CCLXII – Alnmouth to Newbiggin-by-the-Sea

AS HAS become my autumnal tradition, I was distracted from the write-up of my summer walking trip and thus it’s now a quarter year since the actual walks took place. That being so, I suppose I had better get on with it.

The fourth day of my August 2025 trip found me up and about at an early hour wandering the streets of Alnmouth.  Well, one of them, at least…

Alnmouth

Northumberland Street

My wanderings began in Alnmouth’s Northumberland Street, which was essentially its high street.

Alnmouth’s layout has not changed much since mediaeval times, featuring mostly narrow-fronted buildings facing onto Northumberland Street, with long thin burgage plots stretching out behind them. 

A burgage plot – from burgh or ‘borough’ – was a narrow urban plot of land with restricted street frontage on the main building and often various outbuildings in its elongated back yard.

St Waleric

As the village was founded in mediaeval times – by the Norman knight William de Vesci (c.1125–1184), who was granted a charter to do so in 1152 – this means that its layout has never really changed, even if the actual buildings have since been rebuilt (which they have). He named this new burgh St Waleric after the Frankish monk of that name (d. 620), who had founded the abbey of Saint-Valery-sur-Somme, and dedicated its church to him. But, while the church retained that dedication until its end, the name didn’t stick to the burgh.

William’s son, Eustace de Vesci (1169–1216), was further authorised to establish a port and weekly fish market in 1208. Based in Alnwick Castle, about four miles to Alnmouth’s west, he would go on to be one of 25 barons who signed the Magna Carta in 1215. Alnmouth, meanwhile, would thrive as a fishing port barring a few minor hiccoughs, such as when the Scots raided and torched it in 1336.  Cue a round of rebuilding…

The House of Vesci (or ‘Vescy,’ ‘Vasey’ and a myriad of other spellings) was a Norman family hailing from Vassy that came to hold the barony of Alnwick. Prior to 1253, when Eustace’s son William de Vesci died , they bore the arms of Vesci ancient, which displayed a silver cross patonce (i.e., with trifurcated ends to each arm) upon a red field. This William’s son, John de Vesci (d. 1289) then adopted new arms – those of Vesci modern – which displayed a plain black cross on gold.

Schooner Hotel

Multiple bouts of piecemeal rebuilding would follow, resulting in buildings of varied provenance nestling up against each other. One such structure, built in the 17th century as a coaching inn, was the Schooner Hotel. This clearly didn’t get the memo about retaining narrow burgage plots but has since had other concerns to dwell on, as it lays claim to being ‘the most haunted hotel in Great Britain’ with an alleged 60 ghosts. Given that it only has 32 rooms, that suggests the spooks are cosily bunking up together.

Despite its otherworldly overcrowding, this Grade II listed hotel has managed to pack in a number of interesting living guests over the years. These include leading Methodist John Wesley (1703-1791), the author Charles Dickens (1812-1870), actor Basil Rathbone (1892-1967) and the WW2 flying ace and amputee, Sir Douglas Bader (1910-1982). But perhaps its most illustrious claimed resident is George III (1738-1820)! His visit is doubly impressive because, not only was he the King, but, so far as I can determine, he never travelled further north than Cheltenham in his life!

Haunted merely by questions – Did they host an imposter? Or was he an astral projection, ethereally hanging out with all the spectres, having gained psychic powers through his insanity? Or is it the marketing spiel that has gone mad? – I briskly returned to the southern end of Northumberland Street, where my last walk had ended.

Dr Joy’s Garden

Directly opposite the end of the street was Dr Joy’s Garden, a small memorial garden funded by, and dedicated to the memory of, pioneering cardiologist Joy Edelman (1937-2004). Though originally a Londoner, Dr Edelman was a frequent visitor to Alnmouth and latterly also a resident.

In addition to being quite lovely in itself, her garden looked out over the Aln Estuary, with Coquet Island lurking distantly offshore on the horizon.

It is from the estuary or, more specifically, the mouth of the River Aln, that Alnmouth gets its current name.  The river mouth is slightly closer than it used to be, however, and its dramatic relocation in late 1806 also spelt the end for the village’s earlier namesake, St Waleric’s Church.

Storm of 1806

The Storm of 1806 was an unwanted Christmas surprise, blowing up overnight on Christmas Eve and raging on into the morning.  Swollen with rain, the Aln suddenly burst through the north end of the Church Hill sandbank, cutting off not only a looping meander but also the hill and its church. The latter, battered by raging winds and weakened by ground erosion, then collapsed.

The church was never rebuilt, though a small mortuary chapel was erected in 1870 when the old churchyard cemetery was reopened.  The disused chapel also stands ruined today, its roof having been removed by the National Trust to deter squatters from trying to live in it.

Alnmouth Cross

Although St Waleric’s dated from Alnmouth’s founding in 1152, with the usual subsequent repairs and/or alterations, it was likely not the earliest church on the site.  Fragments of an Anglo-Saxon cross were discovered there in 1789, strongly suggesting that an 8th or 9th century religious establishment had preceded it.  And it’s possible it may go back even further than that…

Synod of Twyford

According to Bede (673-735), the Synod of Twyford was held in 684 at the confluence of the River Aln and a tributary near its mouth. While its exact site is unknown, Alnmouth is accepted as being the most likely candidate.

