CHAPTER II. North and South Tyne
CHAPTER III. Down the Tyne
CHAPTER IV. Newcastle-upon-Tyne
CHAPTER V. Elswick and its Founder
CHAPTER VI. The Cheviots
CHAPTER VII. The Roman Wall
CHAPTER VIII. Some Northumbrian Streams
CHAPTER IX. Drum and Trumpet
CHAPTER X. Tales and Legends
CHAPTER XI. Ballads and Poems
[Illustration: Bamburgh Castle.]
List of Illustrations
Bamburgh Castle. _From photograph by J.P. Gibson, Hexham_
The Priory, Tynemouth. _From photograph by T.H. Dickinson, Sheriff Hill_
Untitled
Hexham Abbey from North West. _From photograph by J.P. Gibson, Hexham_
The River Tyne at Newcastle (showing Swing Bridge Open).
Untitled
Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
Untitled
North Gateway, Housesteads and Roman Wall. _From photograph by J.P. Gibson, Hexham_
Untitled
Alnwick Castle. _From photograph by J.P. Gibson, Hexham_
The Wreck of the “Forfarshire”. _From illustration kindly lent by B. Rowland Hill, Newcastle_
Drawing of boat
Sketch Map Of Northumberland. _From a Drawing by C.H. Abbey_
INTRODUCTORY.
The following book makes no pretensions to be a mine of deep
historical research or antiquarian lore; its object will have been
achieved, and its existence to some extent justified, if haply by
its aid some of the dwellers in this northern county of ours, with
its past so full of action, and its present so rich in the
memorials of those actions, may pass a pleasant hour in becoming
acquainted through its pages with the happenings which have taken
place in their own particular fields, their own streets, or by
their own riverside.
I am aware that many learned volumes on this subject, representing
an enormous amount of patient labour and careful research in their
compilation, are already in existence. To such this little book can
in no sense be a rival; but there must be many people who have not
a superabundance of time, to enable them to dig out the information
for which they wish, from these various sources; nor can they
always make these volumes their own, to be consulted at leisure.
Northumbrians have always been interested in the records of their
own county, and are now-a-days not less so than when, some
three-and-a-half centuries ago, Roger North found them “great
antiquarians within their own bounds.” If to such as these this
little book may perhaps bring in a more convenient form the
information they seek, and help them to become better acquainted
with the county which inspired Swinburne to write in stirring
phrases of “Northumberland,” and to address the home of his people
as
“Land beloved, where nought of legend’s dream Outshines the truth”—
I shall be more than satisfied. I would take this opportunity of
expressing my grateful thanks to the Rev. Canon Savage, of Hexham,
for information relating to the tomb of Alfwald the Just, in the
Abbey, given with courteous readiness; to the Rev. Canon Jeffery,
of Bywell, for similar kindness regarding Bywell St. Peter’s; to
R.O. Heslop, Esq., whose profound store of learning on the subject
of “Northumberland words” was in cases of uncertainty my final
court of appeal; to E.T. Nisbet, Esq., and J. Treble, Esq., to whom
I am greatly indebted for their goodness in reading my manuscript,
and for their generous encouragement following thereupon; to C.H.
Abbey, Esq., for his kindness in executing the map which
accompanies these pages; and to Mr. G.P. Dunn, of Corbridge, for
much helpful criticism, and many suggestions which only want of
space has prevented my adopting in their entirety.
J.F.T.
_31st May_, 1913.
NORTHUMBERLAND YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY
CHAPTER I. THE COAST OF NORTHUMBERLAND.
“We’ll see nae mair the sea banks fair, And the sweet grey gleaming
sky, And the lordly strand of Northumberland, And the goodly towers
thereby.”
—_A.C. Swinburne_.
Wild and bleak it may be, hard and cruel at times it undoubtedly
is, but, nevertheless, this north-east coast of ours is at all
times inspiring, whether half-hidden by storm-clouds, its cliffs
and hollows lashed by the “wild north-easter,” or seen calmly
brooding in the warm haze of a summer’s day, its grey-blue water
smiling beneath the grey-blue sky, and its stretches of sand and
bents edging the sea with a border of gold and silver.
In keeping with either mood of nature, the ancient Priory of
Tynemouth, standing on the sandstone cliffs on the northern bank of
the Tyne, rearing its grey and roofless walls above the harbour
mouth, strikes a note that is symbolic of the Northumbria of old
and the Northumberland of to-day—the note, that is, of the intimate
commingling of the romance of the warlike past and the romance of
the industrial present. Here, above the mouth of the river on which
so many of the most noteworthy advances in industrial science have
been made, and out of which sail the vessels which are often the
last word of the moment in marine engineering and construction,
stand calmly looking down upon them all the fragments of a building
which was a century old when John signed Magna Charta, and which
stands upon the site of another that had already braved the storms
of nearly five hundred years.
Looking upon the Priory of St. Mary and St. Oswin we are carried
back to the days when Edwin, the first king of Northumbria to
embrace Christianity, built a little church here, in which his
daughter took the veil. King Oswald had the first wooden structure
replaced by a stone one; and here, in 651, the body of another good
king—Oswyn—was brought for burial from Gilling, near Richmond in
Yorkshire, where, disbanding his army, he sacrificed his cause and
his life to Oswy of Bernicia, with whom he had been about to fight.
[Illustration: The Priory, Tynemouth.]
When the pirate ships of the Danes swept down upon our coasts, the
Priory of St. Oswin, conspicuous on its bold headland, could not
hope to escape their ravages. It was destroyed by the fierce
invaders; but King Ecgfrith[1] of Northumbria restored the
shattered shrine. Again, in the year 865, it was sacked and burnt,
and the poor nuns of St. Hilda, who had already fled from
Hartlepool to Tynemouth hoping to find safety, were ruthlessly
slain and earned the crown of martyrdom. It was again restored;
but, five years later, the destroying hands of the invaders fell on
the place once more, and for two hundred years the Priory stood
roofless and tenantless. After the Norman Conquest, Waltheof, Earl
of Northumberland bestowed it upon the monks of Jarrow. The
rediscovery of the tomb of St. Oswyn in 1065, had gladdened the
hearts of the monks, and forthwith the monastery was reared anew
over the ashes of its former self.
[1] Pronounced “Edge-frith.”
Mowbray, the next Earl of Northumberland, re-endowed the building.
He had quarrelled with the Bishop of Durham, so in order to do him
a displeasure, he made Tynemouth Priory subordinate to St. Albans
instead of to Durham and brought monks from St. Albans to dwell
there. The new buildings were finished in 1110, and the bones of
St. Oswyn enshrined within them, the right of sanctuary being
extended for a mile around his resting-place. This right, however,
was already in existence, and had been appealed to in 1095 by
Mowbray himself, who fled here pursued by the followers of William
Rufus, against whom he had rebelled. The King’s men disregarded the
sanctuary right, captured Mowbray, and sent him prisoner to
Durham[2].
