We had a lovely time in Durham. It wasn’t difficult: the weather was superb and the cathedral alone kept us busy for several hours, with an ascent onto the roof of the central tower, and then lunch from the undercroft refectory. We discovered tables outside in the sun right underneath the two Norman towers of the cathedral’s imposing west front, atop its cliff above the River Wear. It was quite a place to sit. Then, replete with lunch, we went and enjoyed the splendours of the cathedral’s interior, which offers plenty of interest. We had just caught the end of a hugely impressive art installation of 15,000 paper doves suspended from the ceiling of the central tower, filling this vast vertical space with a cascading stream of tiny, white wings. It was a captivating sight. They also have some exceptional modern stained glass near the very ancient tomb of St Cuthbert, who lived a hermit’s life on one of the tiny Farne Islands, and later was Abbot of the Priory on Holy Island. His entombed remains were – and still are – a place of pilgrimage to religious devotees.
The weather was so warm and pleasant that we took a rowing boat out on the River Wear for an hour, and then had exotic Gin and Tonics from possibly the world’s smallest gin bar on the old stone bridge above. We capped it off with tapas for dinner and a bottle of vino tinto. There are worse ways to spend a day.
But normal cycling service had to be resumed on Wednesday to reach the end of my straight line north. It disappears into the sea between Beadnell and Seahouses, just south of Bamburgh Castle on the beautiful Northumberland coast. That was about seventy miles away, and then I had a bit more on top to reach the only accommodation I could find nearby at a sensible price. So there was work to be done.
My first task was to reach Newcastle city centre. The River Tyne would have to be crossed somewhere, and this was the closest point to my line I could do it. It is also a great place to be on a nice day. I could do the first hour on minor roads; but after that I was on the old Great North Road, so I had my fingers crossed. I cycled through villages that spoke through their back to back terraced houses that they were once home to coal miners. Now they have to embrace a new future, and – like almost everywhere I have been – I saw plenty of rather larger, new homes being built. There were bright floral displays in the public spaces to compensate for the generally not so pretty buildings. But it was really just a section of riding to get through, and the first excitement came when I reached the Angel of the North on the edge of Gateshead.
Anthony Gormley’s enormous winged statue stands on open, raised ground near the main road in Birtley. It is truly huge and it took twenty people six months to complete the three main sections (body and two wings) in Hartlepool in 1997. It was transported overnight and assembled in a single day on site in February 1998. In answer to the question “Why an Angel?”, sculptor Gormley replied “No one has ever seen one and we need to keep imagining them.” He wished it to be a symbol of transition from the industrial to the Information Age and a focus of our hopes and fears. I think he certainly succeeded in creating something truly iconic for this region in an otherwise overlooked place. It has become a widely recognised symbol and I suppose, like all good art, it can mean what you want to see in it. They say it is seen by more than one person every second, which is 33 million annually.
It is the height of four double decker buses (20 metres) and its plane-like wings give it a span of 54 metres, which is almost that of a jumbo jet. The wings together weigh almost as much as the body, and the whole sculpture’s combined weight is 208 tonnes. It stands on a plinth that in turn stands on a reinforced concrete slab held up by eight concrete piles that reach further into the ground and rock than the Angel reaches above the surface. It can withstand winds of 100 miles per hour. As angels go, it’s big and I like it. As did some very excited small children this morning, as they ran towards its enormous feet.
Now I had to follow the cycling provision alongside the Great North Road for a few miles into central Gateshead. You never know what you are going to get, and I often choose the road over on-again, off-again, shared pavement spaces. However, I must applaud the Great Northern Cycleway, which runs in a straight Roman line all the way from Chester-le-Street due north to Newcastle. Since this road is no longer the A1, there is now space to offer non-motorised traffic like me a separate lane as wide as a road, pretty much all the way. It is as good as I have seen and would suit any cyclist from the most serious to the completely casual. Well done Gateshead.
It can’t be easy being a place like Gateshead. Not only have you had your industrial past ripped from under your feet; but you are stuck with playing second fiddle to your bigger cousin, Newcastle, just over the bridge and within sight. Gateshead town centre, when I was last here, was a sad sight; but it seems to have been given a major boost, with new development including a big cinema complex and a shiny new college, as well as the now iconic riverside success story of the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art and the Glasshouse concert hall, which – thanks to the utterly brilliant Millennium eyelid footbridge, link Gateshead into the larger Newcastle quayside development either side of the River Tyne, all overlooked by the Sydney-like arch of the High Level Bridge. So there is some hope for Gateshead, despite its challenges. But today, I – and I’m sure many others – made a beeline for the river. You just want to be there, by the water, where it is all going on. Additionally, I had not eaten yet today and I needed to find a riverside cafe fast!
