The Reluctant Atheist

Since some of my posts have been about the history of Christianity or places of worship, I thought I'd clarify my stance on religion. Or try to clarify it, which isn't easy when you're not sure yourself. In fact one of my reasons for writing this post is to help my thought process, so hopefully by the time I reach the end of it I'll know a bit more (I'll let you know how I get on). My position right now is that I'm not but I sort of wish I was, an attitude that would amaze and horrify the me of a few years ago.

REPENT THY SINS!

It was much simpler when I was growing up. As a Catholic you only really have to remember one thing - God is always watching and always judging. In those days nice people didn't get divorced, gay meant happy and there was no such thing as abortion. There was nothing remotely strange about a man being born of a virgin (not that I knew what a virgin was) and rising from the dead, or there being only one man and one woman on the whole planet, or that they lived in a lovely garden until they were tempted into eating an apple by a talking snake. Likewise parting the Red Sea, the great flood or slaying the first born of all Egypt (which always struck me as being unnecessarily cruel for a loving God). Then, without any apparent warning, something changed. I remember sitting listening to a discussion in an R.E. lesson in school about how the Resurrection must have happened because the stone in front of Jesus' tomb was so big that it couldn't have been moved without an enormous fuss, and it suddenly struck me. This is a load of bollocks.

After that it unraveled quickly. I'd finally figured out what a virgin was (thanks to those videos in biology) so that was another nail in the cross coffin. I stopped going to church and devoted my full attention to other things, things that normal young people are supposed to do, like making friends, getting drunk and snogging people. The fact that I was no good at any of these things and would normally end up watching an old football video on a Friday night was neither here nor there, I didn't miss God at all.

And that's how it stayed for twenty years or so, I watched the decline of religion with an air of disinterest, or even mild approval. I remember reading a newspaper column (Johann Hari I think) saying it was time to place God and Jesus alongside the likes of Thor and Zeus and thinking it sounded like straightforward common sense.

Then two things happened. Firstly I developed an interest in history, especially medieval history, and some of the best places to visit if you're a medievalist are churches. All those hours spent in magnificent old places of worship, marveling at the statues, carvings and stained glass, imagining the love and devotion of the artists and craftsman who created them have had quite an effect on me. Call it the power of suggestion or maybe I'm just gullible but it's definitely re-awakened my spiritual side. Secondly I've got old. Well maybe not 'old' old, but I can no longer claim that my best years are ahead of me. As such I've increasingly been wondering what life's all about and finding that my previous reasoning - there is no point, just enjoy it while you've got it - is not good enough. I want there to be more, to know that I'm not just a tiny tiny piece of dust in the great void. In short, I want to believe.

Now this is easier said than done. For starters I'm not just a skeptic, more like a complete cynic. In everything I come across, I look for an ulterior motive, an easy answer, qui bono. On top of that, thanks to my work life as an engineer I think in a very logical manner so any sense of mystery or wonderment feels just wrong to me. There must be a rational explanation, be it propaganda, superstition or mental illness.

I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to square that circle but maybe it won't matter. The way I see it is that if life is all about enjoyment, and believing in God helps you enjoy life, then believing in God is fine. If nothing else it's cheaper than a therapist...

A Wander Around Hexham Abbey

Hexham Abbey

Hexham Abbey has been the site of Christian worship for over 1300 years. It's seen Saxons, Vikings and Normans, withstood Scottish raids and protestant reformers, been a monastery, a cathedral and a priory church. It's survival and continued existence today speaks for the importance of faith from the pre-medieval age through to modern times.

The original church was founded in 674(-ish) by Bishop (later Saint) Wilfrid, part politician, part papal enforcer. This period, which saw the creation of The Lindisfarne Gospels and figures of the stature of Saint Cuthbert and Saint Bede, is often referred to as the 'Golden Age of Northumbria'. The original church no longer survives, except for an underground crypt, so we aren't sure what it looked like but we know that the builders made extensive use of stone quarried by the Romans. This makes sense as there was a Roman settlement at nearby Corbridge and there are many Roman artefacts dotted around the present building.

The south transept and entrance

 Like many great churches and cathedrals, Hexham Abbey is built in a cruciform (cross-shaped) plan, with two short 'arms' called transepts, then a main body on one side of the transepts called the nave and a shorter section on the other side called the choir.

The entrance is via the south transept and as you step through the door you're struck by the expanse of the interior, your eyes drawn upward by the soaring arches. It's also very quiet whenever I visit. Unlike the more famous Durham Cathedral, which attracts visitors from all over the globe (justifiably), Hexham is less well known and thus less visited. I have mixed feelings about this; it would be nice to see it teeming with tourists and visitors from near and far, but it does feel nice to have the place almost to myself and makes for a more contemplative and reflective experience.

Acca's Cross

On the right, just past a small chapel, are two ancient-looking stone monuments. Anglo-Saxon in origin, the taller one is known as Acca's Cross and is reputed to be a headstone from the grave of Acca, friend and successor to Wilfrid as abbot and bishop. Acca collected many religious relics and artworks during his leadership and was highly praised by his friend, the great early historian Bede. The cross itself is battered and worn, it's mid-section showing evidence of repair, but it's still a fantastic memorial.

Turning the corner takes you to the south aisle of the Choir, the oldest part of the building (above ground) and my favourite.

Anglo-Saxon Chalice

Set in the wall behind protective glass is a tiny copper chalice dated roughly to the tenth century. According to the guidebook it was discovered in a coffin during renovation work in the 1860s and would have been used to hold communion wine. I love the fact that something as fragile as this (it's not much bigger than an eggcup) has been lying around for a thousand years and makes me wonder what other romantic treasures could be lying in a hidden underground vault somewhere.

