CCLIX – Berwick-upon-Tweed to Lindisfarne

FOR my return north to Berwick-upon-Tweed I had two would-be companions, one being my good friend Simkin, who had long proclaimed his wish to join me when my walks drew close to Lindisfarne (also known as Holy Island). Having now got to that stretch of Northumberland coast, I had planned that one of my walks would end upon the island and the next start from it – can’t really get much closer than that!

The second, uninvited party was Storm Floris, which initially made its own arrangements to await us in the north. Then, perhaps belatedly realising that it was unwelcome, it opted to skulk out of sight and spitefully cancelled all our trains. After all, if it couldn’t come, then why should it let us go?

Berwick-upon-Tweed

Storming Success!

In the face of Storm Floris’s meteorological malice, I was dismayed but not daunted. All trains north of Newcastle were cancelled and Berwick was certainly north of that, but still south enough to experience only Floris’s faintest fringes. I quickly arranged to cancel lunch plans and meet Simkin at London Kings Cross early, in order to travel at least as far as Newcastle.

I had feared the few trains might be crowded with other passengers attempting to head north, but most had heeded LNER’s advice not travel on their trains on account of the raging storm over Scotland, so actually our carriage was surprisingly quiet. We alighted at Newcastle with no idea if there actually would be trains onward, but happy that, if there were not, we would at least have shortened the following morning’s journey. Blue skies and calm weather over that city were slightly surreal, given the level of storm-related disruption.

The departure boards at Newcastle Central were a riot of cancellations and delays but, hidden quietly amongst them, I spotted one train still valiantly pushing north beyond Berwick. This one was busy, but we weren’t on it for long. Soon enough, we emerged, blinking in bright sunshine, from Berwick railway station. We had made it!

Castle Hotel

The next morning, when Storm Floris was mostly terrorizing the North Sea en route to Norway, the clouds were moving a little slower but still with enough oomph that any attempt to wear a hat would gift it to someone in Oslo! We compensated for our hatlessness with the application of copious sunscreen, before setting off on our walk sans Storm Floris.

Our starting point was the Castle Hotel, which we had found to be conveniently situated for the station (this was hardly coincidental, the station’s construction had obliterated the great hall of Berwick Castle, for which it was named). We were hardly the first to find the hotel convenient, though. Roughly 90 years previously, the painter LS Lowry (1887-1976) had likewise discovered it and stayed there on many subsequent return visits.

The hotel as it appears today dates from 1909 when it was partly rebuilt and extended while upgrading to hotel status. Prior to that it had been the Castle Inn and before that (until circa 1843) it had been a pub called the Cow & Calf.

Royal Border Bridge

We had a choice of routes into Berwick’s town centre and we chose the scenic option, dropping down to the banks of the River Tweed and then following that downstream. We joined the river at the foot of the 1850 Royal Border Bridge, a magnificent railway viaduct designed by Robert Stephenson (1803-1859). Despite its name, it does not span the Anglo-Scottish Border and never has – that had moved north in 1482, when England recaptured Berwick from the Scots.

The Royal Border Bridge was opened four years after the line it serves, which meant that passengers on what was then the North British Railway (NBR) initially had to disembark and cross the Tweed by road.  This makes it sound like a typical infrastructure project overrun but they opened the line in 1846 and didn’t start building the bridge until the following year.  That’s certainly a choice.

Royal Tweed Bridge

The next bridge downstream from the Royal Border Bridge was the Royal Tweed Bridge which today carries the A1167 road. This would have been convenient for use by the NBR’s passengers in 1846, except that it wasn’t yet built then, either. Still known locally as the New Bridge, it was opened in 1928 by the then-current Prince of Wales (the future Edward VIII).

It was designed by the Woking-based infrastructure consultancy LG Mouchel & Partners Ltd (1897-2016) and is fashioned from reinforced concrete with dressed sandstone parapets.

Immediately downstream from the Royal Tweed Bridge was Berwick Bridge, also called the Old Bridge on account of having been built in 1624.  We would be crossing that shortly, like an early NBR passenger heading south, but first we had some wandering in Berwick to attend to.