The synod was held by Theodore of Tarsus (602-690), Archbishop of Canterbury, to elect a new Bishop of Hexham.  It chose St Cuthbert (c. 634-687), but he initially refused the appointment, before eventually (and reluctantly) agreeing to become Bishop of Lindisfarne instead. Of course, Lindisfarne already had a bishop – Eata (d.686) – and he then swapped to Hexham.

Riverside Road

From Dr Joy’s Garden, I followed Riverside Road upstream, skirting the very edge of Alnmouth (formerly St Waleric, formerly Twyford). This led me past the River Aln Boat Club (est. 1978) and Pease’s Park, a small public park created in the late 19th century on the initiative of parish council chair Ella Pease (1862-1937), for whom it was named.

Ella was the daughter of banker John William Pease (1836–1901) who, in 1859, co-founded the lengthily-named bank of Hodgkin, Barnett, Pease, Spence & Co, which in 1903 would be acquired by Lloyds Bank (est. 1765). He bought a holiday home – Nether Grange – in Alnmouth in 1875 and, given that Ella lived out much of her life in the village, her childhood holidays there must have agreed with her.

Riverside Road soon brought me to a junction with Garden Terrace where I completely missed the coast path signpost that would have sent me along a riverside footpath to Duchess Bridge.  Instead, I turned right when I should have gone left and found myself returned to Northumberland Street. Like you do.

St John the Baptist Parish Church

Since I was now back on Northumberland Street, I headed northwards up it and this took me past the gates of St John the Baptist Parish Church, which was St Waleric’s eventual replacement.

For half a century after the destruction of St Waleric’s, the parishioners of Alnmouth had been without a church and had to trek into nearby Lesbury for services at St Mary’s.  This situation was partly rectified in 1859, when a chapel of ease was consecrated in a former granary and this sufficed until 1876, when the new church of St John’s was constructed.  The land on which it was built was donated by Algernon Percy (1810-1899), 6th Duke of Northumberland, while the cost of construction – £2,595 – was raised by public subscription.

The former granary and chapel of ease was subsequently converted into a village hall, which it remains today under the name of Hindmarsh Hall.

War Memorial

Continuing up Northumberland Street, I passed various shops, houses and inns until the road ended at a roundabout.  On the latter stood Alnmouth War Memorial, erected in 1922 to honour the dead of WW1. Additional names for WW2 were added in 1949 because the ‘war to end all wars’ didn’t.

At the war memorial, I turned left and headed onto the apparently otherwise unnamed B1338 and headed for Duchess Bridge.

Duchess Bridge

Both the bridge and the B1338 were built in 1864, although the latter was then known as ‘the new road’ (‘A’ and ‘B’ road designations were not devised until the 1920s).  The stone-arched bridge is named for Eleanor Percy, née Grosvenor (1820-1911) – wife to Algernon Percy (1792-1865), 4th Duke of Northumberland – and this is only fair because she largely funded its construction.

Both road and bridge were built with the express purpose of directly connecting Alnmouth with what was then Bilton railway station.  The station had been opened in 1847 by the Newcastle & Berwick Railway and had previously required either a detour via Lesbury Mill Bridge or a ford or ferry crossing to Church Hill in order to get to it. In 1892, the North Eastern Railway (which had inherited the station) renamed it to Alnmouth despite it being about a mile distant from the village with Hipsburn in between.

Duchess Bridge as constructed was quite narrow and still is. It certainly didn’t have much room for pedestrians and this situation was remedied in 1971 when an additional iron footbridge was added to the upstream side at a cost of £9,100.  It was by means of this footbridge that I crossed the Aln, a river first referenced – as Alaunus – in the 2nd century Geography of Claudius Ptolemy. For obvious reasons, he never mentioned the bridge.

Wet Paint

My transriverine travels began underwhelmingly with another quarter mile of pedestrian pavement alongside the B1338. This brought me to a crossroad of sorts where a foot and cycle path crossed over the B-road. Taking the southern arm of this footpath conveyed me across Hip Burn and then away from the river to run alongside – but not quite touching – the A1068.

Where the path (almost) met the A-road stood a rather magnificent memorial bench carved into a leafy design. A small plaque informed me that this was dedicated to the memory of Michelle Turnbull (1956-2009). I don’t know who she was and failed to find out anything about her, so I can’t honestly say that I’ll remember her, but I’ll definitely remember her bench.

Bovine Barometry

A little further along, I encountered a field of cattle, all of whom were recumbent.  This reminded me of the old folk saying that when cows sit down, it means it’s about to rain.  This is, on the face of it, nonsense. I mean, cows sit down a lot when chewing the cud, and it rains a lot in Britain. That’s a recipe for a lot of coincidental co-occurrence.

I knew that the Met Office’s forecast for the day did not predict rain but I was more than willing to give the cows a chance to prove their meteorological mettle like some kind of bovine barometer.

