CCLXI – Bamburgh to Alnmouth

ON THE third morning of my August 2025 walking trip, I met my good friend Simkin for breakfast in Bamburgh’s Victoria Hotel and discussed our respective plans for the day. I would be continuing to Alnmouth, while he would be visiting Bamburgh Castle and then heading home to attend to other commitments. Assuming, that is, that rural Northumberland’s public transport would permit him, which it did with obstructive reluctance.  Fortunately, I had only to rely on my feet and they were considerably more reliable, with a timetable of my own choosing…

Bamburgh

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…Although unscheduled route diversions were still a significant risk. Having bidden Simkin bon voyage and checked out of the hotel, I set off in the wrong direction.

This was not because I was mistaken – I knew  what I was doing (for once) – but because I wanted to take a look at St Aidan’s Church first.

St Aidan’s Church

We had walked past this building on our way into Bamburgh the evening before, but had been too fatigued and focussed on finding the hotel to pay it much attention.  Come morning, I had been reminded of this oversight when I threw open my hotel room curtains and saw it squarely occupying my view, demanding the closer look I now planned to give it.

The fabric of St Aidan’s dates mainly to the 12th century, with a 13th-century tower and 19th-century restorations cementing its current appearance. As is so often the case, though, it occupies the site of older predecessors, the earliest having been built there in 635 by St Aidan of Lindisfarne (c. 590-651) himself. He had been summoned to Bamburgh from Iona by King Oswald (c.604-642) to Christianise the newly-united kingdom of Northumbria.

The Grove

As its visibility from the hotel might suggest, St Aidan’s wasn’t hugely out of my way. The centre of Bamburgh comprised a triangular wooded green called The Grove with the hotel at one vertex and the church at another. At the third vertex, which pointed towards Bamburgh Castle, stood the old village water pump.

Bamburgh Castle

As mentioned last time, Bamburgh Castle is a much altered and extended 11th-century Norman affair, built on the site of a 6th-century Bernician predecessor, which was in turn built on the site of the Brittonic fort of Din Guarie.

It’s not the largest castle I’ve ever seen (that would be Windsor) but it’s right up there amongst the most iconically castle-like castles that ever castled. You’re never going to mistake it for a multi-storey car park, for instance. Or an office block. Or a factory. Unless, I suppose, it was one of those things that had been converted from a castle. But it isn’t; it’s very much still a castle:

Red Barns

Having passed by the castle, I found myself heading south-eastwards along Links Road (which was also the B1340). As its name suggests – ‘links’ means duneland – this was the road that backed the dunes that, in turn, backed Bamburgh Beach.  In taking it, I was following the Northumberland Coast Path (NCP), which was already a more inland route than the England Coast Path (ECP) in those dunes, but which would diverge further by taking to the fields about a quarter mile from the castle.

The first of these fields, which led to the farm of Red Barns, was occupied by a small herd of cows who eyed me nervously as I approached.

Greenhill Farm

According to my Ordnance Survey (OS) map, the NCP then passed southwest of Greenhill Farm, where it joined a track from that farm to the next one, Fowberry.

Public Footpath 20

It turns out that the mapped yet physically invisible track was the subject of a planning dispute between 2016 and 2022, in which Northumberland County Council (NCC) proposed to upgrade it to a Byway Open to All Traffic (BOAT) on their definitive map, based on evidence that it had historically been a highway. The landowners, unsurprisingly, were not keen and lodged formal objections.

The route was shown on John Greenwood’s 1828 Map of the County of Northumberland but was inconsistently marked on NCC maps through the 20th century. This ultimately led planning inspector Sue Arnott to decide in 2022 that, while it was a public right of way, the evidence that it was one for motor vehicles was unconvincing and she officially designated it as a public footpath only.

On NCC’s definitive map, it is identified as Public Footpath 20.

Fowberry

The invisible track led me to a gate, beyond which was a rather more obvious track to Fowberry.  On that track was a Land Rover in which sat a farmer who made some confusing hand gestures. I was fairly sure that he wasn’t telling me to go back, but I couldn’t figure out what he actually meant until I gave up and walked over to ask him, at which point his attempt to signal me from a distance was redundant.  He just wanted the gate left open, so he could drive through it. Should have been obvious, really.

North Sunderland

Re-joining the Road

At Fowberry, I re-joined the public road network as it zig-zagged its way south-eastwards to Shoreston Hall, passing the cottages Saddlershall and Clashope Cottage on the way.

A brief but rather feeble rain shower did little to dampen my spirits but served more as a warning shot, as if to say that the clouds could do worse if they pleased. I paused by the gates of Shoreston Hall to wipe raindrops from my glasses and, now able to see clearly again, took note of where I was.

Unfortunately, I could not get a decent photo of the hall on account of it being obscured by restoration work.

Shoreston Hall

Shoreston Hall was built in the 18th century as the seat of a branch of the Grey family. They remained its occupants until the mid-19th century when Robert Grey (1766-1860) sold both hall and estate to the Revd Leonard Shafto Orde (1807-1895). The Ordes sold it on again in 1910, this time to Newcastle shipbuilder Sir Walter Runciman (1847-1937), who set about making significant changes.

