A Bimble to Blyth

This was the day of the pilgrimage to the town where my Grandparents lived.  Memories abounded of familiar streets and docks. A terraced house with a coal fire opposite a primary school where I thought Dracula lived.  This was due to my fathers idea of bedtime stories beginning it was a cold dark stormy night and the rain was coming down in torrents .. there was a rat tat tat at the door..'

 We had to get there first though and a quick breakfast fuelled blast found us in exquisitely named Amble by the Sea at the mouth of the River Coquet. It had charm and a buzz that suggested further exploration would reveal its seaport secrets. Route One carried us past uninviting holiday chalets and through a wonderful country park adjacent to stunning empty beaches.

 The road straightened out and ran down the coast.  The beauty of this trip in the height of summer was the relatively quiet roads.  As I was told, if you have the weather there are few coastlines to match this rugged beauty.

 And here is Northumberland's own rugged beauty aiming for the front cover of MAMIL magazine.

 Our one mistake was to be seduced by the possibility of a more adventurous entry to Newbiggin by the Sea.  Despite boulders blocking the seaward path around a chemical plant we explored and slowed considerably, dragging bikes across sand dunes and despoiled, contaminated beaches until popping out on a golf course.  I remember Newbiggin as a child, penny arcades and a windswept churchyard overlooking the bay.

 As is so often the case the town was nothing like I remember. It was trying hard to retain elements of interest as are most seaside towns they forgot to shut down.  After the mines closed, the beaches became cleaner but the people stopped visiting. Newbiggin suffered from erosion and lost its golden sands for a while until half a million tonnes were shipped in for Skeggy.   A maritime centre celebrates its fishy history and glory years as a seaside destination and the council seem determined to draw visitors back with elaborate schemes like commissioning sculptor Sean Henry to create The Couple who look out to sea on the new breakwater. There is a replica on the promenade which I was bemused by. Was this a patronising representation of working class Newbiggin folk or an evocative hymn to the sea?  I wondered what others felt about this statement piece as we cycled along the grand prom and felt endeared to this bay.

 Although we could see Blyth and have since been told about a chain link ferry over the river from Cambois, we decided to take the scenic route using the myriad of cycle lanes that perplexed and confused my sense of direction. Robert of Whitley, with the scent of home on his nostrils, seemed to know the way as we passed through Bedlington home of the pitman's terrier of choice and another church of St Cuthbert.

We hit the Blyth river and apart from the occasional huddles of track suited youths toking on the riverside path it appeared rural and peaceful, not as I remembered. The docks loomed at the mouth all industry and order.  I remember dilapidated, weathered boards resting dangerously on decaying staithes.  An adventure playground for a child but a health and safety nightmare.  The docks were now pristine and managed. The Port of Blyth is now an energy hub servicing offshore wind farms. Huge wooden reels held the cables that would be laid to Norway across the North Sea. The social problems of the past decades seemed out of view of the docks. 'The Spirit of the Staithes' sculpture gleamed on the restored dock, a symbol of regeneration and a memorial to the Port which led the Western world in coal exports. Investment in renewables is evident in the wind farms that lie off the coast and the Port seemed a symbol of hope in a town that had been through tough times.

 I took a spin around the town centre and took in the positives, marvelling at the grand buildings in their faded glory like the Customs House. Ridley Park was abuzz in the sunshine, much changed from the park where we used to sledge down the bank.  Manicured and respectable this was not the Blyth of popular imagination.  This continued along the rest of the coast toward Newcastle.  Gentrification had built on the raw beauty of the coastline and by Whitley Bay in the heat of summer I was wondering if there was a coastline to match it in all the UK. I stopped to see the houses of our imagination.  The school was gone, replaced by retirement homes but the scene was familiar. Aunty Glad's flat looked the same and Forster Street looked as solid as ever.  A man over the road wondered what I was up to taking photos and let me into some hometown secrets. He said it was mostly a good town and although there had been a murder at the end of the road last week, this was out of character and drug related.  A young man had set his dog on his mother. With that cheery thought I hit the front and bid Blyth a fond farewell.