Waterside Cottages

The foot and cycle path remained close to the A-road – but not too close, thanks to a hedgerow – for a little over half a mile.  Thereafter, the cycle route continued alongside it, but the coast path headed for Waterside Cottages, to see what Alnmouth looked like from this side of the estuary.

Guano Shed

The coast path curved around the bottom of the marshy creek that is all that remains of the Aln’s old course and then struck south, running parallel to the coastline but separated from the sea by the dunes of Buston Links.  But, before it could properly break away from Alnmouth, it had one more relic of that village’s past to display. This was, at first glance, merely a ruined barn but its purpose had been more specific.  It had been a guano shed.

Guano was imported in vast quantities for use as an agricultural fertilizer and was shipped across the world from Peru.  Prior to the storm of 1806, Alnmouth had been a port of entry for this cargo and the shed was built to store it.  In particular, it was built to store it a good half mile from the village on account of the ungodly nauseating stench.

Warkworth

Birling Carrs

The path heading south was broad and easy-going, flanked on both sides by low bracken.  To my left, the dunes of Buston Links blocked any view of Rose Sands – here, ‘links’ just means ‘duneland’ – while cultivated fields spread out to my right.

The vegetation got taller and the dunes less so as I approached the rocky ledge of Birling Carrs. At the same time, the path moved slightly seawards, finally exposing a view of sandy beaches from atop the dunes.

Immediately before Birling Carrs Caravan Park, which overlooked the ledge, the coast path dropped to cross the tiny Salter’s Burn by way of a footbridge.

Rose Sands

A path gave beach access by following the burn downstream and I diverted briefly off the coast path and went down it.  Partly, I thought it about time to take my first rest, and partly I wanted to get a proper look at Rose Sands before I completely passed them by. Because why not?

Birling Links

I made myself rest for a moment on the basis that many short pre-emptive rests keep you fresher than one long one when you’re already tired. It was a challenge, though, as I was itching to get on.  Returning to the caravan park, I navigated through it and then briskly set off south along its access road.

After just a couple of hundred metres, the road turned west to seek the A1068, but the coast path kept on going south.  It now became a narrow, winding path, threading its way through the dunes of Birling Links, which was delightful.

Coquet Island

I remained wilfully ignorant of impending golfiness by affixing my attention on Coquet Island, which sat on the horizon beyond Warkworth Beach. The island is owned by the Duke of Northumberland but managed by the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) as a bird reserve. It is home to the UK’s only breeding colony of roseate terns.

Today, the island has no permanent human inhabitants, though RSPB wardens stay there over spring and summer to protect nesting birds. It has been lived upon in the past, however. Henry of Coquet (d. 1127) was a Danish-born noble who fled from an unwanted arranged marriage and lived as a hermit on the island.

Warkworth Beach Car Park

Inevitably, and with all the usual attendant soul-rending horror, I came alongside Warkworth Golf Club and followed its edge to Warkworth Beach Car Park. There, the coast path turned inland in search of a bridge by which to cross the River Coquet.

Warkworth Bridges

The car park’s access road led me westwards until it met the A1068 on the outskirts of Warkworth.  There I found not one but two bridges offering me a choice by which to keep my feet dry.

Of the two, Warkworth Old Bridge was certainly prettier. It was a 14th-century stone-arched affair and is one of only two surviving fortified mediaeval bridges in Britain (Monnow Bridge in Monmouth is the other).  Its companion, Warkworth New Bridge, was built in 1965 and was more functional than it was aesthetic.

I crossed via the older bridge. Because of course I did.

Market Cross

Having crossed the Coquet, I joined the A1068 and found that it was now Bridge Street, which made sense. This led me to the village’s market cross, which is mostly an 1830 replacement of a 1706 predecessor, though the base is probably the original.  The replacement was funded by Hugh Percy (1785-1847), 3rd Duke of Northumberland, and its decoration includes crescents and fetterlocks, which were elements of a Percy livery badge.

A livery badge was granted separately from a coat of arms and often featured different symbols from the latter. Its purpose was to be worn by retainers to identify their allegiance. The Percy livery badge comprised a gold fetterlock or shackle-bolt (i.e., a set of manacles) upon a red and black roundel, surrounded by a silver crescent.

I availed myself of a handy shop and procured an ice cream and cold drink.  The day was continuing warmly so far with no sign of any cow-predicted rain.  I then sat on the steps of the market cross while I consumed these.

St Lawrence’s Church

From my position on the market cross steps, I glanced north and espied St Lawrence’s Church, a Northumberland flag fluttering at its gate. Dedicated to St Lawrence of Rome (225-258), it dates from the 12th century but, as usual, is not the first one on the site. A predecessor stood there in 737, when Northumbria’s King Ceolwulf (729-737) gave both church and village – then known as Wercewode, meaning ‘earthwork enclosure’ – to the monks of Lindisfarne Abbey.

The current St Lawrence’s nave was built in 1132, with the tower added circa 1200.  That was topped with a spire in the 14th century, by which time paper had reached our shores but only as a staggeringly expensive import. The entrance porch was added in the 15th.

Castle Street

My ice cream devoured, I started to ascend the hill of Castle Street.