Runciman engaged architect Robert Mauchlen (1885-1972) to lay out new gardens, renovate the hall and replace various outbuildings. In Runciman’s own words:

‘The house was gutted and re-fitted, but the old character was undisturbed. Dismal insanitary cottages were pulled down, and commodious, healthy, picturesque dwellings erected in their place for our employees.’

Sir Walter was ennobled as Baron Runciman of Shoreston in 1933 and split his life between the hall and his other home, Ferncroft House in Jesmond.  He died in the latter after he fell ill at the hall but then, having seemingly recovered, took a yacht cruise back to Newcastle only to relapse on arrival.

Restoration & Conversion

Sold on again by Lord Runciman’s heirs, the hall became a retirement home for an order of Montfortian nuns, the Daughters of Wisdom (Filles de la Sagesse) between 1964 and 1997. Thereafter it fell into a state of disrepair but was purchased in 2023 by developers Ida Homes.

They are currently restoring the building and converting it into five luxury apartments, with a further three homes in restored outbuildings.  I have mixed feelings about any and everything standing being turned into flats but, If the conversion is being done as ‘sensitively’ as they say it is, then it’s a better fate for the hall than crumbling into ruin.

Ida Homes is a fairly new company, founded in 2022, and named for King Ida of Bernicia (d. 559). Whether its name reflects a genuine respect for history or is simply a cynical marketing ploy will be shown, in part, by how the Shoreston Hall project turns out.

St Aidan’s Beach

The rain resumed in earnest, just as I reached the B1340, and caught both me and the B-road’s drivers alike with surprise at its intensity.  Fortunately, it was all one mad splash and then nothing; this was not weather with stamina.

Now soaking wet, I squelched my way over the road and plodded through St Aidan’s Dunes to St Aidan’s Beach beyond.  Despite the topological name-dropping, St Aidan was nowhere to be seen; I assume he went home to get out of the rain. That hadn’t quite stopped, despite easing off, and was lending a misty quality to the Farne Islands sitting offshore.

The Rescue

I found myself surrounded by unexpected accents as I entered Seahouses, courtesy of a small group of highly-enthused Northern Irish teenagers who were comically trying to play down their evident holiday excitement by feigning an air of cool indifference. Only they were doing it very, very badly.  It was actually rather charming.

The teens overtook me, wandering past the feet of the statue titled The Rescue without so much as looking up. I, however, paused by the rock atop which it is mounted and gave it some attention.

A small plaque on the rock announces that The Rescue was ‘presented to the Parish of North Sunderland and Seahouses by Countrylife Homes and Seafield Caravan Park.’  It neglects to name the artist or year of installation, although I’m pretty sure that the latter was 2013.  This was a year of some significance in Seahouses, being the 175th anniversary of one of the most famous rescues ever, namely that of the paddle steamer SS Forfarshire.

Grace Darling

Launched in 1834, Forfarshire belonged to the Dundee & Hull Shipping Company and carried both passengers and cargo between the two cities in the company’s name. On 06 Sep 1838, a  combination of engine failure and a building storm led her to try to shelter behind the Farne Islands only to end up aground on one of them, Big Harcar.

The wreck was spotted at dawn the following morning by Grace Darling (1815-1841), daughter to William Darling (1786-1865), the keeper of Longstone Lighthouse. Realising that the sea state was preventing the launch of a lifeboat from Seahouses, she and her father took their rowing boat to the wreck via a mile-long detour round the islands in order stay in their lee. They rescued five people initially, then William and some of the survivors went back and saved four more.

After the Rescue

By the time the Seahouses lifeboat was able to launch and reach the wreck, her crew – which included Grace’s younger brother, William Brooks Darling (1819-1870) – found only the bodies of those who could not be saved, all survivors having been taken to the lighthouse. The lifeboat also called in there as it could not yet safely return. It remained trapped there by the weather for three days.

As a plucky girl who rescued the shipwrecked, Grace caught the imagination of the early Victorian public – which inevitably nicknamed her ‘Amazing Grace’ –  and she achieved national fame. Sadly, she would not enjoy it for long, dying from tuberculosis at the age of 26. She was buried in St Aidan’s churchyard in Bamburgh, and is commemorated in one of the church’s stained glass windows.

Seahouses

The village of Seahouses began to develop in the early 19th century thanks to establishment of North Sunderland Harbour and some lime kilns on the quayside.

Essentially, it grew from a small number of harbourside buildings – Greenwood’s 1828 map implies there was just one – and then spread to fill the gap between the harbour and the neighbouring village of North Sunderland (which the harbour had been built to serve).

The herring industry soon became dominant, accelerating the village’s growth, and when that faltered in the 20th century, tourism took over. Today the village centre is full of tourist shops and restaurants.