Lowry Trail

Our wander through the town centre was in part driven by the desire to find a shop of much the same sort as the one we’d missed by coming down the river path instead of the main road. In that regard, we failed utterly. A secondary aim was to do a little more exploratory ambling to supplement some we’d already done the evening before. This was rather more successful and, once again, LS Lowry had beaten us to it by a wide margin.

Berwick is proud of its connection with Lowry and has set up signs along a Lowry Trail, which points out some of the town’s features that he either sketched or painted.

Dewar’s Lane

Thwarting our 21st-century intentions to stock up on water, sandwiches and snacks, Lowry appeared to be far more taken by the lure of narrow alleys than shops.  Although now I’ve made him sound creepy.

What I meant was he liked interesting nooks and old buildings tucked away in corners, which I guess made a nice change from painting Mancunian factories with smoke belching from their chimneys.

The alley above is Dewar’s Lane, and dates back to mediaeval times.  Grooves cut by countless cart wheels down the centuries score its setts.  Amazingly, the building on the right – an old granary – does lean and curve drunkenly in real life, resulting in a sketch that makes it look like Lowry wouldn’t have known a straight line if he tripped over one.

The granary was originally built sometime in the 18th century but had to be rebuilt after an 1815 fire. Its rebuilders technically succeeded in their task in much the same way as a tomato is technically a fruit.

Sally Port

Another alley that took Lowry’s fancy was Sally Port which, as its name implies, penetrates the Elizabethan Town Walls at one end. It leads from Bridge Street to the quayside.

Both Dewar’s Lane and Sally Port adjoined Bridge Street, which had long been a centre of commercial activity, having been once the main route of entry for travellers arriving from the south. A trade directory of 1806 named over forty businesses in the street but none of their 21st-century successors answered our immediate needs.

Town Hall

Thus, while Simkin and I found shops a-plenty in the town centre, we still failed to find any selling food and water for our walk. If we’d wanted a bank, or to buy sportswear, or even a musical instrument, we’d have been fine.

There was actually a café in the ground floor of Berwick’s 1761 Town Hall in Marygate, but it was hidden within the old Butter Market, which lurked under some arches tucked away behind its main steps. We never so much as glimpsed it.

The arms visible on the Town Hall are the Royal Arms, but not those current at the time of its construction. They are the old arms of dominion of England as used in the 1558-1603 reign of Elizabeth I, perhaps because of her strong association with Berwick and its fortifications. But George II was king in 1761, and it is his arms that we’d expect to see grace the building.

Sandgate

Eventually, I gave up and asked a passing local, who replied that all the shops we wanted were scattered further out from the town centre. In fact, if we just got on with our walk and stopped dithering, we’d pass right by one.  Having been told, we got right on that and made our way towards the quayside, near where Sally Port emerged. This involved heading south down the street called Sandgate, at the bottom of which I took this photo:

The Hen & Chickens Hotel opened circa 1737, when it replaced some tenements, and closed sometime around 2010. Bizarrely, it was the third establishment in Berwick to use that name, having been pre-empted by the Old Hen & Chickens pub in Bridge Street (which was listed in that trade directory and is now the Magna Tandoori) and the New Hen & Chickens pub, which was also in Bridge Street. 

It’s not even that one resurrected the name of another, either. The hotel and the Old Hen & Chickens definitely coexisted with each other, which implies the ‘new’ version did too.

Berwick Quayside

From the quayside, we had an excellent view of the Old Bridge with the New Bridge hiding shyly behind it.

Arrayed along the quayside were a number of floral barrels and some benches with curiously serpentine-shaped supports.

Serpent Benches

I immediately assumed there must be some intriguing reason for this design choice, perhaps referencing some unique local folklore tied up with Berwick’s identity. And, once again, I was wrong.

It’s just an off-the-shelf design option by ironworks Arthur Ballantine & Sons of Bo’ness (est. 1856) and has been a favourite choice for the North Eastern Railway (1854-1923) and the Yorkshire town of Harrogate amongst other customers. Someone in the town council liked it when flicking through the catalogue, that’s all there is to it.