Gilbert De Umfraville, famous one-legged knight

Opposite the chalice are two effigies of medieval knights, hands clasped in prayer and legs crossed in the classic tomb effigy pose. There's a persistent myth that a knight having his legs crossed indicates that he went on crusade to the Holy Land but it's sadly untrue. In fact no one knows the reason for sure, it may even be simply due to the fashions at the times.
The first knight is thought to represent Thomas of Tynedale and the second Gilbert De Umfraville, whose family built nearby Prudhoe Castle. Both knights have seen better days and are missing some of their finer details, and a lower leg in the case of poor old Gilbert, but they're still a fascinating sight. You can feel the individual links of chainmail and the curious heraldic designs on their shields.

The high altar

The Choir is dominated by the magnificent high altar and, behind it, the great east window. Most of the choir dates from the 12th-13th centuries but the east window is a 19th century replacement. I'm not a big fan of reconstructions generally but in this case they've done a magnificent job, complementing the superb gothic arches on each flank to form the aisles. The term 'gothic' was first used in the Renaissance period and was intented as an insult. Just as the original Goths were a barbarian tribe during Classical Roman times, so this style of architecture was seen as barbarian compared to the classical style of Greece and Rome. The 'Romanesque' style is characterised by thick stone columns and rounded arches (Durham Cathedral is a great example of this) but can make for a cramped, chunky and gloomy appearance. Architects and masons wanted to explore ways of making the columns slimmer, leaving more room for windows and thus more light, and the pointed arch allowed them to do this, using a thinner column to support the same weight. Personally I think it's simply gorgeous.

The Frith Stool

Also in this part of the abbey is an old and worn-looking stone chair known as the Frith Stool. Carved from a single block of sandstone, this may well date from the early days of the building as a bishop's throne. 'Frith' is an old English word for peace, and the story goes that in medieval times an outlaw on the run from the authorities could claim sanctuary by touching the Frith Stool.

The Dance of Death (note the girly cardinal)

There's all sorts of other things to gawp at in this part of the abbey, my favourite being a series of painted wooden panels to the left of the altar. The top row of these panels show seven of the eight canonised bishops of Hexham and below are four panels showing the Dance of Death, where a skeletal figure  dances before a cardinal, a king, an emperor and a pope, presumably to show that even the most powerful earthly men are helpless in the face of death. The cardinal figure in the leftmost panel has a curiously female appearance to my eye.


 On the left and right of the altar are two chantry chapels. These are small, enclosed spaces containing the tomb of an important individual, who would pay for the chapel to be built and for priests to pray for their soul after death. It was thought this would speed up the process of the dead person gaining access to heaven and lessen the time they would have to spend in purgatory, a limbo state between heaven and hell.
The sums of money involved inevitably led to the process becoming corrupted and this, combined with the idea of purgatory becoming discredited in the new protestant thinking, led to chantries being banned during the reigns of Henry VIII and Edward VI. The wealth thus seized was supposed to go to charitable causes but most ended up in the hands of the king and his advisers. Funny that...


The right hand chantry chapel contains the tomb of Rowland Leschman, prior of the abbey from 1480 to 1491 and is most notable for the carved stonework figures on the side. These are comical, gargoyle-like effigies, my favourites being the bearded figure who is either playing the bagpipes or smoking a woodbine, and a figure in a hoodie squatting down while doing something unspeakable to a small donkey. Or at least that's what it looks like to me.

Having a sly ciggie?

I'd really rather not comment on what's going on here

Female effigies

Leaving the Leschman chapel and walking up the north aisle of the choir leads you past more carved stonework, some dating back to Roman and Saxon times. There's also another series of wooden panel paintings, this time depicting scenes from Christ's Passion. It's amazing to me that something as delicate as this could have survived from the 15th century. There's also another pair of life sized tomb effigies, women this time, but little is known of them, a plaque simply describing them as 'unknown early 14th century women'.

 As you turn the corner from the north aisle of the choir into the north transept, the sight is truly breathtaking. Like the choir it has the delicate looking rib vaulting, slender columns and pointed arches that are characteristic of English Gothic, but the undoubted highlight is the window arrangement. Two ranks of three lancet windows, thin and pointed (hence 'lance'), filled with Victorian stained glass. Unlike the choir, but like the south transept, it has only one aisle. It's much less cluttered than the latter though, creating a useful open space to appreciate the structure as a whole.

The North Transept and aisle

The North Transept

The remaining 'arm' of the cross-shaped building is the largest one; the nave. This was originally constructed in the 15th century but was largely rebuilt in the early 20th century. Some of the earlier wall remains however, visible as a darker section on the lower left wall (looking from the central crossing, toward the font).

The Nave. Note the older, darker section of wall on the left

Font Cover

 The most striking part of this section is the  great west window, designed in 1917 and featuring Northumbrian saints. Running a close second though has to be the font, or more specifically, the font cover. Font covers are fast becoming a 'thing' of mine. They were originally required for very practical purposes, to preserve the cleanliness of the water within and also to prevent the water being swiped for illicit purposes such as magic rituals. As time went by, craftsmen took the opportunity to create more elaborate designs, turning what could have been a very mundane lid into an intricate, multifaceted ornament requiring a hoist and pulley system to raise and lower it. The guidebook states that this particular example dates from 1916 and was made by a Belgian refugee re-using 15th century woodwork. It doesn't say what happened to the original but I'm guessing Henry VIII and his reformation agents may have had something to do with it. Unless it was those pesky Scots...

The Nave, with the font in the foreground

 Underneath the cover, the font is a history lesson in itself. It consists of a 17th century lid over a Roman bowl mounted on a medieval stone base.

Such are the visual distractions in the nave it would be easy to miss the oldest surviving part of the building: a set of stone steps that descend to the underground crypt, which dates from the seventh century when the original Saxon church was founded.

Flavinius administers a good kicking

Leaving the nave takes you back to the south transept. On the corner is a Roman tombstone found nearby, a memorial from the first century to a horse soldier named Flavinius. The stone depicts a horse and rider, presumably Flavinius himself, trampling on an unfortunate individual below. I think the message is 'Know your place, Britons!'