War Memorial

Seahouses War Memorial was unveiled in 1923 by William Armstrong (1810-1900), 1st Baron Armstrong – owner and resident of Bamburgh Castle – having been erected as a more affordable alternative to the memorial hall that the parishioners of North Sunderland had originally favoured but could not afford.

It was designed by Alnwick-based architects George Reavell (1865-1947) & William Arthur Tebbs (1870-1926), who had profitably, if perhaps a little cynically, made war memorials their speciality.

North Sunderland Harbour

I acquired an ice cream from one of the shops near the war memorial and, blissfully devouring it, I then ambled towards the harbour that Seahouses must thank for its existence.

A wooden jetty was erected in 1786, with an inner harbour following in the 1790s.  In time, as the herring industry boomed, this became inadequate with fifty fishing boats somehow squeezing into the harbour. As a result, its centenary saw extensive rebuilding begin, which was completed in 1889 at a cost of £25 k. This created the harbour layout we today, with just a few minor changes since, such as an extension to the eastern pier in 1933 and a concrete casing to reinforce the harbour basin in 1991.

Whalebone Arch

Well, whether or not the harbour is still a hive of industrial activity, it was picturesque enough to please this tourist, as I wandered along with my rapidly diminishing ice cream. I was having a whale of a time.

NB – I was unreasonably annoyed that the information board wasn’t centred in the bone arch and perversely chose to exacerbate the issue with this photo – so, the island beyond isn’t centred either and, to fit the pier end into the photo, the arch now isn’t centred overall. Unsettling, isn’t it? Or is that just me?

The photo above shows jaw bones from a right whale, believed to have washed up on a beach in the 19th century then found and stored in a barn, where they were found anew by Walter Dunn in 1938. He donated them to Seahouses First School, which erected them as an arch on school grounds.

That’s obviously not where they are now…

Leviathan Larceny

In shell-game like reorganisation, the First School relocated to the site of Seahouses Middle School, which closed to convert local schooling from a three-tier to two-tier model. The First School and relevant parts of the Middle School then became Seahouses Primary School.  The whale bones were meant to follow the First School in its move but someone nipped in and stole them, cutting off the bottom two feet of each bone in the process.

The thieves must have realised fairly quickly they’d cocked up. You can’t sell bits of whale without a lot of questions being asked, and they could hardly keep them as an ornament because literally anyone who went to school in Seahouses would recognise them on sight. So, they dumped the bones on Seafield Park – the football ground  of North Sunderland FC – and, after some musing about what best to do with them, the arch was installed beside the harbour in 2023.

Powder House

My ice cream now eaten, I turned away from the developed western end of the outer harbour and made my way east. Quayside buildings gave way to holiday park caravans on my landward side, while the western half of the outer harbour housed only a few very small boats and was part-bounded by natural rocks. It also possessed just one singular building beside the inner end of the main breakwater.

The building in question was the Powder House, erected in 1886 to store the explosives used for blasting rock to enlarge the harbour.  It was placed where it was to meet to conflicting priorities – it had to be close enough to the site to be usefully on-hand, yet far enough away from everything that an accident would only blow it up.  Well, it and whoever was having the accident, I guess.

North Sunderland Point

At North Sunderland Point, also called Snook Point, the holiday park gave way to the course of Seahouses Golf Club. This was established as a 9-hole course in 1913 and upgraded to eighteen holes in 1976, with the 10th requiring play across a flooded former quarry known as Logan’s Loch.

Logan’s Loch

I’ve seen a couple of accounts online that claim that Logan’s Loch filled with freshwater in the 1920s but it’s pretty clear that it was already part-flooded (though admittedly smaller) when the OS surveyed their 1st edition map in 1860.

It’s not shown on Greenwood’s 1828 map, but then neither is the quarry, which was dug to supply limestone to the kilns at North Sunderland Harbour.

The coast paths – the NCP and ECP had merged in Seahouses – cut inland at North Sunderland Point, passing along the north side of Logan’s Loch and then running on or beside the B1340. I was initially all set to do likewise and then I took a look across Annstead Bay. The tide was out, exposing large amounts of sand.

Annstead Beach

The path that I followed initially dropped me onto weed-strewn rocks near North Sunderland Point, which were slightly precarious to navigate. From them, I gazed across Annstead Beach again, reassessing my idea.

The beach was backed by Annstead Links, an expanse of dunes that have been designated a nature reserve.  While the coast path would thread its way through the links after leaving the B1340, I would remain down on the level sands.  When I got to them that is, which I did after some clumsy wobbling across the rocks.

On the sand were some other large rocks of suspiciously regular appearance.

Annstead Burn

Something that could potentially have proven an obstacle was Annstead Burn, which cut its way through the dunes and then spilt out over the sand. However it posed no problem for two reasons:

Firstly, because it was very shallow as it spread out over the beach, so could have been splashed across without issue.

And, secondly, because I had already taken my shoes and socks off…

Beadnell

Beadnell Haven

At the southern end of the bay, where it turned into Beadnell Haven, the beach became mostly rocks again with only a narrow strip of sand. I resolved to leave the beach before that ran out too, and so, when I saw an exit, I took it, joining Harbour Road at the edge of the village of Beadnell.