Castle Street Pant

I had reached no further than the nearest tree in the photo above when I paused to examine what I might call a ‘village pump’ but Northumberland dialect terms a ‘pant.’  There was maddeningly little I could learn about this structure, with even its official Grade II listing vaguely hedging its construction as late 18th or early 19th century.

Warkworth Castle

At the top of the hill, overlooking Warkworth from its highest point, were the ruins of Warkworth Castle.  This was built in the 12th century although exactly when and by whom remains uncertain; Henry of Scotland (1114-1152) and King Henry II (1133-1189) are both potential founders.

The castle definitely existed by 1164, because Henry II then issued a charter giving it to Roger fitz Richard (d. 1177). His descendants – who took the surname Clavering from another estate held by them in Essex – would continue to hold it until 1332 when John de Clavering, his 3× great-grandson, died.

Ralph Neville (1291-1367), 2nd Baron Neville of Raby, probably hoped to inherit it, seeing as how he was already acting as the castle’s keeper and then married John’s heiress Euphemia in 1344 for good measure, but no. Edward III gave the castle to Henry Percy, (1301-1352), 2nd Baron Percy of Alnwick, instead. I’m sure that in no way helped fuel the bitter Neville-Percy feud.

Conflict & Neglect

The castle mostly remained in Percy hands thereafter, apart from some periods during the Wars of the Roses when it was confiscated by their Yorkist foes (they were Lancastrians) and was even held by two Neville brothers: John Neville (1431-1471), 1st Marquess of Montagu and Richard Neville (1428-1471), 16th Earl of Warwick.

It was damaged by its own Parliamentarian garrison during the English Civil War and then allowed to fall further into ruin during the 18th century, with the Percy dukes of Northumberland preferring Alnwick Castle.

Eventually, in 1922, Alan Percy (1880-1930), the 8th duke, transferred care of its remains to the Office of Works. Today, its ruins are managed by English Heritage but the current Duke of Northumberland remains its legal owner.

Beal Bank

Castle Street curved its way around Warkworth Castle and then changed its name to Woodlands despite being in no way wooded. The A1068 diverted off this by taking a left down a street called Beal Bank, and the coast path followed, taking me with it.

Beal Bank turned out to be an actual raised bank pinning the River Coquet in place.  The A1068 ran atop it and was pretty busy, so I was pleased to find that the coast path was a few metres down the bank from the road and separated by a narrow verge.  It wasn’t much of a barrier but it still helped nonetheless.

Obviously, the river was down at the bottom of the bank which meant that when I fumbled and dropped my water bottle, it immediately rolled right down to the water’s edge.  By a miracle, it came to a rest against a tuft of grass instead of falling in and floating away, but now I needed to retrieve it.  This would involve first hopping a wire fence and then descending the bank without falling in. A trivial challenge for many, I am sure, but my sense of balance is appalling.

Amble

The Braid

Amazingly, I managed to retrieve the bottle and return to the path without an unscheduled dip.  I was thus feeling immensely pleased with myself as I followed Beal Bank round and diverted onto the Braid.

The Braid is a grassy area west of Amble that was legally designated a village green in 2008. This was reclaimed from use as a rubbish tip in the 1970s and a had earlier been a marshy bank that hosted a boatyard between 1870 and 1926.  While boats are now longer built there, some are at least moored there – Amble Marina sits at its eastern end. This was opened in 1987, cut into land reclaimed from the mud flats.

Storm of 1764

Prior to 1764, the Braid had been the western bank of a riverine meander rather than the southern bank of an estuary. Much like the Aln in 1806, only more so, the river had burst its banks and straightened its course. But where the Aln’s rearrangement helped kill off Alnmouth as a port, the Coquet’s new course made it possible for Amble to become one by providing immediate access to the sea.

Bord Waalk

As I made my way across the small park that the Braid now effectively is, I encountered a couple of avian-themed artworks.  These were part of the ‘Bord Waalk’ – that’s ‘bird walk’ rendered phonetically to represent the local accent – an art trail established in 2022.

The first one I came to was Tern Wings, a pair of disembodied steel wings by the French-based artist, sculptor and inventor, Jon Voss. He was inspired by the tern colony on Coquet Island.

The next was Flock Sphere by Scottish-based sculptor & environmental artist Rob Mulholland. This comprised a hollow sphere welded together from stainless steel bird shapes. An opening was left to allow the observer to enter the sphere and immerse themselves within the flock.

Queen Street

The coast path took a right turn just before the marina and crossed over the Gut.  Today, this is the final stretch of the small stream Guilder’s Burn but it used to be the southern arc of the Coquet’s pre-1764 meander. 

I emerged into a small residential side street – North Street – and this, in turn, led to me to Queen Street. This was Amble’s main retail street and arguably the heart of its town centre.

Clock Tower

I reached the eastern end of Queen Street with a big grin concealing that my mouth was now full of chocolate. My evident joy was probably unseemly and Amble quickly admonished me to show some sense of decorum:

The Clock Tower War Memorial was unveiled in 1925 and cost £2100, raised by public subscription. An impressively local effort, It was designed by William Burton, Surveyor to Amble Urban District Council, and built by R Carse & Sons of Amble with inscriptions sculpted by Messrs Whittle & Sons, also of Amble. Unfortunately, the town did not have a clockmaker, so the clock had to be ordered from Leeds.

