CCLVII – Dunbar to St Abb’s Head

THE Sun was lurking just below the horizon when I returned to the vicinity of Dunbar railway station at the beginning of April 2025. I had an ambitious walking day planned and was going to need all the daylight if I were to reach my planned end point in Eyemouth. Or, as it actually turned out, I would still need all the daylight if I weren’t…

Dunbar

Dunbar Railway Station

Dunbar railway station sits upon the East Coast Main Line (ECML), and was opened by the North British Railway (NBR) in 1846 as part of its new line between Edinburgh and Berwick.  A second platform was added in 2019 to simplify and thus speed up train movements, but this hadn’t helped much the evening before, when I’d arrived a full hour late.

Having spent the night in a Dunbar hotel, I had no practical need to visit the station at this crepuscular hour, just a vague obligation to begin where the last walk concluded.

High Street

Most of Dunbar’s High Street had yet to open at this hour but one glorious exception was its branch of Morrisons Daily, which won out over its Co-op high street rival by opening a full hour earlier and thus being available for me to acquire a nutritious and well-balanced breakfast lots of chocolate.

Morrisons Daily is Morrisons’ convenience store format to compete with the likes of Tesco Express and, yes, Co-op. They are actually the rebranded stores of Scottish-based convenience  store chain McColl’s (1973-2024), which was acquired by Morrisons in 2018 and were all rebranded by the end of last year.

The Creel Loaders

The High Street forked at its northern end, with Bayswell Road heading west and Victoria Street heading east. I had come in via Bayswell Road at the end of my last walk, so I now chose to tread the path untrodden.

The Creel Loaders depicts two fishermen, loading a heavy creel – a large, wicker fish-basket – onto the back of a fishwife. Two cats lurk at their feet, not so much to trip them up and steal dropped tasty fish but more to serve as a visual pun – Cat’s Row was a fisherman’s tenement there, demolished in 1933. That, in turn, got its name from a colony of cats then infesting the neighbourhood, and they probably did make off with whatever fish they were able.

The statue, by sculptor Gardner Molloy (b. 1964) , was erected in 2016. It commemorates an aspect of the herring industry that thrived from the 18th to early 20th centuries. While the men put to sea to catch the fish, the fishwives prepared the catch and then carried it in creels to hawk fish in local communities. But ‘local’ can be quite subjective, and The Herring Road, as their route was known, stretched from Dunbar to Lauder, some twenty miles inland. 

That might be no distance to an unencumbered Helpful Mammal, but it’s one hell of a journey to carry a creel full of fish. And if you’re wondering just how heavy a creel of fish was, they could weigh up to eight stone, which is about 51 kg. And that’s why The Creel Loaders depicts a couple of fishermen helping get one on the fishwife’s back.

Well Head

The well head in the photo above supplied water for Cat’s Row and was erected in the 18th century, which is maddeningly imprecise but  I have been unable to find a more specific date for it. I was, however, able to read from a handy sign beside it that its water was culverted from Spott Burn, about 1¾ miles away.

Victoria Harbour

Dunbar’s herring trade would not have been possible without a safe harbour for the mooring and unloading of her fishing boats and the burgh had not one but two. The newer one – for a given value of ‘new’  –  is Victoria Harbour.

Constructed in 1844 and improved in 1858, the harbour was designed by engineer David Stevenson (1815-1886). He, like most of his family with the glaring exception of his author nephew, Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894), actually specialised in lighthouse-building.  Constructing the harbour’s entrance required driving a massive breach through Dunbar Castle.

Dunbar Castle

I touched on the history of Dunbar Castle last time, but the short version is that today’s ruins are those of a castle built in 1497 on the site of a previous one. It was intact for just 70 years before the Parliament of Scotland had it slighted.

Dunbar Battery

Dunbar Battery was built in 1781 and mounted a formidable 16 guns in defence of Dunbar.  And it was necessary.  The American War of Independence (1775-1783) then was in progress and the Americans had already attacked Dunbar twice.

In the first incident, the ‘Father of the American Navy,’ John Paul Jones (1747-1792) approached Dunbar with a  squadron of five ships: his own vessel, Bonhomme Richard, plus Alliance, Pallas, Vengeance and the French cutter Le Cerf. While they did not attempt to enter the harbour, they did turn their guns upon the town causing only minor damage but a lot of serious alarm.

The second saw the privateer cutter Fearnought, commanded by William Fall, attempt to capture a vessel outside the harbour, only to be driven off by four guns on loan from Dunbar’s provost, whaler Robert Fall (1724-1796). It is not known if the two Falls were related.

Battery Hospital

The battery never fired a single shot in anger – which is actually a good thing, as it means Dunbar wasn’t subsequently attacked. The fort was dismantled in 1814.

Its building later twice served as a hospital – from 1874 to 1906 and then again from 1914 to 1927. It has long since fallen into ruin.

Two Cats

A pair of fairly fluffy-looking cats watched me curiously from a doorstep as I made my way between Victoria and Cromwell harbours. But not too curiously, because that’s proverbially fatal to felines. I’m pleased to say, neither cat died.

Fishermen’s Monument

The thing in the photo above is the 1856 Fishermen’s Monument, which is about as expensive and unnecessary a barometer-holder as one could hope for. Or, at least, as William Brodie (1814-1877) of the Seafield Brick & Tile Works could hope for, as that’s who paid for it. It is dedicated to the fishermen of Dunbar, which makes it a little more sombre than frivolous.

The monument was originally sculpted by Alexander Handyside Ritchie (1804-1870) of Musselburgh, himself the son of a brickmaker, who is better known for having sculpted a fairly long list of statuary. However due to wear and tear, the main panels were re-sculpted in 1998 by Michelle de Bruin (b. 1967) and then, in 2012, some repairs were made by Graciela Ainsworth (b. 1960).

The barometer served a practical purpose by giving Dunbar’s fishermen some indication of probable weather. And still does, I guess, if anyone ever looks at it.

Cromwell Harbour

The ‘Old Harbour’ shown on maps as just that but known locally as ‘Cromwell Harbour’ wasn’t actually built by Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658). I mean, obviously not; he had people to do that sort of work for him. But it wasn’t built by them either or, at least, not entirely.