[2] See account of Bamburgh Castle.
In later days the queens of Edward I. and Edward II. visited
Tynemouth Priory; and it was from Tynemouth that the foolish King
Edward II. and his worthless favourite Piers Gaveston fled from the
angry barons to Scarborough. In the reign of Edward III., after the
battle of Neville’s Cross, David of Scotland was brought here by
his captors on his way to Bamburgh, from whence he was sent to the
Tower.
At the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII. the Priory was
inhabited by eighteen monks with their Prior. They bowed to the
King’s decree and left the monastery; but the church continued to
be used as the parish church until the days of Charles II., when
Christ Church was built.
The Priory has many times formed the subject of pictures by famous
artists, the best known being that of no less a genius than J. M.
W. Turner; and its picturesque ruins are a well-known landmark to
the hundreds of voyagers who pass it on their journeys, outward or
homeward bound. Within the last few years the Priory has been in
some measure repaired and restored.
There is but little left of Tynemouth Castle, which was built as a
protection for the monastery against the attacks of the Danes. It
stands in a commanding position on a neighbouring cliff, and is now
used as barracks for garrison artillery corps. During the days when
Scotland harried the English borders, the Priors of Tynemouth
maintained a garrison here; and later, in Stuart days, Charles I.
visited the North, and the fortress was strengthened just before
the outbreak of the Civil War. It was captured, notwithstanding, by
Leslie, Earl of Leven, after he had left Newcastle. Colonel
Lilburn, left in charge as governor, shortly afterwards avowed
himself on the side of King Charles; but he speedily paid for his
change of allegiance, for the Castle was re-taken by a force from
Newcastle under Sir Arthur Hazelrigg, and Lilburn lost his life in
the fight. The Castle has long been used as a dep ôt for the
storage of arms and ammunition. Behind the Spanish Battery which
commands the entrance to the Tyne stands a statue of the famous
North-countryman, Admiral Collingwood.
Connected with Tynemouth, by the fact that a small chantry
belonging to the Priory once stood there, is St. Mary’s Island. One
may walk unhindered at low tide across the rocks to this favourite
place, but where the chantry stood there is now a lighthouse with a
powerful lantern, flashing its welcome light to the seafarers
nearing the mouth of the Tyne, and extending
“To each and all our equal lamp, at peril of the sea, The white
wall-sided war-ships, or the whalers of Dundee.”
Between Tynemouth and St. Mary’s Island lie Cullercoats, Whitley
Bay, and Monkseaton, and together these places make practically one
extended seaside town, stretching for three or four miles along the
sea-front, and joined by a fine parade which leads to open links at
Monkseaton. Of these places Cullercoats is most noteworthy. This
picturesque fishing village, with quaint old houses perched in
every conceivable position on the curve of its rocky bay, is,
needless to say, a favourite camping ground for artists. The
Cullercoats fishwife, with her cheerful weather-bronzed face, her
short jacket and ample skirts of blue flannel, and her heavily
laden “crees” of fish is not only appreciated by the brotherhood of
brush and pencil, but is one of the notable sights of the district.
At Cullercoats is struck a note of the most modern of modern
achievements—the Wireless Telegraphy Station (225 feet); and here,
too, is situated the Dove Marine Laboratory, looked after by
scientists on the staff of the Armstrong College at Newcastle.
In fine weather the crowds which pass and repass along the top of
the bold cliffs which overlook the fine stretch of sands between
Cullercoats and Monkseaton show how many hundreds of Northumbria’s
busy workers enjoy the fresh breezes from the sea on this pleasant
and bracing coast. Out at sea, opposite the Parade, vessels built
in the busy shipyards on the Tyne may be seen doing their speed
trials over the measured mile. The Peace of St. Oswyn may, in fact,
be said to brood over Tynemouth, even in these days, for it is an
increasing custom for those who can do so to remain in Newcastle
and other busy centres of toil only during business hours, and to
leave workshop and office every evening for their home by the sea:
while the tide of noisy, happy, boisterous excursionists has rolled
on to Whitley Bay, leaving Tynemouth to its old-time sleepy
content. Northward to Hartley and Seaton Sluice the cliffs are very
fine. Hartley, with its bright-looking red-tiled houses, once
belonged to Adam of Gesemuth (Jesmond) who lived in the reign of
King John. Coming down to modern times, about thirty years ago a
gallant Hartley man, Thomas Langley, rescued two successive
shipwrecked crews on the same day, in one case allowing himself to
be lowered over the cliffs at a terrible risk in the furious storm.
Seaton Sluice belongs to the ancient family of the Delavals, whose
house, Delaval Hall, may be seen not far away, peeping from amongst
the trees which surround it. Seaton Sluice owes its name to the
Delaval who placed the large sluice gates upon the burn, in order
to have a strong current which, in rushing down to the sea, would
be able to wash the mouth of the stream clear from the silt and mud
brought in by the incoming tide. A later baronet, Sir John Hussey
Delaval, made the cutting through the solid rock which is so
striking a feature of the harbour. It was ready for the entrance of
vessels in March, 1763.
Delaval Hall is now owned by Lord Hastings, the present
representative of the Delavals, which family became extinct in the
male line early in the nineteenth century. The last Delaval, a very
learned man, was buried in Westminster Abbey in 1814. The Hall was
built for Admiral Delaval in 1707 to the design of Sir J. Vanbrugh,
who also designed Blenheim Palace, given by the nation to the great
Duke of Marlborough about the same time.
Hartley Colliery, about half a mile away, has a sad interest as
being the scene of the terrible accident in 1862, when a number of
men and boys were imprisoned in the workings owing to the blocking
up of the only shaft by a mass of d ébris, caused by the fall of an
iron beam belonging to the pumping engine at the pit-head. Before
the shaft could be cleared and a way opened to the workings, all
the poor fellows had died, overcome by the deadly “choke-damp.”
Joseph Skipsey, the pitman poet, in a simple ballad, tells the
pathetic story.
“Oh, father! till the shaft is rid, Close, close beside me keep; My
eyelids are together glued, And I,—and I,—must sleep.”
“Sleep, darling, sleep, and I will keep Close by—heigh ho.”—To keep
Himself awake the father strives. But he—he, too—must sleep.
“Oh mother dear! wert, wert thou near Whilst—sleep!” The orphan
slept; And all night long, by the black pit-heap The mother a dumb
watch kept.
From here, northward, the coast is rather dull and uninteresting,
although the sands are fine, until we reach Blyth, at the mouth of
the little river of the same name. This town is growing rapidly in
size and importance; the export of coal has greatly increased since
the harbour was so much improved by Sir Matthew White Ridley, and
now totals some millions of tones a year. The river Wansbeck not
far north of the mouth of the Blyth, in the latter part of its
course flows through a district begrimed by all the necessary
accompaniments of the traffic in “black diamonds,” and reaches the
sea between the colliery villages of Cambois and North Seaton.
