Rambles in Castle Country

The 14th century ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle dominated the coastal headland a mile and a half ahead of me. It was a warm morning, but the September sun, undecided on its plan for the day, made only fleeting appearances; the effect, when played on the castle, was stunning.

The tide was incoming and slapping the beach by the time I parked my car at the castle path outside the village of Craster.

It was an easy walk, mostly along the edge of a shallow bluff. From time to time I stepped down to the rocky beach to inspect tide pools, collecting a fistful of limpet shells.

This part of the country, the district of Northumberland, is a visitor’s gold mine of castles, towers and forts--the jewel in the crown being Hadrian’s Wall--built over the ages in defense of England’s northeast coast and border.

Dunstanburgh was my second castle in two days, and it stirred my imagination in a way Bamburgh, 12 miles north, had not. (All the “burghs” here are pronounced “burrah.”) Having Dunstanburgh materialize slowly during my half-hour walk, I could visualize how vulnerable an approaching enemy would be. On a bright day like this, any attackers coming by land would be an easy target. During a winter storm, the howling North Sea wind and pounding surf would be treacherous, should anyone try an attack from the water. The castle seemed impregnable, but it lasted only 150 years, a victim of the dynastic Wars of the Roses in the 15th century.

The sheep grazing in the flat landscape of brilliant green grass along the way, long accustomed to meandering humans, paid no heed to me. The castle, on a rise at the edge of the cliff ahead, seemed almost a storybook image of desolation and grandeur. When eventually I climbed the last 25 yards I was dwarfed by the towers of the gatehouse. From inside the crumbling walls, the view up and down the coast was breathtaking.

Dunstanburgh can be reached only on foot, so there are no parking lots or souvenir shops to detract from the majesty of its setting. There has been little human tinkering here in the old Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Northumbria; modern man has not yet invaded to spoil.

We visit a different part of England every year, and this trip, in 1999, was planned as a dual-purpose holiday. I like to sightsee; Don, my husband, likes to golf. It was agreed that I would make up a list of things I wanted to see, and, depending on how golf opportunities shaped up, he would join me or not.

Our base was Rothbury, a small (population 1,700), neatly kept market town in central Northumberland on the River Coquet (rhymes with “socket”) about 20 miles inland from Craster and 30 miles south of the Scottish border.

Rothbury has 13th century origins, but most of its buildings are 18th and 19th century. And many are hybrids, “modern” buildings with medieval footings. We chose one of them, a converted 14th century tower, as our residence for the week.

Pele (pronounced peel) Tower was listed in a guide to “self-catering” vacation cottages. The images on the Internet were charming, as was the owner, David Malia, in the first of several phone and fax conversations. He and his wife, Agnes, were the perfect hosts: on hand in an instant if we needed anything, invisible when we didn’t.

Pele towers are square stone structures, perhaps 30 feet tall, erected as a defense against marauders from the north.

The Malias live in a handsome house attached to their tower and have turned part of it into guest quarters, which we rented for a week at $477.

On the ground floor was a large living-dining room and a generously sized, fully equipped kitchen, including a washing machine and dryer. Some of Pele Tower’s original stone could be seen in the low, vaulted kitchen ceiling.

Outside the apartment’s entryway was a small, glassed-in “conservatory,” a good place for watching the birds and small animals that animated the garden. Upstairs were two bedrooms and the sole bathroom. The living room had an entertainment system complete with satellite TV and Nintendo. The decor was pleasant and somewhat rustic--apart from the red plush upholstery downstairs--but comfortable.

When we made our arrangements, I told David we would be taking the train from London to Northumberland’s main town, Newcastle upon Tyne, where we would rent a car, though I dislike driving in cities. (Don’s least favorite thing is driving anywhere in England, so I assume this responsibility.) David suggested we rent the car at Newcastle’s airport instead, and he offered to meet us at the train, take us to the airport and lead the way to the cottage. It turned out to be a splendid arrangement, for which we were grateful.

I’m always a little anxious when I start out in an English car with its right-side steering, and I didn’t need that first careening mayhem of a roundabout just outside the airport. David, leading the way, was kind enough to go easy, with me nearly glued to his bumper. But once we were on the highway it was a piece of cake.

Northumberland was new to us, and we found it delightful. This is an area with place names like Shilbottle, Kershopefoot, Ogle and Snitter, and where the slow lane on the A1 expressway is called “the creepers’ lane.”

