June 7, 2011: Cresswell to Warkworth

June 6, 2011– our own private D-Day – for on this date Tosh and I began another of our weeklong summer expeditions, this time on the Northumberland Coast Path. (Another walker was missing from our party – for these June walks had recently included Marge Rogers as well – but she had let us know long ago that she no longer felt up to the physical challenge, particularly if it involved ascents and descents that would be too hard of her knees.) Strangely, this walk marked the very first time that Tosh and I would be the only walkers on an overnight expedition like this. I had walked with Harold alone on several occasions but never just with Tosh – even though this walking partnership had now endured for some 28 years.

At noon David the dogsitter arrived with his gear, ready to make a comeback – after three years – as the caregiver for my dog Fritz (who evidently howled soon after I left). I had ordered a cab for 12:45 and I took my gear down at this moment and we were soon speeding by a busy Lord’s Cricket Ground and through Regent’s Park. By the time we had turned left onto the Euston Road I had remembered that my senior rail card was still in a drawer at home – and thus I was able to begin another trip with the requisite anxiety (though only a slightly stiff neck could be counted in the pre-trip physical complaint department). There was plenty of time to buy an egg and cress sandwich (which proved to be rather stale) and a fruit smoothie for the journey; Tosh, too, was early and while I held on to the one vacant seat in a crowded concourse she got her coffee and newspapers.

We had seat reservations in Car D, though the seats themselves faced backwards, in spite of my request for the opposite direction. We had settled in and attacked our lunch when I noticed that departure time, 2:00, was now ten minutes behind us and we were still unmoved. After twenty minutes we were asked to remove ourselves, en masse, to another East Coast train on the opposite platform – for our own vehicle was suffering from a mysterious and unfixable fault. The new train was also heading north, though it made far more stops than our express would have, and it became ever clearer that there was no way we could make our connection in Newcastle – at least no one asked to see my rail card.  Of course we now lost our seat reservations since the new train had its own passengers and this was a matter of great confusion to an Israeli couple nearby. Tosh took against the mobile-phone wielding businessman – who barked at these visitors – before indulging in an hour-long dialogue with head office – during which he fiddled his expense accounts. A few seats behind us some infant was being kept amused by a game broadcast for the benefit of all of us from someone’s laptop.

The journey was one I had made only the previous summer, when I met Gavan in Edinburgh, and the only new feature for me was the sighting of the Angel of the North statue as we neared Newcastle. We were almost half an hour late by the time we arrived at the latter destination and we had an equal amount of time to kill before the next train to Morpeth. I used my mobile phone to let our first landlady know that we would be an hour or so later than the time I had given her earlier. We sat at a Costa Coffee and had cappuccinos and shared a brownie and then, as the time for our new train drew ever closer, Tosh announced that she had to find a loo – and I stood waiting anxiously for her return.

Our little local shuttle was now at the same platform from which we had recently disembarked and we took seats here – my window was too streaky to see much during the twenty-five minute journey to Morpeth. The folks at Mickledore, who had once again arranged this trip for us, had provided detailed instructions on how to get from the station to our b&b and we were soon trundling along. I had my big pack on my back and Tosh was dragging a silver suitcase on wheels.

It was a lovely afternoon. We crossed a busy road gingerly and headed over a bridge into a town that had several charming features – though all the shops had closed for the day. Rounding a corner we headed up Newgate Street and eventually reached Lansdown House at about 7:00 pm. Our landlady, humming The Who’s greatest hits, was slow to answer our rings and our knocks but she now let us in through a mews door on the right of the house. We followed her upstairs and were offered two adjacent rooms; I ended up with the one whose bathroom was located down a flight of private stairs. I liked the purple paint on the walls but there didn’t seem to be any way to illuminate the stairs from the top.

Only a few minutes later we had departed, this time in search of an evening meal. Following a Mickledore suggestion we entered the nearby tapas restaurant – La Bodega – where the efficient ladies in charge showed us to a table. I had two gin and tonics. We shared two items from the tapas menu, some fried calamari and some stuffed peppers, and then I had a mussels and scallops entrée. Tosh and I alternated in paying for the evening meal and she took the first turn. The bill was £43.00.

I went to bed at 10:15 and had a good night and by the time I had to use the loo downstairs there was already light breaking through the windows on the landing. I read some of my articles from The New Yorker and The New York Review of Books and did an acrostic puzzle as I waited for breakfast, which he had at 8:30. We were the only guests at a huge round table, where Tosh had the first of her poached eggs on toast and I had the first of my scrambled ones. (Tosh always started with fruit and cereal as well; I stuck to orange juice and coffee.) I fussed with my pack, which would now be transported by Mickledore’s locally recruited ground staff, and stowed my packed lunch in my daypack. Our landlady explained that she was selling this house.