Berwick Bridge

We had now definitely dithered enough. It was time to cross Berwick Bridge.  Old-looking signs upon it told us to walk on the right (upstream) side, so we did as we made our way over.

Tweedmouth

West End

The mouth of the River Tweed lends its name to Tweedmouth, which was historically a separate village in an exclave of County Durham. Annexed to Northumberland in 1844, it was absorbed into neighbouring Berwick in 1974.  The suburb is arrayed along the river’s bank, with Berwick Bridge adjoining Main Street and its West End.

Facing onto Main Street were a handful of rather lovely old houses with Tweedmouth War Memorial out in front. The latter was unveiled in 1920 with 177 named fallen from WW1. A further three names were added after WW2 and a fourth from the Falklands War of 1982.

Tweedmouth House

I was particularly taken by the appearance of No. 4, Main Street, which is the lovely white house with the portico and pediment. I wasn’t surprised to learn that it was Grade II listed, as are its downstream neighbours, Nos. 6 and 8.

No. 6 is the shorter, simpler-looking white house and is actually the oldest, dating back to the 17th century and previously known as Clifford House. In Victorian times it was re-fronted and annexed to its neighbour, No. 8, which was then a pub called the Royal Hotel.  Today all three buildings are united to form the Tweedmouth House Residential Care Home, together with a modern extension to the rear. No. 8 retains one hint of its prior existence however, in the form of a shield-shaped plaque the design of which incorporates the letter ‘V’ and two blackbirds.

Vaux Breweries

The ‘blackbirds’ plaque was actually a sign of Vaux Breweries, which had owned the Royal Hotel.  This brewery was founded in Sunderland in 1837 by Cuthbert Vaux (1813–1878), by which time his family had already been involved in the brewery trade for three decades, albeit working for others.

From humble beginnings the brewery grew to become a successful business within Sunderland and then the wider north-east, acquiring and absorbing other breweries as it did so. In 1959, it acquired Scotland’s Thomas Usher & Son (est. 1817), opening the way to expand north of the border.

In 1999, it closed its two remaining breweries, intending to concentrate on operating hotels and pubs instead. How well this went can be judged by its purchase by Whitbread (est. 1742) the very next year, which immediately rebranded it out of existence.

Old Property

We didn’t get very far along Main Street before another Lowry Trail sign had us peering into a courtyard adjoining the street. Surrounded by 18th-century cottages, this was the subject of Lowry’s Old Property. Painted in 1943, this artwork was necessarily based entirely on a 1935 sketch as WW2 travel restrictions prevented free movement at the time.  This may or may not excuse his addition of yet more completely fictitious chimneys, belching out imaginary smoke.

A few doors along from the above location, we came upon a shop that seemed to me to be confused as to whether it was a Costcutter or a Co-op (the latter currently supplies the former, it turns out).  This adequately provisioned us for the remainder of our walk which, in turn, prompted us to start making proper progress and try to put Berwick and Tweedmouth behind us.

Tweed Dock

We promptly strode past the Port of Berwick’s harbour, the Tweed Dock, which was opened in 1876 and originally served by its own industrial railway branch.  The railway was steeply inclined (for a railway), which limited what traffic could use it, and that contributed to its closure in the 1950s.

The dock itself remains operational, and is little changed since its construction bar the 1993  removal of its dock gates and widening of the entrance. As befits a port in a small, rural town, it is hardly a major hive of varied international commerce, but chiefly handles agricultural cargoes such as fertilisers, oilseed rape and barley for animal feed. 

Borough Water Works

Beyond the harbour, the riverside opened out into a grassy, park-like area upon which we could stand and judge how far we had come.

Facing onto this green sward was the low stone building that once housed the Borough Water Works.  Belonging to Northumbrian Water, this had been the subject of a planning permission application in 2019, allowing them to convert it into flats and erect new-build houses behind it.

Lifeboat Station

At the end of the sward, Dock Road (which we were now following) swung closer to the shoreline, conveying us closely past Berwick-upon-Tweed Lifeboat Station.  Operated by the brave volunteers of the RNLI, the station was founded in 1834, based out of a boathouse on Spittal Beach.  In 1901, it moved to the Berwick side of the Tweed, which made filling the crew easier on account of the larger pool to draw from. It moved back again in 1928, however, and then shifted slightly upstream to its current location in 1940.