Dunbar originally had a natural anchorage that was called Lamerhaven, on account of being partially sheltered by Lamer Island to the north, A proper harbour was constructed in 1574, which was a quarter century before Cromwell was born. Not being one for time travel, this precluded the Lord Protector’s involvement.  This ‘not-Cromwell’ harbour suffered extensive storm damage in 1655 and that’s where Cromwell comes in, as he granted £300 to rebuild the east pier, after which his name became attached to it.

Lamer Street

From Cromwell Harbour, I headed south along Lamer Street, which followed that shore seen above.  This had also been the Dunbar end of the Herring Road and this would briefly be my only travel along it. At the end of Lamer Street, helpful waymarks and signposts directed me into East Links Road, which desperately wanted to be an alley but was too wide to join that club.

John Muir Link

The signs and waymarks were for the John Muir Link, in a hastily amended sort of way. By which I mean, it was pretty obvious that the fingerpost had previously said ‘John Muir Way’ and that a sticker saying ‘Link’ had been added to cover up ‘Way.’  That’s certainly more cost-effective than replacing the entire sign but I was confused as it why it was necessary at all.

The John Muir Way was established as a long-distance footpath in 2014, running 134 miles from Dunbar to Helensburgh and is named for John Muir (1838-1914), a Scottish-American who helped found the US National Park system and spent most of his life not in Scotland. The John Muir Link is an 11-mile extension to link up with two other paths, the Southern Upland Way (SUW) and the Berwickshire Coastal Path (BCP). None of which tells me why the signs would have previously had the wrong name on them.

It turns out that while the current John Muir Way was created to commemorate the centenary of John Muir’s death, it reused the name and part of the route of a previous John Muir Way created by East Lothian Council at the turn of the millennium. That John Muir Way ran 45 miles from Musselburgh to Cockburnspath and the part that didn’t get reused got renamed the John Muir Link. So that’s that mystery solved!

Golf Course

Golf House Road

As anyone who has read any of my previous walks will likely know, I loathe golf courses for admittedly irrational reasons. And while the ‘links’ in ‘East Links Road’ didn’t necessarily mean it was heading for a golf course – ‘links’ can simply mean duneland as well as the type of golf course that one might find there – I had a map, so knew it did.

Thus, I was neither shocked nor delighted when East Links Road ended by spitting me out onto Golf House Road at the western end of Dunbar Golf Club (est. 1856). I was, however, pleasantly surprised to realise that I would be walking outside the wall separating the golf course from the esplanade. Not that the wall was intended for my benefit; it was actually built to keep the French out.

Dunbar Golf Club

The esplanade ran for just under one quarter of a mile, after which I would be walking along the edge of the golf course whether I liked it or not. 

The course was laid out soon after Dunbar Golf Club’s founding, about a half century after construction of the wall. Although when I say ‘laid out’ I don’t mean that it was carefully designed and landscaped by an architect, as would ideally be the case; Dunbar Golf Club had nowhere near the funds for that. I mean they simply cleared the ground and made do with however it lay.

I may not be a golf course fan, but I can certainly appreciate that pragmatism.

Broxmouth

I was briefly forced off the golf course and onto the beach at the mouth of Brox Burn due to ‘no entry’ signs on the foot bridge and obvious grounds maintenance work underway on its far side. This stream was the lower reach of Spott Burn, its name deriving from ‘brock’s burn’ i.e., ‘badger stream.’ Alas, the badgers were also obeying the ‘no entry’ signs.

Immediately south of the golf course at this point was the Broxmouth Estate, with the 1777 Broxmouth House at its heart, surrounded by a late 17th/early 18th-century formal landscape. The estate had passed through many families, including the Grays, Rhinds, Hays and Homes but it was owned by the Ker Dukes of Roxburghe when the house was rebuilt and its grounds laid out.

Battle of Dunbar

South of the Broxburgh Estate lay the site of the 1650 Battle of Broxburgh, in which Oliver Cromwell and his New Model Army won a decisive victory over a Scottish army led by Cromwell’s former ally, the Covenanter-turned-Royalist David Leslie, 1st Lord Newark (1600 –1682). 

Cromwell naturally headquartered himself in the version of Broxmouth House then standing. He had to stay in that version because, as we’ve already established, he didn’t go in for time travel.

The Vaults

The narrow beach was a mixture of pebbles and sand backed by boulders and wasn’t entirely easy going. This induced me to hop back onto the edge of the golf course as soon as I was past the maintenance work, after which I followed the coast around to the Vaults.

This ominous sounding name now just means a part of the golf course next to its 7th green but, originally, it referred to a trio of fishermen’s cottages. These were described as follows in the Ordnance Survey Name Book, compiled in 1854:

‘A row of cottages occupied by fishermen. The basement rooms are arched or vaulted and were originally used as corn stores, hence the name.’

The fishermen and their families were still there three years later, when Dunbar Golf Club was formed. Now, all that’s left of the Vaults is this, stubbornly resisting the influence of current times:

Mid Links

From the Vaults, I continued heading east around the edge of the Mid Links. This was probably lovely but I have no idea because by now the sun had risen to be perfectly level with my eyeline and I was dazzled to near blindness.  This could have been annoying, but I figured it was till better than thundering rain, so I stumbled merrily onwards until  the coast began to turn south into the curve of Whitesands Bay.

Whitesands Bay

Oxwellmains Cement Works

As I write this, the cement works is a significant local employer with its future somewhat in doubt. It was built in 1963 and not entirely welcomed by the locals, but it occupies the best possible site in Scotland for a  cement works, with massive amounts of readily available limestone in a terrain that is easy to work, to access and to build on.

The works were constructed by Blue Circle Industries (est. 1900), which owned them until its acquisition by French rival Lafarge (est. 1833). Initially they carved out what is now Whitesands Loch from what had been green fields but this quarry was retired and landscaped in 2008. A second quarry was excavated to its east, which is still being worked.

In 2013, Lafarge merged its UK assets with Tarmac (est. 1903) to form a joint venture, but then bought out the other half to fully own it, before selling it to Irish-headquartered CRH plc (est. 1970). The works had been rebranded as Tarmac in 2013 and they remain so today.

Whitesands Car Park

I stopped for a rest and a sit-down at a handy picnic bench at Whitesands Car Park. I needed to check-in online with my accommodation for that night and receive a door code to get in, and this seemed as good a time as any to get that done. I also ate some of that chocolate that I’d bought in the Morrisons Daily.

