CCLX – Lindisfarne to Bamburgh

TOWARDS the end of the first week in August, Simkin and I met in the breakfast room of our hotel on Lindisfarne and discussed our plan for the day. This was to walk to Bamburgh (pronounced ‘bamborough’) via the roundabout route of the Northumberland Coast Path (NCP), as shown on my physical Ordnance Survey map.

We soon spotted that this deviated considerably from the England Coast Path (ECP) shown online and I realised that my paper map, although purchased just a couple of weeks past, was revised in 2015. So, just a decade out of date, then! Pfft! Whatever! We were going to follow it anyway…

Lindisfarne

Holy Island

We emerged into the streets of Holy Island with water stowed for our journey but a diminishing supply of snacks. The village was not exactly bursting with places to restock us at that early hour, but we had confidence – or at least laughably naïve optimism – that we would quickly resolve this provision problem.

Chare Ends

We began our journey on a road called Chare Ends, which took us in the exactly opposite direction to Bamburgh. Following a bee line to our destination would be fine for, well, bees since they could fly, but if we wanted to cross the treacherous channel of water and soft, sinking sands that lay between us and the mainland, we would have to go by a more roundabout route.  Fortunately, a convenient tidal causeway, was situated nearby.

Lindisfarne Causeway

Chare Ends soon conveyed us to the point where we had left the road from the causeway the previous afternoon. After that, it was a question of retracing our steps to the causeway.  There’s not a lot to say about that really except that, on the way, Simkin accidently demonstrated why Lindisfarne Causeway was necessary. The tide was low, which presented a deceptively inviting expanse of sand beside the road but, in response to one step too far to the side, it not only swallowed his foot, but showed clear ambitions to devour his entire leg!

The softness of the sand and its capacity to let you sink into it was quite surprising. Sure, it wasn’t going to swallow us whole, but it would certainly make for hard going.  We returned to the causeway’s hard asphalt surface and stayed on it while we crossed.

Beal & Fenwick

Beal Sands

Beyond South Low were Beal Sands, which almost immediately began shading into saltmarsh. 

There, we espied a curlew, padding safely about atop the soft mud, showing Simkin how that should be done. But not, apparently, showing my phone, the camera of which really struggled pick out the curlew as something to focus on. I can only assume that this brilliant adaptation is why were never hear of curlews being hunted and eaten by telephones.

Anti-Tank Blocks

As we knew we would, at the far edge of the saltmarsh, we left the road and advanced towards the line of anti-tank blocks. Erected in a double line, these were part of an extensive stretch of WW2 coastal defences and would have presented quite the obstacle before they started to sink into the ground.

The coast path only stuck with them for about 300 m but, while it did, it ran right down the centre, between the two lines.

Despite having walked just three and a half miles, we saw one of the more sunken blocks as a handy seat on which to perch for a rest. We were subscribing to the philosophy that many short rests stave off fatigue far better than one later, exhausted collapse permits recovery from it. Besides we had a good view across the marshes and sands.

Going Astray

The path turned sharply inland, crossing a field to just catch the very end of a farm track. There, a sign warned us that the usual route of the ECP was closed to protect nesting birds and that we should follow a diversionary route that appeared to be the one we planned to follow anyway (i.e. the older NCP). This made no difference at all to our plans but gave some reassurance that the NCP route still existed on the ground.  What did make a difference to our plans was that we then confidently set off in entirely the wrong direction, leaving the path.

Our going astray wasn’t entirely to do with utter incompetence. As you can see, there was a path in that direction, which was, in fact, the ECP (though not the part that was legally closed, which was further on).  Also, there were sheep.  Now sheep are not generally a reason for getting lost, I admit, but Simkin has a young daughter who absolutely loves them and we were more focussed on him sending her photos and/or video than on double-checking our route.   Which is probably why we then lost even that path.

It might be truer to say that the path lost us, as it just petered out in the middle of a very boggy field crossed by streams.  We had to backtrack to find the right way across and, having found it, we felt suitably relieved, not having realised that we had found the right way for the wrong path. We were now heading for Granary Point.

Granary Point

As you can see from the photo above, the path was running along a high bank that bordered a marshy area labelled on my OS map as The Cages (possibly implying former fish traps).  It was good to be higher than the marshes, as marshes can be dangerous. But then, so, it transpired, could be the path we were on. Deadly dangerous, in fact:-

The Hemmel

I knew we’d gone off course when the path we were on took us straight to the Hemmel, which we weren’t supposed to visit.

‘Hemmel’ is Northumbrian dialect for ‘cow shed,’ which the building served as from 1929 until around the 1970s. Erected in 1731, it was originally a two-storey granary, though it lost the upper floor in a 19th-century fire.