Today, the station operates two different sizes of inshore lifeboat (ILB).

Spittal

Sandstell Point

Once past the lifeboat station, we turned left onto the jutting headland of Sandstell Point, where things initially got a bit industrial looking before the road spat us out into a car park. There, I discovered to my mounting horror that Lowry’s ghost had materialised another chimney, but this time as an apparition in thin air.

Spittal Chimney was all that remained of the Spittal Chemical and Fertiliser Works, one of four sited there in the 19th century in the hope that the prevailing winds would carry the smell out to sea. The works had its heyday in the 1950s, but then went into decline. All but the chimney – which had become an informal navigational landmark – was demolished in 2005.

Spittal Beach

From Sandstell Point, a surfaced path led us onwards to Spittal Beach, where we forsook the promenade and its England Coast Path waymarks for the glory of treading on its sands.

For one brief moment, I thought this tactic might have backfired when Simkin appeared to discover a plastic seaside spade. Even without a bucket, a difficult decision about hiking over sandcastle-building threatened to arise. But then it turned out to be only the handle, the blade of it having snapped off. Hooray! Crisis averted! Let’s all celebrate with ice cre—  Or maybe, let’s not.

We’re Going to Need a Bigger BOAT

The sand ahead soon threatened to turn into rocks but our way onwards  was clear, in the form of a path made mostly of steps ascending the coastal slope.

Atop it, we found a roughly-metalled path that, to Simkin’s absolute joy, was revealed by our Ordnance Survey maps to be a Byway Open to All Traffic (BOAT).  This meant that he could, were it not at the other end of the country, legally drive his Land Rover along it if he wanted. Which he probably wouldn’t, what with it being narrow and atop a cliff and he being easily as bad with heights as I am.

The path on foot, at walking pace was fine. I suspect as a drive, it was more fun in the contemplation.

Scremerston

Redshin Cove

Safe in our pedestrian progress, we looked out over the potentially Land Rover-destroying rocks of Redshin Cove and on towards our destination, which Simkin had spotted on the horizon. There it was! Lindisfarne Island! We could see it!

Seahouse

The byway came to an end at Seahouse, where we passed through a gate to join a proper asphalt road.

This tiny settlement comprised only the eponymous Sea House and its associated cottages, built in phases from the 18th century onwards, which once served as a second home to the Carr family of Gosforth, Newcastle. 

John Carr (1830-1894) was sheriff of Newcastle-upon-Tyne and deeply involved in local industry, being the proprietor of Newcastle-based timber merchants Carr & Sons and a partner in the Scremerston and Shorewood Coal and Lime Company.

Of his fourteen children – that ‘& Sons’ was doing a  lot of heavy lifting – most relevant to Sea House is John Evelyn Carr (1871-1958), who lived there while managing the colliery. This younger John would go on to serve in France as a captain in the British Army during WW1 and wrote a number of war diaries that have since been invaluable to local historians. The diaries are now held by the Northumberland Archives.

Scremerston Mill

Sea House spent some time as a hotel in the 1950s and seems to be holiday accommodation today, but it is at least still standing, which is more than can be said for Roseworth, the Carrs’ main residence in Gosforth.  It is also more than can be said for Scremerston Mill, which stood at the foot of the coastal slope immediately north of Sea House.

The mill was designed in 1776 by the renowned engineer John Smeaton (1724-1792), but now lies in ruins. Alas, we never noticed it from the path above. A pity, as we are generally fans of Smeaton’s work.

Coal mining occurred at Scremerston from the 17th century onwards, though not without incident. It was noted as having been flooded in the middle of that century and then flooded again in the 1730s, this time deliberately, to extinguish a coal seam fire that had been burning for several years.  New pits were later sunk and coal mining continued until the colliery’s closure in 1943.  Its tramway had closed a few years prior, in 1938, having served since an uncertain date in the 19th century.