As with the memorial in Alnmouth, when hopes of ‘never again’ proved sadly unfounded, an additional plaque was installed after WW2

Warkworth Harbour

I took the Clock Tower’s admonition to heart. It had already shown me the time so I now went in search of the place. This quest soon brought me to Warkworth Harbour – designed by John Rennie (1794-1874) in 1838 – and Amble’s Fishdock, which was opened in 1988. the latter is home to three seine netters and about twenty traditional flat-bottomed cobles.

The harbour was officially named ‘Warkworth Harbour’ rather than ‘Amble Harbour’ as Warkworth was still the larger and more important settlement in 1849, when it was completed.

Amble was seen to be a port serving Warkworth but, as Northumberland’s most northern coal port, it quickly grew on trade from collieries all around. Alas, the coal boom proved finite and the last of the regional collieries ceased operation in 2005. But at least it still has its little fishing fleet.

South Jetty & Pier

Beyond the Fishdock lay Broomhill Quay and I followed this to its end.

The walkway in question was the South Jetty, which extended along the line of the original Southern Breakwater (built along with the harbour in 1849 to constrain the river mouth’s slow but continuing migration) and then onward to connect with the end of South Pier.  That, in turn, led back to Pan Point (the buildings in the photo above).

South Pier Lighthouse

At the end of the South Pier, just beyond where the jetty met it, stood the South Pier Lighthouse, built in 1848 as part of Rennie’s harbour plan. As a harbour light, it is owned and maintained by Warkworth Harbour Commissioners rather than the English lighthouse authority, Trinity House.  It is made of cast iron and stands about 9.5 m tall. Beyond that, there’s not much to say about it.

Paddlers Park

On passing Pan Point, I came to Paddlers Park, a green space that was revamped in 2016 to replace some disused paddling pools with a playground. Previously, in the 19th century, it had been a sandstone quarry, providing some of the stone for harbour construction.  Unfortunately, the stone was not suitable for all purposes and the breakwaters had to be rebuilt with granite shipped in from elsewhere.

It’s nice that it has since become a public space instead of being left empty, derelict and idle.

The above is Big Puffin by Yorkshire-based sculptor Ben Greenwood. Described as ‘a giant neolithic faux stone puffin,’ it is another of the Bord Waalk artworks and only very rarely demands blood sacrifices to prevent its murderous rampage.

Amble Links

From Paddlers Park, the coast path nipped behind Amble East Cemetery and into Amble Links before rounding Wellhaugh Point to take to the dunes.

Hauxley & Togston

Coquet Lighthouse

I was soon about as close to Coquet Island as it was possible to get without a boat.

Trinity House built Coquet Lighthouse in 1841, commissioning James Walker (1781-1862) to design it.  His design incorporated the remains of a late mediaeval monastery and cost £3,268 to build. Its light was electrified in 1976, automated in 1990 and has been solar powered since 2008.

Prior to automation, it obviously required a keeper and the very first one to take up residence was William Darling (1806-1869), the elder brother of famous lifeboat heroine Grace Darling (1815-1842). 

Their father, William Darling (1786-1865) and grandfather, Robert Darling (1746-1815), had both been lighthouse-keepers in the Farne Islands, so it was rather in his blood. Or, to put it another way, if you grow up on a tiny island that is otherwise uninhabited, you probably find the mainland absolutely terrifying and can’t wait to maroon yourself in a hermit-like existence once again.

Beacon Hill

Not having been raised in an island lighthouse, I am quite comfortable with our teeming mainland but, even so, having the dunes to myself was delightful.  For one thing, there was no one to see me making hard work of going up and down them – dunes are lovely but they’re also quite exhausting.

In what seemed like no time at all but was actually longer than it should have been, I found myself approaching Beacon Hill, where the coast path ran out of dunes and joined the coast road.

Despite its name, Beacon Hill’s hilliness was barely perceptible and no beacon was in evidence.  However, if our historical forebears had erected a beacon, it wouldn’t have been daft to do it there. The ‘hill’ was indeed higher than the surrounding terrain – a whole 10 m above sea level – and, by virtue of being a headland, it would have good visibility.

Low Hauxley

Immediately south of Beacon Hill was the tiny village of Low Hauxley. This was barely more than a handful of houses and a recently-closed Methodist church (est. 1880s) but has been named as a village since at least 1896, when the Ordnance Survey map of the area was revised for the 2nd edition.  On the 1st ed OS map of 1866 it merely comprised a lifeboat station and a couple accompanying cottages labelled only as ‘Link Houses.’

The renaming of the expanding Link Houses as Low Hauxley soon prompted that of nearby Hauxley – the original village, half a mile northwest – to the corresponding name High Hauxley.