When I was confident that I was now equipped to get into my room for that night, I stood up and continued on my way. For all of about 300 m, before I stopped again to look at something.

Directly north of Catcraig cottage were the remnants of some lime kilns, in which limestone was burnt to produce quicklime (calcium oxide).  This could be used for construction as a component of mortar– essentially making the kilns a small-scale cement works– or it could be used as an agricultural fertiliser to neutralise acidic soil.

Catcraig Lime Kilns

The Catcraig lime kilns were a pair, although you could forgiven for thinking there were three at first glance. A central arch between them was not, in fact, a third kiln but access to the kilns’ draw-holes – vents through which they could be lit and through which air was sucked in to feed the fire.

Historic Environment Scotland thinks they were probably built in the early 19th century, while Canmore’s various references seem to favour mid-19th. If so, they likely replaced an earlier version because the 1793 Statistical Account of Scotland had this to say:

‘Limestone is got in the E. end of the parish, and there are draw kilns for burning lime, which is used by the farmers, and sold to those in the neighbourhood.’

The kilns had their own tiny quarries and also a track down to the shoreline, indicating at least some access by boat. They remined in use until 1921, after which they fell into disrepair. They were restored in 1966 by East Lothian County Council, but, well…

The Lighthouse Road

The road I was following curved around to meet two others, one leading to Barns Ness Lighthouse, the other heading back west. Prior to 2008, the latter would not have existed, but there would have been a road south to what had been the old alignment of the A1 before the building of a bypass in 1981. The excavation of the East Barns Quarry for the cement works severed that southern road and required a new connection to link the lighthouse with the road network. Building it was one of the conditions attached to permission for the quarry.

Incidentally, the old line of the A1 had been an important post road since well before A-designations were bestowed in the 1920s. In fact, it is clearly shown on William Roy’s 1755 map of the area. He did not show the lighthouse access road, however, as the lighthouse had not then been built – Roy’s map was truly remarkable in its day, but future days weren’t its problem.

Barns Ness Lighthouse

The lighthouse was built in 1901 by the Stevenson brothers David (1854-1938) and Charles (1855-1950), both sons of the David Stevenson who designed Victoria Harbour. They built it well enough to survive being machine-gunned by the Luftwaffe in WW2 and it went on to be electrified in 1966 and then fully automated in 1986.

Well-built it might be, but not invaluable: In 2005, the Northern Lighthouse Board decided it was no longer needed and sold it off.  It was initially purchased by Lafarge, presumably because that really simplified the whole access road thing – if they owned the lighthouse, they were hardly likely to complain to themselves about it.  But I assume they later sold it on again, as it now seems to be available as holiday accommodation.

Skateraw

Chapel Point

From Barns Ness, I followed the curve of the coast for a little under a mile and a half until it brought me to Chapel Point, where I found no trace of a chapel.

The chapel for which the point was named was one dedicated to St Dennis, which generally seems to have been described as non-specifically ‘ancient.’ Unfortunately for it, its presumed longevity just gave it more time for the land underneath it to get eroded. Thus, while Roy labelled it on his 1755 map, there was no sign of it on the OS 1st ed map of 1854, it having been completely swept away by 1836.

Canongate Boys’ Club Memorial

There may not have been a chapel on Chapel Point, but there was a memorial cross.

This was erected by Ronnie Selby Wright (1908-1995), who would go on to become Moderator of the Church of Scotland in the early 1970s but was then the minister of Edinburgh’s Canongate Kirk.  As part of his parochial activities, he ran the Canongate Boys Club for poor boys living in the parish and, through it, frequently took them camping in this area.

The cross commemorates six such boys who went off to fight in WW2 as young adults and never returned.

Links Cottage

I had deviated off the John Muir Link in my traipse across Chapel Point, so I now re-joined it and let it lead me around the curve of Skateraw Harbour. 

Overlooking the harbour was one solitary dwelling – Links Cottage – which showed every sign of being empty. This cottage also showed every sign of having its very own slipway for some reason, but appearances were slightly deceiving. The slipway had belonged to Skateraw Lifeboat Station, which operated from 1907 (which was actually before the cottage was built) until 1943 and had since been demolished.

Skateraw Harbour

Something else that had been demolished was the harbour, for there was only an embayment, lacking any intact breakwaters.

There had been a proper harbour once. It was built sometime between 1799 and 1825 by the farmers of Skateraw and Thorntonloch to service a small quarry and some lime kilns.  The harbour was still there in 1854, when the OS 1st ed map was published, but had succumbed to the power of the sea by the 2nd ed in 1892.

A suspiciously linear pile of rocks is now pretty much all that remains. I sat and looked them for a while, while I took another quick rest.

It wasn’t, you understand, that I was particularly tired, but rather a preferred methodology.  I’ve found, over the years, that if you wait until you’re tired and achy to rest, it’s generally too late. Whereas if you take short rests at regular intervals, you can generally stave that moment off. It doesn’t always work, but more often than not.

Skateraw Airfield

I had thought the cross on Chapel Point was a rather unusual war memorial, on account of how few it commemorated.  But standing close to the vanished harbour, I found one for even fewer:

This memorial states that it’s dedicated to ‘all units and personnel’ based at Skateraw Airfield, which was a facility used by the Royal Flying Corps and its successor, the Royal Air Force, from 1917 to 1919.  More specifically, it was a landing ground for No. 77 Home Defence Squadron, which was valiantly defending the Firth of Forth against German Zeppelin bombing raids during WW1.

The thing is, though, that No. 77 Squadron was based in Edinburgh.  Skateraw was purely a landing ground, an airfield for emergency landings if engine failure or weather conditions threatened to prevent an aircraft from making it back to Edinburgh. Accordingly, Skateraw had no personnel, and no aircraft unless things had gone badly wrong. It certainly wasn’t home to any of them. The memorial is a nice thought, though, and deserves to be thought of as such.

Incidentally, the blocky brick thing in the background with railings on top is the lime kiln the harbour was built for. And what looks like a low flat rock in the sea is what remains of that harbour.