Today, it serves as a cooking and dining area for groups camping at Fenham Farm (of which it is part).  Simkin noted in passing that it looked like just the sort of building the Scouts would use, which it did, but its most frequent visitors are actually Christian camp groups – drawn by Lindisfarne’s proximity – who have been returning regularly for over half a century.

Fenham Farm

An urgent examination of maps took place, which revealed that the situation was hardly irreparable. A short section of farm track led us to Fenham Farm, where we joined the public road. That would, in turn, lead us to intersect the path we should have been on. No problem!

When Butterflies Attack!

From Fenham Farm, we headed west along Fishers Back Road, crossing the East Coast Main Line (ECML) via a road bridge. The NCP crossed this road about half a mile west of the railway bridge but my map had given me other ideas. We turned off before that point, heading down the access road to Fenwick Granary Farm, where the NCP would join the road later.  The access road was single track and ran alongside Fenham Burn for much of its length, so following it was hardly an ordeal. Well, not until I was charged by a rampaging butterfly! No, really.

Well, okay, I accept it was not actually trying to headbutt my face. It was involved in a swirling, acrobatic mating flight for one thing, so clearly had other things occupying its tiny little mind. But, as we approached the bridge over the burn – which was also where the NCP met the road – it fluttered directly into my face and bounced right off my nose.

Fenwick Granary Farm

Across the burn, Fenwick Granary Farm was a bit of a mixed bag. The farmhouse, stables and immediate surroundings were lovely, having been converted into holiday accommodation. The rest of the farm had also ceased to be one, but was in much worse repair.

A1 Junction

The farm lane came to an end in a junction with the busy A1 road and the NCP route continued on its far side. With neither bridge nor any type of marked crossing, our only option was to wait for a gap in the traffic and dash across, praying we’d judged things correctly.  We made it across without suddenly accelerating laterally to 60 mph, so all was well and good.

We didn’t plan to hang about congratulating ourselves on our survival, but others seemed to be keen to make sure that we got a move on:

The above sign is long-obsolete, being of a design introduced in 1944 and abolished just two decades later, when the 1964 Worboys Report ushered in the UK’s current road signage.  We found it barely visible from the road, shaded by leaves and facing onto pedestrian pavement from which the junction alignment has moved away. But older OS maps imply it once faced directly onto the road, which makes sense.

Its arrow pointed west, along the B6353 road, leading directly to the hamlet of Fenwick. So, we followed its direction.

Fenwick

Although merely a tiny hamlet with a population of 400, we had high hopes for Fenwick. And by that I actually mean that we had hopes for a café near its centre. Alas, those hopes were cruelly dashed by its being closed all day on Wednesdays.

Blawearie

We left the B6353 in Fenham, having followed it for only half a mile. Branching off, we followed an unclassified road as it headed south carrying both the NCP and St Cuthbert’s Way, the latter being a 62-mile trail linking Lindisfarne to Melrose. For now, both trails were heading the same way but it would be important to take the correct one when they parted, or we’d end up in Wooler and not Bamburgh.

Both paths left the road just short of two thirds of a mile from Fenwick but I was pretty confident that we’d spot the right path this time. It was directly opposite a dwelling named on my map as Blawearie, a little beyond Fenwick Wood.

Buckton Burn

Blawearie was located right at the edge of Kyloe Wood, a much larger expanse of woodland than Fenwick Wood, comprised mainly of conifer plantation.  Later, the path would run alongside and through it but, for now, it turned its back on the woods and headed out amid fields.  It turned south again near the head of Buckton Burn, where a vista of Northumberland countryside opened up before us.

Kyloe Wood

The Old Wood

The path quickly drew closer to the edge of the Old Wood, that being the part of Kyloe Wood that formed the original Kyloe Plantation (as it was then known) when it was planted in the early 19th century as a tree nursery.  It’s not clear exactly when that was, but the woods were labelled as ‘Kyloe New Plantation’ on the 1828 Map of the County of Northumberland by John Greenwood (1791-1840) and were not shown at all on the 1769 map of his cartographical predecessor, Andrew Armstrong (1700-1794), which is what we’d expect.

What we wouldn’t necessarily expect is a large party of picnickers sat in the field with their backs to the Old Wood  and taking in the view.  One of them gestured towards a short protrusion of woodland through which the path was about to plunge. This extrusion hadn’t been on Greenwood’s map but had appeared by the time the first OS map was surveyed in 1860, which had since given it plenty of time to develop dense growth.

‘It’s a bit jungly in there,’ warned one of the picknickers.

Tigers & Squirrels & Flies, Oh My!

Tigers were thankfully not an issue and Kyloe Wood’s principal animals in the ‘have no idea they’re that colour’ category were actually red squirrels (most mammals are dichromats and therefore colour-blind, so red and orange look greenish-brown to them). And we didn’t see any of them either, largely because they heard us coming.