The lifeboat station was founded in 1852 by the Newcastle Shipwreck Association. The following year it was transferred to the Royal National Institution for the Preservation of Life from Shipwreck (RNIPLS) which renamed itself a year later to the only slightly more manageable Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI).  The station served for 87 years, saving 246 lives in 81 rescues, but was closed in 1939 when a station in Amble replaced it.  It is a private house today.

Hauxley Nature Reserve

The village road continued south to a former Coastguard station where what had been its continuation on 19th-century OS maps diminished to become a foot and cycle path. This conveyed me past the caravans of Silver Carrs Coastal Park towards Hauxley Nature Reserve.  The latter was established in 1983 on part of the disused Radcliffe Open Cast Coal Site and is run by Northumberland Wildlife Trust. It is home to ducks, terns, kingfishers, otters, red squirrels, roe deer, and owls, absolutely none of which I saw from just outside its edge.

Radcliffe had been a nearby village that initially operated a colliery from 1837 until 1892, when fire and flooding shut it down.  Another colliery, Newburgh, operated nearby from 1892 until 1926.

Open cast operations resumed in 1971, which necessitated the demolition of most of Radcliffe and the removal of its residents to Amble. The mine closed again less than a decade later, in 1980, which must have left Radcliffe’s former villagers wondering if it had been worth it.

Nesting Tree

At the northern end of the nature reserve, where a side path offered access should I want to see some of that wildlife, I espied a somewhat unusual tree, namely one made out of bricks:

A trio of dog-walkers were chatting close by while their canine companion eyed up the tree in such a way as to suggest that its waterproofness was going to be imminently tested.  As I was almost as bemused as a fairy-tale wolf, I asked them if they knew what this was.

‘It’s, well, er, a thing,’ they told me helpfully.

Titled Nesting Tree, this is in fact, the far end of the Amble Bord Waalk. It was made by Bristol-based sculptor Rodney Harris, who has a history of making artworks out of brick and saw no reason to change that. He gave it some situational relevance, though, by dint of hand-carving it from the same clay previously used by local brick-makers.  It is at once a memorial to the ancient, sunken forest whose remains still dot this coast and also a practical habitat for birds, having nesting holes for endangered tree sparrows built into its design.

Togston Links

Continuing past the nature reserve, I soon crossed the boundary between Hauxley and Togston civil parishes.  The footpath met a road end-on and that then carried me onwards. Or at least it would have done, had I not been starting to tire.

Spotting a path from roadside to the beach, I diverted along it to take a rest amid the dunes of Togston Links. But only a short one.

I sat and gathered my strength for a bit, watching seagulls whirl and wondering if a couple strolling down by the water’s edge weren’t taking a better route.

I decided to stick with the waymarked coast path for now and, when I judged my energy levels suitably restored, I let that carry me southwards.

East Chevington

Hadston Links

The coast path conveyed me past Low Hall and Togston East farms, or so my map told me – a screen of trees kept them from my view.  The trees persisted as I crossed into the parish of East Chevington and completely prevented me from seeing Ladyburn Lake, a key feature of Druridge Bay Country Park. 

The park was established in 1989, although the lake was filled in 1983. As with Hauxley Nature Reserve, it is an old surface mineworking repurposed.

Alas, I couldn’t see Druridge Bay either – the dunes of Hadston Links blocked all sight of the sea while a wire fence sprang up to keep me away from climbing them. I could still see the dunes from the road, of course, which was initially lovely. But, after a  while, they started to all look the same and I looked forward to some change of scene.

North Pool

The road curved around to the country park’s secondary car park, where the coast path abandoned it for another broad path. The trees, it turned out, were absolutely having none of this and remained clustered near the car park, finally freeing up my inland view.

The body of water shown above is the North Pool of East Chevington Nature Reserve.  Like Hauxley’s reserve, it is owned and managed by Northumberland Wildlife Trust, but this one is a bit newer, having opened in 2003. In keeping with the running theme – or possibly flogging it to death – it is a former opencast mine pit.  As its name might suggest, it has a companion, the equally directionally-designated South Pool.

A farmstead, Link House, once stood at what is now North Pool’s northern edge. It was demolished to make way for the mine.

The Drift

The East Chevington for which both the civil parish and the nature reserve are named was a village that grew up to support a neighbouring drift mine, Chevington Drift, which operated between 1882 and 1962 (a drift mine is one where access is via a horizontal adit tunnelling into a hillside, rather than by vertical shaft). Both mine and village were locally referred to as ‘The Drift’.

I imagine the village deteriorated during the 1960s, with its immediate source of employment shut down, but it was the return of mining that killed it dead. Just like Radcliffe, it was bulldozed to make way for an opencast mine, in this case East Chevington Open Cast Coal Site which was worked from 1982 until 1994.

Chibburn Mouth

The South Pool is fed by Chevington Burn, which used to flow directly to the sea at Chibburn Mouth. I suppose in reality it still does, although now it does so as the reed-choked outflow of the pool. A narrow wooden footbridge carried me over the reeds at a leisurely pace.

Widdrington

Druridge Pools

Immediately south of Chibburn Mouth, I crossed into the civil parish of Widdrington Village. I now had the low dunes of Chibburn Links to my left and flat open fields to my right.  I soon crossed over the tiny channel of Dunbar Burn, which drains from Druridge Pools. A concrete clapper bridge was thoughtfully provided for this purpose, but I reckon I could have just stepped over it, had I needed to.