Torness

Coastal Slope

The John Muir Link passed landward of the lime kiln and climbed steeply to the top of a 20 m coastal slope.  As I slowly laboured my way up the incline, hares raced about madly, shaming my pace. Apparently no one had told them that March was over.

Strolling sedately, I followed the path along the top of the coastal slope for just over a quarter of a mile before it dropped back down beside Torness Nuclear Power Station and deposited me on the concrete Lower Walkway that led round its seaward perimeter.

Torness Nuclear Power Station

Torness Nuclear Power Station was commissioned in 1988 over vocal local opposition. It has two advanced gas-cooled reactors and is expected to remain operational until 2030.  Originally operated by the South of Scotland Electricity Board, it was sold to Électricité de France (EDF) in 2009.  Since EDF is a nationalised French company, this means that electricity privatisation – intended to end our government owning electrical infrastructure – resulted in this nuclear power station being owned by that of another country. Someone clearly didn’t think that through.

The Lower Walkway was not exactly idyllic, unless you’re an ardent fan of uncompromising concrete brutalism. But partway around, three hardly-mutated-at-all-at-first-glance workers were using a power-washer to try to make it slightly less grim. And, if clean brutal concrete is better than dirty brutal concrete, then I guess they were succeeding.  They turned the water off momentarily as I passed, not wanting to write ‘power washing a hiker’ in the site’s Accident Book.

RNLB John Neville Taylor

The lifeboat moored in Torness Nuclear Power’s Station’s harbour is RNLB John Neville Taylor and she isn’t on hand to assist with nuclear emergencies, but to perform a lifeboat’s usual function, i.e. saving lives out at sea. She is theoretically based at Dunbar Lifeboat Station, which stands right next to Victoria Harbour, but shallow waters at Dunbar would trap her there at low tide. (The station does have an inshore lifeboat on site, which has a shallow enough draught to get out).

Named for a charitable donor to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI), John Neville Taylor is a Trent Class all-weather lifeboat and was launched in 2003, the last year that that class were built. She has a top speed of 25 kts and a range of 250 nautical miles. Until 2008, she was based in Poole, which is the RNLI’s headquarters. But that year, Dunbar’s previous Trent Class – RNLB Sir Ronald Pechell Bt– slipped her mooring in a storm and was dashed against rocks.  Bookending things nicely, she had been one of the first Trent Class boats, launched in 1995 (they had been introduced just the year before).

Hairy Path Man

The Lower Walkway curved its way around Torness Point and then met an access road end on. This, in turn, led towards the car park for the power station’s visitor centre.  I turned off to the left towards Thorntonloch just before the car park, doing so just as a slightly older couple made the same turning from the car park with their dog.  The dog insisted on saying hello, compelling its owners to do likewise. A round of compulsory weather observations duly followed.

Having quickly exhausted the topic of how sunny it was, we turned to what we were doing, which in both cases was ‘going for a walk.’ Well, duh. But the male dog-walker listened with interest to my plans for the rest of the day and then made the sort of noise that with tradesmen is followed by ‘it’ll all need replacing.’  What he actually said though was ‘you’ve got some hairy bits ahead!’

If I had any hopes that he meant ‘with lots of hares’ rather than ‘hair-raising,’ he made sure to swiftly dispel them. He described how the path clung terrifyingly to the outside of Fast Castle, where I’d need a head for heights.

He then added that the path beyond St Abb’s Head would be broad and ‘proper,’ which didn’t really quell my new anxiety.

Thorntonloch

Thorntonloch Beach

You may recall that, back in the early 1800s, the farmstead of Thorntonloch had been one of two behind the construction of Skateraw Harbour.  It may have lost the harbour since then, but it had gained a small caravan park, facing onto Thorntonloch Beach from atop a low sandy cliff.  This gave any early-season holidaymakers an excellent view of the top of my head when the John Muir Link emerged onto that beach.

The beach was lovely. And that’s not just my opinion but presumably one also shared by the 147 pilot whales that stranded themselves upon it in 1950 in Scotland’s largest beaching. With nothing else to be done for them,  they were humanely dispatched by the Scottish Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

Thornton Burn

The caravan park, but not the beach, came to an end at Thornton Burn. I too came to a temporary halt as I judged if I might be able to cross it without taking my boots off and wading.  I was still woefully undecided on the matter when I heard a shout from behind. Hairy Path Man was gesturing intently from the caravan park that I should head upstream. There was, it turned out, a footbridge and thus I crossed with dry feet.

Sitting & Looking Bench

A couple of hundred metres south of Thornton Burn, I passed a cottage, close to which was a bench facing onto the beach.  This was not in itself unremarkable but then I saw what it was labelled: the Sitting and Looking Bench.  At that point, it seemed rude not to use it.

Linkhead

The path climbed again after the next (unnamed) burn to run between the edge of a field and another 20 m coastal slope. While this was hardly a great elevation, from it there was an excellent view of what lay ahead:

I strode briskly along this path, thoroughly enjoying myself. On my left, Thorntonloch Beach’s mile of sand gave way to a shoreline of rocks.  According to an 1854 OS Name Book, a ‘small public house one storey high and in good repair’ had stood beside the road at nearby Linkhead. It has sadly long since vanished.

Bilsdean & Dunglass

The Linn

I had gone another three quarters of a mile when the path veered inland up the side of a steep, wooded valley. This was a gorge cut out by Bilsdean Burn and the path zig-zagged down it before heading back to the shore. On the way, it passed this waterfall:

The waterfall is known as The Linn, although some online have also called it ‘Bilsdean Waterfall.’ To be fair, looking at OS maps, it isn’t clear if it’s the waterfall or the gorge that’s the linn and, unhelpfully, this Scots word can mean either. Fortunately, its OS map labelling ultimately relied upon a Name Book, and its entry leaves us no doubt as to which The Linn is:

‘A waterfall of about 16ft on the Bilsdean Burn, situate a little to the E. of the school house.’

Case closed, I think.

Bilsdean Schoolhouse

There is no sign of a schoolhouse on modern OS maps, that building having gone the same way as the Linkhead pub.  It was there on the OS 1st and 2nd editions, though, and the 1854 Name Book gave rather more detail than a  cartographer needed:

‘A cottage one storey high and in good repair used at present as a school for male and female. The average attendance is about 55, the usual branches are taught. The Master gets £5.0.0 every year from Sir J  Hall but has to pay school & house rent out of it.’

