A Bimble down Northumberland's Coast

Route One is cycling heaven and the secret seems to be out.  There were plenty of fellow bipeds heading North.  A German we will call Wolfgang on an E-bike with an ungainly, impossible bag slung over his rear wheel.  Then an annoyingly handsome young Frenchman, Jacques, who was cycling with minimal fuss or luggage in an Arran sweater as if he was out for a trundle around Calais.  He had begun in Rennes and just kept heading North without a bead of sweat or a care in the world.  Some were heading inland on coast to coast routes or heading down pilgrim paths like St Cuthbert's way to Melrose.

The route picks out undulating lanes that keep you off the main A1 thoroughfare to Scotland.  Signs for The Great North Bike Ride indicated there may be a few more bicycles on the weekend.  At the moment we had the lanes to ourselves, save for the excellent bus services that seem to be everywhere in this county.  Sheep, tractors and stately piles flew past as we skirted Bamburgh Castle and Seahouses.

   The only issue with the lanes is that they don't always hug the coast. We detoured to Low Newton as we started to feel the pace.  A headwind is a slow torture and sustenance was needed in The Ship Inn.  Another on the list of places to return to, this square of fishermen cottages behind a secluded beach was now run by the National Trust. Rob remembered happy times here with his young family and wanted me to see it.  There wasn't enough blue in the sky for a pair of fisherman's trousers and no pasties in the Inn so in my depleted state I could only imagine the scene on an idyllic hot summers day.  Fortified by ale and hipster crisps in a can we headed upwards into the murk of drizzle on  the moors.  I was willing Warkworth closer.

 I'm sure we missed some of the best bits of this stretch of coast but time was of the essence. The sun came out as we hurtled downhill to picturesque Alnmouth and on to Histowic Warkworth.

 We laid up at the tavern, weary travellers, road warriors of fortune, ready for ale, good cheer and intellectual stimulation?! Rob had negotiated a top deal with a shared bathroom and a double bed ! This involved waking in the night to see Quuequeg weeing in the sink.

 A wander round the town revealed another Northumbrian gem that demanded we tarry awhile. As in Durham, the castle is protected by the curve of the river, a defensive strategy every child learns at school. Northumbria is a county of majestic rivers and its border role means it is crowned with noble castles which hint at its regal past.

A competitive edge to the evening unfolded as it was eyes down for the pub quiz; evidently a main event in Warkworth.  It was Mastermind hard and the Peaky Cyclists were falling just short after bossing the picture round. There was tension and top scores aplenty.  The losers of each round had to play a booby game of Brucie's 'Play Your Cards Right' and by the end of the night we had managed three appearances. Shamefaced we mocked the intensity of the victors and concentrated on the tales of an award winning shepherd who was on his first holiday in several years and had just completed a star appearance on Countryfile. Rob compared award winning stories which led to a shepherdess falling off her chair in wonder.     If Rob had passion in mind when booking the double it was soon quelled by the rhythmic sound of slumbering exhaustion interrupted by sink trips for several pints of Northumbrian ale .  

A Bimble to Lindisfarne

Leaving Berwick behind I hit 'National Cycling Route 1' which runs down the East coast of the UK. Splendid isolation is soon found and the much vaunted Northumbrian coastline I had been reading about afforded spectacular scenery around every headland.  Wide, empty beaches like Cocklawburn sounded a siren call  asking to be explored. Rockpools and reefs in the shallows invited this landlubber to drink in the ozone.

Pausing too long to wonder at this Bull's fortitude I got chatting to Alex who was touring in her van.  She had been 'wild camping' around Scotland but in a van which catered for her every need.  Each night she would find a secluded spot and park up.  Alex claimed she was never bothered or moved on as she was causing no harm.  I suppose no-one would think she was there.  It made me think of Rosie but I would be less incognito, rattling the sides of my LDV with thunderous snoring.  This was why I would never be any good hiding in the jungles in Nam.  

The landscape started to take on a mystical hue as the road hugged grassy dunes.  On a bike there is a tendency to get your head down and push on so the bimbler needs to make a conscious decision to stand and stare occasionally.  The flat tidal area of Goswick Sands was eerily quiet. Backed by salt marshes and fed by one of the ubiquitous sluices on this coast the panorama of sand sea and sky felt like a skeleton coast but belied a National Nature Reserve rich in flora such as wild orchids and a haven for wildfowl picking rich on the mudflats.

 Robert of Whitley had cycled from Whitley Bay and put my amble from Berwick to shame. He had also found 'probably' the best camp-site in Northumberland in Beal with a view across to the Holy Island.  A cafe served up a monster breakfast and the shower block was pristine.  Fellow campers enthused while taking in the views. My shelter for the night was compact for my daughter and positively bijou for myself so a jug of ale and a hearty pie were required before inching into my cocoon.