This was my third Northumberland Wildlife Trust site of the day to pass by and, annoyingly, a brand new screen of trees prevented me from seeing it.  By now, you’ll probably not be surprised to learn it used to be an opencast coal mine converted into a nature reserve. In this case, the trust bought it in 1987.

Low Chibburn Preceptory

Somewhere over on the pools’ far side lay the ruins of Low Chibburn Preceptory. This had operated as a monastic community of the Knights Hospitaller between 1313 and the 1540s, when Henry VIII had it dissolved and confiscated its assets for the Crown. In 1553, it was sold on to local landowner Sir John Widdrington (c.1503-1571), who had it converted to a dower house.

Somewhat unexpectedly, the house was razed in 1691 in a raid by the French naval hero Jean Bart (1650-1702) during the Nine Years War (1688-1697).

Widdrington Castle

Sir John Widdrington’s home was Widdrington Castle, a mediaeval tower house in the village of Widdrington (which, unlike its civil parish, does not have ‘Village’ appended to its name despite actually being one).  His ancestor, Gerard Widdrington (b. 1303) had been granted a licence to crenellate in 1341, without which fortifying your house was assumed to be an act of rebellion.

The Widdringtons were Royalists in the English Civil War and Jacobites during the Rising of 1705, the latter of which got them attainted as traitors. As such, their assets were forfeit, castle included. Not that it was actually much of an asset – by then it was already falling into ruin, having ceased to be the family’s main residence almost three quarters of a century earlier.

Sometime after 1772, the castle was demolished and partly rebuilt, only to burn down before reconstruction was complete. After this, a new Gothic-style castle was built, but this too soon fell to ruin and was demolished in 1862. Today, only a hint of its mound remains, so I couldn’t have seen it even had I been going that way.  Which I wasn’t.  Instead, the coast path turned off the road and headed dunewards just before the farmstead of Druridge and the closest I got to the castle mound was about 1⅓ miles.

Hemscott Burn

I followed the narrow, sandy path as it snaked its way through the dunes of Druridge Links for about a quarter of a mile, after which it dropped down to cross Hemscott Burn.  The burn was not exactly a challenge to cross with dry feet but, now that I was on the beach, wet feet were actually pretty tempting…

The path could do as it liked, I decided, as it threaded through Hemscotthill and Blakemoor Links, but I was staying right at – sorry, in – the water’s edge.

Cresswell

Cresswell Ices

As I approached the jutting headland of Snab Point, my progress was arrested by the rocks called The Scars and, unforgettably, Stank Letch Rocks.

Forced off the beach. I returned to the road in the village of Cresswell, right next to an ice cream shop, Cresswell Ices!

Pele Tower

From the road, looking inland, I could see a blocky crenellated structure on the other side of a field; this was Cresswell Pele Tower.

Pele towers were basically small castles comprising just a keep, intended to protect the occupants during raids by Border Reivers.

Constructed in the 14th century by the Cresswell family, this three-storey example is unusually well-preserved and is therefore both Grade II listed and a Scheduled Ancient Monument.  What it isn’t, by any reasonable definition is an actual tower, which implies that’s it’s taller than it’s wide.

Cresswell Hall

Towering or not, a rather more comfortable mansion was built up against its wall in 1750. This was demolished in 1824, when Addison John Cresswell (1788-1879), who had married into money six years earlier, completed Cresswell Hall on the village’s far side. Only the mansion’s bricked-up doorway remains, now incorporated into a field wall.

A century later, the estate was purchased at auction by Northumberland County Council, which soon found the hall plagued with structural problems – price does not always command quality. It too was demolished in 1937.

Cresswell Radar Station

The road quickly carried me past Golden Sands Holiday Park to Snab Point, where the coast path split off to run in parallel.

This new path was narrow and flanked by tall grass, thistles and brambles. Somewhere underneath them hid the former site of Cresswell Radar Station, a WW2 installation that had housed a Chain Home Low radar capable of detecting low-altitude bombers so that interceptors could be scrambled.

Lynemouth

Easier Going

The thistly, brambly path headed south for about half a mile. Then, to my surprise, it was absorbed into a broad, gravel track at a point between Cresswell Home Farm and the rock shoal of Headagee.  This was certainly much easier going and I put on a new burst of speed towards Lynemouth Power Station.

River Lyne

The track didn’t quite take me to the power station, but then I didn’t expect it to. (I didn’t actually expect it all, though that’s beside the point). I knew the River Lyne was in the way and was quite unsurprised when the track spat me back onto the road in order to cross it. The Lyne is not huge but, at about 15 m across, it has picked up enough water in its 15½-mile journey that I was glad of the road bridge. Except, it turns out, it isn’t a road bridge but a repurposed rail bridge, built in 1930 to carry a colliery line.