On the point at the northern curve of Newbiggin Bay stands
Newbiggin Church, and ancient building, whose steeple, “leaning all
awry,” is a well-known landmark for sailors. The site of this
church is in danger of being undermined by the waves, and, indeed,
part of the churchyard crumbled away many years ago; but such
defences as are possible have been built up around it,—and the
danger averted for a time. Newbiggin itself is a large fishing
village and an increasingly popular holiday resort, for it
possesses not only good sands but a wide moor near at hand which
provides one of the best of golf courses; and, also, a short
distance along the coast, are the attractive Fairy Rocks.
Newbiggin was a town of some importance in Plantagenet days, with a
busy harbour, and a pier; and in the reign of Edward II. it was
required to contribute a vessel towards the naval defence of the
Kingdom.
Northward from Newbiggin Point is the magnificent sweep of Druridge
Bay, stretching in a fine curve of ten miles or more to Hauxley
Haven. Here, the sands of a warm golden colour, the wind-swept
bents of silvery-grey, and the vivid green of the grassy cliff tops
edge the curve of the bay with a line of bright and delicate
colour, only thrown into greater relief by the brown reefs and
ridges which stretch out from the rocky shores, and by the deep
blue-green of the waves rolling inshore in long majestic lines, to
break into hissing foam on the sharp reefs, or slide smoothly up
the yellow sands in the centre of the bay. Above, beyond the grassy
tops of the cliffs, stretch deep woods, with the old pele-tower of
Cresswell looking out from amongst the trees, fields many-coloured
with their burden of varying crops, and wide lonely moors, where
one may walk for half a day without hearing any sound save the wild
screaming of sea-birds, or the whistle of the wind, with the low
boom of the waves below sounding a deep-toned accompaniment. The
bay is not always so peaceful, however, and many wild scenes and
terrible shipwrecks have taken place here, as everywhere along our
wild north-east coast. The Bondicar rocks, by Hauxley, and the
cruel spikes of the reef at Snab Point, near Cresswell, have
betrayed many a gallant little vessel to her doom. Not, however,
without bringing on many an occasion proof of the courage which is
shown as a matter of course by the fisher folk on our coasts. At
Newbiggin, and Cresswell, for instance, deeds have been done,
which, in their simple unassuming heroism, may be taken as typical
of the hardy race which could count Grace Darling among its
daughters.
About thirty years ago, a ship drove ashore off Cresswell one
bitter night in January, and the fisher folk crowded down to the
shore, watching with sorrowful eyes the hapless crew clinging to
their unfortunate vessel, which was slowly being broken up by the
waves. There was no lifeboat at Cresswell then, and all the men of
the village, except the old men who were past work, had gone
northward, when the oncoming storm prevented their return. The
women and girls heard the cries of the schooner’s crew, and mourned
to each other their inability to help. But one gallant-hearted
girl, named Peggy Brown, cried out, “If I thowt she could hing on a
bit, I wad be away for the lifeboat.” But between them and
Newbiggin, the nearest lifeboat station, the Lyne Burn runs into
the sea, and spreads widely out over the sands; and the older
people told Peggy she could never cross the burn in the dark. She
set off, however, the thought of the drowning men hastening her on.
For four miles she made her way in the storm and darkness, partly
along the shore, scrambling over rock’s, and wading waist-deep
through the Lyne Burn and one or two other places where the waves
had driven far up the sands, and partly across Newbiggin Moor,
where the icy wind tore at her in her drenched clothing. She
pressed on, however, and managed to reach the coxswain’s house and
give her message. The lifeboat was immediately run out, and the men
reached the wreck in time to save all the crew except one, who had
been washed overboard.
On another occasion one of the fishermen, named Tom Brown, was
preparing to go out, with the help of his two sons, in his own
fishing coble to the aid of a ship in distress on the reef. A
carter had come down to the beach, the better to watch the progress
of events, and, terrified by the thundering waves, his horse took
fright, and in its plunging drove the cart against the little boat,
making a hole clear through one side. “Big Tom,” as he was
generally called, merely took off his coat, rolled it into a bundle
and stuffed it against the hole. Then he beckoned to another
fisherman, saying to him “Sit on that.” The man clambered in, and
without the loss of another minute these four heroes set off to
save their fellow creatures’ lives, with a broken and leaking boat
in a heavy sea. And they did it, reaching the brig only just in
time, for it went to pieces a few minutes after the shivering crew
had been safely landed.
Incidents like these, which could be multiplied indefinitely, bring
a glow of pride to the heart, and a reassuring sense that the
degeneration of the race is not proceeding in such wholesale
fashion—in the country districts, at any rate—as the pessimists
would have us believe.
At the northern extremity of Druridge Bay is the little fishing
village of Hauxley, with the chimneys and pit-head engines of
Ratcliffe and Broomhill Collieries darkening the sky to the
south-west. Passing the Bondicar rocks and rounding the point we
enter the “fairway” for Warkworth Harbour and Amble, where a brisk
exportation of the coal of the neighbourhood is carried on.
Lying out at sea, opposite Amble coastguard station, the white
lighthouse on Coquet Island keeps watch over the entrance to the
harbour. Some of the walls of the monastery, which stood on the
island in Saxon days, can now be seen forming part of the dwelling
of the lighthouse keeper. For many generations, too, hermit after
hermit went to dwell on this tiny islet, and St. Cuthbert himself
is said to have inhabited the little cell at one time. The island
was captured by the Scots in the Civil Wars of King Charles’s
reign, and held by them for a time.
The situation of Amble, at the mouth of the Coquet, has been looked
upon as convenient from very early days, for there are signs which
tell us of a population here at an early period. Several
cist-vaens, or ancient stone coffins, have been found near the
town, and a broken Roman altar was unearthed in the neighbourhood.
The monastery which stood here, like that on Holy Island, was, in
later times, inhabited by Benedictine monks, who were under the
authority of the Prior of Tynemouth. William the Conqueror gave the
then Prior the right to collect the tithes of the little town.
A short distance from Amble, and practically encircled by the
Coquet which here makes a wide sweep, we come upon Warkworth,
prettiest of villages, combining the beauties of sea-shore and
river scenery, and rich in the possession of that romantic castle,
the ruins of which carry the mind back to Saxon times; for they
stand on the site of an older fortress erected by Ceolwulf, a Saxon
King of Northumbria. He was the patron of Bede, who dedicated his
“Ecclesiastical History” to his royal friend. Ceolwulf built both
the fortress and the earliest church at Warkworth, and a few stones
of this latter building are still to be seen. In 737, two years
after the death of Bede, this royal Saxon laid aside his kingly
state and became a monk on Lindisfarne,
“When he, for cowl and beads, laid down The Saxon battle-axe and
crown.”