I found one easily, at the entrance to the superb Baltic, and sat in the sunshine to eat my breakfast burrito. It really was a fine place to be. The array of bridges and buildings, new and restored, make a compelling juxtaposition and here, by the Millennium bridge, I had a perfect perspective to drink it all in. That said, I noticed there was an even better place in the shape of an outdoor viewing platform, enclosed with glass panels, up on the fourth floor of the Baltic. And it was free to visit every part of the Baltic, so I hopped in the lift and went to see the view from above, which was, indeed, even better!
A couple of mum’s were there with toddlers and one little boy – I would guess he might only be two – was racing around running off energy. You couldn’t fall off because of the clear glass panels, but it did feel a bit disconcerting. The mum’s weren’t worried and the little boy grabbed the handrail next to me and hoisted his feet up onto the glass a bit like he was waiting to start a backstroke race in a swimming pool. After a few seconds, his mum called him down; but he didn’t move. She called again. He didn’t move. At all. Then she realised he was stuck fast. His shoes had created a seal on the glass and his knees were wedged behind the handrail. He couldn’t get down! With a bit of gentle help, they prized him off, at which point, of course, he burst into floods of tears. I took my photos and left them to it.
I made my way slowly over the curved footbridge, which had no scheduled tilts today, sadly, and enjoyed the quayside from the Newcastle side, looking up at the bridges old and new, and the armadillo like Glasshouse concert hall, all working together in architectural harmony. The architects of these modern additions to a key part of the Tyne landscape can be proud of what they have achieved.
It took a little while to navigate my way up into Newcastle city centre and out on the far side, where I once again picked up a long section of cycle lane. A combination of the one way system and street improvements meant that I found it easier to walk for a while up the main drag from Eldon Square amongst the crowds of shoppers. It seemed very big and very busy. There were buskers out singing songs in the pedestrianised streets. By the time I escaped on to the open spaces of Town Moor, an hour had disappeared since I arrived by the Tyne. That was a bit longer than I had expected, but not a problem. Not yet.
It was time to make some meaningful progress, so I connected with a network of smaller lanes and made directly for Morpeth, which is a lovely market town in every sense. But I only got another five miles or so further before I saw a sign to a cheese farm and cafe. And I have a strict rule never to ride past an open cheese farm.
Some excellent farm made cheese sandwiches later, I felt I should have all the fuel I needed to get me through the afternoon. I paused to collect train tickets home from Morpeth station, but otherwise stuck to more tiny lanes – with one quick ice cream farm stop – until I reached the coast at the ruined but very imposing Warkworth Castle. Warkworth as a whole is a lovely old place, with the tree-lined Main Street sweeping downhill from the lofty castle to an ancient bridge over the River Coquet at the opposite end.
There was a good quality cycle path, separate from the road, from here to Alnmouth, a very pretty village on the sand dunes by the estuary of the River Aln. It cuts between the dunes to let out into the sea, but behind is a safe haven for small boats and birds. It all looked delightful, and Alnmouth contained several enticing pubs and eateries. But I still had a good long way to go. I rode hard into the golden evening along quiet roads, passing through Embleton and finally reaching Beadnall, with its large numbers of caravans and camper vans. And from there, just to be sure, I rode a couple more miles along the sand dunes and past the gold course to cheerful little Seahouses and its pretty harbour, where I enjoyed fish and chips overlooking the Farne Islands, glowing in the last rays of the evening sun. I knew that this was my last chance for a cooked meal tonight, but by pausing here, it meant I wasn’t moving again until 7.30pm, and it was well after 8pm that I arrived in twilight in the rather ghostly quiet village of Belford, which – along with my faded hotel – felt like it had been left behind in the last century. Along the way I enjoyed enchanting views across the shallow waters and sand bars to Lindisfarne, calm in the silvery evening light. I was the only one around to enjoy it.
No one can accuse me of not making the most of today. Tomorrow was forecast to be damp and grey, but at least there would be a northerly wind as I rode two hours south to Alnwick for a much anticipated family reunion of second cousins, the first in over forty years, perhaps more. And I was willing to get a little damp for that!