'Scoti combusserunt Hexcelsham cum tota Patria'
So says medieval chronicler Walter of Guisborough, which roughly translates as 'The Scots burnt the whole country of Hexham'. The border wars of the late 13th and early 14th centuries were hard times for this area and Hexham received attention from both William Wallace and Robert The Bruce at different times, amid much 'incendiis et rapinis' (fire and looting). An account in The Lanercost Chronicle tells of nuns being violated and churches being burned, with a crowd of schoolboys being herded into a Hexham school, the doors blocked, then the school burnt to the ground with the unfortunate scholars inside. The aforementioned Walter of Guisborough tells an entertaining tale of William Wallace in Hexham priory (as it was then) in 1297, with Wallace angry and embarrassed at the behaviour of some of his men in looting precious relics. He had previously granted the building immunity and the acts of his compatriots in ignoring his orders led to him admitting to the priory canons that the Scots he led were a wild and unruly bunch, who could not always be controlled. Some would say not much has changed, not me though...

Visiting Hexham Abbey
The abbey is open every day, services and events permitting, and the town of Hexham is a delight to visit. It's easy to reach, being located on the main A69 road between Newcastle and Carlisle and there's also a regular bus and train service. The abbey is (amazingly) free to visit, though donations are of course welcomed. No excuse not to visit really.

Hexham Abbey

Heritage Open Day - Anchorites and Dolomites

The High Altar in the Cathedral Church of St Nicholas

This weekend was a nationwide 'Heritage Open Day', where historical landmarks throw open their doors to visitors in a celebration of architecture, culture and history. For me it meant another opportunity to combine my interest in the past with a spot of feelgood volunteering. In other words, Win-Win!

Church Of St Andrew

I had offered my services as a guide/steward/bouncer (don't ask) at the Cathedral Church of Saint Nicholas in Newcastle on Saturday afternoon, leaving me the morning to look at some of the other places of interest.

My first port of call was the Church of St Andrew on Newgate street. Dating from the 12th century, it's considered the oldest church in the city, and it has the scars to prove it. On display inside are three cannonballs, almost certainly souvenirs from the siege of Newcastle during the Civil war in 1644. The location of St Andrew's, just inside where the old defensive town wall used to run, would have made the church tower a useful platform to mount cannon on to 'discomfit' the besiegers. This cuts both ways however, and it's visibility would have made it a prime target for enemy artillery.

The font (note the cannonballs on the window-ledge)

Besides cannonballs, there's much to be seen inside, though since I don't want this post to be ridiculously long I'm going to opt for the edited highlights and maybe do a fuller account at a later date. To that end, top billing has to go to the font. The font itself is fairly plain but the cover, dating from the 15th century is marvelous, and still in use today.


 


  The other feature that really struck home with this budding medievalist was the chancel arch. Dating from the late 12th century, it has the classic roundness and zig-zag pattern of the period. It may just be my wonky eyes, but it also looks a bit squashed, though whether this was intended I have no idea.

A rather squashed arch

The font and the nave

 I left St Andrew's, having made a mental note to return when time is less of an issue, and made my way to my next destination, the Church of St John the Baptist on Grainger Street. Going straight from one church to another proved to be a good decision as it meant I could look at the second while the first was still fresh in my mind and so make comparisons. 

Church of St John The Baptist

St John's was started around 1130 so is roughly contemporary with St Andrew's, though both have changed a lot since then. One of the great things about Heritage Open Days is that there's often guides to explain details to you and this was the situation here, I was treated to an explanation of the building's history by a very knowledgeable gent. Indeed, were it not for him, I may have missed some of the finer details such as the Anchorite's window in the chancel.

Anchorite's Window

Medieval Stained Glass

An anchorite was a sort of religious hermit, someone who withdraws from secular life to live a life of prayer and contemplation in a cell (rather like a prison) adjoining a church. The window (cruciform or cross-shaped in this case) was there to allow them to view the Mass without being seen. I had no idea Newcastle had an anchorite and there was even a (modern) plaque giving their name as Cristina Umfred and the year of 1260. I did wonder if this meant it should be anchoress rather than anchorite but I didn't want to quibble.

 The main other standout feature is some medieval stained glass, something which is sadly in short supply in Newcastle due more to the excesses of the Scottish/Parlimentary army in the Civil War than the Reformation itself.

Neville Hall, home of The Mining Institute

After this, I had time for one more stop before duty called, so I made my way around the corner to The Mining Institute in Neville Hall. It's not an area of particular interest to me to be honest but I've heard it's a lovely building so I thought I'd pop in and have a look. As it happened, I got there just as a tour and lecture were going on so I joined in.
What followed was a fascinating talk on the history of the Institute and on mining itself, including an interesting anecdote about Lord Armstrong, former President of the Institute, selling weapons to both sides in the American Civil War. The building itself proved to be no disappointment, a Victorian extravaganza of iron and glass. In amongst the various documents and papers related to the mining industry, there were also various rocks and minerals for sale, hence the 'dolomite' in the title of this post. To be honest, I'm not 100% certain dolomite was there, but the fact it rhymes with 'anchorite' was too good to refuse. Call it artistic license.

Lecture Theatre in the Mining Institute

By now, it was time to report for my shift at the Cathedral so I quietly sneaked out before the lecture had finished. The Cathedral Church of St Nicholas dates mainly from the early 14th century and is the grandest of the four original churches of Newcastle. Of the other three, St Andrew's and St John the Baptist's are described above, while the fourth, All Saints, was demolished and replaced in the late 18th century.
My role as a guide was to assist with any visitor inquiries and make sure none of them run off with any of the valuable artifacts on display for the Open Day. These included some ornamental silver - communion plates and wine goblets and something intriguingly labelled as a 'temperance stick'- some ceremonial garments known as 'copes' and, best of all for me, a bible dating from the thirteenth century. There was also guided tours of the lantern tower (very popular) and  a group of harpists providing music in the nave while visitors browsed the cathedral.