It was when the castle was bestowed by Edward III. upon Lord Percy
of Alnwick that it became, for more than two hundred years, the
chief residence of that illustrious family; becoming in the next
reign of historical value as the home of that Hotspur whose valour
and gallantry made Henry IV. envy the Earl of Northumberland, in
that he “should be the father of so blest a son.” In Act II., Scene
3 of “Henry IV.,” Part II., Shakespeare has laid the scene at
Warkworth Castle, where Hotspur’s wife, troubled by her lord’s
moody abstraction, tries to win from him the reason of his secret
care. And after the battle of Shrewsbury, Rumour, flying with the
news of Hotspur’s death, says:—
“Thus have I rumoured through the peasant towns, Between the royal
field of Shrewsbury And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, Where
Hotspur’s father, old Northumberland, Lies crafty-sick.”
Two years after this, the castle was besieged by Henry IV. himself,
and surrendered to him after a brief bombardment by the newly
invented cannon. The keep was re-built by Hotspur’s son, after the
family possessions had been restored to him by Henry V., and it is
now the only remaining part of the castle which is almost perfect.
One of the half-ruinous towers remaining is called the Lion Tower,
from the sculptured lion on its walls; while another rejoices in
the curious name of Cradyfargus. A strange story is told of a blue
stone to be seen in the courtyard of the castle. Many years ago, so
runs the tale, one of the custodians of Warkworth Castle dreamed
three nights in succession that a large treasure was concealed
beneath a blue stone in a certain part of the castle grounds. He
told this dream to a neighbour, and after allowing two or three
days to pass, finding the dream constantly recurring to his mind,
he thought he would go to the place indicated, and see what he
could find. To his disappointment, however, he discovered that some
one had been there before him; a large hole had been dug, and on
the edge of it lay the blue stone.
Needless to say, the hole was empty, nor could the keeper discover
anything about the treasure in the neighbourhood. It is said that a
certain family in the village became suddenly rich; and, many years
afterwards, a large and ancient pot, supposed to have been that in
which the buried treasure had been contained, was found in the
Coquet.
The main street of Warkworth leads straight up to the postern gate
of the castle, and many stirring sights have the successive
inhabitants of the little village looked upon, as the fortunes of
the owners of the castle waxed and waned throughout the many
centuries in which the lords of Warkworth played a notable part in
the history of England. They saw Henry Percy, entrusted with a
share in the safe keeping of the country, set out from Warkworth
for Durham, to help in winning the victory of Neville’s Cross.
They saw Hotspur’s force set out for the Cheviots to intercept
Douglas and his followers, which they did at Homildon Hill, near
Wooler; and it was the quarrel in connection with the prisoners
taken on that day which led Hotspur and his father openly to throw
off their allegiance to Henry IV., so that a few months later the
peasants of Warkworth saw their idolised young lord set out for
what was to prove the fatal field of Shrewsbury. They saw Hotspur’s
father, the first Henry Percy to receive the title of Earl, (a
title which had been given him at the coronation of Richard II.)
set out with a brave force after Hotspur’s departure; and they saw
his return, almost alone, dejected and broken in spirit, having
learnt that the help so tardily given had come too late, and the
life of his gallant son was ended.
They saw the siege train of Henry Bolingbroke laid against the
castle, directed by Henry in person, provoked into these active
measures by the open rebellion of father and son, though
Northumberland had tried to make it appear that he was innocent of
any treasonable act. After capturing the castle, Bolingbroke
bestowed it on his third son, John of Lancaster, and the villagers
saw the young prince riding in and out among them daily so long as
he made the castle his home.
Then, in the next reign, they welcomed the return of Hotspur’s son,
Henry, to the home of his fathers, restored to him by Henry V.;
and, within a short time, saw him bring home his bride, Eleanor
Neville, daughter of his friend and neighbour, the Earl of
Westmoreland.
In the Wars of the Roses, Warkworth Castle saw many changes of
fortune, as the tide of victory flowed this way and that. The
Percies were all Lancastrians, though Sir Ralph Percy changed sides
twice. The castle fell into the hands of the Yorkists, and the
great Earl of Warwick, the “King-maker” himself, made it his
headquarters for a time, while he superintended the sieges of
Alnwick, Dunstanborough, and Bamburgh, which were all invested at
the same time. Eventually, after the Wars of the Roses concluded,
Warkworth was restored, along with the other Percy estates, to its
original owners.
Finally, the inhabitants of the little village saw the church
entered by the Jacobites in 1715, when Mr. Buxton, chaplain of the
little force, prayed for James III. and Mary the Queen-mother; and
General Forster, dressed as a trumpeter, proclaimed King James III.
at the village cross.
A few miles north from the mouth of the Coquet, the little Aln
spreads over the sandy flats near Alnmouth, and reaches the sea. It
has changed its course, for at one time it flowed to the south of
Church Hill, instead of to the north as at present. The town of
Alnmouth, viewed from the train just before entering Alnmouth
Station, looks very picturesque, especially if the rare sunshine of
an English summer should be lighting up the bay, bringing out the
vivid red of the tiled roofs against the grassy hills fringing the
links which lie on their seaward side, and lighting up, also, the
yellow sands and long lines of sparkling wavelets edged with white.
Alnmouth depends for its living on a fleet of fishing boats, and on
the numbers of visitors who seek its fresh breezes and inviting
shores each summer. Golfers, indeed, find it pleasant all the year
round, as there is only a scarcely appreciable interval in the
winter months when their favourite pastime cannot be followed on
the breezy links. On Church Hill, now crowned by a few old stones,
once stood a Norman church, dedicated to St. Valery, which, in its
turn, occupied the site of an older Saxon building, supposed to
have been the church which Bede refers to as being at Twyford,
where a great synod of clergy was held in the year 684, and
Cuthbert appointed Bishop of Lindisfarne. It is a matter of dispute
whether this Twyford was Alnmouth or Whittingham, but the two fords
at Alnmouth seem to point to a decision in favour of that place.
The old Norman church, which fell into ruin at the beginning of
last century, was fired at by the famous pirate Paul Jones; the
cannon shot, weighing 68 pounds, missed the church, but struck a
neighbouring farm house, doing great damage.
The coast north of Alnmouth becomes rocky and wild, and very
picturesque, and the villages along the coast are being sought out
by holiday makers in increasing numbers, year by year. Boulmer, one
of these villages, was a famous place for smuggling in the old
days, and many an exciting scene and sharp encounter took place
between the smugglers and the King’s men. Not far away is Howick
Dene, a lovely little glen leading down to the sea from Howick
Hall, the home of Earl Grey.
Cullernose Point, a striking crag, is formed by the outcrop of a
portion of the Great Whin Sill, which from here can be traced to
the south-west, and thence right across the county.
At Craster, another fishing village and a favourite holiday haunt,
is Craster Tower, which has been the home of the family of Craster
since before the Conquest. Not far to the north is the famous
Rumble Churn in the rocks below Dunstanborough Castle, where the
waves roll in and out of the caves and chasms with weird and hollow
rumblings. There is another Rumbling Churn in the cliffs near
Howick.
