Dunstan Hill, Alnwick

19. Dunstan Hill, near Alnwick
C & C Club site
28^th - 30^th April

Up along the Northumbrian coast, about thirty-five miles. The first hurdle was Blyth, a small port from where coal was shipped. There is a lot of new development, but still plenty of bad housing, shoddy development and general horribleness. Many of the people I saw were truly scary, with their mean scowling faces, shell- suits, tattoos, weapon dogs and shaven heads. And that was just the women. Blyth is the home of a deservedly celebrated non-league football team, Blyth Spartans. Founded in 1899, they have been the bane of many professional league teams in the FA Cup; Crewe, Stockport, Chesterfield, Reading, Stoke, Bury, Shrewsbury and Bournemouth have all been humbled and in 1977-78 they reached the Fifth Round, losing to Wrexham in a replay.  

After Blyth came Ashington, a former pit village, where Bobby and Jack Charlton came from. Gradually the view became more rural, until I reached Lynemouth, with its huge Alcan aluminium smelter and a hulking power station festooned with a network of power cables emanating in all directions.

Lynemouth was the last of the industrialisation, though, and soon we were back in green fields, trees and sheep. The sea was just over the hill 200 yards to my right. The road misses Amble but goes through the middle of Warkworth, a lovely stone-built village with a most imposing twelfth century castle on a fifty-foot motte covered with daffodils (now past their best even this far north). After rounding the castle the road passes over the River Coquet on a modern steel bridge built in 1965 to save the beautiful old two-arch stone bridge next to it.

Craster Harbour

Eventually found the site after having made an ill-considered and doomed diversion to Craster. Next to a wood, flat, lots of room, all very shipshape. Bus to Alnwick stops outside the front gate, albeit only every two hours, and lots of quiet roads for cycling. Will try Alnwick first because I need a book or two and then plan to spend the rest of the time cycling along the coast. Spent the first afternoon booking six sites two weeks ahead and finishing the Blog for Whitley Bay.

Extraordinarily rude man with wife arrived on the next pitch. I was just starting my dinner, but could see him wrestling with the door of the gas locker on his van. I have several times managed to fix a similar problem with mine and thought I might be able to help. When I offered he just muttered about not having any tools and stomped off to disappear into his van, leaving me like a lemon with my mouth opening and closing like a fish. Lemon sole, I suppose. Sorry! So I came away and carried on with my dinner. I suppose by offering to help I cast aspersions on his manhood or some such nonsense.

Thick sea-fret this morning, but enough visibility to see that Mr. Rude-Git has gone. Off to Alnwick on the bus, forty minutes. Via Craster, an amazing tiny harbour looking, with the tide out, like a giant empty rock- pool. Everyone who got on the bus knew everyone on it. I was sitting right at the front, but the chitchat was deafening. At Lesbury an old gent with a yard broom was waiting by the stop. He came on and swept the entrance platform of the bus and had a chat with the driver. Their chat was incomprehensible to me.

Northumberland is one of the strongholds of the glottal stop (of which more anon), of course, but a more interesting verbal tic is the peculiar guttural Northumbrian 'r'. It is said that this developed as a tribute to Harry Hotspur, as people mimicked what was, in fact, his speech impediment.

Not a lot to say about Alnwick if you leave out the castle, as I did. Narrow streets, stone buildings, nice market place (market on Thursday), lots of small shops including the obligatory hardware shop selling everything including the kitchen sink. (I have found that nearly every small town has one of these. Halleluia!) Mooched around the charity shops, had a cup of coffee, bought a paper and bought an OS map of this area in readiness for my cycling tomorrow. I sat for half an hour in a tiny patch of sun on a bench in the market place watching people and cars and it was great. I don't normally do that but I'm going to make a habit of it.

Well, what about the odious Max Clifford, then? It turns out that he wasn't a very nice man. Surprise, surprise! Wonder how long he will get. That reminds me, the other day in Newcastle I saw a poor devil who was a dead ringer for Jimmy Saville. The only thing that would make me indulge in plastic surgery would be if I looked like Jimmy Saville.

Dunstanburgh Castle

Now, back to the dreaded glottal stop (“be'er” for “better”, “opportuni'y” for “opportunity”, you get the idea). Is it a case of yoofspeak or “prolier than thou” or of trying to sound American? Don't know. Whichever it is, it's awful and it's growing and it means that we now have a twenty-five letter alphabet. I have designed a protest poster for you to display in your front window or in your car and include a .tif copy of it here. Just right-click on it, choose 'Save picture as' and save it. Or not.

Last day; for three days this sea-fret has hung overhead, keeping the temperature down and visibility to about 100 yards. This made the bike ride more boring than usual as there was little to see. Took a few snaps at Craster then went on to the beach at Embleton Bay. Dunstanburgh Castle, almost on the beach and looking out to sea, was a ghostly blur. Never mind; got some exercise and travelled about 19 miles. My bike computer went a bit crackerdog and told me I was doing 38mph on the flat at one point. Yea, right! Rather a lumpy ride which makes me think I need a new rear wheel as well as a tyre. No cycle shops around here. Oh well, pastures new tomorrow.

They find me interesting