 The causeway beckoned. A pilgrimage I had longed for and the real start of the journey emulating St Cuthbert.  A strong tail-wind bore us across the nine mile mud-flat full gas.  Coming back was going to be a different story. Stopping only for selfies of an area of outstanding natural beauty we got to Lindisfarne before the four wheeled hordes. Two wheels good we took in the obligatory sights of ruined priory and castle. We bought trinkets to remember our visit. Eschewing the tea towel option Rob went for a Celtic tea bag holder and I opted for the plastic Puffin who was to peer out of my pannier all the way home.  Mindful of the increasing tide of humanity we made it a fleeting visit.  I suppose I was expecting to see more monkish behaviour but the holiness of the island had taken on a more commercial feel.  With nary a Monk de Wally de Honk in sight we decided this was not a place of retreat and mindfulness in the middle of summer.  The place that held our fascination was the parish Church of St Mary's which stands by the priory and looks across the Causeway.  This was the oldest building on the island and the spirit of time and tides dwelt here. The Venerable Bede records this spot where Saint Aidan worshipped in the 7th Century and took the holy book to Northumbrian pagans. The church stands squat against the elements providing shelter and an imposing panorama.  This hermetic brotherhood of man must have lived an ascetic life writing the gospels and then sallying forth into the badlands beyond the causeway. Like the St Chad gospels in Lichfield Cathedral The Lindisfarne gospels provide a record of early Briton and evidence the growing power of the Church amongst pious Kings like Oswald. Aidan made sure he was within sight of the royal castle of Bamburgh.

 Inside St Mary's this wooden statue venerates the journey of St Cuthbert which was to parallel my own.  This was the box office story; at least in Medieaval Hollywood.

St Cuthbert was 17 when he had a moment of clarity on a hillside and a vision which coincided with Aidan's death. He had found his vocation and became a man of God.   At 30 he went to Lindisfarne where he ran the monastery, at 40 he decided he wasn't hardcore enough and moved to the smaller Farne Islands just off Holy Island where he could endure more austerity.  Supplicants rowed out to seek healing from him and at 50 he developed second sight and toured the North Country bestowing health and wisdom to nobles and plebs alike. He would have been a serious Insta star today. He returned to his hermitage on the Farne Islands to die in peace in 687AD.

 The story does not end there though or my journey would be a short one.  It was a story that was to follow me as I headed South with constant reminders as Cuthbert became an omnipresent companion right through to Durham, a favourite son of Northumbrians.    He was buried where the church stands at Lindisfarne for 11 years.  Hoping to find a skeleton that they could use as a relic they got a shock when they disinterred Cuthbert.  He hadn't decomposed ! The explanation of the exhumation was that this was evidence that he was a true saint with healing powers and the legend grew for the next hundred years as pilgrims flocked to his shrine.

Cuthbert rested easy until the Vikings came as Lindisfarne was easy prey for their longships. His remains then started a long journey to Durham which took another century.  I was looking forward to meeting him at the end of own pilgrimage.

                    Rocket Rob Of Whitley                                               Cuthbert's Shiel

A Bimble from Berwick

Liberation is a train ride with no return.  A 'Buzzards Valley' breakfast saw me off as I rode the nice way to Tamworth past a vineyard that no one ever expected.  Bike booked and stowed in its own private cubicle on Cross Country trains I sat smugly in my carriage heading North listening to the wiles and woes of Henley Brexiteers, Cathy and Clem, who may even have to move up country.  One of the great pleasures of train travel is listening to other conversations. It provides an insight into society and allows some for some human warmth and lifts the spirits a little with a new found belief in the amiable niceness of British folk.

The paper had an article espousing the need to get out of the house at least once a day and interact even if just for a wee while.  It was a thought that occurred to me when I saw the Tesco and Iceland vans zipping around the too narrow lanes of Devon.  The village store and a proper  high street with independent businesses become ever more necessary as isolation breeds fear and anxiety.  Tucked away in a combe with only clickbait to divert you until the delivery man arrives defies the image of rural bliss.

We pushed on from York to Berwick and Gary met Sasha, who used to be a stewardess but was now in sales. I marvelled at Sasha's gushing enthusiasm and wondered if it was a Geordie thing.  There is nothing as infectious as a huge smile, a ready laugh and a keen listener. Although he must have known that no one under 40 was supposed to be called Gary, Gary was smitten.

Chugging through Newcastle brought to mind the end of the Great Gatsby, 'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past'. This pilgrimage was going to bring back early memories and formative experiences with grandparents in Blyth.  North Tyneside was familiar but distant in memories I wanted to re-awaken.  I wanted to squeeze the pease pudding of life. 

A whirling vortex of a cooling wind blew dust and rubbish about an uninspiring Berwick as rain greeted my arrival at the border. Probably very unfair on the historic, ghostly town but I was eager to leave the brooding buildings and cycle across the famous sandstone 'Old Bridge' with its 15 arches across the River Tweed built in the time of King James. No doubt with the proximity of Scotland in mind.

The steel greys of the evening light on the estuary were a boon to my landlocked eyes.  It was no surprise when I came across a paean to LS Lowry in Spittal where he must have been inspired by the atmospheric vista and memories of those distant childhood holidays. Once again revealing how these indelible images that rest with us play a powerful role in our imagination.

Funland