Northumbria 17 – 26 October 2019
The holiday is over. Jane has put away her warm vest, for the moment, and we have returned to the warm South (2 degrees C this morning). So that was Northumbria; been there, done that, avoided the T shirt.
We spent an excellent three nights in Sunderland (if that is not an oxymoron). It was a lovely modern hotel which had only opened last year, and we secured the room for £65 a night: an extremely competitive rate, bearing in mind it also included breakfast.
Our first port of call was my brother’s place in South Shields, and we had booked a table at a carvery for dinner in what used to be a relatively up-market pub in a pleasant part of South Tyneside. A carvery. See how the mighty have fallen, (though not as low as that food court in Melbourne). The reason for this choice of culinary excellence was (a) they offered a 10% discount to old sailors, (b) it gave Jane control of what she ate under her current restricted diet and (c) it allowed my brother to pile his plate high with every kind of meat and vegetable at the buffet, along with a pint of gravy. Curiously, after 66 years, I did not know that my brother had a compulsive disorder. Perhaps he has only just developed it. The disorder manifests itself by a requirement that he must have a fixed routine every day. In this instance, he had to eat at 1830. Not 1845, not 1930. No, it had to be 1830. That was his supper time, and it was inviolable. I tried to persuade him to eat later because of the likelihood of children at the venue (he has the same aversion as I have), but no, he had to eat at 1830. We duly turned up at the carvery (which charged to use its car park – I have never come across that before) and I entered with some trepidation.
Have you ever dreaded an event and then, when it happens, it turns out not to be as bad as you thought? It is quite common. This was not one of those events. This was worse than I thought. The pub had deteriorated since I last visited it in 1979 and was now quite shabby, with frayed carpets and scuffed upholstery, a squalling baby, feral North Eastern children in leisure suits swilling free Coca Cola, piped awful music, and a huge queue for the buffet carvery. A table was hastily set for us (what happened to the reservation?) next to the Disabled Lavatory and Baby Changing Room, and there we set up base camp. Would we like a drink? I ordered a bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc from the very short Carte des Vins and we duly joined the queue for the soup kitchen. Time passed by as we shuffled along the queue, occasionally landing on the snake and sliding three paces back as someone up ahead decided, hmm, on second thoughts they would have another five roast potatoes and some more turkey. As the baby squalled in my right ear, I dreamt of that meal we once had at The Ritz, where flunkeys held open doors for us and spoke in hushed tones….My reverie was disturbed by a nudge at my elbow. It was our waitress telling me that they were out of Marlborough Sauvignon and would I like to choose something else? I glanced hastily at the proffered bar menu and saw the words ‘Jacob’s Creek’. “That’ll do”, I said. It was not to prove a wise oenological choice.
Actually, and in all fairness, the food at the carvery was very good: there was a good choice of carved meat or turkey and the quality was high; the vegetables were fine, and not over-cooked. The staff were very friendly and quite efficient, though I could only interpret one word in three, and had to smile and nod benignly in reply to all questions. It was the setting and ambience that were lacking.
Quite some time later, we returned to our table where our bottle of chilled wine awaited us, my brother managing – with well practised hand – to counteract the free-surface effect of all that gravy that was pouring down the Gaussian distribution of heaped meats and vegetables on his plate, like lava from Vesuvius. I poured the wine. “Cheers!”, I said. ‘Clink’.
Oh Lord! What the heck was this? It was like Lucozade without the fizz. We all pulled a face. I scrutinised the bottle. Oh dear. I had chosen a cheeky blend of Jacob’s Creek Sauvignon mixed with Moscato, powerful at 8% proof. It was foul, but what could we do? It was what we (I) had ordered. It wasn’t corked, and – even if it were – I doubt if the staff would know what I meant. I swear I left that place more sober than when I went in. Thankfully, we did not stay for pudding: that option was not on my brother’s timetable and, in any case, after all that Coke the children were just entering the super nova phase and were bouncing off the walls as a precursor to turning into the black dwarf later in the evening. And so to bed in sleepy Sunderland.
Wednesday dawned bright and sunny and we were faced with a range of exciting possibilities to entertain us. I was anxious to get a bid in before Jane discovered a botanic garden somewhere, so I suggested Beamish: the Victorian ‘frozen in time’ North Eastern pit village cum museum. We looked it up on the internet and apparently it comprised coal mines, terraced houses, tiny rooms with tin baths and coal-fired ranges, cobbled streets, outside lavatories and trams. With the exception of the last, it summarised my childhood and I could not entirely see the attraction or novelty. The entrance fee of £20 each finally sealed its fate: ‘pass’ on that one.
