Gertsamtkunstwerk

Day trip to Lindisfarne

Over a year ago now! 

A holiday in North Northumberland is incomplete without a trip to Lindisfarne, also known as Holy Island. But you have to plan your trip. Not only for the weather, which of course, in an English summer is essential, but also for tides. Access is across a causeway. The causeway is about 5 miles long and there are safe and unsafe times posted on the internet and throughout the area. Normal people abide by the times. Arrogant arseholes don't. I did fancy doing a Pilgrims' Crossing, barefoot across the sand. You should only do this with a guide. I checked with Footsteps but because the tide times were not in our favour, needless to say the guided walks weren't!

We parked in a massive car park and strolled into the village. I was immediately struck at how Touristy it seemed compared to everywhere we'd been: local produce being sold from roadside stalls. Shops in the village geared up for mass tourism. Even people looked different: on average, significantly less gormful. 

We walked to the castle. There are two ways to do this. Trudge along a concrete path with everyone else, or, like us and almost ten other people, have a look at the beach. To be honest, I don't think most of the people who started on the path got as far as the castle. Probably too far from the car park. Couldn't bear to be so panic inducingly far from the flock. Imagine parking your car, walking for five or ten minutes, gawping blankly at something you'd heard was a tourist attraction, and then going for an ice cream, and calling it a day out!

We didn't go in the ruined Priory for the pragmatic reason that it is run by English Heritage and an admission is charged, and we had just joined National Trust at enormous expense.

It was quite a climb up to the castle, which was worth it, for the view

The castle dates from the 16th century, and was built for defence purposes. In the early 20th century it was inhabited and much altered by Edwin Lutyens. It wasn't that interesting unless heritage homes make you moist. I'm sure that many of the people who get orgasmic about stately homes won't have heard of Lutyens or have any sense of his significance. But they get to coo and sign over crockery.

Outside yet some distance from the castle is a garden designed by Gertrude Jekyll. Unfortunately just a few days previously I had read a comedy tweet that said "I quite like Gertrude Jekyll's gardens, but I prefer her Mrs Hyde  ones". (It seems that Robert Louis Stevenson was a friend of her brother so not so silly a joke!).

I strolled into the garden and tried to take a few photos. Big mistake! I had stirred the nest of the self-important man with a big lens on his camera. He had been sitting on a bench until he arrived but he was determined to go through an elaborate and pointless charade of mansplaining the taking-of-photos-with-a-phallic-lens. I don't see snapshots as being a competitive sport.

 

We returned to the car park, past the sheep, and were able to access the Causeway long before the end of safe time.

 

We went for  dinner at The Craster Arms in Beadnell. I'm not sure what to say. Sometimes a complacent mediocre place can be almost worse than a bad place.

Food served on cold plates. The same chopped to death salad they'd served the previous week with crab sandwiches. And a fish dish made up of disparate elements. Basically, on the one hand, you have the fish element. On the other hand, the choice of potato, and the steamed vegetables of the day. Not horrendous, but the same vegetable was served for every main. Not with it, but in a separate bowl. Brought to the plate by the customer. But not  brought together. Just there. Like the chippies that serve you a piece of stale processed white bread with your fish and chips, even though it bears no relationship. Bland dried veg sitting alongside a few pieces of fish/sea food. But no sauce to bring them together. As I say, it's not awful, it's just...actually, quite unappetising. I don't know, do they expect people not to eat vegetables? I'm not surprised, if that's the way they think they should be served! There was some bloke in the kitchen who fancied himself as chef. Hmm. Not really. How difficult is to plan a dish where each element complements the other? But, no, just throw together some poorly prepared random ingredients and call it a meal. 

 

A trip to the Farnes

One day last summer, I got on a boat that took me from Seahouses to to Staple Island on the Outer Farnes, a leisurely cruise and some photogenic sights. We landed on the island and stayed for about an hour. I took 175 photos, so you have to admire me in whittling it to fewer than 20 on this post, with a few more in my Northumberland photo album.

When I was a child I had several books on seaside life eg I Spy at the Seaside but I was never really into birds. No, let's stake a step back. All these books were designed to give children the confidence to go and explore. To wade through rock pools in wellingtons and carrying a fishing net. But they assumed that by the age of 9 or 10, parents would allow children just enough freedom to do that, either engaged with one or both parents, or with an adult watching from a safe distance. But, as you may have gathered, my childhood wasn't exactly like that. We didn't do things like. They weren't sufficiently intellectual, or perhaps it was simply that 'people like us' don't do such things, dismissed in a condescending gesture. At about 17 I was gutted to find that people study Marine Biology at University, but by then it was too late - I had been discouraged from doing Biology or any other Science at O Level. and anyway, I hadn't been one of those children wading through rock pools at age 11.

