Triumph and Tragedy

Northumberland. The final frontier. Where Hubby and I boldly went where few from the south dare to go. God’s own country, second runner-up behind Yorkshire and Cumberland. It’s so far up north that there’s a bridge over the river Tweed to Scotland, where there’s a sign that says “Welcome to Scotland”. On the English side it says, “England”. No ‘Welcome’. Welcomes are officially rationed in favour of those whom most English don’t want to welcome because said welcomees are undeserving of them.

Our trip coincided with the start of the World Cup. There were flags everywhere. St George cavorted with St Andrew and Jack of the Union variety; they fluttered alongside the distinctive flag of Northumberland that celebrates St Oswald – a sacred symbol of English history and culture, especially Christianity. A cultural triumph. Not a fan? Then don’t go to Northumberland. Go instead to an English-hating, non-Christian enclave like Palestine or Downing Street.

Our visit also coincided with the infamous Makerfield by-election won, of course, by Mr Mascara himself, Andy Burnham. He has hinted at all sorts of stuff he’d like to pursue that wasn’t in the Labour manifesto, the manifesto that was put to a national vote in July 2024; ergo he hasn’t got a mandate. Then again, most of Starmer-Stalin's authoritarian crap wasn’t in the manifesto either, so I suppose it’s business as usual. WhatsApp pinged incessantly with messages like “Out of the frying pan”, “God help us”, “Where are you emigrating to”, and “Bet you’re glad you’re on holiday”. I bet the Northumbrians weren’t too pleased about the election result either. The county voted 97,000 to 82,000 in favour of Brexit. Burnham is a remainer. I attended a debate a few days before the 2016 referendum where he and Vince Cable spoke in favour of remaining. Lord Lamont – staunch Brexiteer – wiped the floor with them. 

Northumberland, therefore, in many respects is glorious and triumphant. Apart from wind turbines. Ugly, inefficient, ineffective brutes. Blots-on-steroids on landscapes. Wish they’d hurry up and smother Wales with ’em and leave Northumberland alone. What do I have against Wales? Well, I went to a wedding there once where an English lad married a Welsh lass and half the speeches at the breakfast were in Welsh. So the English (and Scottish) friends of the groom amused ourselves with some choice Anglo Saxon.

Did I ever tell you about Dad and his fluency in Anglo Saxon? I mean, the proper Olde Englishe variety. He was admitted to hospital for a few days and became concerned at the manner in which the medical staff were addressing him. Being very hard of hearing and having a noticeable speech impediment, he thought they might wrongly diagnose him as having dementia. To prove that he didn’t, he wrote out the Lord’s Prayer in Anglo Saxon.

Back to Northumberland. The epitome of tranquillity and dark skies. Plus miles and miles of panoramic beaches with only a smattering of dog walkers and revellers. It made Lowry paintings look overcrowded. One late-afternoon in Seahouses, we sat on the iconic tiered benches overlooking the harbour and scoffed fish and chips – second in quality only to those in Whitby. We then strolled down to a tourist boat for a trip to view the Farne Islands that hosted puffins, guillemots, kittiwakes and Grace Darling memorabilia. We landed on Lindisfarne and walked over to the castle (ruined by Lutyens) then back to the abbey ruins – second in iconicity only to Whitby’s. A drink in a pub beckoned before the boat back at sunset on the longest day of the year, and a hot and sunny one at that. Have I used the word ‘glorious’ yet? 

We also enjoyed Alnwick Castle and the famous gardens, funded by inherited wealth on which Blighty was built and is sustained. Without private wealth, the castle would probably be a ruin by now, or depersonalised, decolonised, modernised, sanitised and wokerised by the National Trust. The gardens, if not smothered by a wind farm, would be straight out of the Capability Brown songbook. Nothing wrong with that per se because Mr Brown was born not far from Alnwick and had a hand in a previous redesign. But the new gardens are original, futuristic, visionary, fun, awe-inspiring, job-creating, a money pit. Here’s to inherited wealth, as well as ‘corporate greed’. Funny how the usual suspects class inherited wealth as immoral and ‘corporate greed’ as even worse but are silent on the ostentations of the likes of the Beckhams and Taylor Swift.

Honey is pervasive in Northumbria. Lots of bees and pollen. As pressies for neighbours who we’d left to water our vegetable beds and plant pots, I bought honey jars, honeycomb, honey mead, honey balm and honey fridge magnets.

We hopped from church to church, the oldest being from the 11th century, lit candles for Dad on Father’s Day, and for Mum and Dad on other days. Not normally one for old buildings or ruins, Hubby is fascinated by Roman bath houses and latrines, otherwise I’d never have got him to Hadrian’s Wall. It’s the engineering that he admires, more than the architecture. In 2003, I walked the whole length of Hadrian’s Wall in six days and picnicked beneath the Sycamore Gap tree. I was therefore very sad when it was chopped down by a couple of idiots almost three years ago. But I was furious at the prison sentences of over four years each. Rapists get less FFS! It’s not as if they tweeted about it or breached DEI guidelines. The tree was only 100 years old, not an endangered species, and one can be grown again to fill the gap. The wall was damaged during the felling, but local churches and homes and agricultural building have made use of Hadrian’s stones over the centuries. Felling this tree was no big deal if you look contextually, proportionately and intelligently at the bigger picture.  But the judge couldn’t see beyond her silly navel. Wonder if she’s an outy or an inny.