The next option looked promising: Hartlepool Maritime Museum. Hartlepool (West Hartlepool merged into the main town long ago, but it still brings back memories) has something of a reputation in the North East as the town where they hanged the monkey. Rumour has it that during the Napoleonic Wars a ship was wrecked off Hartlepool and the only survivor was a monkey. The good burghers of the town, being either very drunk or very stupid, thought that it was a French spy and promptly hanged it, thus gaining a reputation for low sobriety and minimal intellect with North Easterners for all time. The town is said to have come on considerably since then, though when I last visited it, in 1997, it was still a bit of a dump. I thought we should give it a chance, particularly as the maritime museum called itself, “The National Museum of the Royal Navy, Hartlepool” and incorporated the “oldest warship still afloat”, HMS TRINCOMALEE. I was very curious, as I was not aware of any association between the Royal Navy and Hartlepool other than the town being shelled by the German High Fleet during WW1. So Hartlepool went on the list.
First, however, we decided to call in to Seaham Harbour (now simply called Seaham) where I had spent many a happy day onboard my father’s ships while they were loading coal. Seaham is famous in our family for the port where we nearly lost our father. Sailing out into a heavy storm with my father on the foc’sle, his ship immediately ploughed into a heavy swell that swept green across the deck. With that in-built sense of preservation that seamen have, he threw his arms around the windlass control pedestal and was immediately submerged. The Captain on the bridge saw my father’s cap swept overboard and thought, “Oh my God, we’ve lost the Mate”. However, the cap was swept onboard again by the next wave and recovered by my father, who emerged spluttering and soaked from his immersion, none the worse, if a little damp and cold.
An artificial harbour created by the Marquesses of Londonderry as an outlet for the local coal mines, Seaham Harbour used to be called ‘the hole in the wall’ by local seamen and I was pleased to see that the enclosed harbour, piers and locks were still there. There was even a ship in there, though it was loading scrap metal instead of coal. Apparently Lord Byron was married at Seaham (it takes all sorts) and wrote of it:
“Upon this dreary coast we have nothing but county meetings and shipwrecks; and I have this day dined upon fish, which probably dined upon the crews of several colliers lost in the late gales. But I saw the sea once more in all the glories of surf and foam”.
Seaham had improved since I was last there in 1967 or thereabouts. The coal industry had gone and the sea front, such as it was, wasn’t too bad. We took a hearty walk on what passed as a promenade in the sunshine and brisk westerly wind, gazing at the glories of the surf and foam, while we charged our car at a convenient electric charging point (the North East have lots of these, almost all free; a point in the region’s favour). Nice to see it again. Much improved. No, wouldn’t like to live there, however. So onward to British West Hartlepool.
If we have gained a reputation in our travels for never quite finding a suitable drinking hole despite exhaustive and convoluted searches, then this could be complemented by our inability to find an electric car charging point. Seaham excepted, we often scour obscure places for somewhere to charge the car, even though we don’t really need to. And so it was in Hartlepool. We drove hither and thither, up streets and down lanes, through car parks and round one-way systems, past tattoo parlours and dockside pubs containing rough sailors, burning up precious Joules in the process, in search of elusive charging points that my iPhone said should be there. Eventually, we had to give up and so we headed for the maritime museum, identifiable in the distance by the tall masts of HMS TRINCOMALEE. At least that was easy to find.
Well the museum was very impressive: a huge carpark (virtually empty) containing a 4.5” HA/LA gun mounting, some nice looking buildings, and HMS TRINCOMALEE towering over all, a bit like HMS VICTORY. I swept in with enthusiasm, metaphorically rubbing my hands with glee at the thought of the smells of tar, manilla, and Brasso, and clambering up and down companionways once again. And was promptly brought up with a round turn. Inside was a large notice stating that the museum, dockside, and HMS TRINCOMALEE were closed for a private function all day. One could, however, visit the museum of Hartlepool free of charge…Tempting though this offer was (they may still have had the corpse of the monkey), I opted out. What a waste of a trip.
So we headed for South Shields, that well-known seaside town famous as the home of the first lifeboat and the birthplace of your correspondent, Horatio Shacklepin, Commander Royal Navy (Failed). What a shabby town it has become since I let go the helm and left in 1969. Litter blew to and fro in King Street, Marks and Spencer’s had closed, and Woolworths died long ago. Grubby inhabitants in Sports Direct designer clothes loitered furtively in shop doorways. Yet, the river front was much improved and we enjoyed a pleasant lunch in the Customs House, a building converted from the Merchant Navy Pool, where my father had been allocated his first tramp streamer back in 1936. The vista that was once alive with shipping was completely changed. Gone were the dirty coal staithes, ship repair yards, the fine cargo ships, the whalers, the tankers and the colliers. In were slab-sided container ships, box-like car transporters and wedding-cake cruise ships. Ah, nostalgia isn’t what it used to be. Of course, there is only so much excitement you extract from one town and, after dragging Jane away from Minchella’s Ice Cream Parlour (banned under the current diet) we headed back to the hotel. That evening we dined with old friends in Durham at an excellent restaurant, demonstrating that fine cuisine in perfect ambience can still be had Up North. And not a shell suit or toddler in sight.