When you're in Seahouses, it's daft not to take a boat out to the Farnes.

Actually, pause there.

The woman in the ticket office was grumbling in a negative way about all the people who don't do it. I commented mildly that it was quite expensive. "No it isn't, don't be ridiculous". Hmm, we paid £30 for two of us, landing for 'free' because of our National Trust membership. If we had 3 kids and weren't NT members, it would have been £77.50. From my point of view, it was good VfM. I was very nearly that middle class Londoner explaining to a working class person from a deprived region how tight budgets can be. Or perhaps in these low cost regions, they do actually have nearly £80 to spend on a half day excursion.

Some good sights to see en route to Staple Island.

Basking seals. I always enjoy seals, because Jimmy hates them to a point of irrationality. Yes, they're smelly, but other than that, they're pretty harmless.

Lots of opportunities to take photos of puffins, but I didn't manage a 'money shot'

Lovely views of the cliff sides - or Pinnacles, as they're known - with cormorants atop: I was stunned at how similar they look to penguins. I also learnt the difference between cormorants and shags.

We passed the famous Longstone Lighthouse. Grace Darling was the daughter of the lighthouse keeper  and became famous for her role in a rescue from a ship wrecked paddle steamer in 1838. When I was young I visited the Grace Darling museum in Bamburgh & she featured in the sort of books that flourished in the 70s & 80s of women role models. At the time, I thought, she didn't do that much, handing over to men at the first opportunity. I have a more nuanced understanding these days. And yet, despite the example of women like Grace Darling, men persisted in avowing despite no evidence, that no woman is capable of physical tasks. 

 It was fun being on Staple Island. It's an uninhabited island and is quite difficult underfoot in places. I think people with limited mobility might be better going to Inner Farne.

There's not a great deal to do, except look at birds, and take photographs of birds. I enjoyed it and there was a nice feeling of camaraderie.

I used a compact camera, albeit a top of the range one, but if you're serious about getting stunning bird shots, you need more equipment. You also need patience and know how to use your equipment, to frame shots and use the light. Just about everybody on my boat was wearing sensible shoes, and all but one with cameras had proper cameras - half decent (or better) compacts or SLRs.

 

I'm not sure I like those trousers. They're comfortable, and go with most things, except walking boots, but they don't seem to hang properly round the waist/stomach, as illustrated here.

One annoying man used his Apple pad to take indifferent photos. I sat next to him on the boat, something he begrudged, misbelieving he could take the space of three people. He spent some of the time on the boat making work-related phone calls. I know, needs must, but when everyone else is trying to get away, relax and recharge, and in a packed space, it's quite intrusive. 

On the way back we passed Inner Farne, an alternative venue for the boat trip. I hadn't fully understood when booking that there was a choice of islands to go to; this photo shows St Cuthbert's chapel, and going there might be an important part of your visit. St Cuthbert was exceptionally cool: according to Wikipedia:

Among other acts, Saint Cuthbert introduced special laws in 676 protecting the eider ducks, and other seabirds nesting on the islands; these are thought to be the earliest bird protection laws anywhere in the world

If you go to Inner Farne you are advised to take an old hat or headscarf that you can bin afterwards, to protect you from the worst of the bird droppings!

Related articles

Seahouses,beach, Northumberland Uk

Land of castles and islands

A day in Berwick on Tweed

 Last year I went to Berwick on Tweed. I had also been there in 1976, the family's first experience in a Hoseasons chalet park. That one had quite a bit of entertainment on site and was within walking distance of town. The parents learnt from that, and in future years we stayed at various sites without entertainment, each far enough away from the towns of Skegness, Tenby, Holyhead, New Milton, Lowestoft, Brixham, Dunoon and Bangor to avoid contamination. I don't remember much from that holiday, although I now have the family photos buried in the Tardis-under-the-stairs (scanning will be a winter task). I do remember:

• it mostly rained - yeah, in 1976, just our luck;
• one day it didn't rain so we went to a beach, a large beach empty but for us, until a few hours later when another party arrived and sat down just a few feet away;
• another day, it didn't rain, and we went for a walk around the town walls

For this 2014 visit we checked the weather forecast and it was set fair and mild, with the chance of a light shower. When holidaying in England, do not be deterred by 'chance of a light shower' - either take waterproofs, or, if visiting an urban area, there will always be somewhere to shelter.

I was surprised at how run down the town centre seemed, albeit while trying to make a contrast with a faint memory from nearly forty years ago. One of the few significant towns between Newcastle and Edinburgh; I suppose focus is now on the out-of-town retail park; a familiar story from around the country.