Partly this was because we made quite a noise thrashing our way through the heavily overgrown path and, at one point, climbing over a fallen tree. And partly because we were swearing and shouting at the many, many woodland flies.  They weren’t biting flies, which was a mercy, but they were definitely swarming-in-front-of-your-face-and-buzzing-in-your-ear flies.

Bored of the Flies

We thought we’d be free of them when we broke back out of the woodland projection and onto the section of path mysteriously named Dolly Gibson’s Lonnen, but no. The buzzy little blighters followed us, possibly in the hope that we might finally answer the question ‘who was this Dolly Gibson, anyway?’

Eventually, Simkin retrieved his secret weapon from his backpack – a can of insect repellent so potent it had seen off all-comers in India. With supreme confidence, he applied it to us both.  All I can say is that, as a weapon, it certainly was secret. In fact the enemy (the flies) didn’t notice it even after it had been deployed!

Dolly Gibson’s Lonnen

The lonnen (a dialect word for ‘lane’) was really just a footpath, though a broad gap between the Old Wood on one side and a thin screen of trees on the other hinted at a previously greater significance.  Beyond the trees lay the open expanse of Buckton Moor, which was liberally dotted with cows.  It was quite lovely, apart from the flies.

As we walked along the lonnen, the Old Wood kept pace alongside us, separated by a low fence. Until 1900, it had been the entire extent of Kyloe Plantation, but that was subject to change…

Christopher Leyland

In 1900, the woods passed into the ownership of Christopher John Leyland (1849-1926), inheritor to the fortune of his great-granduncle, banker Thomas Leyland (c. 1752-1827). In 1776, Thomas had won £20 k in a lottery (albeit shared with his business partner) and he invested his winnings in the highly-lucrative but morally repugnant business of slavery. This made him one of the richest men in England and, when slavery was rightly abolished, he went into banking instead.

As his heir, this ultimately left Christopher in a comfortable position from which to invest in the development of his estates. He set about increasing the size of the woods, which had quadrupled by 1920.

CJ Leyland’s arms quartered differenced versions of Leyland and Naylor (he had been born a Naylor but changed his name to Leyland when he inherited). This resulted in a confusing riot of lions, scallops, ears of barley and fretwork. It would probably look a lot cleaner if the field of the Leyland quarters was plain silver, and not an ermine fur pattern instead.

Leyland Cypress

In addition to simply making the woods bigger, he also experimented with improving the actual trees. In particular, he propagated seedlings of what was, at the time, a remarkable new hybrid conifer that had come about by chance on another Leyland-owned estate in Wales.

A hybrid of Monterey and Nootka cypresses – two American species whose natural ranges are 400 miles apart and so would normally never meet – it proved both remarkably hardy and rapid-growing and was named after the Leylands who created it. It was, of course, the Leyland cypress (Cupressus × leylandii).

Charles Mitchell

By 1920, the Leyland fortune had proved not to be inexhaustible and it became necessary to sell off Kyloe Woods. They were acquired by Major Charles Mitchell (1883-1959), who was the son of pre-Raphaelite painter Charles William Mitchell (1854–1903) and grandson of the prominent shipbuilder and philanthropist Charles Mitchell (1820-1895).

Since 1911, he had been living at Pallinsburn House, about ten miles west of the Old Wood.

The arms granted to Charles Mitchell the shipbuilder and inherited by his heirs were much simpler and more elegant than those of CJ Leyland, featuring a wavy bend and four mascles (voided diamonds). We’ve actually seen these arms before, decorating the façade of Aberdeen’s Marischal College.

Scottish Woodlands

In 1986, Kyloe Woods were purchased by Scottish Woodlands Ltd, despite being very much English, and they still belong to that company today.

Scottish Woodlands was obviously started in Scotland, where it was founded as a woodland owners’ cooperative in 1969. It now owns and manages woodland all over the UK and, although incorporated in 1986, it apparently remains quite true to its founding ethos, remaining 80% employee-owned. This blatant disregard for the usual business ownership model seems to have done it no harm – its annual turnover is currently in the region of £125 m!

Detchant

Shiellow Wood

As brief as our brush with their lucrative woodlands had been, it was already over. For, upon reaching the end of Dolly Gibson’s Lonnen, we passed into Shiellow Wood, which belongs to someone else (a man named John Monaghan, in fact).  I was pleased to see that the Kyloe Wood flies respected this ownership boundary and did not pursue us any further.

Shiellow Wood was a much younger patch of woodland than Kyloe Wood, having been planted in the mid-20th century. In the process, it filled in a gap of open moorland between Kyloe and Detchant Wood.  What it was planted with was, once again, conifers, but here there was negligible undergrowth.

Simkin and I took advantage of this situation to sit on some handy logs and/or tree stumps and enjoy our own picnic in the cooling shade of the trees and the merciful absence of the flies.  We still didn’t have much in the way of snacks, but what we did have was a couple of cans of Gin & Tonic that we’d been lugging about since the day before.  Was this an appropriate time and place to consume them? It was, if we drank them with confidence!

