlines for the high-speed trains. However it is still a wonderful sight, especially on a clear, sunny day such as we experienced. The spectacular brick and stone structure looked like an ancient Roman aquaduct, set against a bright blue sky and reflected in the bright blue water. We stood and stared, no longer worried about our potential pursuers, just drinking in the view. It is a view created partly by man, partly by nature, an intoxicating combination. As if to emphasise this point, we watched a heron fishing, perfectly framed by one of Stephenson’s graceful arches.( the 4th or 5th one from the right I think!)

But we couldn’t afford to stand and gaze for very long. A 6 day, long-distance walk lay ahead of us and we had to make tracks.

TWEEDMOUTH and SPITTAL —– We crossed the older of the two road bridges, built from sandstone in the early 17th Century and disappointingly only containing 15 arches. ( Colin counted them.) We now surprisingly discovered that we were walking in the footsteps of the artist L S Lowry, famous for his pictures of matchstick people scurrying through industrial townscapes. It seems that he loved to escape to the North-East coast, stay in a hotel in Sunderland, and make day trips up to Berwick to paint the town, river and coast scenes. The enterprising local tourist office has erected a series of illustrated information boards so visiters can follow the “Lowry Trail.” We followed it into Tweedmouth, now a quiet, down-at-heel little port which has obviously seen better days. It used to be a hive of activity with ships transporting both people and goods in and out. There was even a regular packet service to London. However the coming of the railways killed off most of this seafaring trade. When we walked through, one solitary ship from Hamburg was berthed on the quiet quayside. Clues of the port’s once busy past were revealed through buildings’ names such as Stevedores’ House and Custom’s House. But the streets were calm and largely deserted on this Monday morning.

Colin talked to a couple of leathered-up German bikers leaving the Rob Roy Guest House. We both thought of Clive, our recently departed biker friend who should have been on this walk with us. I bought a Mars bar and an Independent at a newsagent’s to contribute to the obviously depressed local economy and we walked on to Spittal, where the Tweed finally flows into the sea.

Spittal — what a name! Apparently it was once a popular resort frequented by thousands of holiday makers from the Scottish border towns. Imagine sending postcards home — Greetings from Spittal. Wish you were here! We noted the lovely beach, a short promenade and a few children’s amusements. What we didn’t see were holiday-makers. Only a couple of dog walkers and ourselves enjoyed that glorious sunny morning on Spittal seafront, and all the promanade’s seats were empty. When the local railways were wiped out by the Beeching cuts of the 1960’s, the holidaymakers simply melted away. So it seemed as if we were strolling through a ghost town.

SOUTH TOWARDS LINDISFARNE. — The rest of the walk that day was straight down the coast, the path squeezed inbetween the railway and the sea. We walked on clifftops, past beaches, bays and shining rock formations. We climbed up and down dunes held together by wiry grass and had our picnic by a ruined 2nd World War look-out tower. The whole coast was strewn with war-time relics — concrete towers, pillboxes and long lines of stone blocks that served as tank-traps. We also skirted past the first of many golf courses that we were to encounter. “Another day at the office?” one of the happy golfers called to us, a smile on his face.

Eventually we had distant views of the conically shaped Lindisfarne castle and the vast bulk of Bamburgh castle, though this was still merely a dark speck on the horizon.

As we neared Lindisfarne. we passed the coastal wetlands of its Nature Reserve. Swan swam around, constantly dipping their heads into the water of a small mere. Behind them, 2 snowy-white egrets were fishing amongst the reeds. We gazed at large, spectacular formations of honking geese, making constantly changing, swirling patterns in the sky. We even thought we spotted a Godwit with its curved beak. Now, is that the one where the beak curves up or down? Clive would have known.

Another line of tank traps and we were at the start of the causeway to Lindisfarne or Holy Island, complete with parked cars, tourists and an ice-cream van. It was hardly a spiritual scene as befits a place of pilgrimage over many centuries. The tide was in and so the sea completely covered the access road, which was only identifiable from its gaunt marker posts and white refuge boxes, raised above the water to rescue stranded walkers or motorists, caught out by the rushing tide. The ice-cream van stood at the entrance to the drowned road, water gently lapping over its front tyres. We could have waited for the waters to recede in order to visit the Holy island, but that was 4.5 hours away. So we turned inland, tramping up the hill to Beal and then on to the Lindisfarne Inn which was actually on the busy A1, the Great North Road. This is where we were to rest and spend the night.

As we settled into our comfortable lodgings, I imagined I was a passenger on a horse-drawn stage coach, pulled in for a change of horses on the long journey to Edinburgh ( or London), but the succession of lorries and cars driving in to the adjacent fuel station soon dispelled this romantic notion. However, I was more than happy with our experiences on day 1 of our trek. It had taken us past spectacular bridges, a faded port and resort, 2nd World War defences, beautiful coastal scenary, rich bird life, an artistic trail, the remains of a castle and a sacred place of pilgrimage. Not bad for 11 miles!