When we had tired of each other’s company, Hubby went off on his bike for a few days and I donned my walking boots to follow my nose wherever it might lead. Fifteen or sixteen miles each day. Apart from along the King Charles’ Coast Path, I hardly saw another soul. When I did, they were warm and friendly in a why-aye kind of way. I found myself parroting their ‘snatched’ vowels – in Yorkshire, they’re ‘flat’ – and elongated word-endings, like moo-er (moor). One puzzled chap said after a while that he thought I was northern but couldn’t tell from where. I explained I was born in Whitehaven, schooled in Wakefield, softened up in Cambridge and my Nana was a Geordie. Cripes, he said, or the Anglo Saxon equivalent. 

To get back to the coast one day, I followed the public right of way through a mega mobile home park. A lady appeared with a ciggy in hand. We caught each other’s eye: “Ah’ve just cleaned ladies’, luv,” she said. “Feel free to have a wee.” 

“Aw, thanks,” I said, “ but I’m actually ok”. 

We chatted for a few minutes about her various jobs – she cleaned here and over there and at a couple of inns and also took in laundry. Hard worker, aspirational, the sort of person Starmer and Burnham love to tax and hate to understand. She didn’t drink but did like her ciggies. We bade our farewells and off I yomped. Two hundred yards further, I wished I’d taken her up on her offer of the loo.

The next day, I had Bamburgh Castle in my sights (ruined by Victoriana) after about 11 miles. There was a car park coming up where I was hoping for an ice cream.  Yay – I could see the van in the distance. By the time I got there, the seller was locking up for a short time to head to the loo. Not wanting to stop and wait for him to return and for my legs to cease up, I carried on. Two hundred yards further, I wished I’d asked him where the loos were.

There was one sour note during my walkings. I studiously followed an OS map to head back to the hotel from Hadrian’s Wall. I’d bought the map earlier this year so it’s as up to date as possible. I came across a bridle path, as marked on the map, but no signage at the entrance. The gate was open and nothing to say that the path had been re-routed, so I walked along it. I had intended to walk a bit further on the bridle path, as indicated on the map, but there was no signage ‘on the ground’ so I took an alternative route, a footpath across fields and over a couple of streams. There was signage but it was old, unclear and, TBH, unwelcoming. Still, I know my rights and how to read a map and use a compass and pressed on regardless, unintentionally scaring a huge flock of sheep. I clambered over a stile and could see the footpath continuing in front of a farmhouse. Good news. Got to a kissing gate, no sign of a trail. The map said go straight on through a copse, but new trees had been planted where the trail should have been. I decided that the landowner had done just enough to just about comply with the law but, at the same time, he had created a ‘hostile environment’. I studied the map again and decided to cut my losses, head along a fence line and join the farm driveway onto the public road. This way became so overgrown I was getting nettled on my shoulders, and my legs felt like they were forcing their way up a fast-flowing river. After a couple of hundred yards, I reached the driveway, dusted myself down and headed towards the road. As I proceeded, a woman drove past me towards the farmhouse and gave me one helluva filthy look – must be a remain-voting Southerner. In response, I gave her one of my famous toothy grins and waved my folded map at her.

On the road, a B-road, I stepped on to the verge to allow a Lamborghini to pass safely as I was at a poorly-sighted bend. He gave me a warm smile and a wave in thanks. What a nice man. Must be in private equity. I then took a slight detour to find a ‘standing stone’ as marked on the map. I found it. A 6’-stone standing opposite a farmhouse. No plaque. No nothing. Stonehenge it wasn’t. Mildly miffed, I walked away and found the turn onto a country lane from which, the map showed, was a footpath across several fields back to the hotel. I was dog-tired, looked more bedraggled than usual, and was limping slightly because my feet hurt. The boots are fine; it’s my feet that are the problem.

“Why aye,” said a voice behind me and I jumped out of my skin. (Oh for a loo!) “Goin’ faar?” asked a cyclist.

I explained I was looking for a path through the crops back to the hotel. He said it was a couple of hundred yards further on and, satisfied that I wasn’t a damsel in distress and undoubtedly disappointed I wasn’t an actual damsel, he cycled off.

Back at the hotel, I showered and threw on a summer dress for dinner. Waiting for Hubby to catch up, I curled up in a comfy chair in the lounge with a large G&T that was so effective it soothed my sore feet. I had enjoyed (again) Sense and Sensibility so much, I decided to read Pride and Prejudice (again). Mrs Bennet is a silly woman while Mr Bennet is a gem. Elizabeth Bennet is a riot, Mr Collins is an oaf, and Mr Wickham is a cad.

I’ve heard it said that the felling of the Sycamore Gap tree was a cultural tragedy. I disagree – as argued above. A cultural tragedy would have been Jane Austen not putting pen to paper.

Sithee.