The famous divine of the Middle Ages, John Duns Scotus, was born in
this parish—that of Embleton; the group of buildings known as
Dunston Hall, or Proctor’s Steads, is supposed to have been his
birthplace, and a portrait of the learned doctor is to be seen
there.
Dunstanborough Castle stands in lonely grandeur on great whinstone
crags, close to the very edge of the sea, and on the first sight of
it, Keats’ wonderful lines spring involuntarily to the lips:—
“Magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery
lands forlorn.”
Forlorn, indeed, though not in exactly the sense conveyed by the
poem, is this huge fortress now; it abides, says Freeman, “as a
castle should abide, in all the majesty of a shattered ruin.” The
primitive cannon of the days of the Wars of the Roses began to
shatter those mighty walls, and, unlike Bamborough, it has never
been strengthened since. Simon de Montford once owned this estate,
and the next lord of Dunstanborough was a son of Henry III., to
whom Earl Simon’s forfeited estate was given. His eldest son,
Thomas of Lancaster, took part with the barons in bringing the
unworthy favourite of Edward II., Piers Gaveston, to his death.
Under the King’s anger, Lancaster went away to his Northumbrian
estate, and began to build this mighty fortress, though he already
owned the castles of Kenilworth and Pontefract. In the Wars of the
Roses, Dunstanborough Castle was taken and retaken no less than
five times, and Queen Margaret found refuge here, as well as at
Bamburgh; but apart from these occasions, Dunstanborough has not
taken nearly so great a part in either local or national history as
the other Northumbrian castles of Bamburgh, Warkworth, and Alnwick,
though greater in extent than any of them. In 1538 an official
report describes “Dunstunburht” as “a very reuynous howse”; and the
process of dilapidation was soon aided by enterprising dwellers in
the neighbourhood using the stones of the forsaken castle to build
their own homesteads.
From the castle northward curves Embleton Bay, in which, after
having been buried in the sand for ages, a sandstone rock was
uncovered by the tide, having on its surface, chiselled in rough
but distinct lettering, the name “Andra Barton.” Sir Andrew Barton,
daring Scottish sea-captain and fearless freebooter, was slain in a
sea-fight off this part of the coast, in the days of Henry VIII.,
by the sons of Surrey, one of whom, Sir Thomas Howard, was Lord
Admiral at the time, and so, in a measure, responsible for the
defence of the English coast. The loss of his brave sea-captain and
his “goodly ships” was one of the grievances in the long list which
led King James IV. to declare war against England, and led to the
fatal field of Flodden, in which Admiral Sir Thomas Howard and his
brother took part under the command of their father, the Earl of
Surrey.
The wide sweep of grassy common beyond the sands in Embleton Bay
is, in summer time, covered with a profusion of wild flowers, chief
amongst them being the wild geranium, or meadow cranes-bill, whose
reddish-purple blossoms grow in such abundance as to arrest the
attention of every visitor. A little way back from the sea-shore,
in the middle of this wide space, lies the village of Embleton,
which possesses an ancient and interesting church, and a vicarage,
part of which is formed by an old pele-tower. Embleton would seem
to have a reputation to keep up in the way of famous churchmen.
Duns Scotus has been already mentioned; and one of the vicars here
was a cousin of Richard Steele, the essayist and friend of Addison;
and he described the country squires of his day in a paper which he
contributed to the “Spectator” of that date, 1712.
Another Vicar of Embleton, who lived here from 1874 to 1884, was
Dr. Mandell Creighton, the learned historian, who became Bishop of
London.
The well-known journalist, W.T. Stead, was born in the parish of
Embleton, though his childhood was passed in very different
surroundings, in the narrow streets and grimy atmosphere of
Howdon-on-Tyne. His recent death on the ill-fated _Titanic_ will be
fresh in the minds of all.
Newton-by-the-Sea is reached by a pleasant walk along the
sea-shore. (It is to be understood that in this journey along the
coast we are moving northward always). There is here a
cheery-looking white-washed coastguard station standing on the bold
headland of Newton Point.
Past this point is Beadnell Bay, with green and grassy Beadnell
just beyond Little Rock. The small fishing harbour at Beadnell has
the unique distinction of being the only harbour on the east coast
whose mouth faces west, and the short pier, running _inland_ from
rocks to shore, acts as a breakwater against the heavy easterly or
southeasterly seas and makes the harbour a safe anchorage for
fishing craft or small yachts. The rocks around this bay are very
interesting, showing the various strata very plainly, and
containing many fossils. The striking cliff called Ebbe’s Nook is
supposed to have been named after the Saxon princess Ebba, sister
to King Oswald, and the ruins which were discovered on the
headland, to be all that is left of a chapel erected to her memory.
At Seahouses is an extensive fish-curing establishment, a fact
which proclaims itself unmistakably as you near the village,
especially if the day chance to be at all warm. A little distance
from the shore is another fishing village, North Sunderland, and
northward from Seahouses is the inn called The Monkshouse, from the
fact that it once belonged to the community on Lindisfarne.
Bamburgh Castle, magnificently placed on a lofty crag rising
perpendicularly from the greensward on the west or landward side,
and almost as steeply from the sea which washes the north and east
sides, lies like a majestic lion on its mighty rock “brooding on
ancient fame.” The voices of children at play on the sands below
sound faint and far in the still air; the sea birds, with the
summer sunshine flashing on their outspread wings, sweep round and
round; in the far distance a trail of smoke low down on the horizon
marks the track of a passing steamer; and near at hand, southward a
little way from the castle cliff, the rocky islets of the Farne
group lie drowsily asleep on the gently-heaving swell of the
grey-blue waters. Behind the castle lies the pretty old-fashioned
village with its quaint hostelries and grove of trees; and from the
higher parts of the new golf-links the player may look round on a
view which would be difficult to match, comprising as it does, the
Farne Islands and Dunstanborough to the south, and northward, Holy
Island, with its castle and abbey and the bluish haze of smoke
lying over Berwick; while, on the western skyline, on a clear day,
may be seen the rounded caps of the Cheviots.
The beginnings of Bamburgh take us back more than a thousand years,
to that long-ago summer of 547, when the _cyuls_ (keels) of the
marauding Bernician chieftain Ida and his followers grounded on the
shore of our Northland, and the work of conquest began. Ida was not
slow to grasp the importance of such a commanding site as this
isolated mass of basaltic crag, and the rude stronghold which
crowned it. It became in time a formidable fortress, and remained
for centuries the headquarters of the kings of the North.
Here reigned Ida and his sons—six of them—for more or less short
and stormy periods, and Ethelric of Bernicia, who vanquished the
neighbouring prince of Deira, and thus reigned as the first king of
Northumbria as Northumbria. The Celtic name of the fortress was
Dinguardi, or Dinguvardy; and tradition has it that this was Sir
Lancelot’s castle of Joyeuse Garde, where he had often feasted the
Knights of the Round Table, and where he, at last, came home to
die. The fact that Bamburgh is the only pre-Conquest castle in
Northumberland disposes of the claim of Alnwick.