Harp Action in the Cathedral

My shift proved happily free of incident and I was able to enjoy the music and my surroundings. My one almost moment of drama occured when I saw a disheveled looking young man heading toward the collection box for votive candles, where people can leave a small donation in exchange for lighting a candle and writing a note for an event or a person they'd like to be prayed for. The box carried the sadly obligatory 'no money is left in here overnight' warning and I kept a watchful eye as he hovered over the candles. Imagine my surprise when I heard the clink of coins going into the box as he lit a candle and wrote a few words on a post-it note. After he left I couldn't resist going over to  read what he'd left. The note said simply 'For my girlfriend to do well at uni'. I came away feeling happier about the human race and a little ashamed of my previous suspicions.

The Atatürk Memorial

I like to think that I'm a typical blokey bloke who can drink and belch and wench with the best of them. I like to think it but I know it's a load of codswallop (apart from the belching). The truth is that I'm a big wuss who's scared of his own doorbell and still can't get through the first five minutes of Watership Down without blubbing. The reason I mention this is because I wanted to share my latest cheek-moistening experience, something I stumbled across the other day. It's from a war memorial at Gallipoli in Turkey with a quote from Kemal Atatürk, an officer in the first world war and later President of Turkey. It reads:

"Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives… You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country or ours… 
You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. Having lost their lives on this land, they have become our sons as well"

I bet I'm not the only one to shed a tear.

The Lindisfarne Gospels and Saint Cuthbert

The highlight of this week for me has been a visit to an exhibition centred on the Lindisfarne Gospels. The Gospels were written on a monastery on the island of Lindisfarne (also known as Holy Island), just off the Northumberland coast in about 700AD. They consist of illuminated manuscripts  of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John bound together in a single volume to form one of the most important artistic, cultural and historic artefacts ever produced in the north east. Not only that but it's story is inextricably bound up with that of other pillars of regional Christianity, namely Saint Cuthbert and Durham Cathedral. It's only fitting therefore, that the exhibition should be based at Durham University library, literally a stones-throw from the Cathedral and the Shrine to Saint Cuthbert.

The story of the Lindisfarne Gospels goes back to 664AD and a crisis in the Christian community on the island of Lindisfarne. Prior to this time, English Christianity had been subjected to two different influences, those of the southern-based Roman church competing with the rival Irish tradition, stronger in the north and to which Lindisfarne belonged.
The biggest disagreement between the two churches was over the timetable of Easter, as each one used a different method to calculate the date. This dispute reached a head when the Bernician king Oswy, ruler of Northumbria and based at nearby Bamburgh, married Eanflaed who originally hailed from Kent. King Oswy, following the local Irish calender found he was celebrating Easter perhaps a week earlier or later than his wife, who favoured the Roman date. As a result, Oswy arranged a church council at Whitby in 664 to settle the debate once and for all, with himself as judge.

Durham Palace Green Library

The Roman church emerged victorious, perhaps suprisingly given that Oswy belonged to the Irish tradition. One reason may be that Saint Peter, who personally held the keys to heaven, was especially revered in the Roman church, and Oswy may have been reluctant to risk annoying him and thus jeopardising his own entry. Or perhaps Oswy simply wanted to keep his wife happy.

Whatever the reason, it was a severe blow to the Irish tradition that Lindisfarne belonged to. Its position within the Anglo-Saxon church was downgraded and many of its members, including the bishop, could not (or would not) compromise their beliefs and so returned to Ireland. The task of reforming and rebuilding Lindisfarne as a centre of Christian learning fell to a monk from the monastery at Melrose, now in Scotland but at that time part of Northumbria. His name was Cuthbert.

Despite being educated in the Irish tradition, Cuthbert accepted the  ruling of Oswy at Whitby and successfully overcame opposition to reform Lindisfarne, first as Prior and later as Bishop. He managed to combine his responsibilities with his own preference for an austere, hermit-like life and when he died in 687 it was not long before miracles were being reported at his grave.

It's at this point, around 700, that the Lindisfarne Gospels were produced and it may not be coincidence. The monks were advocating Cuthbert as a candidate for sainthood and producing a deluxe version of the most sacred books of the early church may well have been part of the effort. And some effort it was. It's believed the book was written by only one man over a period of five or six years. This man was probably Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne from 698 to 722. Around 960, a priest at Chester-le-Street called Aldred added an Old English (the language of the Anglo-Saxons) translation (called a gloss) written word-for-word above the latin original. How do we know this? Because Aldred tells us! He added a personal note (a colorphon) at the end. He wrote:

"...Eadfrith bishop of the church of Lindisfarne, in the beginning wrote this book for God and St Cuthbert and for all the holy ones who are on the island. And Aethilwald, bishop of the Lindisfarne-islanders, bound and covered it without, as he well knew how.

And Billfrith the anchorite forged the ornaments which are on the outside, and bedecked it with gold and with gems, and also with gilded silver - pure wealth.

And I, Aldred, unworthy and most wretched priest - born of Alfred, Aldred I am called, the outstanding son of a good woman, I speak - with the help of God and St Cuthbert wrote a gloss above it in English."

Durham Cathedral. A Resting Place Fit For A Saint

Cuthbert was buried on Lindisfarne and made a saint. The story may have ended there were it not for the arrival of those perennial bad-guys - the Vikings. Monasteries were a favourite target for Scandinavian raiders due to their wealth and lack of defences and Lindisfarne holds the distinction of being the first recorded victim of a Viking attack on England, in 793. Continued raids and invasions forced the monks to abandon Lindisfarne, temporarily at first but for good in 875. They took with them their prized possessions, including the body of Saint Cuthbert and the Lindisfarne Gospels. For the next seven years the monks and their precious cargo wandered around the north of England, before settling at Chester-le-Street in 883. They remained there for around one hundred years, before more Viking threats forced them to flee again, this time to Ripon in Yorkshire. They had intended to return to Chester-le-Street when the danger receded, but finally settled in Durham, thanks, if legend is to be believed, to a cow.