Shiellow Crag House

The footpath crossed a larger track near Shiellow Crag House – a decoratively castellated dwelling. This existed long before it became surrounded by trees, though not necessarily with its current appearance. It was labelled as ‘Mole’s Cottage’ on mid-20th-century OS maps and as ‘Holburn Woodhouse’ on earlier ones.

Thereafter, the path joined another track which cut a lane southward through the trees. This soon emerged from the area called Hunter’s Wood at a point near to Dow Crag and an unnamed private lake belonging to Greymare Farm.

Let There Be Cows!

The track had now become very grey and gravelly, but that made for easy going. Off on our left, we could once again see the distant shoreline that kept this walk technically ‘coastal.’  To our right was a large gorse bush that was suspiciously mooing.  We hurried on past this strange anomaly but, when I glanced back, the true culprits were right behind us, with some more important mooing that we urgently needed to hear.

Although this track would lead us to Greymare Farm if we let it, we needed to leave it before then.

The Right Track

I was about to merrily stride past the point of our departure, not having recognised it for what it was – it was a track on the map but looked less obviously track-like on the ground – but Simkin was thankfully paying more attention.  And good job too, as even with the Greymare Farm route ruled, out, we still had an option to go wrong. This was the point where the NCP and St Cuthbert’s Way parted company; the decision we now made would make all the difference between heading to Bamburgh or to Wooler!

Having checked and double-checked our maps, we made that decision. And so, with the Cattle Cult still clamouring for our devout attention, we turned away and followed the line of Fawcet Hill.

Virgin Hill Wood

The path became more convincingly tracklike as it curved around the base of Fawcet Hill. By the time it plunged into Virgin Hill Wood, it was well on the way to becoming a bona fide green lane.  The vegetation in this wood was more mixed than those we had already passed through, and the broad leaves of the deciduous plants gave it a vibrant lushness.

Virgin Hill Wood was planted (as Virginhill Plantation) sometime between the survey for the OS 1st edition map of the area in 1860 and that of the 2nd ed in 1896. As its name suggests, it covers the slope of Virgin Hill, down which we gently descended.

There wasn’t a huge amount of Virgin Hill Wood to traverse – slightly less than half a mile – so it didn’t take long before we emerged from the trees again.

Upper Swinhoe Lake

The track skirted the southern edge of the wood close to the ends of the two Swinhoe Lakes.  Of the two, Lower Swinhoe Lake is the larger and older, appearing as Swinhoe Pond on the OS 1st ed but not on Greenwood’s 1828 map. It was described by the OS Name Book (which was used to help compile the 1st ed) as being:

‘A pond of water used as a reservoir in connection with a threshing-mill at Detchant.’

It had already been artificially created by damming a marshy pool, but it would be enlarged at some point roughly mid-century, transforming it into an ornamental feature suitable for boating. A companion, Upper Swinhoe Lake, was also created. Both were well-established by 1899, in which year the OS 2nd ed was published.

The modern OS map makes it look like as though Lower Swinhoe Lake should be visible from the track but it was densely screened by vegetation. Upper Swinhoe Lake could be seen, though:

Swinhoe Farm

The track conveyed us past the lake and right into the centre of Swinhoe Farm where a coven of Cattle Cultists judged us silently from the milking shed, shunning us as heathens.

Swinhoe Farm sprang into being sometime between the OS 1st and 2nd eds, being merely labelled as Detchant Buildings on the earlier map. They had not then been a farm in their own right but were described by the Name Book thusly:

A row of cottages occupied by labourers and out-buildings in connection with the farm of Detchant.’

Today, 129 years after the OS 2nd ed was surveyed, Swinhoe remains a working farm. Since 2005, it has also been a riding centre. But the only equine we required was the metaphorical Shanks’s pony and, mounted on this slow but steady steed, we searched out the NCP waymarks – avoiding another opportunity to head for Wooler instead – and followed them out of the farm.

Mobile Mast

Almost immediately, the waymarks led us onto a low hill that mounted a mobile telephone mast.  There, standing right next to it, would be the only time for days in which my phone had full signal.

Belford

Leigh Heugh

From the phone mast, the path led along the flank of a ridge called Leigh Heugh, which had patches of trees atop it and a field below. The latter was bordered in places by flowers, which was glorious.

At the end of the ridge was a ruin where a cottage called Leighheugh once stood.  There was precious little left of it – just rubble and the bases of its walls – but it had already fallen out of use when the relevant OS Name Book was compiled in 1860:

‘A one storey property, unoccupied. The property of the Revd JD Clark.’