Scremerston Gun Emplacement

The road made for easy going as Simkin and I continued southwards, watched by incurious cows.  Before long, we came to a menacing structure near Cocklawburn Beach, keeping watch to the southeast lest Cheswick Sands dare try anything. This was the Scremerston Gun Emplacement, built in WW2 to house a beach defence battery.

The emplacement squatted not quite atop a small hillock, which was actually a spoil heap left over from the Scremerston Limeworks, which had closed down in 1910.  When built, it would have been surrounded by lime kilns, but those were demolished in 1981, having presumably become dangerous structures.

The limeworks had been linked to the railway by its own short tramway, and the gun emplacement was built right next to the former alignment of the track.

Cheswick

Cheswick Black Rocks

The surfaced road had ended at the old limeworks, with a rough, gravelly track continuing onwards. We followed this for a while but then started feeling hungry which led Simkin to hop over a stile in search of somewhere to sit and eat the sandwiches we’d bought in Tweedmouth. We were just about to settle for a random spot of no significance, when it occurred to me that a beach was probably right there for the sitting on. And so it was.

Following a narrow footpath, we dropped down onto Cheswick Sands right by Cheswick Black Rocks and used the closest of them as our dining table and chairs.

The beach was lovely but the breeze was fierce, whipping up fine sand into rolling waves of stinging abrasion. This could have seriously detracted from the pleasure of our picnic but if there’s one thing I learnt about the seaside as a child, it’s that you enjoy the beach despite all the weather it subjects you to! I was having a great time.

I suspect that Simkin’s enjoyment was a little more measured than mine, but averaged out as positive nonetheless.

Cheswick Sands

We could easily have retreated from the beach and returned to the gravelly but easy-going track of the England Coast Path. But we did not.

Despite the slightly-stinging sandstorm experience and a need to shout over the wind, the beach was absolutely lovely and the sky that fluffy clouds were racing across was still essentially blue.  The water was cold, as we discovered when we cast off our boots and socks to wade in it, but that was never going to stop us.

With intermittent exclamations about sea temperature and sand scouring escaping from our lips, we merrily splashed our way south-eastwards, part-propelled upon the way by the wind now being at our backs.

No Access

Our corruption into Sith Lords was curtailed by two factors.  Firstly, we were very clearly on the low ground, which meant that it was over, and secondly the only ‘younglings’ at hand to massacre were baby tern chicks. And who could stoop so low? Not that we would be given the chance anyway – the beach ahead was cordoned off with warning signs backed by the force of law and a volunteer warden rushed out of a hut to make sure that we obeyed them.

In truth, I think she was bored and wanted a chat as much as anything.

We obviously agreed that no, we would not break through the barrier (which was basically a string)  and illegally trample bird nests into the sands, but would instead head inland and find a new route.  The warden offered two, but we didn’t really follow what she was saying. No matter, we had OS maps, we could figure it out.

We left the warden to confront a family, who were strolling up the beach behind us with a small, unleashed dog, and we disappeared into the dunes…

Goswick

Goswick Observation Tower

I was immediately drawn off course in the dunes when I spotted a WW2 observation tower and strode off to look at it. It was constructed with several siblings and a great many more anti-tank cubes during WW2 as part of the same chain of coastal defences as to which Scremerston Gun Emplacement belonged.

The tower’s original purpose was simply to look out for enemy landings but, between 1942 and 1944, it, together with a twin to the east, gained a new roles as quadrant towers for an RAF bombing range. Goswick Sands were used to practice ground attack in support of the Normandy landings, resulting in a truly astounding amount of ordnance being dropped on them.  Unexploded bombs were still being discovered and safely disposed of as recently as 2012.

With a new and compelling reason to leave the terns’ nesting grounds untrodden, we rediscovered the coast path and marched off along it, passing through the anti-tank line on the way.

North Low

While we hadn’t entirely followed the bird warden’s explanation of our onward options, one thing that had been pretty clear was that we had a couple of streams to cross – South and North Low.

‘They’re never low,’ she had warned us, lest we wanted to wade them.