After a decent coffee and brunch we set out to circle the town by the walls. We started by looking at the bridges, and the trains crossing the bridge to cross the border.

          

We popped into the town's museum and art gallery for an exhibition on LS Lowry. As a Mancunian I had grown up with Lowry, of course I didn't know about his links with the North East. I was struck by his sketches on industrial cityscapes, scenes that would have been taken for granted as unchanging back then, but have largely vanished. Until fairly recently most people's photographic efforts were concentrated on portraits and shots of group of posed people rather than documenting the quotidien. It's often only by looking back at old photos or sketches that you realise quite how significantly the cityscape has changed, but often in increments you barely notice as they happen.

I managed to leave my walking stick in the museum (I'd had to leave it at Reception) and Jimmy went back to get it while I stood at the junction of the riverside path and a road bridge. I looked down on a derelict shop that nevertheless announced it was the home of Berwick cockles. It had closed four years earlier: MORE than 200 years of trading in Berwick will come to an end this week when Wm Cowe & Sons closes its doors. Lowry had painted it, so I felt no need to photograph it!

We walked around the walls, which is an experience you don't get in many towns - they form fortifications to keep out the Scots. If you look at Wikipedia there is an long tedious narration of how Berwick swapped between England and Scotland, and there is an urban myth that Berwick is technically still at war with Russia. Sadly, it's not true. But I've learnt that the Second World War didn't technically end until 1990.

 We stopped for coffee and ice cream (local, artisan, good quality) in the Loovre café, recently opened after conversion from a derelict public toilet.

There's a lot to see as you walk the walls: views out to sea and into people's back gardens.

     

It's always interesting to see how people use the space for leisure, such as safe cycling for small children.

Lots of (presumably) older people efficiently using a small green space for crown green bowling. And far fewer people using the land hungry golf course.

 

Imagine how much nicer that land would look if the golf course was returned to nature and used by greater numbers of people.

Picture of barracks

An interesting building looking oddly derelict - surely ripe for conversion to Yuppie flats: easy commute to Edinburgh

 

Just before we left the town, we popped into the supermarket for supplies. I couldn't help noticing how different the people seemed from those we had seen in Seahouses and Alnwick. the indoor pallor of skin, the flabbiness of bodies rarely exercised. And the dead look behind their eyes.  

Dunstanburgh Castle and The Links

Walking from Craster village to the ruined castle at Dunstanburgh is one of the recommended highlights of the area of Northumberland we visited last year.

The car park was busy when we arrived; we had to park in the third level up (not a multi-storey, but set on a hillside). 

The weather forecast was fine and warm, so I had decided to dress in a floaty, flowery summer dress. In the car I wore flipflop style flowery sandals (Doc Martens, as it happened, but no ankle support). I was amused when I got out of the car and outdoor types in nearby vehicles glared at me, and especially my shoes, and actively retracted their glares as I changed into padded socks and my proper Outdoor shop-bought walking boots. I thought to myself, 'this is walker's country'.

We walked through the village with its pretty harbour, and through a gate onto a seemingly long grassy walk up to the castle. There were a lot of people around; a few too many for my comfort.

To my surprise, by the time we reached the outskirts of the castle, the crowd had thinned down to almost nothing. It's about a mile from the village to the castle (and back again).

I do understand that can be challenging for some people. But I just don't get why the majority of people will drive to a car park, start a two mile return walk, and give up after just a couple of hundred yards. It's a phenomenon I notice over and over again, and I'll never get an explanation. Perhaps it's partly about footwear. A gentle walk on grass doesn't require walking boots, but it's going to hurt if you're wearing fashion or beach shoes!

The walk was along the coast, where sheep grazed on the rocks and cattle lay in the field.

  

We reached the castle and sat for a while, soaking up the warm sun. Very few people passed by.

 

We didn't go in the castle. It's a ruin, after all! It's managed by English Heritage and I've just read we could have entered for free with our National Trust membership. No regrets, though, we were heading for the beach.

We took the path less travelled below the castle, passing fertile fields and walking the edge of a golf course, as ugly as every other golf course, and used by fewer people than the walk to the castle.

 

The castle remained in sight.  

 

Build a castle on a cliff face - makes it even better defensively, and more difficult to attack.  Kittiwakes breed on the cliff face.

 

We reached the beach near Embleton and settled down to spend some hours there. I kicked off my walking boots and went for a paddle, resolving that within half an hour I would be swimming in the sea.