Yes, that was a salary of five pounds per year.  That’s just eight shillings and four pence – or 42 modern decimal pence – per month. Blimey!

Bilsdean Footbridge

The path was broad and delightfully leafy as it led back towards the shoreline where, according to the OS map, a footbridge would cross Bilsdean Burn.  And so it did, I suppose. But the path had clearly once been a more significant track, and the ‘bridge’ was a crenellated embankment with the burn culverted underneath.

I failed to find anything informative about when this bridge was built, but it appears to have served as part of an estate road to give access to Dunglass Beach.  The crenellations are purely decorative, though some genuine defensive effort was made during WW2, when barbed wire was strewn across the burn mouth lest Germans invade through that culvert.

Dunglass Beach

The footbridge neatly demonstrated that it still serves its purpose by passing me onto a sloping track that led down onto Dunglass Beach.

The beach may have been a little less pleasant to walk on than Thorntonloch Beach had been but, as I stumbled over its shingle, I couldn’t say it was boring. And while it threatened to turn my ankle, it could once have done a lot worse – in WW2 it was a minefield.

Dunglass Burn

I had about a quarter mile of beach to crunch, wobble and lurch over before the John Muir Link once again plunged into woodland.  This time, it was heading inland up the valley of Dunglass Burn, which marked an administrative boundary.  Today, it separates the East Lothian and Borders council areas, but in the past it was the counties of Haddingtonshire (as East Lothian used to be known) and Berwickshire.

The burn is spanned by not one but five bridges in quick succession, most of which are successors to another.

Dunglass Old Bridge

The first bridge that I encountered, I simply passed the end of. This was Dunglass Old Bridge, erected in the early 17th century (the first record of it is from 1617) and significantly repaired in both 1648 and 1794.  It carried the post road on its earliest known alignment and is clearly depicted on Roy’s map of 1755. It remained the only crossing until 1798, when Dunglass New Bridge superseded it. In 1858, the OS Name Book described it in these terms:

‘A stone bridge across Dunglass Burn consisting of one arch it is in bad repair and much decayed in some places - it is not now used for general traffic.’

The bridge is still in use today, but what was once the post road is now merely a back lane providing access to some cottages.

A1 Road Bridges

The next bridge upstream after the Old Bridge was the newest, being a modern concrete road bridge erected in 1992. This carries the current line of the A1. At this point, the valley had broadened out a little, which led the path to pass underneath its span.

From beneath the current A1 road bridge, I espied its immediate predecessor, which was erected in 1932. Although also constructed from concrete, the 1932 bridge was far more elegant in form, making it much easier on the eye. Unfortunately, for all its aesthetic benefits, it had been found lacking in structural integrity, which is a far more important quality in a bridge. A 1987 survey found it to be in need of urgent demolition and replacement, which task was half-completed (i.e., the replacement half).

The 1932 bridge still stands, though it is now closed to traffic, with bollards barring both ends.

Dunglass Viaduct

The fourth bridge I encountered on my journey upstream had never been a road bridge at all. Opened in 1846 by the NBR, the Dunglass Viaduct had been a key part of the Edinburgh & Berwick railway line and still carries it today in its guise as the ECML.  It was designed by the NBR’s engineer, John Miller (1805-1883).

The Edinburgh & Berwick line had been the first railway to cross the Anglo-Scottish border, and it cost a penny or two to build, as the OS Name Book noted:

‘This railway Extending from Edinburgh to Berwick was constructed at a cost of some few pounds under £800,000, by a Company authorized to raise this sum by shares of £25 each. It was opened to the public in June 1846.’

To put that £25 share price into context, remember it would be five years’ salary to the master of Bilsdean school.

Dunglass New Bridge

Having passed by or under all others, I finally crossed Dunglass Burn by means of the 1798 New Bridge. This had been described in 1858 by the OS Name Book as:

‘A handsome stone bridge of one arch across Dunglass Dean by means of which conveyance by the turnpike road is afforded across a deep ravine into adjoining county and kept in repair by the county.’

You can judge its handsomeness for yourself, since its photo’s next to that of the Old Bridge, above.

Dunglass Collegiate Church

I remained on the old A1 alignment for pretty much the length of the New Bridge and just that.

I had one more section of John Muir Link to complete before reaching its end in Cockburnspath. Flanked by trees, this initially continued up the valley of Dunglass Burn.

On the opposite side of the burn stood the ruins of Dunglass Collegiate Church. This was founded in the 1440s as a chapel for the now-demolished Dunglass Castle. It remained in use until 1560, when the Reformation saw it disestablished.  In 1710, it suffered ruination, when it was unsympathetically converted for use as a stable and coach-house.  Today, its ruins persist and are in the care of in the care of Historic Environment Scotland.

Dunglass Castle

Unlike the church that once served as its chapel, nothing now remains of Dunglass Castle. It had previously existed in various iterations.

The first Dunglass Castle was a 14th-century stronghold built by the Pepdies of Dunglass, but it passed to the Home family in 1379 when heiress Nicola Pepdie married Sir Thomas Home (1355-1427). 

The Homes held the castle until 1516, when Alexander Home, 3rd Lord Home got executed for treason in a struggle for regency over the child monarch James V (1512-1542). Lord Home had backed the young King’s mother, Margaret Tudor (1489-1541) –sister to England’s Henry VIII – and that not only killed him, but saw Dunglass Castle forfeited and briefly given to Archibald Douglas, 6th Earl of Angus (c. 1489-1557) instead.  But then Alexander’s brother, George Home, 4th Lord Home (d. 1547) managed to get the forfeiture reversed in 1522, returning the castle to Home ownership.

Repeated Demolition

In 1547, the castle was captured by the English, who demolished it and built a new fort with its stone, only to see the French capture that in 1550.  The castle was then rebuilt, only to be destroyed in 1640 by an explosion in its powder magazine. It was then in use by the Covenanter general Thomas Hamilton, 2nd Earl of Haddington (1600-1640) as his headquarters and he, being in the courtyard at the time, was killed by the explosion.  It was then rebuilt yet again.