Next day, Thursday, found us back with my brother and his wife so that I could literally take a walk down memory lane with my sibling. Marion, his wife, cannot walk very far so Jane sister-in-law-sat and showed her our slides of The Grand Tour, an experience which, I dare say, had such a Lazarus-like effect on her constitution that she will be running in The Great North Run next year. Colin and I had a good walk along the cliff tops and beach, and I was reminded, not for the first time, what a first class coastline my home town has, and what a wonderful playground it had been. The town may have gone downhill, but the coast and river are as good as ever.
It was our last day in South Shields and so we thought we should dine with Colin and Marion again before leaving. This time, the venue was to be a Greek/Italian/Croatian/Macedonian amalgam of a restaurant favoured by my brother because – you guessed it – it is part of his routine and he will not dine anywhere else (other than the carvery mentioned earlier). He likes this restaurant because he can talk Serbo Croat with the waiters and, thus, obtain extra large portions of food (he really can speak Serbo Croat – it is a long story). We have eaten there before and it is actually not at all bad. This time they were in new, larger, premises and I was quite impressed by the decor, which was bright and airy and quite grand in a ‘Colosseum meets the Acropolis in the Adriatic’ ostentatious sort of way. Here was a proper restaurant, where they served proper food and the clientele would be reasonably discerning (for South Shields). Or so I thought.
It was the balloons that set the alarm bells ringing, that and the screaming baby. Yep, you’ve guessed it, we had walked right into a family birthday party. Right next to where we were sitting was a long table set out like The Last Supper and sitting at it were several families with children of various ages, including a babe in arms. I observed all this with a stoical air: few things surprise me any more when it comes to the restaurants that I frequent and children. As it happens the little monkeys, occupied by large slices of pizza, were relatively subdued, but I was not fooled: they would soon get restless and I calculated that they would erupt at about the time we were served our main course. Sure enough, it kicked off as I tucked into my sea bass: off their chairs, shrieking, chasing each other round the table, beating each other with balloons. Bless their little hearts. Amazingly, as our coffee came, the grown ups decisively paid their bill and the party dispersed, something that I observed with rising hope. But the calm was short-lived: it turned out that there was a second children’s party going on in another part of the restaurant. We left as the aftermath of that particular hurricane was blowing itself out. Oh Lord, why dost thou test me so?
And so onward to Bamburgh, our penultimate destination. Up, up into deepest Northumberland – North of The River where, ‘tis said, they eat babies on Walpurgis Night. But first, we were calling at Alnwick Castle, home of the Duke of Northumberland. The entrance fee of £19 each seemed a bit steep, but we felt we should give it a go as it covered the gardens and the castle, and it was somewhere we had never been before.
Alnwick Castle Gardens were very well laid out, though perhaps late autumn was not the best time to visit. The biggest drawback, however, was that the whole area had been given over to Halloween. There were skulls in the shrubbery, witches hanging from the trees, demons peering out from battlements, and monsters lurking in the undergrowth; a scary dank cavern gave out hollow screams as we passed. And everywhere were the nemesis. It was half term in Northumberland, you see. Bit of a miscalculation on our part.
The castle, famous for Black Adder and Harry Potter, inter alia, was very impressive. Dark, asymmetric and rather forbidding, it sprawled across quite a large area on the outskirts of Alnwick. It was your British Standard castle, in a way, with an outer bailey, inner bailey, ramparts, and keep – all structurally sound. Entering the inner courtyard was a sobering experience: it was quite dark and forbidding; even slightly scary and oppressive. I have never before been so conscious of a building’s gory history. The interior was quite a contrast: it felt welcoming and warm and very much a family home (the Duke still lives there). Taken overall, we were very impressed by Alnwick Castle and judged it good value for money. We exited the fortifications straight into the town of Alnwick.
I had been to Alnwick before, but it was not quite as nice as I remembered it. It was fine, but not quite as up-market as one might expect for the town linked to such a famous castle. I was keen to visit the White Swan, an inn that was decorated with parts of the ornate staircase of RMS OLYMPIC, sister ship to the TITANIC, but we couldn’t find it (we did eventually see it as we left the town – too late). Indeed, we had difficulty in finding anywhere that seemed decent to eat – Ye Olde English Tea Shoppe, that kind of thing. Eventually we did find a pleasant enough café for lunch, though it was a bit cramped. It was almost the only decent eatery in town. Such a shame. Thence to Bamburgh.