Within twenty minutes, the weather had changed. Clouds covered the sun and a breeze whipped up. I couldn't believe it. Not only was it no longer warm enough to swim in the sea. it wasn't that comfortable sitting on the beach. And even walking back the way we came wasn't that great. I wished that, for the small effort it would have required, I had carried a light cardigan to wear over my floaty flowery dress. I should know English summers well enough to know how the weather can change. 

We went to Alnmouth later but strangely I took no photos. Perhaps I had had my fill of sandy beaches. Photographically at least!

In the evening we ate at The Links in Seahouses. It looked unprepossessing from the outside. On the inside it looked dated, like an estate pub or an Eighties Labour Club (I read it's been refurbished since). I'm not sure whether it's directly connected with the local golf course or simply takes its name from there. In any case, my expectations were low.

The Links proved to be an excellent restaurant. Basically, they serve pub grub, but not fancied-up with the name 'Gastro'. I started with a deep fried Camembert. A bit 90s I suppose, but it's always been a favourite of mine and I wasn't disappointed by a huge and tasty serving. Look at that side salad. Judge a restaurant by the side salad it serves with its starter. This is a kitchen that understands good quality fresh ingredients presented in a way that stimulates appetite.

 

My main course was mushroom risotto, always a risk in an unfamiliar restaurant. It seems an easy dish to make, but have you noticed on Masterchef how often it goes wrong? This was flavoursome, a hearty stock and strongly flavoured mushrooms - and look at the elegance of the presentation with the Parmesan. Nothing poncey, but a bit of thought and care.

Oddly, this large portion of risotto came with added potato. I opted for chips. Lovely chips, look at them. Proper! But chips with risotto was a new one on me.

 

How can you resist chips like that?

I've looked at recent Trip Advisor reviews of this restaurant and, aside from the inevitable grumpy exceptions, everyone seems in agreement with me about the quality of this restaurant. and everyone has the same observation - huge portion size. I could not make room for pudding, a very unusual situation for me, and a TA reviewer made a similar remark. A pity, because the starter and main showed that this kitchen can cook - and from a business point of view, they're losing money - puddings often have big mark up, and people often order more drinks to go with pudding. 

We went back there on the Sunday, an early dinner, and like many other customers we were in a hurry for the Men's World Cup Final. Staff were obliging and understanding.

So, basically, my criticisms of this restaurant  - awful decor which has since been refurbished, and enormous portions!

Around Seahouses

When booking a holiday in the UK, several factors must be considered. 

You want good quality accommodation, and we certainly got that. You want several restaurants, serviceable or better, within walking distance, and probably something above average not too far away. I think we got that, too.

And you want to be somewhere where a rainy day doesn't become an abandoned day. We got that, too, in Seahouses. A slightly odd town. It serves as some sort of tourist hub, not least because it's the place where the Farne Island boats go from. There's a National Trust gift shop. There's an excellent bakers, and good greengrocers and deli; the only 'supermarket' is a small and basic Co-op - for anything more than booze, milk and snacks you have to go several miles to Alnwick. There's an amusement arcade which seems vulgar and a little out of place. Weekend visitors seem a bit rough around the edges; weekday visitors are better-heeled.

 

Michael Portillo visited while we were there, for his Great British Railway Journeys. I was probably holding a copy of Bradshaw's in the NT Gift shop whilst he was en route back from the Farnes. Robson Greene was due a visit just after we left.

Another day, the weather forecast was awful and the morning was unpleasant: wet, windy, not warm. Much to my surprise (and that of people I subsequently encountered), the weather improved. Enough to make it worthwhile to stroll down to the town and play a round of Crazy Golf. I slaughtered Jimmy. I just want to make sure everybody knows that. I was so focused on the important task of winning Crazy Golf that I took no photos. As much as I despise 'real' golf and consider it a waste of time, socially divisive and a despoiling of the countryside, I love Crazy Golf. I don't think there are enough good Crazy Golf courses in this country. Seahouses is as good as any I've played in England. I've played better in Jersey and the US.

We wandered around town and watched the waves. So did many other people.

   

The weather became warmer and brighter, so we revised our plans from 'wander' to 'stroll'. Not a proper walk, but a bit of gentle exercise and lots of fresh air.

The beach at Seahouses is separated from the road by dunes. As you follow the path, you feel a little as if you are walking along a clifftop but without the height. A long and sandy beach that stretches to Bamburgh and beyond. Indeed the North Northumberland Coast is several miles of sandy beach more or less uninterrupted, but for the occasional harbour, estuary or castle.

As you see, there are outcrops of rock, but I don't think that contradicts the 'sandy'. I never actually got round to swimming while we were there, a frustration because, other than the air temperature, it would have been perfect.

 

 

I suppose I could have hired a wetsuit; I'd even been in contact with a shop that hires them out, and bikes. They came over as helpful people in our email correspondence. Definitely a regret I didn't hire a wetsuit and get in the water. These lads knew better.

