The final day the first sight of cloud and sea mist.
I awoke early and took an amble around Amble.
Then off on the road to Warkworth and beyond to Alnmouth – where I revisited a small group of asymmetric post-war dormer bungalows.
Stopping to view the flood plain of the River Aln, chatting perchance with the local environmental officer.
Who explained how the flood defences had been removed, as this encouraged the natural process of flooding and receding to proceed unhindered, thus preventing property from being interminably sodden.
We also discussed the decline in vernacular architecture and the fashion for all that is New England, much to the detriment of New Northumberland.
One day everywhere will look like a someone else’s vision of somewhere else.
The good folk of Craster have wisely prevented the local bus from entering the North Sea.
The way north took me over a well laid concrete track.
I came upon three wise men from Durham, Rochdale and Doncaster, gathered around a concrete-bag bunker.
The first and last outdoor festival I ever done attended, unforgettable.
Weaving down and around quiet lanes I encountered this Walker Evans workshop.
Armstrong Cottages is an estate originally built by Lord Armstrong for the workmen restoring Bamburgh Castle.
The 1901 Census lists the current inhabitants with their provenance and professions.
114 residents are listed for the 19 cottages, of whom 53 are working men employed in the building trade: their professions include stonemasons, joiners, plumbers, rope & pole scaffolders, blacksmiths, and plasterers.
Many come from Northumberland or Scotland, but a significant proportion are from further afield: Cumberland, Westmorland, Lancashire, Durham, Yorkshire, Derbyshire – and one from the Channel Islands.
Seven nights in November will now cost you the best part of a thousand pounds.
The Armstrong family the former owners, made millions from the sale of armaments.
If I thought that war would be fomented, or the interests of humanity suffer, by what I have done, I would greatly regret it. I have no such apprehension.
He also said:
It is our province, as engineers to make the forces of matter obedient to the will of man; those who use the means we supply must be responsible for their legitimate application.
A couple on their bikes stopped to chat, as a babe in arms the lad had been transported by mam and dad, in a sidecar with tandem attached.
Such a delightful and poignant recollection – we wished each other well and went on our way.
I made my way from the rolling hills back down toward the coast.
Where a permissive path hugged the shore, which I cautiously shared with some equally cautious sheep.
Looking back toward Lindisfarne.
Looking forward to the past.
Pausing for the passing of a mainline train.
Berwick upon Tweed in view.
Come the evening I spent an hour or two in The Curfew, feasting on fine beer, company, haggis scotch egg and game pie.
Finishing with this well deserved and wonderful, bottle of Oude Geuze.
The final day – so many marvellous miles covered, forever stopping to chat, snap, look and learn.
No finer way to see the world, though so condensed and intense even at touring speed – apologies to all the things that I failed to see.
So long to Amble, Newcastle, Redcar, Scarborough and Hull.
One thought on “Amble to Berwick upon Tweed”
A fascinating story of your journey.