Immediately past Leigh Heugh was Juniper Hill, from which the Reverend might well have looked at the view. Even if he never had, we made sure to do so. Arrayed ahead of us was the way down to the castellated farmhouse of West Hall and, beyond that, the village of Belford. There, we very much hoped to find lunch.

West Hall

From Juniper Hill, we descended to West Hall. Now a farmhouse, this ornamentally-castellated house was the home of Revd John Dixon Clark (1812-1870) in 1860, which explains why he didn’t need Leighheugh. It was built in 1837 on the site of a previous moated and fortified manor house that had dated to about 1415.

An unfortified manor house preceded that, which briefly hosted Edward III in 1333, when he made an overnight stop on his journey south from beating the Scots at the Battle of Halidon Hill.

There may or may not have originally been an actual 11th-century motte & bailey castle on the site. Such has long been claimed, but the earthworks are ambiguous and records are lacking.

John Dixon Clark was a younger son who didn’t expect to inherit and entered the church only for his brother to die childless. He in turn left the Belford Estate to his brother-in-law on condition of adopting the Clark name and arms. These were a heavily differenced version of Clark of Werk (shown for comparison), with an ermine field replacing silver, a counter-embattled chevron and one rose replaced by a chaplet or wreath. The three dragon’s heads remain untouched though, because who’d want to mess with those?

West Street

The NCP stuck to the field edge as it passed West Hall on its way to join the farm’s access road. This meant that it crossed over Belford Burn three times before it dumped us into Belford. I guess it was good to get that out of the way, now – we’d be seeing the burn again later but we’d crossed it as much as we’d need to.

We had arrived onto Belford’s West Street, which was also the B6349.  This rewarded our involuntary patience by finally presenting us with snacks. A branch of Co-op faced onto the street and was open!

Market Place

We hastily purchased a number of small snack items but held off on getting a more substantial lunch in case Belford had better to offer. We could, we reasoned, always come back to the Co-op.

Pockets bulging, we ventured further up West Street, until it brought us to Market Place, where we were urged to reconsider our earlier choice of destination.

There were a couple of hotels and some closed-looking shops facing Belford’s 18th-century Market Cross but nothing that particularly grabbed us. We turned right onto the High Street and headed for a pub, the Salmon Inn.

Salmon Inn

The Salmon was originally a coaching inn that opened in 1837. This was less than ideal timing as the Newcastle & Berwick Railway would come to Belford just ten years later, providing speedy and comfortable travel with which stagecoaches could not compete. But, in its favour, the Salmon was right there on the High Street, next to the village Lock-up (erected 1824) and the Court House that replaced that in 1867. The station, meanwhile, was a mile and a quarter of winding roads away, and so hardly as handy.

Today, the Old Court House is a residential building and trains have not called at Belford Station since 1968, but the Salmon Inn is still there, fulfilling a role of traditional village pub.  Inside, we found a clearly bored barmaid who was astonished to actually have customers at that time of day.  We also found more G&Ts, which is just what we were looking for.

Belford Station

Actually, when I said trains have not called at Belford since 1968, that wasn’t strictly correct. The station was closed to passengers then, and most trains on the ECML just race right through. But, for weird franchise boundary reasons, Northern Trains run some empty trains up to Belford after dropping any passengers at Chathill, six miles to the south. These then sit and wait for a bit before crossing from the ‘down’ track to the ‘up’ track (trains always go ‘up’ toward London) and heading back south to resume timetabled services.

That Belford was closed and Chathill not was a point of contention in 1968, especially given the populations of those settlements at the time (about 900 and 50 respectively), but British Rail saw Chathill as more useful to retain. There are, of course, recurrent calls to reopen Belford but, so far, to no avail.

NB: I learnt about this railway weirdness from the informative, if rather old school, website Disused Stations, which I feel deserves to be properly credited as a reference.

Hither & Thither

After we’d finished our G&Ts, we headed back to the Co-op to buy some sandwiches that we hadn’t bought earlier. We quickly wolfed those down and then got on our way. This was supposed to coincide with the route of the NCP, but it very nearly didn’t.

Not content with having yo-yoed between the Co-op and the Salmon Inn, we contrived to walk straight past the NCP’s finger post, because we were engrossed in conversation. I realised our mistake when the B6349 wanted to make a hard left turn towards the old station and I knew we shouldn’t be doing that.

We hastily backtracked, finding the fingerpost close to the entrance to Belford Golf Club (est. 1993). Instead of the (admittedly not busy) B-road, the footpath ran alongside Belford Burn, which meant we had to contend with no vehicular traffic at all.  That was clearly an unacceptable state of affairs, so the coast path planners had made sure to correct it by forcing us to cross the A1 at grade again. Another exciting game of real-life Frogger ensued…

Belford Industrial Estate

For the second time that day, we made it across the A1 unscathed. On its far side, the character of the footpath had changed. There were still open fields to our left, but to our right industrial silos now dominated the scene. Specifically, these were grain silos belonging to Coastal Grains, a grain co-operative established in 1982.