“My fair lords,” said sir Launcelot, “wit ye well, my careful body
will into the earth; I have warning more than I will now say;
therefore, I pray you, give me my rights.” So when he was houseled
and eneled, and had all that a Christian man ought to have, he
prayed the bishop that his fellows might bear his body unto Joyous
Gard.
Some men say Anwick, and some men say to Bamborow; “how-beit,” said
sir Launcelot, “me repenteth sore; but I made mine avow aforetime,
that in Joyous Gard I would be buried; and because of breaking of
mine vow, I pray you all lead me thither.” Then was there weeping
and wringing of hands among all his fellows.
And so, within fifteen days, they came to Joyous Gard, and there
they laid his corpse in the body of the quire, and read many
psalters and prayers over him and about him.... And right thus, as
they were at their service, there came sir Ector de Maris, that had
sought seven years all England, Scotland and Wales, seeking his
brother sir Launcelot.... Then went sir Bors unto sir Ector, and
told him how there lay his brother sir Launcelot dead.
And then sir Ector threw his shield, his sword, and his helm from
him; and when he beheld sir Launcelot’s visage, he fell down in a
swoon; and when he awoke, it were hard for any tongue to tell the
doleful complaints that he made for his brother. “Ah! sir
Launcelot,” said he, “thou wert head of all Christian knights!”
“And now, I dare say,” said sir Bors, “that sir Launcelot, there
thou liest, thou wert never matched of none earthly knight’s hands;
and thou wert the courtliest knight that ever bare a shield; and
thou wert the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrod horse;
and thou wert the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved
woman; and thou wert the kindest man that ever stroke with sword;
and thou wert the goodliest person that ever came among press of
knights; and thou wert the meekest man, and the gentlest, that ever
eat in hall among ladies; and thou wert the sternest knight to thy
mortal foe, that ever put spear in the rest.”
Then there was weeping and dolor out of measure.
—_Malory’s Morte d’Arthur_.
Ethelfrith, who succeeded Ethelric, gave the fort to his second
wife, Bebba, after whom it was named Bebbanburgh, which soon became
Bamburgh.
In the days of King Edwin, who succeeded Ethelfrith, Bamburgh was
the centre of a kingdom which extended from the Humber to the
Forth, and as Northumbria was at that time the most important
division of England, the royal city of Bernicia was practically the
capital of the country. The reign of King Oswald, though shorter
than that of Edwin, was equally noteworthy from the fact that in
his days the gentle Aidan settled in Northumbria, and king and monk
worked together for the good of their people, and Bamburgh became
not only the seat of temporal power but the safeguard and bulwark
of the spiritual movement centred on the little isle of
Lindisfarne. On the accession of Edwin, Oswald, son of Ethelfrith,
had fled from Bernicia and taken refuge with the monks of Iona,
living with them till the time came for him to rule Northumbria in
his turn. As soon as possible after the inevitable fighting for his
political existence was over, he sent to Iona for a teacher to come
and instruct his people in the truths he had learned; and a monk
named Corman was sent. He, however, was unable to make any
impression on the wild and warlike Saxons of the northern kingdom,
and he soon returned to Iona with the report that it was useless to
try to teach such obstinate and barbarous people. One of the
brethren, listening to his account, ventured to ask him if he were
sure that all the fault lay with the people. “Did you remember,”
said he, “that we are commanded to give them the milk first? Did
you not rather try them with the strong meat?” With one accord the
brethren declared that he who had spoken such wise words was the
man best fitted for the task, and the gentle Aidan was sent to
Oswald’s help. In such a fashion came the Gospel to Northumbria,
and Aidan became the first of the long roll of saints whose deeds
and lives had such incalculable influence on Northumbrian history.
From Aidan’s arrival in 635 until the death of Oswald the relations
between the king and the monk who had settled on Medcaud or
Medcaut, soon to be known as Lindisfarne, and later as Holy Island,
were those of friend to friend and fellow-worker, rather than those
of king and subject.
After the death of Oswald, his conqueror Penda, the fierce King of
the Mercians, harried Northumbria, and appearing before the walls
of Bamburgh prepared to burn it down. Piles of logs and brushwood
were laid against the city and the fire was applied. Aidan, in his
little cell on Farne Island, to which he had retired, saw the
clouds of flame and smoke rolling over the home of his beloved
patron. Raising his hands to Heaven, he exclaimed, “See, Lord, what
ill Penda is doing!” Scarcely had he uttered the words, when the
wind changed, and drove the flames away from Bamburgh, blowing them
against Penda’s host, who thereupon ceased all further attempts
against the city.
Not long after this, Aidan was at Bamburgh, when he was seized with
sudden illness, and died with his head resting against one of the
wooden stays of the little church. Penda came again the next year,
and this time both village and church were burnt, all except, says
tradition, the beam of wood against which Aidan had rested in his
last moments.
When the Danish ships appeared off our shores, in the two centuries
following, Bamburgh was attacked and plundered several times. In
the days of William Rufus, as we have seen, Robert de Mowbray, Earl
of Northumberland, rebelled against the Red King, in company with
his uncle the Bishop of Coutances, Robert of Normandy, and William
of St. Carileph, Bishop of Durham. Rufus marched into
Northumberland, but the quarrel was adjusted for the time; though
private strife between the two Bishops led to Mowbray’s driving the
monks of Durham from the Priory at Tynemouth and replacing them by
monks from St. Albans.
Later, however, Mowbray disobeyed a summons from the Red King, who
once more marched into Northumberland. He reached Bamburgh, and
invested it, but failed to make any impression on that impregnable
stronghold, within whose walls were Mowbray and his young wife, the
Countess Matilda, and his nephew, who was Sheriff of
Northumberland. Rufus, finding all attempts to carry the fortress
useless, began to build a wooden fort, called a _Malvoisin_, or
“Bad neighbour”; and so anxious was he to have it speedily erected
that he made knights and nobles as well as his men-at-arms take
part in the work.
Mowbray, from the battlements, called out to many of these by name,
openly taunting those who had secretly promised to join him, or had
expressed themselves as in sympathy with his disobedience. His
words gave great amusement to Rufus and the nobles who were truly
loyal, and much mortification and vexation to those whom he so
ruthlessly exposed. Rufus left the “Bad neighbour” to continue the
siege and went southward.
Mowbray, led to believe that Newcastle would receive him, and take
his part, stole away from Bamburgh by sea, and reached Tynemouth.
On proceeding to Newcastle, however, he found he had been mistaken,
and hurriedly fled hack to Tynemouth, pursued by his enemies. He
held out against them for a day or two, but was then captured and
taken to Durham. Meanwhile the high-spirited Countess held Bamburgh
against all assailants; but Mowbray’s capture gave Rufus an
advantage he was not slow to use. Returning to the North, he
ordered Mowbray to be brought before the walls of Bamburgh, and
threatened to put his eyes out if the Countess did not immediately
surrender. Needless to say, she preferred to give up the castle,
and Mowbray’s reign as Earl of Northumberland was over.