Americans are still pretty much a curiosity here, and it’s fun to find yourself looked upon almost as a unique species and yet be able to communicate through a common language. One afternoon while I was shopping for biscuits (cookies) in a Rothbury market, Don struck up a conversation with the greengrocer about the produce on display. I heard Don mention the local potatoes that we liked in our suppers at the Queen’s Head pub nearby. He asked what kind they were.

There was a long pause and then a sort of agonized, “Weeelllll, I coodn’t really say; thair just potatoes.”

One Saturday evening at the Queen’s Head I ordered a martini. Seeing the hesitation on the young waitress’ face, I asked, “Do you know what a martini is?”

Lowering of head, giggle, giggle, raising of eyes: No.

“Well, that’s OK, then,” I said, “just bring me a pint.”

The newspapers gave us reason to smile too. An article in the Northumberland Gazette reported that a woman charged with speeding at 105 mph on the A1 wrote the magistrates that she had been carried away by talk on the radio about “woolly jumpers” (sweaters).

Most of our driving was on country roads, and everything we wanted to see or do was within 45 miles--in driving time, never more than an hour and 15 minutes.

The biggest attraction was Northumberland’s remarkable relic, Hadrian’s Wall. This was the defense built across the whole of northern England--73 miles--by the Roman Emperor Hadrian. It was started in AD 122, took about six years to build and stood until the 5th century. Much of the wall was dismantled for local use over the ages. It was not until the early 1900s that the wall gained legal protection from further vandalism.

There are many ways to see and experience Hadrian’s Wall. Museums have been built next to some of the more extensive excavations. We visited two, at Housesteads and Chester, the site of a barracks and elaborate baths. The best preserved, most spectacular portions of the wall are between Housesteads and Steel Rigg, a three-mile span. One can walk on the wall between these points. For those less inclined to walk, Highway B6318 runs parallel to the wall for about 17 miles from Chester to Gilsland, west of Newcastle.

The whole history of Northumberland is based on battles and raids defending the province from barbarians and other foreigners over a period of 700 years, and the countryside remains one of the wildest and least spoiled in England.

I found this the most rewarding aspect of our rambles. We visited a variety of crumbling Saxon sites, but the most enjoyable part was the drive in getting there. The landscape is diverse--high moors, forests, deeply rolling hills, craggy headlands, flat seascapes and mountain vistas. The largest town we were to see was Alnwick (pronounced ANN-ik), with a population of 7,000--and no fast-food restaurants.

Alnwick does have a castle, the residence of the 12th duke of Northumberland, but only a few rooms are open to the public. One, the library, is worth seeing, with a huge collection of books and comfortable modern furniture, all made personal by family photographs standing on the tables.

Bamburgh Castle, too, is inhabited; much of it has been converted to private rental apartments. The Great Hall is impressive, but like the castle, it has been renovated in the style of the late 1800s.

For Don, golf provided a different aspect of sightseeing. He played twice at courses right on the North Sea coast, at Bamburgh and Dunstanburgh, so he was supplied with outstanding vistas of castles and sea from another frame of reference. The English gentlemen making up his foursome made him feel welcome and provided him with interesting conversation. They loved teasing him about being a “colonist.”

Don had insisted on bringing his own clubs, which for me, someone who makes a religion out of traveling light, limited our mobility. Finding places for them on trains, in taxis and in small hotel rooms struck me as an annoyance, but he did it good-naturedly and wasn’t sorry he had brought them. For one thing, he’s left-handed.

Don had me drive him to the golf course in Bamburgh one morning to check out its policy for visitors. The sign by the driveway said “Private,” but he went inside the clubhouse and talked to someone in the management. The sign, he was told, simply meant that it was a membership club, but anyone could play provided they paid the fee ($50 a day), followed the rules and dressed appropriately--and found a threesome that was open to a fourth.

On the club’s advice, he came back early the next morning, and all went well. After the 18 holes, which he thoroughly enjoyed, one of the men invited him to play the next day at Dunstanburgh.

I dropped him off there, had a fine day at the castle and actually was able to pick him out walking down the fairway--almost a tiny ant--as I was taking pictures from one of the castle’s towers.

