Today was the day that Storm Agnes was going to blow through. And yet the morning was calm and sunny. We had booked Geordie as early as possible and he squeezed us in between a haircut in Berwick and a trip down to Newcastle for a scan on his knee
We said our goodbyes at the lay-by at the causeway and headed north over salt marsh, skirting mud flats and meandering streams. We hadn’t gone far when the opportunity to walk along the sand presented itself – there was access to the beach, and the tide seemed to be a long way out. Besides which, the walk on land would involve crossing another golf course.
Goswick Sands slid effortlessly into Cheswick Sands. We were witness to the gathering and flying south of a huge squadron of geese. And although the clouds were getting more dense, more grey, it was still calm and dry. As we approached Cocklawburn, outcrops of rock barred our sandy trek north. And the tide was coming in with some velocity. We felt it was prudent to climb up the grassy knolls and rocks to regain the coastal path.
A rudimentary track follows the coast at Cocklawburn Beach, and along it are small spaces for cars to park. And up ahead, in one of these little clearings stood an ice cream van. We approached it with some disbelief; if it wasn’t a mirage, it might well be just a parked-up non-functioning van of delights. But it was open and serving. It’s never too cold for an ice cream, and on this occasion it conjured up some holiday spirit, even though it was our last day and the clouds were closing in.
The last couple of miles to Berwick saw a dramatic and fairly sudden change in terrain. Gone were the dunes, marshes, and muddy rills. Rocky cliffs lifted us above the sea, our path following what was now a very narrow strip between the main Eastern railway line and the North Sea. As we approached the mouth of the Tweed, we descended onto a promenade; Spittal has the hallmarks of a small seaside resort, but by this last week in September, it was all but closed. The public toilets were locked, and only one or two hardy souls were out walking the dog. We came across an information panel about one of L.S.Lowry’s paintings. The artist enjoyed visiting this part of the world and produced over thirty drawings, sketches and paintings whilst on his holidays. We had heard of The Lowry Trail from the walkers we met on Tuesday; there are apparently 18 of these panels in Spittal, Tweedmouth and Berwick, each one focusing on one of Lowry’s works, and tying it in with local landmarks and hidden gems.
We followed the promenade to the point at which the sea meets the river, where a tall, thin chimney stack reached up towards the clouds. It apparently dates from the 1860s and is all that remains of a works that processed animal bones and fish guts to make fertiliser. I bet that the good folk of Berwick prayed each night for an offshore wind.
The Tweed separates Tweedmouth on the south bank from Berwick on the north. We had to walk about a mile west to get to the bridge, and as Tweedmouth has been the site of the port for the last 150 years, we could not follow the river. Any charm that the town possesses was muffled by the all-pervading gloom. Storm Agnes hadn’t struck but she was glowering at us.
We crossed the sandstone old bridge, which dates back to 1624. It is only wide enough to take traffic one way – south. And so just to the west stands a more modern, taller, wider bridge which can accommodate traffic moving both ways. At the north end of the bridge, there is access to a quayside in the cobbles of which is set an anchor – the official beginning and end of the Northumberland Coastal Path! Not far from this spot, stands a multifunctional building which serves as the town’s Youth Hostel, the Granary Art Gallery and Bistro. As we lunched, the rain started in earnest. We had beaten Agnes to Berwick!
Replenished we walked up the hill through the town. Berwick’s independent, feisty spirit shone through despite the gloom and drizzle. We were heading for Berwick Barracks, no longer the home of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, but being reinvented as a community hub for the town. It includes the town’s museum and art gallery, and we were keen to see Berwick’s only Lowry. It was surprisingly small; it was a holiday scene painted at the southern end of the sea front at Spittal: crowds on the beach; people scampering over the cliffs; everyone seemed to be having a high old time. The area obviously put a smile on LSL’s face.
We walked downhill along the eastern part of the town’s defensive wall, back over the old bridge and through Tweedmouth to reach our place for the night, Belmont House in Shielfield Terrace. From the plaque outside the house, the B&B obviously doubles as a centre for acupuncture and reflexology. All this seems to be run by the ebullient Sarah. She showed us to our room on the first floor overlooking the garden at the back. The room was an explosion of colour in terms of furnishing and decoration (take a look at the photos – Next Day). But it also possessed a rich variety of items to enhance our stay – from body lotion to beer.
Sarah kindly arranged for a taxi to ferry us across the newer, higher, less aesthetic bridge into Berwick – to the Queen’s Head, a small hotel with restaurant. The latter was cosy and quiet, its low-beamed ceiling suggesting tradition and intimacy. The petite waitress was attentative; the food was excellent. Waiting outside after the meal for the taxi to Shielfield Terrace, the wind was wuthering. We didn’t see any roof tiles fly but we sensed that Angry Agnes was in the mood to cause some mischief overnight.
