A Bimble through North Tyneside

 South Beach, Blyth, marks the start of a cyclist's  dream run down the golden miles to the River Tyne. Distant memories of these beaches covered in tar and coal may be overplayed and on a day like this its hard to imagine these wide expanses of sand being anything but spectacular.  We used to picnic in the dunes and hide from the winds then brave the chilly shallows of the North Sea.  Childhood fun and seaside frolics all the way to Tiddly Bay.

 Each turn of the pedals manipulated cogitations of the mind as I hit the asphalt down memory lane.

 

Seaton Sluice, where the Kings Arms sits proudly atop the headland and the smell of chips never fails to seduce.

 Green parks guide me into Whitley Bay on a warm, late summer evening and there was only one thing to do.  It took a while but the effort was worth it.  Like a cryogenic ice bath the salt eased my weary limbs and signalled day's rest.  I didn't want to get out once the hard work and been done and healthy virtue sprung from every pore as Robert found my sodden, walrus hide beached upon his sandy turf.

 Welcome to Whitley Bay. Much regenerated and shifting in character from a stag venue and Spanish City to a genteel and respectable town. The whole stretch to the ferry defied any popular misconceptions of a rough and ready coastline, besmirched by grime, coke and  shipyards, hard labour of dockworker, miner and fisherman. Dirty British coaster with a salt caked smoke stack.

Carter had been got and vestiges of hardened times were hard to spot in my whistle stop tour of the highlights of North Tyneside's many jewels.

 

Winslow Homer understood the magic light of Cullercoats would offer inspiration and today it would  run St Ives close for one of those TV specials 'Britain's most picturesque harbour '. It would win with the offer of plenty of space on the beach.  

 And the views just came on coming like some fortunate deal or no deal run. St Alfred's Bay crowned by Tynemouth Priory.

 North  Shields was journey' s end for Rob whose father lived by the docks in livelier times. The quay was full of life, buzzing with hipster start ups and community action groups keen to light the fire that will see Geordie pride in place rewarded as the area is regenerated. Some might say this new investment destroys the heart of places but Shields felt like it was on the cusp of something.  To the visitor it has every natural advantage to fascinate and beguile. Rich, maritime history and a working 'Fish Quay' protected by a huge breakwater on the edge of a city burning with regional pride and sure of its identity.  

 I was sad to leave, there was so much more to see as I caught the ferry over to South Shields, a less adventurous choice of carrier than Cuthbert's coracle or Shiel which gave the towns their name when they were lined up on either bank of the Tyne, the fisherfolk's choice of craft.