Our hotel proved to be a lovely old house set at the end of a long drive in extensive grounds about two miles from Bamburgh. Budle Bay, an ‘area of natural beauty’, lay nearby and all around was farm land. The public rooms comprised a large warm hall with a wood-burning stove, the dining room, and a combined drawing room with library annexe. With the curious exception of the last room, it was all warm and very comfortable in the ‘country house’ style and blessedly quiet: all that could be heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock. Excellent. We had chosen the place on the basis of its reports and the fact that it took no children under 14 or dogs, and it was measuring up well. W C Fields would have approved. Our room was outside the main building, accessed from a courtyard: not normally our choice, but one of the few rooms that had a dedicated shower as opposed to a bath. One advantage, apart from the shower, was that we did not have the baby elephant in the room above (such as we usually get in hotels); of course one disadvantage was that the memsahib had to scuttle across for meals, clutching onto her hair and skirt, lest her carefully prepared coiffure and modesty be disarranged by the brisk northerly wind and rain. The room proved wonderfully warm and quiet, and we slept like tops every night, even almost over-sleeping and one occasion.
Of course, the hotel was not perfect. Few places are for les Shacklepin, as we are very picky. For example, you could not order a nice tea when you came back from a walk: you could order a cup of tea, or you could even (daringly) supplement that with a biscuit (for an additional fee); but there was no option of a scone or sandwich or cake. Another odd thing was that we had been allocated a dining time (1915) and were “required to be in the drawing room fifteen minutes before the allocated time for aperitifs and canapés”. I was not comfortable with the word, “required”. The only authorities that are allowed to “require” me to do anything are the Admiralty Board, my Commanding Officer (where applicable) and the memsahib (peace be upon her). Still, an establishment that has rules cannot be all bad, as long as they are enforced. We duly turned up in the drawing room at precisely 1900 and were served our ‘canapés’, which comprised four savoury biscuits. Hmmm. Drinks were quite expensive, with G+T or glasses of wine about £6, but the food proved to be very good: five courses of Michelin standard, including the amuse bouche and cleanse-the-palate sorbet. Service was efficient and very friendly, if the (local) staff were somewhat homespun. But our fellow clientele! Oh, my dear. The dress code for dining stated ‘smart casual’ and I debated, as one does these days, whether to define that as ‘with tie’ or ‘without tie’. In the end I opted for smart open-necked shirt, sports jacket, slacks and casual shoes. Clearly the rest of the diners had different interpretations. The guests at one large table looked as if they had just come in from gardening as the men were wearing checked shirts with the sleeves rolled up, corduroy trousers, and scruffy trainers. At another table sat a bricklayer, or perhaps a hod carrier who, resplendent with serpentine tattoo on his bare arms, was presumably taking a break from building a wall: he wore a rough denim work shirt, scuffed and faded jeans, and work boots. And the wives were dressed just as badly, with not a skirt, dress or string of pearls in sight. If this were not bad enough, it got worse as the days progressed: one bloke (he could have been a ‘blighter’) wore a white T shirt with a cardigan over it, jeans, and trainers, while another wore a ‘hoody’ with jeans, trainers and no socks. Only on one table were an older gentleman and his wife dressed appropriately (no, it wasn’t me); he wore a tie on one night and a cravat the next. Definitely a chap not a bloke. I wore a tie on one night just to annoy the Gardening Club and we spent the best part of the evening staring at each other, like mutually exclusive visitors to a zoo. Standards, standards, and such an insult (in my view) to the food, chef, staff and fellow guests. Don’t these people ever change for the evening or dress up for special occasions? What they wore (which was clearly no different from what they had worn during the day) would have been fine in the Dog and Duck, but it did not go with a fairly expensive country house hotel serving Michelin quality food at £33 a head. It all seemed very odd: why hadn’t they booked in at the Dog and Duck?
