Return of the Native - Part 3

North of Newcastle

We headed north from Lin's house at Sunnybrow near Durham, along a maze of country roads, past rows of terrace houses, all in small clusters surrounded by green meadows or fields of wheat just cut or ready for harvest.  Sting's 'Fields of Gold' has been playing on a loop in my mind ever since.  The North-East of England really is very pretty!

First stop was Wallington Hall, a National Trust property near Cambo.  We only glimpsed the inside of the house because the garden was so extensive and irresistible.  The property extends across a local road, through a wood, past several ponds and onto a walled garden which is simply stunning.  I had to be dragged away because the plan was to also visit Gragside House near Rothbury.

Gragside was the home of William Armstrong who was and engineer and inventor, something which is reflected in the house, particularly in its heating system and water supply.  He also appears to have been a benevolent employer, either that or his servants were shit-scared to leave because most remained in his employ their entire working lives.  The theory is his inventions made their lot much easier than that of an average servant of the time which is probably the case.

We have a list of things to see and do and just the other day Lin asked if there was anything we'd like to add.  I did think it would be rather nice to meet Joanna Lumley and Dawn French which, of course, still might happen but we did run into Martin Clunes, his wife and their two dogs at Gragside.

Holy Island

Yes, it's an amusing thought isn't it - me in a place called Holy Island?  I have an overwhelming urge to walk about chanting "My father plays dominoes better than your father" whilst whacking myself on the forehead with a chunk of wood.

This part of Britain has a long monastic history.  St Cuthbert is the local hero, a disciple of St Patrick via St Aidan.  Cuthbert died here on the island and was buried in the priory until the Vikings popped across for a bit of rape, pillage and monk slaughter so his homies dug him up and spent years carrying him around ancient Northumbria.  He is reputed to have remained fresh as a daisy the entire time which was fortunate for his mates who were doing the toting.  

He was eventually reinterred at Durham Cathedral which is precisely where we were the day they celebrate the 'translation of his relics'.  There was great excitement amongst the minor clergy because the dry cleaner had just dropped of their frocks for the evening ceremony.  I somehow doubt he meant it to be so but Cuthbert has become quite the local industry.

But to me, Cuthbert will forever be the ultra-friendly ginger cat who leapt into my arms amidst the ruins of the Lindisfarne Priory which St Cuthbert establish and was, for a time his resting place.  What a lovely boy he was and the perfect furry guide and companion.

The Almost People's Republic of Scotland

After visiting Alnwick Castle (the name of which is pronounced nothing like it spells) then Bamburgh Castle (which you'll get right provided you think 'Edinburgh'), we headed north to Berwick which is pronounced Berick, much as you would expect.

Alnwick - pronounced Anick - is an actual living castle, the home of the Duke of Northumberland.  He and his family move out each summer and allow tourists to roam their state rooms which are actually quite homely in a majestic kind of way.  The grounds are a Capability Brown design - a rolling Arcadian landscape, the kind he is so famous for.

Bamburgh was the home of the kings of ancient Northumbria and, more recently, the weekender of the aforementioned William Armstrong who becomes more and more interesting.

The much despised Henry VIII cannibalised Lindisfarne Priory to build the castle on Holy Island and beefed up numerous other defences along the northern coast to keep the nasty Scots at bay but it was the Elizabethans who built the walls and defensive structures around Berwick.  It is quite the experience to walk them and view the mouth of the other Tweed River. 

From there it is only a hop, step and jump to the Scottish border which is not surprising given that Berwick as changed 'countries' several times over the centuries.  I have been quite perplexed by Scotland's desire to ruin two economies in order to become the new cold-climate Portugal; and also their decision to give seven year-olds the vote so they can ensure their next attempt to succeed succeeds.  We simply had to go and see the roadside pie and chip vans which predictably enough grace both sides of the border but imagine my absolute delight when I found two empty Scotch bottles below the monumental stone which proudly announces 'Scotland'!