Shrine to St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral

The story goes that as the community of monks headed north from Ripon, the cart bearing the body of St Cuthbert came to a sudden halt and would not move. The monk's leader had a vision of Cuthbert demanding to be laid to rest at a place called 'Dunholme' which none of the monks had heard of. At that moment two young women passed by and the monks overheard one woman ask the other if she'd seen a lost dun (brown) cow. The second woman replied that she'd seen the cow heading towards Dunholme and when the monks set off in the direction she indicated, they found the wheels of the cart became miraculously unstuck. The road took them to Dunholme (Durham) and despite the inconvenience of Norman conquerors and protestant reformers, Saint Cuthbert has been there ever since. Having visited Durham Cathedral many times I can testify to what a fitting resting place it is for the north east's premier saint. As for the Lindisfarne Gospels, I'd love to say they also have a permanent home in the cathedral, or at least in the region. Sadly that's not the case and they are only here temporarily, on loan from the British Library, to give us locals a chance to see them. I heartily recommend you do.

The Blood Donor

For the first time ever I've been turned away from the blood donors. And it's nothing to do with having sex with men before you ask*. Far more mundanely, my blood failed on 'iron level' which sounds like a manfail if ever there was one. Why couldn't I fail a less butch test? "Sorry sir, but your blood wasn't pink and fluffy enough for us" never happens to me.
Naturally I was downcast. "I'm sorry" I flustered "This has never happened to me before. I've been under a lot of stress lately, with work n' that" Of course, the nurse was very understanding and insisted it wasn't my fault and we could always try again later, albeit in 3 months time. I enquired if it would help if I ate more bananas. No, she said, though red meat might improve things (RED MEAT?? I KNEW IT! MANFAIL!!!) and I slunk off home, head bowed. I did consider asking if  I could have the cup of tea and biscuits while I was here but thought that would be a bit cheeky so had a kitkat (mint) when I got home.

By my logic it's their fault anyway. If they didn't keep bringing in all these tests I wouldn't keep failing them. It was different when it all began, back when I was a callow youth of twenty-something (began for me I mean; I would imagine the blood donation service had been a thing for a while). There was no particular reason that prompted me to do it, no life-saving blood transfusion on a family member, I just simply decided I was going to be a nicer person and giving blood is what nice people did. So off I toddled to the local hall and gave the traditional pint (or armful if you prefer). It was a doddle, a fair trade I thought for a cup of tea and some bourbons, and the knowledge my blood might be helping save a life gave me that lovely warm glow you usually only see on porridge commercials.
It was also how I came to find out what blood group I am, having previously been in a state of blissful ignorance. Around Christmas-time every year I get a letter asking me to make that extra effort to donate because demand for my blood-type is so high. Is that because I have an incredibly rare type, due to my descent from Nordic Superheros? Sadly no, it's because any Tom, Dick or Chavvy can accept my disappointingly unexceptional blood. All I can say is at times like this I'm glad I'm not a Nazi or I'd be escorting myself to the gas chambers.

Anyway, over the years that followed I've given blood whenever I can, excepting illness, work commitments and that one time where the nurse missed my vein. Twice. During this time I've learned a great deal about the importance of drinking a glass of water beforehand, of squeezing and unsqueezing the fingers on your donating arm, and, of course, periodically clenching and unclenching your buttocks. But I've never failed the iron test until today. I wonder if it's an age thing, something that will occur more often as the grim hand of death gets ever closer. I suppose I'll get another clue in three months time...

*Disclaimer: There's nothing wrong with having sex with men if that's what you're into. It just so happens that I'm not, especially when I've just had my tea.

The White Queen. A Chance Missed

So I've been watching The White Queen on television, the BBC's adaption of the cousin's war (Wars of the Roses to you and me) series of books written by Phillipa Gregory. I wasn't sure whether I'd like it or not when I first sat down. After all, the period it's set in is one of my favourites in all history, with plenty of battles, political intrigue, double-dealing and larger-than-life characters. On the other hand I don't consider the books to be that great, not a patch on Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall or Bring Up The Bodies, even though the latter are set in the reign of (urgh) Henry VIII.

I came away slightly disappointed but not susprised. The Wars of the Roses is not something you can fit into a ten episode series without sacrificing a lot of the detail. They began the story, as Gregory's books do, with the meeting of Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville (the eponymous 'heroine', if that's the right word, of the title). This means ignoring all the events that had taken place beforehand but I don't suppose you can blame anyone for this. After all, when should you begin with the Wars of the Roses? The first battle in 1455? The loss of France which fuelled the discontent and rise of factionalism? Or perhaps we go back earlier to the usurpation of the throne by Henry IV, the first Lancastrian King? The more I think of it the more I feel you can only do it justice with the full Game Of Thrones style multi-episode, multi-series, mega-show.

My second gripe concerns the show's female-led focus. I have no problem with this in principle, historical women being too often ignored amidst the blood and guts as medieval history is boiled down to a succession of chainmail wearing thugs doing unspeakable things to each other. My issue is that the most formidable woman of them all, Margaret of Anjou, is a mere background character. For me, she should have been front and centre from episode one as the key Lancastrian. Much as I enjoyed mad Maggie Beaufort and her 'saint's knees' or Elizabeth Woodville's icy beauty (Anne Neville did little for me one way or another), none of them come close to Margaret of Anjou's iron will as she battles to secure the throne for her son, despite the disadvantages of her sex, her foreign birth and her ineffectual husband. She, not Margaret Beaufort, is the real Red Queen.

Then there's the biggest disappointment of all, the portrayal of the Battle of Bosworth. I see this as more than just a battle, and not just because there is one King at the start and a different King at the end. It's also the end of an era, as the medieval age gives way to the modern, and this is symbolised by the defining moment of the battle, the doomed cavalry charge led by Richard III as he vainly seeks to come to blows with Henry Tudor in person. He got suprisingly close, personally killing Tudor's standard bearer, William Brandon, and it's tempting to speculate how different history would have been had he succeeded. This episode should have been portrayed as a medieval version of the charge of the light brigade, Götterdämmerung, a romantic death ride of perhaps a thousand  knights on horseback, banners streaming and armoured helms gleaming in the sunlight. Perhaps budgetary restrictions meant this was always impossible but surely they could have done better than what we got, which was a brawl in the woods. Harrumph.