The area proved excellent for walks that could be taken direct from the hotel and, on the first day, we took a circular route that took us across the fields, along Bamburgh beach, past the castle and back. Bamburgh Castle, standing on its headland beside the beach, was as impressive as ever though it seemed quite benign compared to Alnwick. It was younger, of course, having been built in its present form in the 19th century, though on the site of previous castles dating back to Viking times. Estimated at eight miles, our first walk worked out as 12 miles in the final analysis and this brought forth a certain amount of disapprobation upon my head (“Is it a long walk?”. “Nay, surely not my dear, a mere eight miles if that”). Jane thought that we had picked up a nice suntan, judging by our glowing faces, but I pointed out that it was more likely the fact that we had been finely abraded by the sand that had been blasting into us at 20 mph as we struggled along the beach at an angle of ten degrees to the vertical. As ever, none of our walks proved uneventful. One walk, through the marshes of the foreshore of Budle Bay, terminated in a ‘no public footpath’ sign and barbed wire at a time when the tide was flooding over our footsteps; trespass over several field, through two hedgerows and a detour to avoid woman-eating cows saved the day. We also managed a hike to yet another castle: Dunstanburgh, high on the cliffs on a wind-swept headland south of Bamburgh. It had been derelict for many centuries, and was approachable only by foot by way of a two-mile hike along the cliff tops; yet, bizarrely, it had a warm ticket office and shop, powered by a generator, with two staff huddling in it (the shop, not the generator). There was an admission fee to the ruin, but this was not enforced as the ticket office was located, not at the entrance, but at the centre of the castle. Most peculiar. Despite its remoteness and dereliction, the castle and paths to it were packed with families, all heartily battling against the brisk easterly wind to read the admission price sign, grumble as only the British can do, then battle back again. Tough nuts these Northumbrians.
A final walk, to nearby Belford across the main north/south railway line and busy A1, uncovered an interesting museum dedicated to prisoners of war held by the Japanese. Among the wealth of information therein was the revelation that Singapore fell because of desertions and indiscipline of the Australian contingent among the defenders. In the final hours they allegedly left their posts en masse, raped, murdered and pillaged through the city, and even shot a naval captain as he tried to stop them boarding one of the ships leaving the harbour, Even their General, Gordon Bennett, legged it before the surrender. I found this horrific a story a bit hard to believe and looked it up on the internet when we got back to the hotel. Shockingly, it has an element of truth. Previously secret papers have now been published revealing the full story, after being suppressed for obvious reasons, and it remains a very sensitive subject among Australians (who, it has to be said, suffered proportionally more casualties among Singapore’s defenders than the British). I still think the loss of the island was predominantly down to British military incompetence, arrogance, and lack of preparedness, but this new information is very disturbing. And General Bennett really did leg it and leave his men to it.
Those five days in Bamburgh simply whizzed by and, all-too-soon, it was time to leave the hotel and head south again. Verdict on the hotel? Mixed really, but generally very favourable. In some ways it was a little bit of a paradox, with top cuisine for dinner on the one hand yet a very limited and mundane breakfast and no lunch or tea available; the look of a country house hotel, yet favoured by clientele who clearly saw it as a Guest House; warm bedrooms, yet an unheated drawing room that inhibited staying for after-dinner coffee. And despite a month’s notice, the hotel made no special effort to cater for Jane’s food problems other than providing almond milk, and fruit salad for pudding. But these are mere quibbles and curiosities. Very much in the hotel’s favour was its peace and quiet, lovely friendly staff, and good food. We would certainly stay again but, perhaps, next time would bring a pair of dungarees for wear at dinner.
It is amazing that one of the main arterial roads from England to Scotland, the A1, withers away to an ordinary two carriageway road north of Alnwick. The initial part of our southward journey was like a trip down memory lane as we crawled at 40 mph in a long queue of traffic behind caravans, horse boxes and lorries. Eventually, however, we entered the sprawl of Tyneside and the road opened out. Soon we were bowling on to our interim stop near Chesterfield, where we were to take rest and change the horses.
We had stayed at our Derbyshire hotel before and we had been impressed then: it is a modern hotel in the Derbyshire Dales, attached to a traditional pub, where the meals are served. This time it did not disappoint either. We had a large splendid room with a dressing room and walk-in shower and – for the first time ever – I was able to charge the car overnight using the hotel facilities. This last revelation surprised the hotel Reception staff too, as they didn’t know the hotel had the relevant power points; I only knew by way of an App on my iPhone. Dinner and breakfast were excellent and we wished we could have stayed longer. Perhaps another time, when we will do some walking in the Dales. And I didn’t mention that squalling baby and those hyperactive toddlers once.
And so to home via the Fosse Way: normally an excellent route that avoids motorway jams and frustrations, but this time severely congested at Stow on the Wold (that Half Term problem again). It was so congested, in fact, that we took a mammoth detour via Burford and Bibury to avoid the traffic. Still, we saw a bit of the Cotswolds, even if we did arrive home an hour later than expected. All in all it had been a very pleasant nine days, but it had passed in the blink of an eye, like all holidays. Where next, I wonder?
Finis
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 