Of course, Beadnell Haven is a gap in the rocks, albeit a narrow one. Still, it makes for a pretty poor harbour, which is why the village built a proper harbour in 1798 which, in turn, is why there was a ‘Harbour Road.’

Nacker Hole

I continued along Harbour Road vaguely hoping for another ice cream and blissfully unaware that I’d come off the beach about 100 m after the Village Shop and so had missed it. 

The road was lined with houses and cottages facing out onto the sea, which was lovely enough, but none of them were selling me an ice cream. Still, I was hopeful for more shops near the harbour, when I eventually got to it.  But I hadn’t got there yet; I was passing Nacker Hole.

Beadnell Harbour

Beadnell Harbour was built in 1798 for John Wood (1742-1828) of Beadnell Hall, who needed it to service some lime kilns he had built next to it, along with a herring curing-house.  It’s not a large or remarkable harbour except in one respect – because of its position tucked into Beadnell Point, it is the only west-facing harbour on England’s east coast.

Though the curing-house is long-gone, the lime kilns still stand beside the harbour.  I didn’t get to see them, however, nor the harbour’s Grade II listed piers, because I followed the coast path waymarks, which sent me down a right-hand turn before I got there.

Instead, I rapidly found myself passing the many caravans of Beadnell Bay Caravan Park, which didn’t even have the grace to host a proper shop.  There was, however, an ice cream van in Beadnell Bay Car Park, which supplied cold dairy consolation.

John Wood of Beadnell’s arms comprised several levels of charges stacked atop each other, all upon a blue field. The main charge was a silver bend, on which were displayed three black fleurs-de-lys. Each fleur-de-lys then bore additional charges in the form of three bezants (i.e., gold discs) each.

Tughall Mill Links

The path broke out of the caravan park and became an unmade track through a grassy meadow in the transitional zone between spikily-grassed grassed duneland – Tughall Mill Links – and lush farmland. The vegetation was thus something of a mixture, though it quickly tended more towards marram grass as the path threaded its way southwards.

Amid this sea of green, the low, flat dunes of which still managed to hide the actual sea, little splashes of pink-purple colour vied for attention. I mean, I’m sure it was bees that these flowers really wanted to attract, but their vivid floral advertising grabbed my focus too.

The bloody cranesbill (Geranium sanguineum) is Northumberland’s official county flower. It is an extremely hardy wild geranium that tolerates harsh conditions with salt spray and wet/dry fluctuations.  It is not named for the colour of its flowers – no one has blood that colour except Klingons, and even then only in Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country – but its seed capsules.

Tughall

On its inland side, the path soon passed the Tughall Mill for which the links were named. This is a farmstead and former watermill that dates to the early 19th century, which is when it switched to being the one from the other (its last recorded miller was John Watson in 1812). On older maps it was labelled as ‘Tuggal Mill.’

The mill comprised just one part pf the scattered hamlet of Tughall, along with the farmsteads of Tughall and Tuggall Grange, a ruined chapel – where the remains of St Cuthbert (c. 634-687) rested overnight during the 1069 Harrying of the North – and the Grade II listed manor house Tuggal Hall.

Tuggal Hall

Tuggal Hall was built in the late 17th century, probably by the Younghusband family, which acquired the estate from the Forsters during that period.

It had various subsequent owners and was significantly enlarged in the 1920s but its most famous occupant was Liberal politician William Beveridge (1879-1963) who lived there between 1944 and ’51. He had been elected MP for Berwick-upon-Tweed in a 1944 by-election, only to lose his seat in the 1945 General Election but was then ennobled as Baron Beveridge of Tuggal in 1946. 

His 1942 Beveridge Report was instrumental in the creation of the postwar Welfare State.

Long Nanny / Brunton Burn

About midway down Beadnell Bay, I came to a stream of confused identity, being either Long Nanny or Brunton Burn, depending on whom you ask.  The confusion was understandable, though, as both those streams converged with each other before spilling out across Beadnell Beach.  Even the usual maps were no help – OS sidestepped the issue by not labelling the combined part, while Greenwood had taken the more thorough approach of not labelling the two tributaries either.

In addition to both not labelling the outfall, the 1828 (Greenwood) and 1866 (OS 1st ed) maps also showed a ford, where the 1899 OS 2nd ed map showed a footbridge. The modern OS map likewise showed a footbridge and indeed there was one. I paused on it for moment to (a) let a jogger jog past and (b) look up and downstream.

Newton-by-the-Sea

Newton Links

I had got about five paces off the bridge when I had to step aside again to allow the jogger back the other way.  I don’t why he abandoned the transriverine south so quickly but, if had to guess, I’d say he was terrified of geese.  There were certainly a lot of them, occupying a marshy area alongside Brunton Burn, and they sounded like there were a hundred times more than there were. Geese are loud.