Tosh went off to buy her morning newspaper while I had the rare treat of observing a lady blackbird sitting on a nest in bushes at eye level – her tiny offspring also in view as she flew off every now and then. Bird watching is an important activity hereabouts and I had prepared five sheets with common local species so that we could participate in this habit ourselves (and we had each brought our binoculars) but I didn’t expect I would begin my quest with a mothering blackbird.

The chap who came to ferry our bags for us had the additional assignment of transporting us to the coast now, for Morpeth is not the start of our route – though it does have the kind of accommodation that is not available at the official southern terminus, Cresswell –which we reached at about 10:20. Pictures were taken of the two of us in front of the obligatory noticeboard in the parking lot of Cresswell Ices and we used a sandy path to descend to the beach itself. We were off.

It was an unusual way to begin a walk for the wide beach, with its crashing breakers on our right, was fine walking territory but rather featureless. I was relying on clues in the official county council guidebook (supplied to us by Mickledore) and on xeroes of the relevant sections of the two Landranger OS maps supplied as well. I had located these items (with my bird charts) in my map case – which I usually carried in my left hand – while in my right was my dependable walking stick. The guidebook suggested that we would need to depart the hard surface at the back of the beach after 3.5 kilometres and so I kept a wary eye on the dunes on the left, looking for a gap that would contain a WWII concrete blockhouse.

To tell the truth, I felt a bit light-headed for the first mile or so but the pleasant day, with lots of bright light and fresh breezes, soon improved my disposition. The beach itself was full of people strolling with their dogs. (If the Staffordshire Bull Terrier is the national dog of Kilburn, then the Jack Russell deserves this honour in Northumberland.) Every now and then I would look behind me to see if Tosh were still in view but she was making very slow progress as she bent over to collect rocks or stopped to chat with others walkers. (She spent some time talking to National Trust workers ­– who gave her advice on bird-watching opportunities to come.) I had brought my binoculars to observe the gulls and the terns but the first time I put them to any use was to see if I could spot Tosh back down the beach.

I made these observations as I sat on some concrete slabs near the gap in the dunes that I was looking for. Tosh and I each ate an apple as we rested here and then we headed between the dunes to a trackway that headed north. Our goal was the Druridge Bay County Park, where a rare stretch of woodland provided some contrast to the softly-carpeted dunes. The guidebook suggests that there is a café here during school holidays and at weekends and so we were not certain whether it would be open now – but after we had made our way through parking lots and along paved roads we found the place was indeed open. It was 12:45.

We bought some liquid to go with our packed lunches and used a picnic table. A family of gulls and one magpie watched the picnickers intently, later helping themselves to crumbs. I got up once to take pictures of the adjacent lake, reporting to Tosh that I have spotted a swan surrounded by a ring of cygnets, or a cygnet ring if you prefer.

After using the café loos we continued north through the park, using a raised walkway through foliage that was being maintained by a crew of forestry workers – some of whom, according to Tosh, were making such half-hearted efforts that they must have been doing their “community service.” Our route continued on the coastal road, past a few more lakes, and on to the village of Low Hauxley – where we had a rest in a bus shelter. All this time the skies were darkening and by the time we resumed our walk it was necessary to don rain gear.

We walked along the back of another beach for a while and then returned to the road to enter the quite sizeable town of Amble. We were back on pavement now and I began my search for a likely looking pub. The sun was returning and we were able to take our raingear off after entering the friendly confines of the Harbour Inn. It was 3:00 and we each had a double Jack Daniels on the rocks while being serenaded with golden oldies on Magic FM. The bar seemed to be in the sole, capable hands of a young girl – who asked us about our walking plans.

When we emerged after a nice rest it was to search out the River Coquet, whose source I had crossed in 1979 while doing the Pennine Way. After wandering around a bit I decided to keep to the road, which was now aiming unerringly for the pleasant town of Warkworth, off in the distance. As we pressed forward a local woman warned us of more rain coming and sure enough it soon arrived – though this time I made do with my rain jacket only.

We climbed a hill and reached a crossroads but instead of turning right to the town itself, we crossed over and headed left, entering a suburban enclave that would eventually contain our b&b for the night, “Aulden” in Watershaugh Road. Again I had a little map from Mickledore to guide me – but it seemed to take forever to reach this quite comfortable establishment. It was 5:00 and were soon drinking tea and heading for the showers. We each had en suite rooms here.

Our landlord, who showed me a shortcut we could use after dinner, drove us down to Warkworth itself at 7:00 and we entered The Hermitage pub for our evening meal. I drank a pint of lager and had the sausage and mash. Tosh had the fish pie, scraping all the cheese off the top first.

Our return journey brought us by a side of Warkworth Castle, an imposing ruin which towered over the local cricket pitch. I took several pictures of the place as we used steps, cinder paths, and lanes to return to our b&b in the chill of early evening. Again it was an early night after a most successful first day.

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day 2: Warkworth to Craster