Despite these whinges I enjoyed it enough to sit through all ten episodes, and if they made a sequel or, even better, a prequel, I'd watch that too. Average medieval drama is still better than no medieval drama. Hell, I might even invest in the DVD if I see it for a reasonable price.

A Day At The Cricket, or When Opportunity Knocks...

A confession: I am a sociophobe. Or at least I think I am anyway. I've never actually been diagnosed with anything, unless you count the school/workplace diagnosis of 'a bit of a wierdo'. I am the sort of person who is generally happiest at home with a good book or a film or even a documentary on BBC Four about religious architecture. When I venture out it's usually for a solo jog or a lone wander to a local landmark or place of interest. For the most part I enjoy it, though I do wonder about the toll it takes on my mental health, especially in my current job which also involves spending a lot of my time on me tod.

"I love you Keith"

I've talked to myself for as long as I can remember so I have no worries on that front, but I'm a little  concerned about a more recent development which has seen me discussing potential grocery purchases with the items themselves. For instance, the other week I had a long conversation in the crisp aisle of Asda involving the McCoys ("you're too expensive this week, I'll wait 'til you're on special again"), Skips ("you don't last five minutes"), and Walker's Ridges ("your ridges are too big!"). Admittedly, none of the snacks talked back at me but it can't be long in coming.

Respect My Authority!

For this reason I decided a while ago that I was going to become more outgoing, I was going to say "Yes" to every opportunity where previously I had hesitated. In practice I haven't said "yes" so much as "What? Me?? Now???" but it has partly worked. As a result I now volunteer at a local group for people with learning difficulties and also do 'one-offs' such as being an 'ambassador-supporter' at last years Olympic football matches held at St James' Park in Newcastle. I still can't always actively enjoy the experience but I do come away with fond memories, which helps me to summon up the courage for the next opportunity.

The reason I mention all this is because last Friday an opportunity came my way that I wasn't expecting. A friend on Twitter (who I'd never actually met in real life) mentioned that she had a spare ticket for the Ashes on Saturday and did I fancy it? For the uninitiated, the Ashes is a series of five cricket test matches played between England and Australia and the match in question was being held, for the first time in history, at nearby Durham.

My view of the cricket, with Lumley castle on the right

As is my wont, my first reaction was to think of all the reasons why I couldn't possibly go: I have to get up for work on Monday (the day would have been finished by 18.30 on Saturday), I have plans on Saturday (the plan in question being to go for a sandwich and a coffee, possibly a jog later, same as I do pretty much every Saturday), I couldn't afford it (money is the least of my worries right now) and so on and so on. What swung it the other way was the knowledge that if I didn't go I'd regret it, now and forever, so I took the plunge and said yes.

Naturally I spent the rest of Friday and the early hours of Saturday worried sick. Anything that involves travelling, large crowds and people I don't know very well turns me into a quivering jelly but from the moment I found myself safely onboard a number 21 bus from Newcastle (I had planned to get the train but it was utterly utterly crammed) the day went remarkably well. The crowd was large enough to create a great atmosphere without ever feeling claustrophoic and the people I met turned out to be lovely. The cricket itself was as compelling as I was expecting and there wasn't any rain. I even engaged in a bit of celeb-spotting: Mike Gatting, Matthew Hoggard and Jeff Thomson (I had to google that last one as he's before my time) were all seen milling about. I managed to stand in queues without panicking and got a seat on the bus back with no trouble at all, largely thanks to a speedy exit and cunningly walking to an earlier bus stop so as to beat the crowds (no flies on me).

All in all my best weekend in ages, just ready for another week of twelve hour shifts at work...

A Waste Of Good Wee

Meh

I've been doing a lot of overtime this summer. I don't really need the money to be honest but I always feel I should fill me boots while it's on offer. Besides, it's not like I've got much else going on at the moment; I've been trying to mix long walks with pub lunches but it's not doing it for me lately. Not much is to be frank. My life's in a bit of a lull at the moment, as if I'm waiting for something to happen. No idea what though. The most exciting thing that happened this week was finding out they've made a mistake in stocking the vending machine at work, so M&M's are 40p instead of 70p. Hold the front page...

Ho hum

The other notable incident (small beer comapared to cheap sweets of course) is that I've been to the doctors. Not because there's anything wrong with me, on the contrary I'm fit as a violin at the moment. The reason I went, quite simply, is because they asked me to, and it would've been rude not to. Since I'm now 'getting on a bit' they asked me to go for a routine health check. I was flattered at first as I assumed it was just me but apparently this is quite common and they've asked other people as well. Humph. I haven't been for a while, so long in fact that they've built a whole new medical centre since last I went. Two whole storeys of it. And a chemist's shop built on to the side. More proof that mighty Crawcrook is on the grow.

Yawn

Anyway, I was told to bring a urine sample with me so I craftily procured a small sample bottle from our Quality department and did the business in it. When I got into the medical centre I proudly pulled it out of my jacket and brandished it aloft like it was Excalibur itself.

"Is that sterilised?" enquired the clearly unimpressed health woman as she took the bottle from my proffered hand.

"Eh?" said I.

 So the bottle went in the bin and that was the end of that. The rest of it was just a blur after that, a blood sample, weight and height measurement (very pleased to be 5'10" not 5'9", though I did have shoes on) and a chat about exercise and diet (good luck getting me to eat oily fish).  Now it's just a case of waiting for the results, assuming the 12 hour shifts haven't killed me in the meantime that is.

The loneliness of the fair-to-middling distance runner

It's twenty past six on Thursday and I'm sitting with a cup of coffee and a wagon wheel. I'm fairly ambivalent towards wagon wheels but these were on special offer in Nisa at £1 for 6, which works out at 16.67p per wagon wheel. Not bad but I can't help feeling I should've gone for the 4 Wispas for £1 in the Co-Op. Another of life's regrets.