Thereafter Bamburgh was visited by various sovereigns in turn, when
their affairs brought them to the northerly parts of their kingdom.
When Balliol, tired of long years of conflict, surrendered most of
his rights to Edward III., it was at Bamburgh that the convention
was concluded. In this reign the castle was greatly strengthened.
In the Wars of the Roses, Bamburgh was held for the queen by the
Lancastrian nobles of the north country—Percy and Ros—with the Earl
of Pembroke and Duke of Somerset; but was obliged on Christmas Eve,
1462, to capitulate to a superior force. The next year the Scots
and the queen’s French allies surprised it, and re-captured it for
Henry VI. and his courageous queen; but Warwick, “the King-maker,”
came upon the scene, and after a stout resistance the garrison
surrendered.
When the Union of the Crowns took place in 1603, Bamburgh was no
longer necessary as a defence against the Scots, and its defences
were neglected. The Forsters, into whose hands it passed in the
days of James I., were a spendthrift family, and gradually wasted
their rich estate, until in 1704 it had to be sold, and was bought
by Lord Crewe. He was Bishop of Durham at the time, having been
promoted to that position by Charles II., who liked his handsome
figure and pleasing manners. When at the age of fifty-eight, he
wished to marry Dorothea Forster, daughter of Sir William Forster,
of Bamburgh, the lady, who was many years younger, refused him at
first; but some years later he renewed his suit, and this time was
accepted. When the Forster estates were sold and their debts paid,
there was scarcely anything left for the heirs—Lady Crewe and her
nephew, Thomas Forster, who afterwards became the General of the
ill-fated Jacobite rising in 1715, and whose escape after his
capture was contrived by his high-spirited sister, Dorothy Forster
the second.
Lord Crewe, in his will, left a great part of his fortune to found
the Bamburgh Trust, for which his name will ever be remembered. The
most notable of the trustees, Archdeacon Sharp, administered the
moneys in so wise and beneficent a manner that to him most of the
credit is due for the real usefulness of the Crewe charities. These
include a surgery and dispensary; schools; the relief of persons in
distress; the clothing and educating of a certain number of girls;
the maintenance of a lifeboat, life-saving apparatus, and
everything necessary for the relief of ship-wrecked persons. A
lifeboat, kept in the harbour at Holy Island, is always ready to go
out on a signal from Bamburgh Castle.
The castle was extensively restored and repaired by the late Lord
Armstrong; but, sad to say, since his death it has been stripped of
many of its treasures. The church, dedicated to St. Aidan, stands
at the west end of the village; but there is no vestige remaining
of the one built in Saxon times, the present building having been
erected when Henry II. was king. In the churchyard is the grave of
Grace Darling, and many hundreds come to look on the last resting
place of the gentle girl who was yet so heroic, when her
compassionate heart nerved her girlish frame to the gallant effort
on behalf of her fellow-creatures in dire peril, when she
“.... rode the waves none else durst ride, None save her sire.”
The beautiful monument over her grave is by Raymond Smith, and is
an exact duplicate of the original one, also by him, which was
being injured so much by the weather that it was removed to a
position inside the church. The duplicate was commissioned by Lord
(then Sir William) Armstrong.
The island on which yet stands the lighthouse which was Grace’s
home is the Longstone, almost the farthest seaward of the rocky
group of the Farnes, lying almost opposite Bamburgh. The Longstone
is only about four feet above high-water mark, so that in stormy
weather the lighthouse is fiercely assailed by the heavy seas, and
the keepers are often driven for refuge to the upper chambers. To
the Longstone might with truth be attributed the opening lines of
Kipling’s poem, “The Coastwise Lights”:—
“Our brows are bound with spindrift, and the weed is on our knees,
Our loins are battered ’neath us by the swinging, smoking seas; From
reef, and rock, and skerry, over headland, ness, and voe, The
coastwise lights of England watch the ships of England go.”
There are about twenty of these little islets to be seen at low
tide, and very curious are some of their names—The Megstone, The
Crumstone, The Navestone, The Harcars, The Wedums, The Noxes
(Knokys), and The Wawmses. The largest, Farne Island, is the
nearest to the coast, and is the one to which St. Aidan retired,
and on which St. Cuthbert made himself a cell, and where he lived
for some years, leaving Lindisfarne (Holy Island) very often for
months together, to dwell alone on this almost bare rock and devote
himself to holy meditation and prayer.
To this island came King Ecgfrith of Northumbria with Archbishop
Trumwine and other representatives of the Synod to beg the hermit
to accept the Bishopric of Hexham; and it was on this island that
St. Cuthbert died, the monks who had gone to look after him
signalling the news of his death to his brethren at Lindisfarne by
means of torches. The island is rocky and precipitous, with deep
chasms between the high cliffs; and when a north wind blows, the
columns of foam and spray, from the waters dashing into the chasms
and over the tops of the cliffs, may be seen from the mainland
rising high into the air.
Before the first lighthouse was built on Farne Island, in 1766, a
coal fire was kindled every night on the top of the tower-like
building used as a fort. This method of warning passing vessels had
been used continuously since the days of Charles II. In great
contrast to this is the modern lighthouse, with its acetylene gas
lights and its automatic flash apparatus.
Close to Stapel Island are the three high basaltic pillars, of rock
called the Pinnacles. On all these islands sea-birds breed, but
especially on the Pinnacles, the Big and Little Harcar, and the
islet called the Brownsman.
Thousands and thousands of them perch and chatter on the rocks and
fly screaming in the air, amongst them being guillemots,
kittiwakes, gulls, terns, cormorants, puffins, and eider-ducks, for
which latter St. Cuthbert is said to have had great affection;
certainly they are the gentlest of these wild sea-fowl.
Bidding farewell to the rocky Farnes, we sail past Budle Bay, into
which runs the Warenburn and the Elwick burn, and underneath whose
sandy flats is the buried town of Warnmouth, once a busy seaport,
to which Henry III. granted a charter. Approaching Lindisfarne,
“Our isle of Saints, low-lying on the blue breast of the curling
waters, is hushed and silent in the lightly-purple mists of
morning, like the wide aisles of a great cathedral at daybreak,
before the feet and tongues of sightseers disturb the solemn
stillness. The tideway is covered with water, and the footprints of
the pilgrims who came yesterday to the shrine of St. Cuthbert have
passed into oblivion like footmarks on the sands of time.”
(_Galloway Kyle_.) The modern pilgrim to Holy Island generally
takes train to Beal station, and from there walks to the seashore,
and crosses the long stretch of sand between Holy Island and the
mainland. The governing factor in the possibility or otherwise of
making the journey is the state of the tide, for these sands are
entirely covered by the sea twice a day, so that Holy Island can
only be said to be an island at high tide.