The Lynemouth East Road & Rail Bridge is not pretty, being fashioned from reinforced concrete in the style of French engineer François Hennebique (1842-1921) but it does its job. Well, sort of. Just about. A Northumberland County Council report– which incidentally misgendered Hennebique as ‘Françoise’ – concluded in 2020 that:

‘The bridge has now been in operation for over 90 years and without major structural improvements, is reaching the end of its serviceable life.’

Ah, ok. Well presumably they then scheduled some ‘major structural improvements,’ right? Dead wrong. With a projected repair cost of £1 m for a bridge on an unclassified road with a viable alternative route, they reached the almost inevitable conclusion that it was ‘beyond economical repair.’  Though weakened, it’s not yet completely unusable and the council has instated restrictions regarding both weight (3 t) and width (2 m).

Orange Ochre

Once over the Lyne, the coast path immediately diverted downstream, then cut round the back of some reservoir pools which looked like they were associated with the power station but were in fact not. They were actually settling tanks belonging to the Lynemouth Mine Water Treatment Scheme (MWTS). A small footbridge carried me over their outflow channel and I’ve never been so glad to not have to wade my way across.

Orange ochre is a common contaminant of colliery runoff. The water leaches iron out of the seam and this precipitates out of solution as ferric hydroxide, which is essentially rust.  Of course, the ferric hydroxide particles are still tiny, and so remain in suspension in the water flow.

Lynemouth Colliery operated between 1927 and 1994 and was linked to  Ellington Colliery (1909-2005), together forming a complex that extended below the North Sea. This meant they required constant pumping to avoid flooding. This initially ceased when the mines closed, but it was realised that that meant they were simply flooding with water and were at risk of polluting the aquifer. 

The MWTS, established in 2015, pumps water out of the long-closed mines and passes it through a cascade of settling tanks to allow the ochre to fully precipitate out.  Once dried, the recovered ochre is a marketable resource, with applications as a pigment and also as an agent for treating soil with heavy metal contamination.

Lynemouth Power Station

Having crossed this tangerine stream, I found myself edging around the back of Lynemouth Power Station.  This was opened in 1972 as a private plant to supply power to an adjacent aluminium smelter, operated by Alcan (est. 1902).

It was originally powered by coal, supplied directly from the colliery on its doorstep and it used a lot – it was Northumberland’s leading coal consumer, burning 1,200,000 tonnes per year! Any excess power generated was sold to the National Grid. From 2004, however, the power station started replacing some of its coal with biomass fuel. That basically means wooden pellets. 

The aluminium smelter closed in 2012, making the National Grid the station’s sole customer.  The station also faced closure, however, as alterations needed to meet modern emissions regulations looked likely to prove prohibitively costly. Instead, the station closed down 2015-2018 for a different suite of alterations, converting it entirely to biomass operation and thus dodging many of the issues.

Lyne Sands

The embayment immediately beyond the power station was marked on my map as Lyne Sands. That sounded lovely. I could do with another beautiful beach after all that industry and orangeness!

In fairness, Lyne Sands wasn’t horrible, just a little more coaly and ochry than I had anticipated.  It’s sort of striking in its own way plus, it’s not all that often you see a beach you could probably set fire to.

Newbiggin

Beacon Point

At the southern end of Lyne Sands, a WW2 pillbox stood sentry, just in case I was trying to sneak an invading Wehrmacht off the beach onto Beacon Point.

Having scaled Beacon Point’s mighty 5 m summit, I almost wished that I had brought a hostile army in order to ransack the golf course now arrayed before me across the whole of Newbiggin Moor.  And there wasn’t even a beacon by which they might raise the alarm.

Newbiggin Moor

The coast path edged its way around Newbiggin Moor, not that it seemed very moor-like, covered as it was by the greens and fairways of Newbiggin Golf Club (est. 1884).

The coast path clearly believed in aversion therapy as it forced me to confront the golf course’s existence by conveying me right past the clubhouse. 

As this essentially completed my walk, it would have been churlish to ignore it, so I gave it the most cursory acknowledgement before hurrying past to enter Newbiggin-by-the-Sea, arriving at the very eastern end of the town’s High Street.

Last Pub Before Norway

Also at the very eastern end of the High Street was a pub called the Cresswell Arms.  This was not where I was staying, but it did seem an appropriate point at which to call the official end of my day’s walk.  A sign above the pub’s window amusingly laid claim to being ‘the last pub before Norway’ and I could not help but immediately overthink this…

To be the last pub before anywhere Scandinavian, the sign would have to face west but no, it was facing east, from which direction I had just come.  This surely made it the first pub after Norway instead. Except even that was not true, because Denmark was actually behind me, by about 380 miles. Norway was another 150 miles further north.

Ah well, nul points. But redressing the balance somewhat, it did have a nice depiction of the eponymous Cresswell Arms:

Newbiggin-by-the-Sea

Today, a small beach resort and fishing port, Newbiggin was England’s third most important grain port back in mediaeval times. Like pretty much everywhere along this coast, it later had a colliery, which was in operation from 1908 until 1967.

It was its modern tourism economy that most interested me, as that meant it had offered accommodation that I had booked for the night.  This awaited me a little further into town, but my ‘official’ walk ended at the pub.

---

This time: 20½ miles
Total since Gravesend: 4,725 miles

---