The Homes sold the castle in 1680 to future baronet and provost of Edinburgh, John Hall (1650-1695) and his great-grandson, Sir James Hall of Dunglass, 4th Baronet (1761- 1832), commissioned Alexander Nasmyth (1758-1840) to design a new mansion to replace it.  The mansion outlasted the Halls who sold it to Francis Usher (1863-1938) in 1919, but it caught fire in 1947 and its ruins were fully demolished in 1958.

Cockburnspath

Not the BCP

Once past the Collegiate Church ruins, the path took a hard left turn and struck out for Cockburnspath, where the John Muir Link would end and the Berwickshire Coastal Path (BCP) would begin.

Co’path Community Shop

The path emerged into a street in the village of Cockburnspath – Callander Place – which then led me past the village hall. Next door to it was Co’path Community Shop and I understood from its name that it was the one and only shop that I was going to find in Cockburnspath. With no idea where the next shop would be, it would have been stupid not to nip inside and acquire a drink and new snacks.  On this occasion, I was not stupid.

I had thought, when I saw them, that the pencil bollards might be some sort of art installation, but no. It turns out that they are just a commercially available bollard design, albeit a quirky one. They are more interesting than a simple pillar, though, so I like them. I imagine the villagers’ reactions were probably mixed, though.

Market Cross

Callander Place spat me out into The Square, at the centre of which stood a market cross. As so often seems to be the case, this was more a cross due to insistent terminology, rather than it being, y’know, cross-shaped.

Cockburnspath Market Cross was erected in 1503 by James IV (1473-1513) and it celebrates his marriage to Margaret Tudor. In keeping with this theme, its decorative cravings combine the Scottish thistle with the Tudor rose.

James and Margaret’s marriage was supposed to usher in a new period of peace and friendship between Scotland and England, but that only lasted a decade before continental European politics provided a new context in which to renew the old conflict.

Cambrai & Flodden

The excuse arose in the form of War of the League of Cambrai (1508-1516), which primarily pitted France against the Papal States and its allies.  Ironically, given what he would do later, Henry VIII was then allied with the Pope, while Scotland had traditionally had its Auld Alliance with France. Ostensibly to assist France, James invaded his wife’s homeland. He promptly got soundly defeated and died at the Battle of Flodden. 

In the aftermath, Margaret was appointed regent for her son, now James V, but pro-French elements at the Scottish court wanted her replaced by the king’s closest male relative, John Stewart, Duke of Albany (1482-1536).  

Their chance came when the widowed Margaret married the 6th Earl of Angus, but her removal as regent precipitated a Scottish civil war in which Angus sided with Albany against his new wife! This is the aforementioned conflict that saw Lord Home executed for supporting Margaret and Dunglass Castle given to Angus, albeit briefly.

War Memorial

Leaving The Square, I found myself following waymarks for both the BCP and the SUW, which initially shared a route. These led me to Edinburgh Road, which had once been the route of the A1.

Overlooking the junction was the Cockburnspath Parish & Dunglass Estate War Memorial, unveiled in 1923.

Cove

Footpath to Cove Farm

The waymarks spent almost no distance at all on Edinburgh Road. Instead they struck off along a grassy lane, which soon passed beneath both the current A1 Cockburnspath Bypass and the ECML. 

I was amused to note that, no doubt due to 1992 construction regulations, the grassy track I was on gained a tarmac surface and a pedestrian pavement for its brief transit under the bypass, before immediately reverting to its prior state.

At its far end, the path re-joined the road network beside a row of cottages near Cove Farm.

Cove Hamlet

Having reached it, the path deftly sidestepped Cove Farm and headed for the coast along a track. This brought me to the eastern end of the hamlet of Cove. Looking to my left, I could see its cottages arrayed along the clifftop, beyond Reed Point, the bulk of Torness Nuclear Power Station still lurking in the distance. But my destination lay in the opposite direction, so I turned right and faced east.

Heathery Heugh

The path wound its way along the top of a cliff named Heathery Heugh, described by an 1858 Name Book thusly:

‘This name applies to a precipitous cliff, on which there is a quantity of heather, hence the name.’

I can’t say I noticed an unusual quantity of heather but, in fairness, I was mostly looking the wrong way. For down at the bottom of the heugh – a steep crag or cliff – was Cove Harbour.

Cove Harbour

The harbour as we see it today was constructed in 1831, when the breakwater was added to a natural haven. It was designed by Joseph Mitchell (1803-1883) – engineer for the Scottish Fisheries Board – who had apprenticed with the renowned Thomas Telford (1757-1834). Because of course he did. Almost everything in Scotland was engineered by Telford or someone connected to him.

Cove Harbour is noteworthy for how its inner beach and eastern pier are accessed, which is via a tunnel through the rock. This was cut in 1752 for Sir John Hall of Dunglass, 3rd baronet (d. 1776) to facilitate easier access as the track from Cove then ended at a ledge close to where the breakwater is now, with a steep zig-zag path to scrabble down. Not ideal for moving goods.

Eyemouth Disaster

A particularly severe storm in 1881 caused a great loss of life amongst east coast fishermen, claiming 189 souls. This principally affected Eyemouth, leading to it becoming known as the Eyemouth Disaster but, while Cove’s absolute losses were lesser, their proportional effect was devastating.

Cove Harbour, at that time, could boast just four fishing boats, manned by 21 men. Of these, three of the boats were lost, taking eleven men with them. That’s three quarters of the fleet and half of the crewmen. Like I said, devastating.

Hawk’s Heugh

From Heathery Heugh, the path made its way to and around the nest headland, passing above Hawk’s Heugh. In 1858, this was:

‘A bold, precipitous cliff, where the kestrel hawks build their nests, hence the name.’

I looked about me, in case I might still see nesting kestrels in 2025, but I saw none.  Although, this is just as likely to be because I’m not very observant, as it is that there weren’t any there.  Or they might have all been scared away by the noisy masses of holidaymakers who throng to Pease Bay below:

Pease Bay

Actually, it was early in the season and not a peep issued forth from Pease Bay Leisure Park as I followed the coast path off Hawk’s Heugh and onto the minor road that gives access to the park.  This road has never received a classification, being a minor country road, but it’s been around for a while as it’s shown on Roy’s map of 1755. To its south, on Roy’s map was Pease Mill, a corn mill that persisted on OS maps until the mid-20^th century, before being noted as ‘ruins’ and then not at all.