Hurrying away from this anserine cacophony, I found the path initially to be much as it had been before – an unmade track across flat, sandy terrain covered in marram grass. The track seemed slightly wider on this side but it soon fixed that, swinging seawards onto undulating dunes as it approached Snook Point and the end of the bay.

Snook Point

‘Snook,’ from Old English snoc, means ‘headland’ or ‘promontory.’ Or ‘point.’  This makes Snook Point one of those names that (a) crops up repeatedly and (b) means the same thing twice.

Newton Point

I decided that ‘punctual’ was a far more relevant adjective, and so made my way quickly around Football Hole.  My goal was the MOD transmitter station, which provided long-range navigation (LORAN) signals for Britain’s nuclear-armed V-bombers during the Cold War, until it closed down in the 1970s. LORAN required a much taller mast than it now sports.

Today, the station operates a successor – the ageing but still active tactical air navigation (TACAN) system.  The MOD is currently keen to replace TACAN which, though repeatedly upgraded since, is a system whose roots were originally designed in the 1950s. As such, the station’s days are probably numbered.

Low Newton-by-the-Sea

Setting off for Dunstanburgh Castle, I rounded Newton Point and began to make my way around  the curve of Newton Haven. About halfway round this bay, the path suddenly dropped me into Low Newton-by-the-Sea, a picturesque but tiny fishing village with a particularly attractive village square.

The square was bounded on three sides by buildings and open on the fourth. Most of the buildings were early 19th-century fishermen’s cottages with gabled dormer windows as a slightly later, mid-century addition. Occupying one corner was an older building, the late 18th-century Ship Inn. This was originally named the Smack Inn (a smack being a type of fishing boat).

Ship Inn

The Ship Inn has been under its current ownership, a mother-daughter team, since 1999. In 2008 they cleared out their garage and started their own microbrewery, and the Ship Inn now stocks only its own beer.  I was strongly tempted to try some but beer is not generally a walker’s friend, inducing a need for more toilet stops.  My drink of choice when walking is usually a gin & tonic, since it is both refreshing and has less volume to demand throughput.

I bought myself a G&T and then wandered outside in the hope of finding a seat, there being none free inside.  It was looking pretty hopeless outside too but a sudden rain shower sent the Ship Inn’s other patrons scrambling for cover. I figured I didn’t mind getting slightly damp, if I had a G&T to take my mind off it, so grabbed a vacated seat.

Newton Pool

The path south from Low Newton was surprisingly well-made and accessible, which turned out to be because it led to the Newton Pool Nature Reserve.  This comprised a couple of pools with the main one – Newton Pool – overlooked by a bird hide.

I’m by no means an avid bird-watcher and can’t tell the difference between a great many varieties of small brown feathery things (LBJs, my uncle calls them, standing for ‘Little Brown Jobbies’).  Nonetheless, I popped into the hide just to see what I might see.

Embleton

Embleton Links

Mildly disappointed, I resumed my journey along the footpath, which continued to be well-made as it led to Embleton Links, and its scattering of about forty holiday bungalows.

On the way, I found myself suddenly overtaken by a holidaying family with two small children, one of whom was riding a scooter at a pace that suggested the Isle of Man TT race lay somewhere in his future.

Scooter Boy’s breakneck velocity might not have been entirely his own doing, however.  Shortly after getting away from him, I observed evidence that Embleton Links might be warping space and time.

Embletonburn Mouth

As its name suggests, Embleton Links was a stretch of duneland backing the sands of Embleton Bay. I continued along the edge of the bay, leaving the bungalows behind, and soon came to Embletonburn Mouth, the name of which also pretty much gives away what it was.

There has been a footbridge over the Embleton Burn there since at least the 1860s, and I was pleased to find that that was still the case. But, before I crossed it, I paused to take in the view.

Dunstanburgh Castle Golf Club

The footbridge in question turned out to be sited within the grounds of Dunstanburgh Castle Golf Club (est. 1900), which was laid out by renowned golf course architect James Braid (1870-1950).

Like its counterpart in Bamburgh, established four years later, Dunstanburgh Castle Golf Club is keen to include in its name a castle that can be seen from the grounds but isn’t actually in them.  This meant that I would have to pass through and then out of the golf course before I reached it.

Craster

Dunstanburgh Castle

The closer I got to Dunstanburgh Castle, the less of it there was to see. Basically, the gatehouse, one keep and a low section of seaward wall are all that remain. Nonetheless, its ruins were imposing, high on their hillock, which was considerably steeper-sided in reality than it appears in my photos.

Thomas, Earl of Lancaster

The castle itself was built in 1322 by Thomas, 2nd Earl of Lancaster (c. 1278-1322). He was a cousin of Edward II (1284-1327), to whom he was opposed and against whom he led a baronial rebellion. Edward was prone to blatant favouritism towards the Despenser family, and this led to an outright civil war in 1321, the unimaginatively but aptly-named Despenser War.

The same year as his new castle was completed, Thomas was captured at the Battle of Boroughbridge in Yorkshire and subsequently beheaded for treason. His trial was a complete farce – no defence was permitted and his judges included the King and two Despensers.