 

 

 

 

 

We returned to out holiday let the 'back way', avoiding Main Street. We thought we'd have to walk along the B road, national speed limit, no footway. But we discovered a public footpath that ran parallel to the road and yet seemed almost a different world.

 

Another day the forecast said it would be warm and sunny, so we went to the beach with our swimming gear. The weather forecast should have said 'warm and sunny with stiff cold breeze, later clouding over'. I did go in the sea, but only paddling, as deep as my knees. I mainly lay on the beach, with my friends, while Jimmy clambered on the rocks.

 

Cragside

The first Tuesday of our holiday was rainy, grey and a bit windy. We took the opportunity to relax, having been on the go relentlessly for several days: packing, travelling and sight-seeing. We wandered around Seahouses and joined the National Trust. I explained to the chap who signed us up it was the final proof I had reached middle age. He explained that plenty of young people were members.

Regular readers will know that, on the whole, I hate Stately Homes. My main objection is the distorted view of history they represent. A misplaced belief that they are acting altruistically as custodian of a common good, but actually the defender of ill-gotten gains. The visitor is obliged to admire portraits of the 15th Baron or the 3rd Earl, whose accomplishments remain a mystery, other than 'serving the King', or being on the right side of a battle for power, or having the skill to be the oldest surviving (male) son or great nephew of the previous incumbent. 

Cragside is different. Cragside was the home of William Armstrong, engineer, scientist, inventor and philanthropist, the first engineer (or scientist) to be ennobled.

I don't suppose many people have heard of Armstrong. I'm not sure that I had until I started to read up on 'days out' in Northumberland. I despise that facet of Englishness that bangs on about our glory days but conspicuously fails to celebrate the engineers and inventors upon which the nation's wealth was founded.

Sadly, I found Cragside disappointing in its failure truly to celebrate the glory of engineering. Like all these Stately Homes it was acutely aware of its main selling point: people want to walk round houses, gawp, imagine the life they'd live if they were richer, and study the interior decor. I took several photographs within the house, of variable quality due to the variability of the light, and in hindsight, I too fell into that trap of focusing on the fripperies and ignoring the wonder of science.

      

It was busy in the house. Not oppressive, but busy. One had to manoeuvre round people. "oops, sorry, after you, no no, after you." apart from one ghastly little woman who...oh I can't even be bothered, some people simply can't cope with being out in public and need to take a long hard look at their behaviour. It was heaving in the café where we stopped for a disappointing cup of coffee. It has to be said the grounds are quite challenging, especially for people with limited mobility (a core NT demographic, especially during school term). But they do run a shuttle bus around the place. Once we had finished in the house, we had several hours of glorious tranquility, barely encountering a soul.

We descended steeply to the river and ascended again up to the Formal Terraced Garden, where we baked in the sun, admired the view and enjoyed the gardens. Regular readers will know that much as I love being in gardens and photographing them, I am hopeless at identifying plants. I am learning, from visits and from the TV, but it's a slow process.

         
After the garden we took a stroll along the River Coquet, still within the grounds. So did maybe half a dozen other people. I was puzzled, because the car park had been extremely busy - I just don't understand what these people do. Once again I thought of the '100 yards from the car park' rule.

 

Since we visited, they have launched an Archimedes screw to generate electricity. That article references one also at my beloved Morden Hall Park. Cragside was the first building in the world to be lit by hydroelectricity, and Armstrong visualised the potential for solar power. 

We returned to the coffee shop and wisely chose, rather than indifferent beverages, a superb ice cream from Doddington Dairy. The National Trust, complacent about its captive audience - and indeed many independent visitor attractions - don't have to care about the quality of their tea and coffee. Most of their customers couldn't care less. A diversified dairy farm has to ensure its products are high quality and must actively market them.

We drove out the long way, via the Estate Drive, which featured in one of my guidebooks as a walk. Again, I was astonished how few people we passed, or even saw in the distance. If I were to visit again, I would spend more time in the wilderness beyond the touristic centre.

 

 

Seahouses to High Newton walk

An all-round super day. My Tracks recorded the walk as 7.22 miles; Samsung Walking Mate calculated I walked 9.5 miles that day. Not inconsistent; the extra two miles easily add up by walking round pubs and the holiday let before and after the walk.

We walked down to the sea via the most direct route, the Golf Course. There was a clear sign pointing to the Coastal Path, and another sign saying Keep to the Paths. Fine, but the tarmac path soon ran out, and there simply wasn't anything else that resembled a path. Wasn't clear where to go, and it certainly wasn't possible to stick to a right of way.