Our hosts had provided Pele Tower with a notebook of menus from local restaurants, along with their recommendations. And if we preferred to stay in but didn’t want to cook--this was a vacation, after all--we could call on the services of a local caterer. Twice we were happy to avail ourselves of Jo Jackson, who delivered dinners for two plus a wonderful dessert, lemon and apple tart, which lasted for two meals. She came early in the morning, just as we were about to leave for the day. We left the frozen entrees--chicken breasts with wine and tarragon sauce one day, lasagna the next--out to defrost, and our “home-cooked” dinners were ready in no time at the end of the day.

The kitchen was equipped with every possible utensil, but I limited myself to making breakfast. Having experienced what passes for coffee in a land of tea drinkers, I had brought Starbucks from home, and went out each morning to buy fresh scones and the Times of London to go with my coffee. Don was content with the American breakfast cereal he found in the local market.

Away from cosmopolitan London we always see menus catering more to local tastes, although not necessarily of British origin. This time we noticed two items on virtually every Northumberland restaurant menu: tagliatelle carbonara (an Italian pasta) and creme bru^lee (a French dessert). Another ubiquitous item was strictly English: sticky toffee pudding. It became almost a contest to see which restaurant would have all three.

One of David Malia’s traditions is to take any guests he thinks might enjoy a good pint to his favorite pub, Vera’s. I assumed this was a local corner pub in Rothbury, but as we found out, it was seven miles on winding roads northwest of Rothbury, to the small village of Netherton.

As far as I could tell as we drove into the village, Vera’s--officially the Star Inn--was the only business in the now-darkened village, or at least the only business open. It was the kind of place you would drive by and not notice, for it was set back from the road to allow a few parking spaces in front, and its facade was illuminated by a single light above the door.

It may be that Vera invented the word “unpretentious.” No tourist trap this. Just outside the door of the starkly plain building a sign declared: “No Children, No Smoking, No Crisps” (potato chips). I made note that “the Ladies” was across the parking lot in a small auxiliary building.

We took our glasses of Castle Eden Bitter into the public room, which was so small that everyone entered into every conversation. It was like a casual party in someone’s home, and I took an almost reverential pleasure in being able to experience a “real” place with “real” English people.

On the train ride up from London we had stopped for a three-day side trip to see York and its magnificent cathedral, as well as Castle Howard, the setting for “Brideshead Revisited.” We enjoyed these experiences, but our time in Northumberland was shorter because of them, and we wished we’d left them for another trip and stayed longer in the north.

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GUIDEBOOK

Roaming Northern England’s Byways

Getting there: There’s nonstop service from Los Angeles to London on American, United, British Airways, Virgin Atlantic and Air New Zealand. Round-trip fares start at $898. We took the train from London to Newcastle upon Tyne so we could stop off en route; the fare was $306 round trip, but the $350 Flexipass may offer some travelers a better deal. Information: Britrail, U.S. telephone (888) BRITRAIL (274-8724), Internet https://www.britrail.com.

Two alternatives: Fly British Airways to London and change planes to Edinburgh, a 50-mile drive from Northumberland. Total fare from L.A. and back starts at $1,016. Or, for $71 round trip, fly from London to Edinburgh or Newcastle on British Airways or Cityflyer Express.

Where to stay: We booked directly with David and Agnes Malia, tel. 011-44-1669-620-410, fax 011-44-1669-621-006.

Northumbria Byways is a free booklet that lists rental cottages. Tel. 011-44-1228-573-337, fax 011-44-1228-573-338.

Also see the online Good Holiday Cottage Guide, https://www.dotco.net/northumbcottages/index.html.

Where to eat: The Queen’s Head pub on High Street in Rothbury was our favorite for plain good food. Reservations advised on Saturday nights. Local tel. 01669-620-470.

Getting around: English Heritage is a preservation association that maintains historic properties, 14 in Northumberland, all open daily, admission $3 to $4. Americans can obtain one- or two-week visitor passes for discounts and other benefits nationwide. English Heritage, P.O. Box 569, Swindon SN2 2YR, England; tel. 011-44-1793-414-910, Internet https://www.english-heritage.org.uk.

For more information: Northumbria Tourist Board, Aykley Heads, Durham DHI 5UX, England; tel. 011-44-1913-753-000, fax 011-44-1913-860-899, Internet https://www.northumbriatourist-board.org.uk.

British Tourist Authority, 551 Fifth Ave., Suite 701, New York, NY 10176-0799; tel. (800) GO-2-BRITAIN (462-2748), Internet https://www.btausa.com.