Anyway, I'm not supposed to be blabbering about wagon wheels (is it just me who finds they taste better if you turn them upside down?), this post is about an enduring passion of mine: Running Jogging.

I've always fancied myself as a runner, despite the fact I've never been any good at it. I blame Steve Cram for this. The emergence of the bubble-permed stick insect from Jarrow and his subsequent rivalry with those other British greats Sebastian Coe and Steve Ovett occured at just the right time to enthrall and impress yours truely. I liked him so much I even bought the breakfast cereal he advertised. But no matter how many bowls of sugary Kellogg's Start I ate, I couldn't run any faster and I soon had to acknowledge that I wouldn't be a sub 4 minute miler. Or a sub 6 minute miler come to that.

 For a while, once my schooldays had finished and there was no deranged, Kappa-jacketed PE teacher to motivate me, and no girls to try to look fit and manly in front of, I lost interest. The world of work took over and that presented a whole new set of challenges: How much could I drink without feeling sick on the bus to work next morning? (not much, I eventually settled for 3 pints, 4 if I was really living dangerously). How many pairs of ill-fitting trousers could I possess? (LOADS!!). Why couldn't I grow a moustache worthy of the name? (no answer).

Then I was made redundant. This meant I suddenly had lots of time and not much money and I needed a way of getting out the house without spending cash I didn't have. So I started going for long, lonely walks which soon turned into long, lonely jogs and I've never looked back. The physical benefits are obvious, one of the reasons I've (so far) managed to hold off the dreaded middle aged spread despite my crisp-and-biscuit based diet. Less appreciated is the mental aspect; I live alone and don't have so much as a cat or a tortoise with which to offload my stress if I've had a bad day so jogging is my substitute and I find it really helps.

So if you're thinking of taking it up, go for it! It's not easy, especially at first but with a bit of persistence you might just surprise yourself. My top tips are-

Nice scenery helps

1. Find a good route. It helps if you live in an area with some nice scenery of course, a river in my case. Not so good if you live in a concrete jungle although the threat of knife-wielding junkies and rapists can be motivation in itself I suppose.

2. Go at your own pace. Don't worry if you're slow, even if you end up walking. The sting of being overtaken by 12 year old girls and old codgers wears off eventually.

Every man needs antique shorts

3. Comfortable clothing. Also known as 'Say No To Lycra'. Like many a middle-aged man I've settled for faded shorts (originally black, now faded grey Adidas ones or my vintage Euro 96 ones) coupled with a baggy t-shirt. When winter sets in and the temperature plummets you may also want to invest in some lycra leggings but my advice (for men anyway) is to only wear them under shorts, to avoid those unsightly lumps and bumps. Incidentally, if you're after any fashion advice regarding your jogging apparel, my experience is that local schoolkids will be only to happy to oblige, whether you ask for it or not...

4. Musical accompaniment. I started with a genuine Sony Walkman (with 'MegaBass', whatever that was) but now it's all MP3s and clouds apparently. Actually I'm split on this; sometimes I like having a bit of rock music to jog along to, other times I like to hear the sounds of nature. On a practical note, the sound of a cyclist zooming past can scare the crap out of you if you're not aware of it's approach so be careful with the AC-DC.

5. Be 'Appy. If you have a smartphone or similar gizmo, there's all sorts of (often free) apps to track your jogging - how far, how fast, how many calories, ascent and descent, mile splits. They haven't developed an app to warn you of the approach of pain-in-the-arse cyclists yet (see above) but I live in hope.

A Wander Around Dunstanburgh Castle

Dunstanburgh Castle

Dunstanburgh Castle is one of my favourite places to visit and if you've ever been you'll understand why. It's the embodiment of the romantic ruin, a time capsule from the 14th century unspoilt by modern development, left in splendid isolation for time and weather to take their toll while it maintains a lonely vigil by the sea.

The area is prone to flooding in wet weather

In fact, 'isolation' is a key word when it comes to Dunstanburgh, as historians have long puzzled over it's location. Castles are usually built to exercise power and influence over an important location- a town or market, a strategic road, river crossing or port- yet Dunstanburgh appears to have none of these. To try to answer this question we need to look at the man who built it, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, cousin and political opponent to King Edward II. Thomas and the King did not always see eye to eye (to put it mildly) and disagreements between powerful men always had the potential to turn nasty in those days so, to my mind anyway, Dunstanburgh Castle is Thomas's get-out-of-jail card (or keep-out-of-jail card more like), a refuge or bolt-hole built as far away from the King's reach as possible while still being on his own land. In this scenario, the castle's isolation would have worked in it's favour, allowing the Earl to remain out of sight and out of mind until things calmed down. Whatever his reasoning, it didn't do Thomas much good; when the moment of crisis came (the guidebook tells us of a conference between him and his followers- 'by common consent, they should all go to the castle of Dunstanburgh, which pertained to the earldom of Lancaster, and abide there till the king had forgiven him'), he was unable to reach his new fortress and was captured and beheaded.

The mighty gatehouse

The sense of remoteness is one of the first things that strikes you when you first catch sight of it outlined on the horizon. It's possible to approach the castle from two different directions, via the neighbouring villages of Craster (from the south) or Embleton (north), but either way you'll need your walking shoes as there's no road within a mile of the castle. I favour the approach from Craster as it has the spectacular view seen above, but if you're visiting with children you may find Embleton better as the walk has a sandy beach as a distraction (for the non-castle geek) rather than the grassy-rocky shore that the Craster path features.

Weather-worn stonework

Entrance to the Castle is afforded by it's outstanding feature, the giant gatehouse cum keep, twin-towered with an arched passageway in between. The two drum-towers are three storeys high, topped with turrets that extended another two storeys, though little now remains. In the photo above, you can just see the remains of one turret at the very top of the left hand tower. Though scarred and battle-weary, it remains a magnificent, awe-inspiring sight. Get close to the structure and you'll see strange patterns in the individual stones caused by erosion from centuries of wind and rain, the result being a visual and tactile experience to rival any modern artist's work. Despite the ruinsome condition of the gatehouse it's possible to climb right to the top of the right-hand tower, and it's well worth the exertion as the views are quite spectacular, an 'on-top-of-the-world' feeling to contrast with the gloomy, claustrophobic nature of the interior.