So, we got shouted at by some angry little man. We pointed out that there were no paths. He was yelling 'this is the fairway'. Yeah, because that means something to me. Sorry, I don't live in your internalised world and speak your hobby-specific language. Still, I probably shouldn't have said "You should take some exercise, you know, dear". I expect he probably had exercise recommended by a health professional or probation officer to cope with the anger management issues, but instead he decided to spend all day knocking little balls into holes. I concede it has to be better than beating people up on the rougher streets of Glasgow. There seemed to be six of them all told, all white males, all wearing the same sort of bad taste 'leisure wear'.

What is it with men's summer clothes? For work they wear the same heavy cotton long sleeved shirts they wear in winter; for leisure they all wear polyester 'polo' shirts or other versions of what used to be known as PE kits. And not just golfers.

Down on the beach, it suddenly started to rain, and continued to do so for over a minute. Just awful. Alternatively, enough to deter the fair weather strollers. We walked a good mile and a half along the beach and for most of the route we barely passed anybody. Until we approached the exit for Beadnell and suddenly someone's invading our personal space by throwing a ball at her dog so the mutt was running and panting way too close. It wasn't really a problem, but I couldn't help thinking that, given the size of the beach, and the small number of people using it, it was really quite inconsiderate. Perhaps I was supposed to turn round and go gaga over the dirty animal. Never.

We stopped for lunch at The Craster Arms in Beadnell, a well-reviewed pub. Crab sandwich was irresistable. The salad was mediocre. Plus point, it was dressed, but chopped a bit small - and you should never chop lettuce. Decent pint of cider.

We sat in the garden, as far as possible from the couple with a toddler and a baby. There were two other couples there, too, no children. The toddler was allowed to run around all over the garden, stamping his feet up-and-down on the decking. While I was eating, he came within inches of me, tens of yards away from his parents. "Go  away go away go away go away", I said. One of the other women in the pub garden gave me a smile of support.

Oddly, the child spent the rest of his visit to the beer garden sitting down. Did the parents think that it was their personal private garden, or that three decidedly middle-aged couples would appreciate being entertained by a toddler? They' d probably given him a bowl of sugar for breakfast and driven him to the pub, rather than letting him run round on the beach. I got the feeling they didn't like him. Odd. They were British, so they could have got free contraception or a termination. I wonder why they didn't.

From the pub to the harbour was a rather  a dull walk, along the road, but it wasn't far, and we were soon back where we had first hit the Northumberland coast on the Saturday. They say small things amuse small minds and this certainly put a smile on my face.

 An even bigger smile was caused by this

Several miles of sandy beach occupied by no more than 30 or 40 people, if that. Fleetingly, I thought about a rather sad little woman who went through a phase of bullying and harassing me online, as a direct result of this blog. One of her theses was that Jimmy 'forced' me to go on beach holidays and she didn't approve because she didn't like being very close to someone on another lounger, oh, and she doesn't like being out in the sun. So many things wrong with this thesis I don't know where to begin. And the odd thing, she has told me the town she lives in (no need for me to repeat it here). I don't know the town, but I do know it's just a handful of miles from the coast, which, according to the internet, is a 'scenic coastline' and part of a SSSI. Once I had a banished unwelcome thoughts of a pitiful troll, it was time to enjoy the near deserted beach, although I took surpisingly few photos.

We lay on the dunes for a while and contemplated how to overcome a dual barrier that prevented us walking all the way to Newton along the beach. One obstacle was the Long Nanny Tern breeding site 

and the small matter of a beck to cross. I'd initially assumed it was just a small  beach stream that could be waded, but not quite...

Because of the protected breeding site, the path was diverted off the beach, across a bridge and through long dune grass. That was pleasant, not least for the wild flowers and the plethora of butterflies.

 

I was just puzzled that none of the reference material mentioned the breeding site. Many recommended walking Beadnell to Low Newton by the Sea  across the sands, but no hint of a diversion. The Ship Inn there is well recommended. Instead, we headed for High Newton, which has a bus stop. It was a difficult final stretch for me, wishing I was already at the pub for the final half mile. This was slightly but steadily and continuously uphill, and if there had been a passing bus, I would have caught it. But there wasn't, and to arrive at the village without succumbing to tears was a real sense of achievement. And after a few sips of cider, I wondered what I had even been bothered about.

The pub was the Joiners Arms, an exceptionally good pub. We ate there and it was very nice. Jimmy had fish and chips and later said it was the best of four such servings he'd had during our holiday. I had this Haddock and leek chowder, and was looking forward to pudding, But this was so tasty and so filling, I felt satiated.