“For with the flow and ebb, its style Varies from continent to isle;
Dry-shod, o’er sands, twice every day The pilgrims to the shrine find
way; Twice every day the waves efface Of staves and sandall’d feet
the trace.”
There are dangerous quicksands on the way, too, and a row of stakes
points out the proper course to be taken.
We have already seen that St. Aidan settled on Lindisfarne and have
treated of him in connection with Bamburgh. After his death another
monk of Iona, Finan, succeeded him and carried on his work; and
after Finan came Colman, who resigned after the Synod of Whitby had
decided to keep Easter according to southern instead of northern
usage. St. Cuthbert was Prior of Lindisfarne at this time. Later,
the seat of the bishopric was removed from Lindisfarne to York,
when it was held by that restless and able prelate, Wilfrid, for a
time. Then the bishopric was divided and a see of Hexham formed, as
well as that of Lindisfarne, which included Carlisle, out of the
northern portion of the diocese of York.
St. Cuthbert was bishop of Lindisfarne for two years, having
exchanged sees with bishop Eata, who went to Hexham. The stone
coffin in which St. Cuthbert’s body was pieced, after his death on
Farne Island, was buried on the right side of the altar in the
Abbey of Lindisfarne, which by this time had arisen on the little
island. A later bishop, Edfrid, executed a wonderful copy of the
Gospels, which was illuminated by his successor, Ethelwald. Another
bishop enclosed it in a cover of gold and silver, adorning it with
jewels; and, later, a priest of Lindisfarne, Aldred, wrote between
the lines a translation into the vernacular, and added marginal
notes. This precious manuscript, a wonderful example of the
beautiful work done in monastic houses in the north so many
centuries ago, is now in the British Museum, where it is known as
the “Durham Manuscript.”
When the pirate keels of the Danes appeared off our coasts about
the end of the eighth century, Lindisfarne Abbey was one of the
first points of attack; and in 793 it was plundered of most of its
wealth, and many of the monks were slain. For nearly a century
afterwards it was left in peace, but in 875 the Danish ships
appeared again approaching from the south, where they had just
sacked Tynemouth Priory. The bishop, Eardulph, last of the
Lindisfarne prelates, and the brethren hastily collected their most
treasured possessions, and with the body of St. Cuthbert, the bones
of St. Aidan, and other precious relics, they fled from their
island home, and journeyed north, west, and south for many years
before they found a resting place at Chester-le-Street near Durham.
For seven years they carried with them the body of St. Cuthbert;
and it is said that the final choice of a resting place for the
body of their beloved saint was indicated to them by supernatural
means as they approached Durham.
In 1069 William the Conqueror marched northward to visit with
sternest punishment the hardy north-men, who were so long in
submitting to his authority; and the monks of Durham fled before
the advance of the relentless Norman, carrying with them, as
before, the body of St. Cuthbert. They reached Lindisfarne in
safety to find the Abbey in the ruinous state in which it had been
left by the Danes two centuries earlier. Thus, once again, the body
of St. Cuthbert rested on the little island where so many years of
his life had been spent.
In 1070 the brethren returned to Durham and in 1093 the building
was begun, almost simultaneously, of the present glorious Cathedral
of Durham and a new Priory and Church on Lindisfarne, and a strong
resemblance may be traced between the two buildings The Abbey was
deserted on the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII., and
gradually fell into ruins.
The Castle, which stands on a lofty whinstone rock at the
south-east corner of the island, is a conspicuous object for many
miles, whether viewed by land or sea. It is supposed to have been
built in the reign of Henry VIII., at a time when defences were
commanded to be made to all harbours. If the Castle has had any
appreciable share of romantic incidents in its history, the records
thereof seem to be unknown; but one which has come down to us is
the account of its daring capture by an ardent North-country
Jacobite, Lancelot Errington, in 1715. The garrison consisted of
seven men, five of whom were absent. Errington, who was master of a
small vessel lying in the harbour, discovered this, and immediately
made his way to the Castle accompanied by his nephew, and
overpowered the two men who were left in charge, turning them out
of the Castle. He then signalled to the mainland for
reinforcements, but none were forthcoming. A company of King’s men
came instead and re-occupied the place, Errington and his nephew
escaping, to wander about in the neighbourhood for several days,
hiding from pursuit, before they got clear away. The Castle was for
many years the home of the coastguardsmen, who must have found it a
most advantageous position for their purpose, as they had an
uninterrupted view of miles of coast line.
Northward from Holy Island, but on the mainland, lies Goswick, from
whose red sandstone quarries came the material for building the
Abbey of Lindisfarne. Further north we come in sight of the coal
pits and smoke of Scremerston, while beyond it, Spittal and
Tweedmouth bring us right up to Berwick-on-Tweed itself, that grey
old Border town which has seen so many turns of fortune, and been
harried again and again, only to draw breath after each wild and
cruel interlude, and go calmly on its quiet way until it was once
more called upon to fight for its very existence.
Though definitely forming part of English soil since 1482, it is
not included in any English county, but, with about eight square
miles around it, forms a county by itself. Hence the addition, to
any Royal proclamation, of the well-known words “And in our Town of
Berwick-upon-Tweed.”
Sir Walter Scott’s description of the Northumbrian coast, in his
poem of Marmion may well be recalled here. It will be remembered
that the Abbess of Whitby, with some of her nuns, was voyaging to
Holy Island, and we take up the description when
“.... the vessel skirts the strand Of mountainous Northumberland;
Towns, towers, and halls successive rise, And catch the nuns’
delighted eyes. Monkwearmouth soon behind them lay, And Tynemouth’s
Priory and bay. They marked, amid her trees, the hall Of lofty Seaton
Delaval; They saw the Blyth and Wansbeck floods Rush to the sea
through sounding woods; They passed the tower of Widdrington, Mother
of many a valiant son; At Coquet-isle their beads they tell To the
good saint who owned the cell. Then did the Alne attention claim, And
Warkworth, proud of Percy’s name; And next they crossed themselves,
to hear The whitening breakers sound so near, Where, boiling through
the rocks, they roar On Dunstanborough’s caverned shore. Thy tower,
proud Bamburgh, marked they there, King Ida’s castle, huge and
square, From its tall rock look grimly down And on the swelling ocean
frown. Then from the coast they bore away And reached the Holy
Island’s bay.
As to the port the galley flew, Higher and higher rose to view The
castle with its battled walls, The ancient monastery’s halls, A
solemn, huge, and dark-red pile Placed on the margin of the isle.
In Saxon strength that abbey frowned, With massive arches, broad and
round.
On the deep walls, the heathen Dane Had poured his impious rage in
vain; And needful was such strength to these, Exposed to the
tempestuous seas, Scourged by the winds’ eternal sway, Open to rovers
fierce as they. Which could twelve hundred years withstand Winds,
waves, and northern pirates’ hand.”
[Illustration]