To start our day with Paul’s breakfast was a significant boon. The second boost to our day came when we realised that the day’s route from Seahouses headed inland to North Sunderland. Woo-hooo! We walked out of the front door at Megstone House knowing that we had already covered 0.8 miles!
The first couple of miles headed straight to Bamburgh across pasture and arable land, mainly the latter. Northumberland is obviously an important agricultural county! We didn’t have the sea at our right shoulder, but we had Bamburgh Castle as a reliable way marker. Crossing farmland also meant a return to traditional rambling – we had stiles, something we hadn’t encountered at all during the first three days.
The castle at Bamburgh sits aloft a coastal crag of rock and unsurprisingly has been the site of fortifications for at least 1500 years. Today, it is mainly the product of 18th and 19th century restoration, and so it is difficult to imagine its earlier years. We didn’t visit; one would have to spend at least a couple of hours there to justify the admission fee, and we didn’t have the time.
The adjacent village is picture-postcard pretty, sitting around a triangle of wooded common. We had a brew in the quirky tearoom, Wyndenwell before visiting St. Aidan’s, in the churchyard of which stands the grand resting place of Grace Darling, a young woman of the Victorian era whose short life was one of isolation and heroism. Before rejoining the NCP, we returned to Wyndenwell to have an ice cream – for me, still the hallmark of a good holiday.
The next mile or two around Budle Point were our only coastal steps of the day. And although we were skirting another golf course, and following markers along a permissive path, the views along the coast were stunning. And we came across Bamburgh Lighthouse, not of the usual priapic construction but stumpy and with a facade that looked like a human face! To the west of Budle Point, we descended away from the golf course through bracken and gorse …. and went wrong. I blame the waymarkers! At this point, we were on three significant paths simultaneously – the NCP, St Oswald’s Way, and The England Coastal Path. And at a pivotal junction, we followed the only way marker, that of the England Coastal Path (which carries the added gravitas of an acorn logo – the sign of a National route) which took us along the coast to a group of houses called Heather Cottages. From here, the acorn sign took us inland on a path that followed a tarmac road …. and then no more signs!
At the pivotal junction, we should’ve turned left to get up onto the golf course once again. The upshot of all this was that we trudged south-east on the very busy B1342 for nearly half a mile to regain the NCP. We would have been safer dodging errant golf balls! The B1342 was taking us back to Bamburgh with its castle looming larger. By the time the route took us off the road to head west, we had completed about three quarters of a circle (look at the map!) circumnavigating the headland north of Bamburgh.
We followed this westerly trajectory all the way to Belford, mainly across meadowland, but also through a wooded dell to the mill at Spindlestone. Climbing out of the dell, we came upon a ducket, or dovecote, converted into holiday accommodation. Whilst we stopped here to eat our sandwiches, purchased in Bamburgh, the rain started, gently, almost apologetically, but with that ability to dampen. It accompanied us all the way to Belford. Approaching our finish for the day, we came upon the east coast railway line. This involved picking up a phone which connected us to a signal box to confirm that it was safe to cross. Before Belford, we squelched around giant grain silos, a further reminder of Northumberland’s agricultural importance. And on the edge of town…. a golf course! But this one was padlocked, falling into ruin, and up for sale. As with Dunstanburgh Castle, nature, without having made a formal offer, had elbowed in and was taking over.
Belford had been a coaching town on the London to Edinburgh road. But the A1 bypass changed all of that. It’s seemed to be a quiet, statuesque byway. On its little market square stands the Bluebell Hotel, the rendezvous for our taxi pick up. We were a bit early and so sought shelter in the bar. It was almost empty; besides the barman, a man sat on a high stool and had the politeness to ask how we had attained our drenched status. We swapped anecdotes and yarns, and before he left we had a fair idea of his personal and family history. The hotel chef popped in complaining that he was freezing despite the heat of his kitchen; autumn had arrived too suddenly for him. A couple of ramblers who were on St. Oswalds Way, another Northumbrian longer distance path, came in and knowingly swapped tired, damp nods with us. We also shared our smart phone tracks.
Gordon, the taxi driver was a little late, but we had enjoyed our pints. The route back to Seahouses roughly followed the day’s ramble in reverse – for we staying a second night at Megstone House – a glimpse of the ducket, a return along that stretch of the B1342 where we had been foolhardy, Bamburgh village and castle; we were soon back in North Sunderland. As we spotted the farmsteads we had passed in sunshine early in the day, Gordon informed us that barley, wheat, and potatoes were the main products from Northumbrian soil.
In the evening, we walked that 0.8 miles into Seahouses. We had a table booked at the Ship Inn. At great expense, we ordered a seafood platter to share. It came to us with great ceremony – but hang on a minute – there’s only one scallop. The waiter apologetically said he thought there should only be one, but he would check with the cook. I checked the menu, and sure enough, “scallop” was written in the singular! We’d never had demi-coquille St. Jacque before; mine was lovely in its butter and garlic. But the langoustine had been overcooked and was mushy. The monkfish flesh was spot on, but had been fried in breadcrumbs, which didn’t do it any favours. We added the Ship Inn to our list; one day we’ll get around to writing that book: “We’re Not Going There Again!” subtitled, “A Curmudgeon’s Guide to Eating Out”.