We also had the unusual pleasure of neighbours' conversation. It was slightly odd, a local couple who had retired to the area and whose son was living in the USA. Parents and three teenage boys from the USA, friends of the couple's son. They'd never met before, so the opening gambits were nervous and hesitant. By the end, they were firm friends. If they weren't so nice and interesting, they might have annoyed me, but I learnt a lot about the area and about life from listening. In truth they weren't overloud; I suppose I listened because they were interesting. It was mainly the American woman and the English man talking but neither was over dominant, and all contributors seemed thoughtful sensitive people.

We caught the bus back to Seahouses. Jimmy used his Freedom pass but I had to pay - £4.70 for a single journey of twenty one minutes, on a service that only runs every two hours. It's almost a joke of a bus service; I wondered whether I should be surprised it was so empty. It's unlikely that many people could depend upon it to take them to and from work. 

Bamburgh and Alnwick

Our first full day of the holiday. The weather forecast was not encouraging, either for that day, or for later, when they predicted the tail-end of a hurricane would hit Britain, bringing wind and rain in its wake. Decision: find somewhere local and have a quick look round before the rain comes. Result: a very pleasant if unplanned two mile stroll without ever getting wet.

We parked across the road from Bamburgh Castle - delighted at free parking! There is a sign-posted walk that takes one around the outskirts of the castle, and we thought we would follow that - until we realised that we could head down to the beach.

What a splendid beach! Long and wide, and mainly sandy, but with rocks and rock pools for added interest. Several parties out, walking or encamped in a well-rehearsed routine. What I was to find over and over again was how uncommercialised the beaches are in all the area we visited. I made jokes about the abusive parents who were denying their children the right to sit in a shopping precinct drinking sugary drinks. One family included a child who was obviously a 'problem' - she laid down in front of me, which I found bemusing (rather than obnoxious) and I noticed later a couple of aspects of her behaviour that seemed more toddler-like than the age her appearance suggested. She and her older brother were obviously enjoying themselves exploring the rockpools and playing on the beach.

We had our own fun exploring the rockpools.

I decided I would devote this holiday to photographing nature.

 

We walked as far as the lighthouse, which had a face. I'm always slightly disappointed when lighthouses aren't made out of tall towers, even though I know it makes more sense to build a low-level squat building on a high cliff.

We walked along a minor road with views of an unremarkable village, and flowers.

 

 We reached the spot on the dunes where we had earlier diverted to hit the beach, and continued our walk round the castle. I took a lot of photos of Bamburgh Castle, and then remembered how last year I got totally fed up of photos of St Michael's Mount.

More wildlife 

   

 This couple intrigued me, walking the dunes. 

We had a great view of Inner Farne (I found out the next day that a Twitter 'friend' from South London was visiting the Farnes as we did this walk, and was staying in Seahouses, too!)

And more flowers

As we approached the car, it seemed like it would rain, After a discussion, we decided to head for Alnwick, the nearest town of any size. It was quite a drive, about fifteen miles mainly on B roads with their fair share of bends, often sharp. On a Sunday, there wasn't much open, and what there was was due to close within little more than an hour. A quick dash round Morrison's for a few things we hadn't been able to get at Seahouses co-op, and then a sit down and a cup of coffee. At quite possibly the worst café ever.

Imagine if you will, a country town serving a wide rural and coastal area, residents and tourists, just off the main London-Edinburgh trunk road. A town with several cafes and similar places. all competing for the passing (and returning) trade. You make an offer to the customer; the customer pays their money, and expects a certain standard.

I ordered a scone with butter and jam. She upsold me one with cream. I am capable of resisting upselling, but she was pleasant, I was in a mood to relax, and I like a bit of cream with a scone. We agreed to sit outside on the cobbles of the market square and she'd bring our order out.

The scone with cream arrived. Cream? Squirty cream! Who puts squirty cream on scones? Is this even a thing? I was rendered speechless. I bit into the scone. The key to a good scone is to serve it the day it's baked; at worst, the day after. This was so stale I concluded it must have been Friday's batch. Perhaps baked on Friday afternoon 'to do the weekend'. I suppose I should have complained and demanded my money back. But we don't, do we. Better to bear the loss than endure the stress of the confrontation.You walk away; you won't come back. But as a visitor, even if it was the best scone ever, you're unlikely to return, you have other destinations planned. Stale scone with squirty cream. As if!

In the evening we ate at The Spice House in Seahouses. Mixed. The young men who greeted us and took our order were warm and welcoming. We were able to buy bottled Northumberland-brewed ale (surprising for a curry restaurant). And my starter of mushroom and paneer was delicious.