Something else not shown on Roy’s map was a bridge across Pease Burn, implying there must be a ford (if it were big enough to need a ferry it wouldn’t be a mere ‘burn’).  The first OS maps, a century later, explicitly labelled its crossing as a ford, and continue to do so today. Thus, I should not have at all been surprised when I reached this:

Greenheugh Point

I thankfully trotted over the bridge, keeping my feet nice and dry. In doing so, I parted company with the SUW, which turned off to head upstream into the gorge known as Pease Dean.  On the other side of Pease Burn, the road climbed quite steeply, before levelling out to gain 50 m over a quarter of a mile. Not that I made it quite that far; the BCP broke away from the road at 50 m and made its way around Greenheugh Point.

Greenheugh Point is yet another spot whose name is exactly what it says on the tin – a headland with steep, green sides.  I rounded its top and looked along Green Heugh to Siccar Point.  The latter has some importance to geology as observing the unconformity of its strata on a 1788 boat trip helped spur James Hutton (1726-1797) into theorising about rock formations and the concept of deep geological time.

Old cambus

St Helen’s Church is erroneously named a chapel on Wikipedia, but it was a fully-fledged parish church in its day, serving the parish of Old Cambus. 

It was built in the 12th century, first appearing in records in 1200, and was – as its name rather gives away – dedicated to St Helen, more fully named as Flavia Julia Helena (c.246-330). She was the mother of Roman Emperor Constantine I (272-337) and, having been converted to Christianity by her son, she took a pilgrimage to Palestine c. 326, where she prompted the construction of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. 

Tradition also claims that Helen discovered the True Cross during her visit to Jerusalem, but this seems to be a later fabrication and is suspiciously absent from the account by Eusebius of Caesarea (c. 260-339), who wrote the Life of Constantine.  Since the Life of Constantine was a panegyric, written in praise of its subject and, by extension, those connected to him, you’d think Eusebius would have at least mentioned such a remarkable achievement!

Reformation & Ruination

Rebuilt in the early 14th or 15th century, it served the parish until the Reformation, in consequence of which the parish was merged to Cockburnspath by 1610. (Cockburnpath’s church was close to The Square but tucked out of sight behind some houses).  After the merger, St Helen’s became disused and, though marked on Roy’s 1755 map, was already then falling into ruin.

Not a great deal of St. Helens remains standing today, beyond the north and south walls of the nave.  Nonetheless, I would probably have regarded it with interest had I got closer but the BCP had no intention of permitting that. Having followed the tiny Greenheugh Burn inland to a road, it decided to turn left and follow that instead.

Drysdale Quarry Road

There was no traffic on the road, which was heading for the disused Old Cambus Quarry. An articulated lorry trailer standing at the roadside seemed a little incongruous, but it all made sense as I drew closer to the quarry.

Since 1985, it has been home to a vegetable processing factory set up by R&K Drysdale (est. 1968).  Drysdale merged with East of Scotland Growers (est. 1987) in 2024 to form ESG Drysdale and they were still merrily processing veggies in what is now Drysdale Quarry as I approached.

Ewe for Unimpressed

Just as it seemed like the walk was threatening to show me more vegetables than I’d ever seen before, it suddenly relented and turned right, off the road. Heading inland past the farmstead of Old Cambus West Mains, it soon joined another road, this one heading to Redheugh Farm. 

Old Cambus West Mains would have been about the halfway mark of the walk I had planned, and I was pleased to see that this important checkpoint was being manned… sorry, sheeped… by an unimpressed-looking volunteer.

Old Cambus Mains

The 1858 compilers of the relevant OS Name Book made no mention of disinterested sheep. Instead they had this to say of Old Cambus West Mains:

 ‘A commodious farm house two stories high, having suitable offices and a row of small cottages attached; all are in good repair. There are also a garden and a large arable farm attached.’

They seem to have liked the word ‘commodious,’ as they used it for Old Cambus East Mains too:

‘A commodious farm house two stories high, having extensive offices including a threshing machine attached, all are in good repair. There are also attached a row of small cottages for farm labourers, and a large arable farm.’

They looked like fairly typical farmhouses to me but, to be honest, I didn’t pay them all that much attention.  The road to Drysdale Quarry had been sunken in a hollow, but the one to Redheugh Farm was at high enough elevation – about 95 m – that I could see the sea again.

Redheugh Farm

The road came to an end at Redheugh Farm, which the Name Book also called ’commodious.’  It takes its name from a nearby cliff, whose name is of obvious meaning.

Rather less obvious at first glance, but highly amusing to my inner six-year-old, was a ledge of rocks below Red Heugh called Meikle Poo Craig. This was a name not particularly improved by knowing that meikle means ‘great’ as in ‘large.’  What did it mean? And would the Name Book describe it as ‘commodious?’  Apparently not:

‘A ledge of rocks at low water, where fishermen bait for crabs. “Poo” is the name given to a small crab which the fishermen use as bait.’

Directional Deviations

The coast path made no attempt to visit Meikle Poo Craig but instead headed straight through Redheugh Farm.  It then continued along a farm track for all of about 300 m before suddenly deciding to head inland, despite there being an easily-hiked field ahead.

The cattle weren’t keen on this development either, and quickly got out of my way, which helped.  I strode briskly past them and then kept on apace, thoroughly enjoying this section as the coastline drew close again. 

Going Astray

I was enjoying myself so much, in fact, that it took me a while to realise that I’d not seen a waymark in ages. Then, just as that was beginning to dawn on me, the path I was on crossed over a rough track and dwindled away to nothing with my way blocked by a fence.  Somehow, somewhere, I’d strayed off the BCP.

Dowlaw & Fast Castle

Telegraph Hill

I could have backtracked until I found the BCP, or just to the track I’d crossed, and then headed uphill – I was pretty sure it must lead up to the farmstead of Dowlaw.  But I was also pretty sure I could see a route forward on Telegraph Hill on the other side of the fence.  I decided to follow the fence line uphill in the hope that I’d find a gate.

This was successful and, having climbed over it, I followed a faint trail around the flank of the hill until I encountered an obvious footpath.  This path was also not the BCP, but it was a path from Dowlaw to Fast Castle, which I now realised the BCP didn’t go near.  Indeed, so far as my map was concerned, the path ran down to Fast Castle and stopped.