Beachcomber House & Cottage

At some point after crossing North Low, we completely lost the England Coast Path waymarks and became convinced we must be on some alternative, unofficial path. Which we were.  Wild, carefree trailblazers that we were, we connected to the access track from Goswick Farm to Beachcomber House & Cottage a whole 200 m further east than we should have. And, lest we get away with such behaviour, fields full of sheep witnessed us do it.

End in Sight

The track ended just eastwards of Beachcomber Cottage, diminishing to a mere footpath that curved its way through first duneland and then saltmarsh. Looking eastwards, these landforms gave way to Goswick Sands, which stretched out seemingly unbroken towards Lindisfarne. The sea was barely in sight.

South Low

The footpath wound its way southwards through the saltmarsh, heading for a footbridge across South Low.

The tide having gone out considerably since North Low, its southerly sibling looked more fordable. But its bed looked soft and squelchy and we were glad to have the bridge.

Beal Point

Once across South Low, the coast path began to follow it downstream before turning south again at Beal Point, where the stream flowed out onto Beal Sands.  Here, the path began to climb, unexpectedly gaining about five metres in elevation. This was hardly enough to count as a hill, but was just enough of an incline to prompt to Simkin to wonder:  Why did we need to go up to get to a causeway at sea level?

Lindisfarne Causeway

From this giddying elevation, we got quite a good view of Lindisfarne Causeway before dropping down  to meet it.  This tidal causeway was built in 1954 and was the only vehicular route on and off the island. It incorporated a narrow, single-track bridge at the point where it crosses South Low – creating something of a bottleneck – next to which is a refuge hut for those who thought that tide tables only apply to other people. The narrowness of the bridge sounds like something of an oversight at first glance but was actually a deliberate choice to mitigate the risk of debris damage when the South Low is in spate.

Pilgrims’ Way

Before the causeway was built, the only route across was an ancient Pilgrims’ Way across Holy Island Sands, use of which was even more limited by tides.  This was largely unsuitable for motor vehicles (although that didn’t stop islanders and experienced local taxis from making the trip).  That path still exists for intrepid pedestrians, though local guidance is advised if making the attempt.

We arrived at the causeway at the very start of its safe crossing time, which meant the pilgrim’s path was still inaccessible. No, we would be dodging traffic on the causeway…

The causeway is a little daunting on foot as there’s really nowhere to go to get out of the way if someone decides to take up its width with a camper van.  Stepping off the causeway puts you ankle deep in seaweed at best or, as a bloke coming the other way deftly demonstrated, shin deep in surprisingly soft mud.

Lindisfarne

Almost There?

There was about a mile of causeway, which we crossed in twenty minutes. Having now reached Lindisfarne (aka Holy Island), we congratulated ourselves that we were now almost there.  We were almost there, right?

Actually, the village of Holy Island was still two miles away as the crow flies, or about two and a half by road.  It looked so tempting just to strike a straight line across the sands but, as taking even a couple of steps laterally proved, that would not have been a good idea.

Technically a Crossroads

Initially, a footpath on the marshward side of the road seemed quite helpful, but it meandered so wildly to avoid scattered saltmarsh pools that it threatened to double the distance. Returning to the road, we staggered tiredly strode magnificently along, with the flat expanse of Holy Island Sands on our right, and a row of tall sand dunes on our left. After about forty minutes of walking, this brought us to the island end of the Pilgrims’ Way, where we had a choice:

Did we want to stay on the road, or follow a coast path route instead?

I may have opted for the right-hand choice, but I’m not entirely certain that Simkin would agree it was the correct one. The coast path really felt like one, with a narrow, undulating path above a low cliff and frequently overgrown with scratchy vegetation.  That sort of thing can be a whole bunch of fun, but not if you’re tired, and at the end of a walk you thought you were done with two miles back.

Regardless of any misgivings, he kept pace with me as I charged along that footpath, lured onwards by visions of that promised pint.

Ship Inn

It took seemingly forever no time at all before we found ourselves wandering Holy Island’s streets. Now that we were here, our priorities were clear – we had to find our hotel, but only after we’d had a beer or two. Thus, our first stop was the Ship Inn, where we sat down, drank our drinks and generally recharged. 