 On the other hand, my main course didn't really taste of curry and didn't consist of much other than prawns and sauce. The middle-aged man who took over serving us was super-grumpy. I decided to put it down to Ramadan fasting. 

Obviously, people are free to choose their religious practices etc etc etc, but it got me thinking. Whoever invented Ramadan fasting in the Dark Ages didn't know that Sunrise to Sunset could last 17 hours (18 in Inverness on 21 June), had no concept of Bangladesh or England, nor would be able to imagine people from one place serving food in the other place to people who had no intention of carrying out a dawn to dusk fast, ever. And, frankly, the Dark Agers knew little about physiology, hydration, energy levels or anything. I do understand why a Bangladeshi immigrant observes the Ramadan fast. But I'm not entirely convinced it's an unfettered free choice.  

Northumberland Holiday

In short, I have edited 350 photographs and still have 200 left to edit!

We started our holiday the first weekend of July and stayed in Seahouses for two weeks. A splendid time was had. My brother, who visited Alnmouth last year, described Seahoouses as 'like Blackpool', which got me rather excited. But although incorrect, I could see his point. More commercialised than the rest of the North Northumberland coast, which has its advantages and disadvantages. We chose Seahouses as having amenities, and we chose a cottage in North Sunderland as being slightly away from the main drag. The 'slightly away' became the main - only - downside of the cottage; the walk back from eating places seeming longer and longer each time.

The journey up seemed epic, even though we split it over two days. On the first day we travelled as far as Darlington, largely because there wasn't a hotel to be had for many miles south of there. We crawled through Yorkshire, but were grateful that we were passing through before the Tour de France the next day. You don't want to arrive very late at your holiday cottage; as it was, we arrived at 5pm at Darlington, which was fine for a Premier Inn. Premier Inn fulfills its offer splendidly - ideal for one night, especially when in transit.

Saturday's journey was much easier. A good breakfast and no sense of rushing. Getting past Newcastle was surprisingly easy, and not much later we followed a sign pointing to the Northumberland Coastal Route. We were disappointed that we couldn't actually see the sea, but, slowly, it dawned on me that it's a spinal access to the Northumberland coast. It avoids the A1 and there are numerous turns off to coastal settlements. 

We tried High and Low Newton, but the pubs in both villages were hosting wedding receptions, unsurprising for a Saturday in August. I'm sure they would have been welcoming but you can't reasonably expect attention in such circumstances. And it had started to rain. As we approached Beadnell I realised I was dying for a wee. The weather wasn't great, but I was sure we could find a loo. As we did, free, in a free car park! And the weather bucked up. We followed signs to the beach and, to our delight, found an enormous expansive sandy beach. There were a good few people on it but it was far from crowded.

We walked for a while, especially near the harbour. This features some historic lime kilns (1747), later used for curing herring; oddly I didn't photograph them

 

It started to drizzle just as we returned to the car and we drove away, to Seahouses. The drizzle soon stopped. As expected, our cottage was not ready; we were early. But we took the opportunity to wander round town. Tea and quiche at Trotter's Bakers; we returned frequently for bread and other baked goods. A look around the harbour and a quick drink in the Olde Ship. Good pub, decent ale.

It was time to take possession of ou rental cottage. Slight trpeidation on walking through the door, followed rapidly by great relief. Spotlessly clean, recently re-decorated, tastefully decorated and fully equipped. The owners had obviously put some thought into it, with a comprehensive residents' guide and everything you need for a self-catering holiday.

Such a contrast to the place we had in Cornwall! They even left us a pint of milk and a packet of chocolate digestives, as well as unopened soap in the bathroom, washing-up liquid and enough dishwasher tablets to see us into the week. I joked with the next door neighbour that I had finally found the thing that was missing - a tea strainer, but we were using teabags anyway. And the neighbour offered to lend me her spare strainer. There was a decent selection of board games, books (and not just the usual holiday let Da Vinci code) and DVDs. I'm sure last year's man would have whipped away anything like that.

 

In the evening we went to one of Seahouses three fish-and-chip restaurants, Pinnacles, a favourite of the Hairy Bikers and Robson Green. It was fine, although, to be honest, it didn't strike me as anything special, and we later agreed it wasn't the best fish and chip restaurant in Seahouses. When we ordered, I was a bit taken aback when she asked us whether we wanted a slice of bread; I later learnt that, round there, it's not fish and chips without a slice of tasteless processed white sliced.

When we retired to bed, we found the bedroom to be very good. Lovely comfortable king size bed, and, again, tastefully decorated, although I forgot to take a photo. The only downside was that, being an attic bedroom, there were low beams and sloping gables. Even I bumped my head several times. You get used to it, but I'm not sure I'd want that permanently.