In addition to showing that Edward II was not about tolerating insurrection, Thomas’s demise demonstrated an important fact about castles – they can’t protect you if you’re not in them!

John of Gaunt

After a brief period confiscated into royal control, Dunstanburgh Castle was granted in 1327 to Thomas’s brother, Henry (c 1281-1345), who became the 3rd Earl of Lancaster.  His son, Henry of Grosmont (c1310-1361), was elevated to a duke by Edward III (1312-1377). Upon his death, the Duchy of Lancaster transferred to his son-in-law, John of Gaunt (1340-1399), who was also a son of Edward III.

John of Gaunt had Dunstanburgh Castle substantially extended as part of a policy of defence in depth against the threat of Scottish invasion. He then extended it again after the 1381 Peasant’s Revolt, wanting a more secure bolthole, should such plebian discontent ever break out again.

John of Gaunt’s son, Henry Bolingbroke (1367-1413) seized the throne in 1399 because Richard II (1367-1400) had blocked his inheritance (which included this castle). Victorious, he regained that inheritance but, by being crowned Henry IV, he merged it back into the Royal Demesne.

War of the Roses

Henry’s grandson, Henry VI, found that Dunstanburgh Castle had fallen into disrepair and rectified that, appointing Sir Ralph Babthorpe (1398-1455) as its constable. Unfortunately for Sir Ralph, Henry’s otherwise ineffectual kingship then led to the outbreak of the War of the Roses (1455–1487) and this killed Sir Ralph pretty promptly at the Battle of St Albans.

The castle passed into stewardship of another Sir Ralph, namely Sir Ralph Percy (1425-1464), son of the Earl of Northumberland.  He defended it for the Lancastrians until 1461, when he not only surrendered to the Yorkists but swapped sides to join them. He swapped back again the following year only to be defeated by the Yorkist Richard Neville, (1428-1471), 16th Earl of Warwick. Amazingly, ‘Warwick the Kingmaker’ allowed him to surrender and swap sides yet again as an attempt a reconciliation but, as before, it didn’t stick. He re-joined the Lancastrian cause in 1463 and died for it at the 1464 Battle of Hedgeley Moor. Warwick then reoccupied the castle.

I’m sure they were nothing alike, but I can’t help but imagine Sir Ralph Percy as the fictional Lord Percy Percy, heir to the duchy of Northumberland, as portrayed in Blackadder by Tim McInerney.

Private Ownership

Following the Wars of the Roses, the castle fell into disrepair again and the 1603 Union of the Crowns pretty much ensured it would never be repaired as the threat from Scotland had evaporated. The Crown sold the castle and it passed into the hands of the Grey family and then, through marriage, to the Bennets.

The Bennets retained Dunstanburgh castle until 1869, when an impoverished Charles Bennet (1810-1899), 6th Earl of Tankerville, sold it to Leeds mill owner Samuel Eyres (1793-1868) who managed the unusual feat of buying it after his own death (it was the executors of his estate who actually transacted the purchase). Eyre’s daughter, Anne, died soon after he did and his estate was held in trust for a decade until her son Henry Kettlewell (1857-1881) reached 21. He subsequently changed his name to Eyres.

The Eyres Estate tried to sell Dunstanburgh in 1904 but no buyer could be found. They had more success in 1919, when shipping tycoon Arthur Sutherland (1867-1953) bought it from them. Sir Arthur, as he became in 1920, soon found the castle prohibitively expensive to maintain and ducked that cost by donating it to the nation in 1929. It is now owned by the National Trust (est. 1895) and maintained by English Heritage (est. 1983).

Unconcerned Cows

I passed by the foot of the castle mound but resisted the urge to climb up and take a closer look as I’d already dawdled longer than I planned at Low Newton-by-the-Sea.

The path cut through a dense bank of gorse and emerged into a field containing some extremely insouciant cows. The way ahead remained an unmade track, but now with a grassy meadow on one side and a pebbly shore on the other.

Craster Seahouses

As you can see from the photo above, the coastal terrain was pretty flat heading south from Dunstanburgh Castle, though there were some low prominences named on the map such as the 35 m Scrog Hill and a 40 m ridge called The Heughs. Passing these was a very pleasant stroll that brought me to the village of Craster.

Craster derives its name from Old English Crawe Ceastre – ‘crow fortification’ – which implies an origin in Anglo-Saxon times. In most of England, that means we could probably find an entry for it in the Domesday Book of 1086, but Domesday didn’t include Northumberland. The Craster Estate first appears in extant records in 1272, when it was held by William de Craucestr.

Much of the current village was laid out in the late 18th century by Shafto Craster (1755-1837) and was initially known as Craster Seahouses – it was labelled as such on Greenwood’s 1828 map. The original village had been further inland, closer to Craster Tower, the Craster family’s mansion, built in 1769 around its 14th-century peel tower predecessor.

The Craster arms were quartered gold and red with a crow proper (i.e. in natural colours) in the first quarter.