According to their marketing blurb, this allows its members to pool resources for more efficient drying and handling of the grain they produce.

Coastal Grains and its silos were actually just part of Belford Industrial Estate, which also housed other tenants such as vehicle mechanics & MOT centre Travelsure (est. 1987) and events management company Culture Creative (est. 2004).  The estate’s industrial history dates back much further than the 1980s, however, as it occupies the site of a 19th-century Brick & Tile Works.

Belford Brick & Tile Works

While there was no sign of the brickworks on Armstrong’s 1769 map, nor even the road (now the B1342) on which it sat, Greenwood’s map of 1828 clearly showed both ‘brick kilns’ and the road, though the latter ended at those kilns.

In the 1860s, OS were showing both ‘Belford Brick & Tile Works’ and the extended road, which now had a station to go to, before continuing on to the farm of Outchester. The brickworks would not see out the century, however.

In its 2nd ed, OS had relabelled its main site ‘Old clay pits.’ While that implies it had already ceased digging its own clay by 1896, I believe the brickworks officially closed two years later, in 1898.

Bricksheds

A building nearby was labelled ‘Bricksheds’ and I initially assumed that this must have been a storage facility associated with the works. I was disabused of that notion, however, when I looked at the OS Name Book:

‘This name applies to a one-storey house, having out-buildings, garden, and a farm of land attached, deriving its name from its close proximity to a brick & tile manufactory.’

This explains why Bricksheds continued to be labelled as such until at least the 1970s, when the brickworks was long-defunct. While the house is no longer so labelled on modern OS maps, it is still there today, with the industrial estate as its close neighbour. It also retains the name.

Belford Burn Level Crossing

We had already risked our lives once by darting across the A1 and the NCP now asked us to risk them again, by crossing the ECML via Belford Burn level crossing.

While one of LNER’s 438-tonne Class 800 ‘Azuma’ trains would barely even notice that it hit us at 125 mph, the infrastructure owner (Railtrack) was keen to avoid the bad press that comes with the instant pulverisation of pedestrians. Accordingly, they had fitted this pedestrian-only crossing and two others nearby – Easington and Fenham Hill – with phones to the nearest signalling centre and required users to check that it was safe with the signaller before proceeding.

In theory, we should already have made one such crossing that day, as our planned route should have used Fenham Hill level crossing. But we missed that when we went the wrong way to Fenham Farm, and so crossed the line via a road overbridge (much safer, but far less exciting).

Easington Quarry Siding

Having crossed the line with alacrity, we found ourselves very briefly plunged into woodland again as the path cut through a copse. On its far side we encountered a second level crossing, although this time there was no phone.

Given the amount of overgrowth, not to mention a fence across the tracks just left of that photo, we were pretty sure that this time there was no rush. A glance at our OS maps showed this line still marked, though, and officially it was ‘mothballed’ rather than closed.

Often, such a status is because actually closing a line for good requires quite a lot of legal bureaucracy, but in this case it is because it really is supposed to be temporary. The line was the Easington Quarry Siding, which served Easington Quarry (also known in its later years as Belford Quarry despite Cragmill Quarry being far closer to Belford).

Easington Quarry

The quarry allegedly operated from the 1890s, with the siding added in the 1920s but if that is true then no one told the OS, who failed to add either to their maps until the 1950s (not that it would be the first time that that happened).

I’m not sure when it closed, either, only that it was still operating in the 1980s and wasn’t in 2025. Although that could soon change…

Tarmac, who currently own it, are certainly proclaiming its closure to be temporary, not least on the sign at its road entrance. Its reopening was mooted as recently as 2018 and planning permission was granted to enable new quarrying to commence.  Although the site remains inactive, the planning consent is still valid and Tarmac appears to be waiting for one of their other sites to exhaust before turning their attention to this one. A reactivation by 2030 is expected.

Budle Bay

Outchester Ducket

As we passed south of Easington Quarry, we were drawing closer to a directional decision. My 2015 paper OS map showed the NCP turning right at a road ahead and then passing close to a windmill. The up-to-date online map showed it turning left at the road to take a quite different route and also omitted the windmill entirely, implying it no longer existed.

Fortunately, Simkin could also see the structure, absolving my eyes of accusations of untruthfulness. 

Known as Outchester Ducket, the 19.8 m tower is no stranger to controversy, having long revelled in a lengthy disagreement as to whether it had  or had not ever actually been a windmill. OS obviously thought so, but we’ve seen what their word (or, in this case, pictogram) is worth. A plaque next to its gate boldly declares that there is no evidence that it ever was one.  But the plaque is now out of date…

Windmill or Dovecote?

In 2017, Belford Museum volunteers found the necessary National Archive records to finally settle the argument. It was built as a windmill.