Also, Simkin briefly started singing sea shanties with one of the regulars. And why would he do that? Well, because our mutual friend Zed was not with us, and he normally handles that sort of thing. I mean, obviously.

Northumberland Arms

The Ship Inn used to be the Northumberland Arms and dates back to 1744. In the 19th century, its landlords were related to the Crossmans, a family of brewers from Berwick, one of whom eventually bought the estate of Cheswick & Holy Island.  The pub was renamed the Ship Inn in 1995.

Old photos of the pub suggest that the Northumberland Arms referenced by its name were those of the county itself. Northumberland County Council was granted arms in 1951, which the pub long predates, but its arms were based on the attributed arms of the Kingdom of Bernicia, which were often used to represent its successors, the Kingdom of Northumbria and County of Northumberland. It was a version of these Bernician arms that it formerly displayed upon its pub sign. A banner of the 1951 arms is now used widely as the Northumberland county flag.

As interesting as its history might be, far more fascinating to us was an awesome-sounding cheesecake, advertised on its specials board as an evening menu dessert.  It was still way too early for evening meals to begin so, imploring a barmaid to save some for us later, we left the inn and went to find the Lindisfarne Hotel.

Lindisfarne Hotel

The Lindisfarne Hotel turned out to be close by, which I guess it was always going to be (Holy Island is not a large village). Its contactless self-check-in sounded easy enough but when we approached, entry code at the ready, we were confounded by its ultra-modern keypad which appeared at first glance not to be one – it had a touchscreen keypad that lit up really obviously when tapped. We, however, had not tapped it.

We were rescued on the doorstep by a member of staff who coincidentally (and thankfully) arrived just behind us.  Having let us in, she then let slip her immediate and erroneous assumption – that we must be a gay couple – by asking the number of our singular room.  In fairness to her, we were two guys of the same age, checking in together and, having been friends for something like thirty years, we’re comfortable in each other’s company. It wasn’t an entirely unreasonable mistake to make. Something similar has also happened on past walks with another old friend, the Lemming.

Reaching the Lindisfarne Hotel could have marked the end of the walk but the rest and drink at the Ship Inn had revitalised us.  We repaired to our respective rooms to dump bags and/or backpacks and shower off the sand before soon emerging, bright eyed and eager, to explore some more of Holy Island.

The Harbour

I was going to write that our first port of call was Lindisfarne Castle, which we had been seeing on and off as a blob on the horizon, ever since Redshin Cove. But more accurately, from a technical point of view, our first port of call was Holy Island’s harbour, which we admired in passing on our way to the castle.

Bamburgh Castle

As we drew closer to Lindisfarne Castle, we realised that we could see Bamburgh Castle over the water. This was a significant landmark both in general and specifically to us – it marked the end of the next day’s walk, about twenty miles of walking from where we were now standing.

Lindisfarne Castle

Lindisfarne Castle was erected as a military fort in 1549 to protect against possible raids or invasion by the Scots. It was significantly improved and upgraded in 1571 on the orders of Elizabeth I (1533-1603) using stone recycled from the dissolved Lindisfarne Priory.

After Elizabeth’s death, when her cousin James I & VI (1566-1625) united the English and Scottish thrones, there was rather less need for it since he didn’t plan to have his two kingdoms fight each other. As a result, the only military action it ever experienced was during the Jacobite Rising of 1715…

Lancelot Errington

Lancelot Errington (1657-1745), was an English Jacobite from Newburn, Newcastle, who captured the castle with a mighty force comprising just him and his nephew, Mark.

The pair successfully overpowered the only three members of the garrison actually present – possibly by befriending them and getting them drunk – and seized the castle with the intention that Jacobite reinforcements could be landed on Lindisfarne. None came, however, and the Erringtons were captured when a hundred soldiers arrived from Berwick intent on retaking the castle.

Amazingly, they then tunnelled their way out of Berwick Tolbooth – the 1669 predecessor to the current Town Hall – and escaped. Net achievement: nothing, but they deserve full marks for style! The sheer audacity of their exploits is almost too much to swallow!