Craster Harbour

Craster mostly clusters around its harbour, the current form of which was constructed by the Craster family in 1906 as a memorial to one of its members – Cpt John Craster (1871-1904) – who was killed in the 1903-4 Tibet Campaign.

The campaign was fought over a border dispute between the British protectorate of Sikkim and Tibet. The latter was theoretically a vassal state of Qing China, but Chinese control was revealed to be nominal when its officials were unable to compel Tibet to abide by an Anglo-Chinese treaty, and so we resorted to force.

Smokehouse & Pub

Immediately south of the harbour was the smokehouse of L Robson & Sons Ltd (est. 1856), which has been smoking Craster kippers over several generations.

Seeing it made me feel slightly hungry and thirsty, a situation that I hoped the Jolly Fisherman pub directly opposite might help me with. Alas, the Jolly Fisherman was beyond ‘busy’ and well into ‘absolutely rammed.’  I considered trying to get served anyway, but it would have taken so long I might have died from hunger and thirst before it happened.

Figuring that, if I was going to perish for want of sustenance, I might as well do it somewhere picturesque, I followed the coast path round the back the pub, past a southern extension to the village (constructed in 1937) and back out onto open coast path.  There, a flock of sheep teased me with how tasty they would be with mint sauce.

Cullernose Point

This was the view from Cullernose Point, where I bid the sheep goodbye (they were behind me as I took the photo).

The point is part of the Whin Sill, a massive tabular (i.e., flat or table-like) formation of dolerite underlying parts of Northumberland and County Durham. Cullernose Point is an excellent example of columnar jointing, where the dolerite forms polygonal stone columns but unfortunately the columns are revealed on the cliff face, which was at my feet in the photo above.

Howick

Bathing House

From Cullernose Point, I followed the coast path around the next embayment, coming close to the village of Howick (pronounced ‘ho-ick’). This had been the seat of that branch of the Grey family that gave rise to the Earls Grey, who resided in Howick Hall. I didn’t go anywhere near the hall, which lay almost a mile inland, but I that wasn’t the Greys’ only building…

The above was a Bathing House built in about 1840 for Charles Grey (1764-1845), 2nd Earl Grey. Its purpose was to facilitate his large family – he had sixteen children – swimming in the sea. A large sitting room upstairs provided ample window space to allow Lady Grey to keep an eye on the children from a position of comfort, while a caretaker, who lived in the Bathing House, served her tea.

Earl Grey

I always feel a bit sorry for Earl Grey.  He was one of our better prime ministers, governing (briefly) from 1830 to 1834, during which he passed both the Reform Act 1832 – which greatly expanded the electorate and reorganised how Parliamentary seats were allocated across the nation – and the Slavery Abolition Act 1833, which speaks for itself.

For this, he ought to be lauded, and I suppose he is by those with an interest in politics and a liberal outlook. But the average man on the proverbial Clapham omnibus has never heard of him and, if asked, would likely respond ‘what, like the tea?’

The Greys of Howick are a branch of the Greys of Chillingham, which are in turn a branch of the Greys of Heaton. They retain the mullet (star) added as a mark of difference by the Chillingham Greys but have further differenced the arms by changing it from silver to gold.

Earl Grey Tea

Earl Grey tea is indeed associated with the earl, though evidence in support of an actual link is lacking. In many ways, it seems unlikely, as bergamot oil – which gives Earl Grey tea its distinctive flavour – was mostly used to disguise inferior quality teas and the earl could afford to buy the best. But his own family attests that the tea was originally blended by ‘a Chinese mandarin’ to suit the water at Howick Hall, with the bergamot added to mask a limescale taste.  Lady Grey served it at a social event (they say) and it proved popular, leading to its worldwide sale.

I see no reason to disbelieve the Greys’ account, not least because they totally failed to monetise the association and so they accrue no benefit from making the claim.  If they were receiving royalties, I’d judge it more cynically as marketing but, as it is, I’ll accept the anecdote at face value.

Mind you, they do have a tea house in Howick Hall Gardens…

Rumbling Kern

The bathing House overlooked Howick Beach, also known as Rumbling Kern. The latter name is more properly applied to one of the many caves along the shoreline. As the 1864 OS Name Book (used to help compile the 1st ed) explained:

‘A natural Cavern into which the tide flows and as a consequence makes a great noise. Local tradition says that the subterranean passage reaches to Howick Hall.  The “Rumbling Kern” is the local way of saying “Very noisy churn”.’

Howick Haven

Moving on, I rounded the broad headland of which Rumbling Kern is a part and passed the farmstead of Sea Houses.  This brought me to Howick Haven, a small beach and natural gap in the rocks, which historically provided the people of Howick with a landing place for their boats.

I suppose it still does, theoretically. But no boats were in evidence when I passed it in 2025.

Howick Burn

A little further on, I came to Howick Burn.  This was a fairly small stream but one that had still cut a leafy gully on its way downhill from Howick Hall.  Immediately before it, the coast path merged with a byway that my OS map told me was a BOAT.  The BOAT (and coast path) continued on the far side and a narrow footbridge had been provided to get me there.