It was constructed in 1795 so that John Weatherly, the tenant farmer at Outchester, could use it to power a threshing machine. It cost £535 (equivalent to about £40 k today), of which he paid a small part, with the lion’s share falling upon his landlord, Greenwich Hospital. Its five sails were affixed to a timber framework that sat atop the stone tower, and could be turned in line with the wind direction.

Unfortunately, the windmill was already in poor repair by 1817, when the hospital had it inspected, and it was replaced with a steam-powered thresher in 1820. Thereafter, the tower was adapted for use a dovecote (or ‘ducket’ in local dialect) and then allowed to fall derelict. In 2007, it became a self-catering holiday home.

Chesterhill Dean

Faced with a route choice of windmill (2015 map) over seashore (current map), we elected for the latter and turned left when the footpath met the road. It didn’t stay on the road for long, though, soon cutting eastward across a field, alongside  –  but not actually in – the gully of Chesterhill Dean.

Ahead of us, we saw the rightness of our route choice fully confirmed by the unfolding vista of Budle Bay:

Waren Mill

The footpath spat us out onto a road that turned out to be more of the B1342. This then curved around the embayment of Drake’s Hole and past Waren Mill.

This had been a water-driven corn mill, constructed in 1785, and raised from two storeys to four in 1835.  Converted to steam power in 1819, it served in its intended role until about 1910, surviving an 1881 fire. Thereafter, it became a maltings for the brewing industry.

After closure circa 1980, several attempts were made to convert its shell into flats, but these kept falling foul of local objections to planning permission.  In 2003, a successful attempt saw it transformed into 16 luxury flats, which I – for some reason – decided weren’t worthy of a photograph.

Chesterhill Slakes

After Waren Mill, the NCP, which had now also reunited with the ECP, stayed on the B1342 as it ran along the edge of Budle Bay.  Partway along was a viewing platform, intended as a birdwatching point.  We gladly put its benches to good use as a rest stop and gazed out over the marshy mudflats of Chesterhill Slakes in search of any birds that needed watching.

Kiln Point

About half a mile from Waren Mill, the coastline bulged outwards inti the bay. Here, the B1342 continued on past Budle, heading inland, while the ECP stuck to the shoreline, rounding Kiln Point via a path that, while it was passable, wanted any walkers to get properly close to nature. Especially the green and leafy kind.

Kiln Point takes its name from a lime kiln that graced this headland in the 19th century and technically still does today. It was clearly labelled on the OS 1st ed, so was likely in use in 1860, but was no longer marked on the 2nd ed, suggesting it had fallen out of use by 1896. Today, in 2025, it is in a state of sorry disrepair but its stubborn survival still justifies that particular headland’s name.

Heather Cottages

The path briefly spat us out above a beach by Heather Cottages. These were originally occupied by HM Coast Guard and served as a Coast Guard Station though early OS maps labelled them ‘Heatherhouse’ after a building they replaced.  Of that, the 1860 OS Name Book observed:

‘The original “Heatherhouse” has long since been removed. It was a public house, having the roof covered with heather, hence its name.’

Had the Heatherhouse still existed in 2025, I’m sure that Simkin and I would have called in for a break there. In its absence, we pressed on down another leafy path, soon passing the Newtown Gun Emplacement shown in the photo above. This WW2 coastal defence structure was similar to the one we’d seen the previous day at Scremerston and, like it, had once mounted a 4-inch naval gun that could throw a 14 kg shell over 6½ miles.

Bamburgh

Bamburgh Castle Golf Club

After passing due south of Budle Point, we emerged from the scratchy caress of the foliage to find ourselves in a very different outdoor environment – the perfectly manicured green of a golf course.  This was Bamburgh Castle Golf Club (est. 1904), which doesn’t actually include Bamburgh Castle in its course (they’re about a mile apart) but you can certainly see the one from the other.

The path led us around the edge of the course until we reached the course clubhouse. There, Simkin was briefly engaged in conversation by a strangely intense woman who was worryingly insistent that there must be a view the other way of Lindisfarne Castle. Or else!

Bamburgh Lighthouse

Feeling weirded out, we escaped as fast as our tired legs could carry us. Which wasn’t all that fast at all, if I’m honest. Still, it was speedy enough to convey us down The Wynding – the wonderfully-named road connecting the golf course to the village – as far as Blackrocks Point. There, Bamburgh Lighthouse was largely failing to demonstrate any kind of serious lighthousiness.  It wasn’t very tall, merely reaching 9 m, and it wasn’t stripy, nor was its footprint a circle.

The lighthouse was erected by Trinity House in 1910 and electrified in 1967.  It was designed by Sir Thomas Matthews (1849-1930), Trinity House’s engineer-in-chief, and his not being a member of the Scottish Stevenson family really brought home to me that my walks are now back in England.