Edward Hudson

The castle subsequently became a coastguard lookout until 1901, when it was leased by Edward Hudson (1854-1936), the owner of Country Life magazine. He engaged the architect Sir Edwin Lutyens (1869-1944) to turn it into a holiday home with a garden designed by Gertrude Jekyll (1843-1932). 

Though it has passed through the hands of several subsequent owners – today it belongs to the National Trust – it still remains their handiwork.

Castle Point Lime Kilns

Practically next door to the castle were some old, disused lime kilns, which we nearly made the mistake of not looking at. 

‘I’ve seen enough lime kilns before,’ I scoffed, before being forced to take back my words. I mean, I had seen lime kilns before but they usually come in ones or twos, sometimes three if the owner was ambitious. This was a complex of six enormous kilns that had been served by its own industrial tramway complete with steam locomotives – the Holy Island Waggonway.  It was a properly industrial lime-burning operation.

These kilns were the work of Dundee lime merchant William Nicoll (1813-1889), who had them constructed in 1860. They produced both quicklime, which was used in mortar, and slaked lime, which was used in whitewash and plaster and as a soil de-acidifier.  This proved profitable for around twenty years but the lime trade declined in the 1880s and he ceased operations circa 1883.

Holy Island Waggonway

The tramway evolved over time in phases, initially serving an older and much smaller-scale limeworks north-west of the village (which had employed just seven men to Nicoll’s 35). This connected the lime quarry in the north to the works and the latter to a jetty near the village.

Nicoll built a line up the eastern side of the island, linking the quarry to his new lime kiln complex at Castle Point. This tramway was rather more complex than the pony-hauled original and featured grade-separated tracks at the kilns, with lines to both feed the kilns from the top and remove material from the bottom.  This network connected to jetties near to the castle.

Although its track is long gone, the alignment of Nicoll’s tramway can still be seen on the ground and forms part of a series of footpaths around the island.

Lindisfarne Priory

Turning our backs on that footpath (and the lime kilns) we returned to the village to take a look at the priory from which the castle robbed its stone . It had just closed to visitors when we arrived, but that didn’t stop us gazing upon its ruins from outside, under the watchful eye of its founder, St Aidan (c. 590- 651) of Lindisfarne.

Aidan had been sent from Iona at the request of King Oswald (c. 604-642) of Northumbria, who had created his kingdom in 634 by uniting Bernicia with its southern neighbour, Deira.  Aidan arrived the following year, which puts the priory’s founding in 635.

St Cuthbert

In addition to St Aidan, Lindisfarne Priory is closely associated with St Cuthbert (c. 634-687), who joined it in the 670s and rose to become first prior and then bishop. 

As prior, he had switched the establishment’s practices from Celtic to Roman custom, which went down about as well as can be expected with the monks.  In 676, upset at the poor reception that had received, he went and sulked lived as a hermit on St Cuthbert’s Island, just off Lindisfarne, until his appointment as bishop in 685 forced his return to the world.

After his death, he was revered as a saint and his remains kept as a relic.

Vikings!

In 793, the priory suffered a sudden, unprecedented and devastating raid by Vikings, announcing the brutal arrival of the Viking Age – a period of intermittent Norse attacks that would continue until 1066.  It soon became apparent that such raids were now a frequent thing that happened and that the surviving monks were dangerously exposed in their hastily-rebuilt priory.

The monks retreated inland in the 830s and fully abandoned the priory in 875. They would not return until after the Norman Conquest, when the Viking danger was over but the Harrying of the North meant that being inland was now unsafe.

A new priory was subsequently established and survived for about four centuries, until Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries closed it in 1537.

Cheesecake o’Clock

Like the monks of 875, we turned our backs on the priory, but in our case it was because it was clearly cheesecake o’clock!  We made our way back to the Ship Inn as promised, enjoyed the truly excellent cheesecake and imbibed a couple more drinks.

When we were finally done, we ambled the short distance back to the hotel. We had successfully completed day one of our trip. Tomorrow, we would journey on to Bamburgh!

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This time: 17 miles
Total since Gravesend: 4,663½ miles

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