As the top photo shows, there were two guys sat beside the bridge who were laughing and joking as I approached.  I paused for a rest before crossing and one of them, suddenly noticing me, apologised for whatever they’d been saying.

‘He’s always like that,’ added the other, hastily applying the ‘it’s all his fault,’ defence.

I assured them I hadn’t been listening, which was true, but they didn’t look convinced. At that point, I decided I’d had enough rest and needed to move on before they said something else that might require an apology.

Longhoughton

Sugar & Howdiemont Sands

The path beyond the bridge was broad and gravelled and would be easy going as a BOAT except, of course that the narrow gate at the bridge would block any vehicles from making use of it. I couldn’t see a wider gate, and the BOAT is still shown as such on NCC’s online map of rights of way, so that really does seem to be an illegal obstruction, which is weird.

Fortunately, I’m not a vehicle with three or more wheels, so my journey was unobstructed. I followed the path past two delightful beaches, namely Sugar Sands and Howdiemont Sands. The first of these beaches presumably gets its name from a comparison of finely granulated substances, but the other’s name demands an explanation. Perhaps the OS Name Book can shed light on this?

‘A small patch of sand on the foreshore of this parish. I could not get an origin for this name.’

Ah. Thanks. Very helpful.

St Andrew’s Church

One mile later, I had rounded Boulmer Point and found myself entering the village it was named for i.e., Boulmer (pronounced ‘boomer’).  Boulmer is very small, even by fishing village standards, but it is still a village, not a hamlet.  I think.

Fishing Boat Inn

Boulmer’s pub was the Fishing Boat Inn, which in times past was a hub of smuggling activity; in the 18th and 19th centuries, Boulmer revelled in notoriety as the alleged ‘smuggling capital of Northumberland.’

I felt the need to check out this hive of scum and villainy for myself and found that it is now a pleasant hostelry, which supplied me with drink and delicious dessert.

Boulmer Haven

Feeling rested, refuelled and refreshed, I emerged from the Fishing Boat Inn with a spring in my step and strode energetically down the road. It didn’t last long, admittedly, but it was nice while it lasted.

The coast path broke off from the road again and continuing as an unmade track, it headed for Seaton Point.  Along the way it passed close to a stripy pole with a light mounted halfway up it. I immediately looked around for a second and found one just where I expected – I had correctly recognised them as coastal navigation marks indicating a safe channel. They had been erected beside Boulmer Haven, which was described thusly in 1864:

‘A fine natural haven nearly enclosed within natural breakwaters. The fishermen of Boulmer always have safe anchorage within it as at the lowest spring tides there is six feet of water at its entrance, alias the Mar Mouth.’

Boulmer doesn’t have a constructed harbour, so the haven must still serve that purpose. Accordingly, the two navigation marks are positioned such that, if you line them up with each other, you are also lined up on the Mar Mouth.

Seaton Point & Foxton Beach

At Seaton Point, the coast path initially skirted one edge of Seaton Point Caravan Park, before then cutting right through it. Thereafter, it would follow the shoreline of Foxton Beach but I had other ideas. I took one look at the sandy expanse of the beach and decided that it was time for one more unnecessary splish-splash along the water’s edge.

This meant that I never followed the coast path past Foxton Hall. The hall had once belonged to the Percy family but had been gifted to Alnmouth Golf Club (est. 1869) – the fourth oldest golf club in England – in 1929 to act as their clubhouse.

Alnmouth

Alnmouth Beach

Marden Rocks marked the limit of Foxton Beach, after which I was on Alnmouth Beach and nearing the end of my journey.

Northumberland Street

The universe had one last laugh when my route off the beach turned out to be via Alnmouth Village Golf Club (est. 1869) – oh, how I loathe golf courses – which claims to be the oldest 9-hole links in England. Oh, whatever; I was through it and done with it in minutes.

I emerged into Alnmouth’s Marine Road and from there joined Northumberland Street, and then went and found my hotel.

The Hotel

Oh dear, the hotel. I won’t name and shame them because they were trying, bless them. But it was a very long way from the best hotel I’ve stayed in.

What might have been a disappointing evening was rescued, sort of, by a couple of my fellow guests. One was an older guy who, well… let’s just say that it was a lot like talking to the flesh avatar of a Large Language Model AI. He had a lot to say on a great many subjects and parts occasionally came close to reality.

The other fellow guest of note was a Czech girl who had had just walked the West Highland Way and, while on her way to other adventures, was taking the chance to enjoy hotel facilities instead of camping.  She was genuinely interesting to talk to and a lot more intrepid than I am, being entirely willing to blaze her own trail and wild camp.

I headed up to my room in the knowledge that the rest of my trip would pale in comparison to hers but that was okay. I had achieved my goal for the day and reached Alnmouth. And tomorrow I would plod unexcitingly onwards…

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This time: 21½ miles
Total since Gravesend: 4,704½ miles

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