I too stopped, while I considered. My anxiety over potential terror at Fast Castle was now annoying me, and I decided I’d never forgive myself, if I didn’t at least go and look.  This was not entirely sensible, as the path involved a steep decline, losing 100 m in elevation. If I found no way onwards, or none I could cope with, it’d be a tiring climb back up. But I resolved to do it, anyway.

Fast Castle

Though small, thanks to its precarious position, you would think that Fast Castle would have been near impregnable, but no.  First mentioned in 1333, the castle was occupied by the English in 1346 and recaptured in 1410 by Patrick Dunbar of Biel.

By 1503, it had come into possession of the Home family and they hosted Margaret Tudor there en route to her marriage to James IV.  In 1515, amid the chaos that followed James’s death, Fast Castle was destroyed and then rebuilt again in 1521.  It was then captured by the English in 1547 during the Rough Wooing, but was back under Scottish control in 1566, when Mary Queen of Scots stayed in the castle.

In 1580, Fast Castle passed through inheritance from the Homes to Sir Robert Logan of Restalrig, who managed the dubious feat of forfeiting it three years after his death (his corpse had been exhumed, tried for treason and convicted).  The castle then quickly fell into ruin and passed through the hands of a succession of families.  Its final indignity was to be struck by lightning in 1871, which destroyed what was left of its keep.

I. I could find no mention of of specific arms for Patrick Dunbar of Biel but, if he had any, they would be a differenced version of the arms of the Dunbar Earls of Dunbar & March – a silver lion on red, surrounded by a border of eight roses. II. The arms of Logan of Restalrig quartered three black piles on gold (for Logan) with a black eagle on silver (for Restalrig).

Dowlaw

I felt absolutely no need to cross the bridge to the castle itself, so I turned around to see if there were any paths onwards around Fast Castle Head.  The answer was ‘no,’ not that I could see.

And so, with a sigh, I began the arduous plod back up to the top of the path.  When I eventually regained the top, I passed through the gate to reach Dowlaw Cottages.

Dowlaw Burn

Having reacquired the BCP at Dowlaw, I followed it as it carefully skirted around the farm and then struck east along what was once a lane to Lumsdaine but is now barely visible as a track upon the ground. Fortunately, I now had the BCP waymarks to follow again.

The path skirted along the edge of a triangular copse and then crossed over Dowlaw Burn.  Although only a small stream, this carves two deep gullies on its way down to the sea, namely Lumsdaine Dean and Dowlaw Dean. 

The path crossed over between the two deans, doing so via a modern farm bridge capable of carrying a tractor. From it, I espied an older bridge that supported the assertion that this route had once been more than a mere footpath.

The Measured mile

Oatlee Hill

Having crossed Dowlaw Burn, the path diverted off the old track to Lumsdaine, instead heading east to run along the coast. Here, undulating hills formed a wall of rocky cliffs.  At first sight, these cliffs were pleasingly dramatic but my appreciation dwindled a little when the path began to undulate with them, causing some steep ascents and descents. This was exhausting.

Atop Oatlee Hill stood a pair of Admiralty distance poles, these being two pairs of masts erected exactly one nautical mile apart, which first appear on maps in the 1920s or 30s. The purpose of these was to allow ships to time their speed over a measured distance, and the double poles assure accuracy through parallax – you know your vessel is in position to start or stop timing when each pair lines up perfectly.

Westerside Dean

I can’t say that I was entirely surprised when the BCP insisted on dropping 100 m from Oatlee hill into Westerside Dean in order to cross a footbridge over Moor Burn. To go around the gully would have been about a half mile detour all told, and dropping down into it was pretty much the only other option, so it made sense.

Coldingham Loch

I was feeling pretty exhausted by the time I had made it back up to the top of Tun Law, but the BCP refreshed my spirit by showing me Coldingham Loch.

This is a spring-fed freshwater loch that today is a popular spot for trout fishing, sporting not only the native brown trout but also rainbow trout, which hail from the Pacific. It’s pretty obvious that the latter have been deliberately introduced, but so too have the brown trout; the loch didn’t have any in 1858 when the Name Book remarked that:

‘It was attempted to ornament a portion of its bank with trees but its contiguity to the sea and its situation rendered the effort unavailable. The only fish in this lake are perch with which it abounds’

Sunset Hues

Continuing east atop Uilystrand Brae, I soon passed the second pair of Admiralty distance poles. Immediately beyond them, I paused above West in Thirle Heugh to enjoy the orange light of sunset now playing on St Abb’s Head.

St Abb’s Head

St Abb’s Head Road

A shockingly steep descent down the grassy bank of Broadhaven Heugh then followed and I’m frankly surprised I made it to the bottom still standing upright.

The BCP then joined the access road for St Abb’s Head Lighthouse.  The road climbed fairly steeply for a road but this was as nothing compared to what I’d just been doing.  It was just as I reached its highest part that the sun set behind me.

Obviously, I could not.

St Abb’s Head Lighthouse

While there was no way that I was going to make it to Eyemouth before it got properly dark (or even, for that matter to St Abbs), I could complete the final 150 m that would get me to the gate of St Abb’s Head Lighthouse. So I did that.

Erected in 1862, the lighthouse was designed by the elder David Stevenson (who built Dunbar’s Victoria Harbour) and his brother Thomas Stevenson (1818-1887), the father of Robert Louis.

A foghorn, installed in 1876, was the first audible fog signal in Scotland.

Making Stupid Plans

Having reached the lighthouse, I sat down and considered my options.  Whatever I did, I still had six miles to get to my hotel, but I wasn’t up for walking narrow and precarious cliff paths by torchlight.  Of course, Hairy Path Man had said they wouldn’t be narrow and precarious from here, but he’d been talking utter bollocks about Fast Castle, so I wasn’t putting much store in what he’d said.  No, I was going to have to go by road.

The thing is, I didn’t want to just miss out the coast path between St Abb’s Head and Eyemouth, and that was leading me inexorably to an inadvisable conclusion: I would end my walk here and not count the six miles to Eyemouth. And then, in the morning, I’d walk those six miles in reverse to get back here. 

I knew as soon as it had occurred to me that this was an absolutely stupid plan, and also that I was definitely going to do it.

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This time: 24½ miles
Total since Gravesend: 4,638½ miles

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