Bamburgh Beach

After Blackrocks Point, the Wynding threaded its way atop the dunes backing Bamburgh Beach and its position hid from us some anti-tank blocks that have been painted to resemble Rubik’s Cubes. Indeed, I am only just learning that these cubes existed as I write this up.

Bamburgh Castle

Bamburgh Castle pretty much dominates the village, as  well it might. Its core is an 11th-century Norman construction with numerous additions, alterations and restorations made down the subsequent centuries. But its site has a far older history, sitting atop a volcanic dolerite plug that practically demands fortification. In the 5th century, it hosted the fort of Din Guarie, which may have been the capital of the Brittonic kingdom of Bryneich, aka Bernicia.

In 547, Din Guarie and Bernicia fell to the Anglian king Ida (d. 559) and, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle:

‘He built Bamburgh-Castle, which was first surrounded by a hedge, and afterwards with a wall.’

According to the 9th century monk Nennius – who was writing a couple of centuries later – Ida’s grandson, Æthelfrith (d. 616) gave the town of Din Guarie to his wife Bebba, after whom it became known as Bebbanburh (‘Bebba’s fortified settlement’), from which the name ‘Bamburgh’ developed.  Æthelfrith’s son Oswald (604-642) would go on to unite Bernicia with its southern neighbour, Deira, to form Northumbria.

After the Norman Conquest, the first part of the current castle was constructed but, in 1095, its owner, Robert de Mowbray, Earl of Northumbria (d.1125) rebelled against William II (1057-1100), which led to its Royal confiscation.

I. Bernicia predates the development of heraldry by quite some time but that didn’t stop mediaeval heralds from retrospectively attributing some to it, so that they’d have a symbol to represent it. It is based on a flag flown on Oswald’s tomb , as described by the historian Bede (672-735). II. William II was also too early for systematic heraldry, but later heralds retrospectively attributed to him the same arms as used by his great-grandnephew, Richard I.

Owners & Administrators

Although the castle continued to be part of the Royal demesne, governors were appointed from 1191, starting with Sir John Forster. His family would continue to provide governors down the centuries until they were granted actual ownership in the 16th century. They then retained it until the bankrupt demise of Sir William Forster in 1700, when the castle was sold to his sister’s husband, Nathaniel Crew (1633-1721), 3rd Baron Crew and Bishop of Durham.

Lord Crew appointed a board of trustees chaired by Thomas Sharp (1693-1758), the Archdeacon of Northumberland, which began a lengthy association of the castle with the Sharps.  By the 18th century it was deteriorating and they began the process of restoration, which was completed by the Victorian industrialist William Armstrong (1810-1900), 1st Baron Armstrong, when he purchased it in 1894.

The castle remains Armstrong property today.

Siege of Bamburgh

With the castle looming dramatically over Bamburgh, Simkin and I followed the Wynding into the heart of the village.

Obviously, it’s been restored and rebuilt since then, but the castle’s novel cannon experience came about in 1464 during the Wars of the Roses.  The castle had been besieged for nine months by Warwick the Kingmaker – Richard Neville (1428-1471), 16th Earl of Warwick  – who got fed up with the siege situation and decided to see what cannon could really do, beginning with a simultaneous barrage from all three of his main guns (named Newcastle, London and Dijon).

His opponent, Lancastrian commander Sir Ralph Grey (1432-1464) was knocked unconscious by falling masonry, dislodged by the bombardment. While he had been resolute in the face of the threat, his subordinates felt rather less so, as the castle disintegrated about their ears and they surrendered. Sir Ralph survived his blunt force injuries, only to be slain by some sharper ones – he was beheaded for treason in Doncaster.

I. Warwick’s arms were unusually complex for the day, with many grand quarters to show his prestigious pedigree. This may or may not have impressed those he wished to impress but such complexity tends to impede the principal purpose of arms , which is to be an instantly recognisable emblem on the battlefield. I suppose if it’s only you that sports a shield like a patchwork quilt, then that’s still sufficiently standout. II. Sir Ralph was a Grey of Chillingham, whose arms were the Grey of Heaton lion and engrailed bordure, differenced by a mullet (star). As he was a younger son, he technically ought to have differenced them further, but he may well not have bothered.

Victoria Hotel

The Wynding ended in the heart of Bamburgh, where Simkin and I quickly found Front Street and the Victoria Hotel. This had been repeatedly emailing me all day – except, of course, when I stood by that mobile mast – in apparent terror that I might forget I had booked.

Excessive communication aside, it was one of the nicer places I’ve stayed and, after we’d checked into our rooms and cleaned ourselves up, Simkin and I enjoyed a pleasant dinner.  And, yes, okay, perhaps a couple more drinks.

---

This time: 19½ miles
Total since Gravesend: 4,683 miles

---