View from the Gatehouse

The top of the gatehouse is a good place to survey the rest of the site. It's often described as the largest castle in Northumberland but it soon becomes clear that this is a bit of a cheat. It's the largest in terms of the area enclosed by the walls but this has much to do with the castle's siting on a promontory, the interior actually being fairly sparse and deliberately kept overgrown and grassy to serve as a habitat for wildlife.



The south-facing curtain wall adjoining the gatehouse is by far the thickest and best quailty of any point in the castle perimeter and this is no coincidence, as it's the most likely direction of attack. To the north and east the castle is protected by cliffs and the sea, while the west is protected by a steep slope.

Curtain Wall and Towers

Following the wall down to the sea leads to the Constable's Tower where the castle commander would have resided. In the absence of Thomas of Lancaster or his successor-owners, this was the most important figure here, charged with looking after the castle and it's surrounding environs.

The Egyncleugh Tower

Further still, the curtain wall terminates in the Egyncleugh ('eagle's ravine') Tower, precariously perched right on the cliff edge, preventing any enemy from outflanking the strong defences. The ravine below the tower is known as Queen Margaret's Cove, after Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry VI and Lancastrian figurehead in The Wars of The Roses, supposedly landed here in in 1462. In reality, she landed further up the coast at Bamburgh but such legends have a tendency to stick. The Egyncleugh Tower once contained it's own gateway and drawbridge, allowing the occupants to come and go without requiring access to the gatehouse. Presumably this was to speed up the day-to-day activities (tradesman's entrance?) and keep the locals away from the Lord's lodgings if he happened to be in residence.

From this point, away from the likely direction of attack, the quality of the curtain wall deteriorates sharply, both in height and thickness.  The guidebook informs us that the wall was heightened at some point, presumably because the builders feared a naval landing (Wars of The Roses again?). This conjures up fanciful images of a medieval equivalent of the opening scenes from Saving Private Ryan but perhaps I'm getting a bit carried away here.

The Northern Perimeter and Gull Crag

At the far end of this (east) wall is another gateway, allowing access to the rocky headland beyond. The guidebook speculates that this may have been to allow the castle to be evacuated or re-supplied by sea in the event of a siege, though how practical this would have been in rough sea I'm not so sure.

As you reach the northern edge of the promontory the wall disappears completely, with no foundations visible and it's unclear if there was ever a wall or palisade here at all. If there was it clearly wasn't a significant work and it's not too suprising as the entire northern perimeter is protected by a 30 meter cliff known as Gull Crag and, below that, the sea.

The wall reappears at the western edge of the cliff, though much of the stone has been pilfered for reuse elsewhere. This side of the castle is dominated by The Lilburn Tower, named for one John de Lilburn, constable of Dunstanburgh in 1322. The view from here across Embleton bay is fantastic, and on a clear day Bamburgh Castle, some 10 miles north, can also be seen.

The Lilburn Tower

The fact that The Lilburn Tower is sited in this prime viewing location may be an indication as to it's primary function, as a watchtower over the northern approaches to the castle. It's also possible that it's there to perform exactly the opposite role, that is, not to see but to be seen. For just as Bamburgh Castle, a royal stronghold representing the power and authority of the King, can be seen from here, so the occupants of that fortress would be able to look across to the Lilburn Tower and be reminded that power and authority are not unchallengeable.


After you leave the tower, the next notable section of this stretch of wall is known as 'John of Gaunt's Gatehouse' and to explain this we need to take another trip into the castle's history.

After Thomas of Lancaster's execution in 1322, Dunstanburgh came into the hands of the king, who decided it could be a useful bulwark against potential Scottish aggression and therefore worth looking after. Had he known about the castle's remote location, away from any major road and therefore unlikely to be much of an obstacle to an invasion from north of the border, he may have reached a different judgement. That said, given Edward II's history with the Scots (he was present at Bannockburn in 1314, perhaps the worst military defeat in medieval English history), he may have felt he needed all the help he could get.

Bamburgh Castle on the horizon, seen from the Lilburn Tower

Dunstanburgh later came into the hands of Earl Thomas's younger brother Henry and eventually, in 1362, passed to one of the most famous Lancastrians, John of Gaunt, Duke (rather than Earl) of Lancaster and son of Edward III. Though not as famous as his elder brother, Edward the Black Prince, Gaunt wielded enormous wealth and power. The son of a king and the uncle of a king, he posthumously became the father of a king when his son Henry Bolingbroke usurped the throne as Henry IV, founding the dynasty of Lancastrian kings that would end in The Wars of The Roses, during which Dunstanburgh Castle would see it's only large-scale fighting.

The rear of the Gatehouse/Keep

John of Gaunt came to Northumberland in 1380 as part of his new post as lieutenant in the Scottish marches. This meant he was responsible for border security, of which castles played a huge part. He must have been unimpressed by Dunstanburgh as he ordered changes to be made, the main one of which saw Thomas of Lancaster's great gatehouse converted to a keep by walling up the entrance. He also had new inner walls built, effectively sealing off the new keep from the rest of the castle, and built a new entrypoint, protected by a barbican. It is the remains of this last mentioned work which we encountered above, bearing the name of John of Gaunt.

Inside the Gatehouse

Speaking of Dunstanburgh's inadequacies, the guidebook tells an interesting tale of how, during the peasant's revolt of 1381 Gaunt, a major figure in the government of the country and hence likely to meet with anger and violence from the rebels, preferred to leave his own castle as he feared it was not strong enough and sought refuge in Alnwick Castle instead. Personally, I find this hard to take at face value, since Dunstanburgh's remoteness would surely have played to it's advantage on this occasion. Did Gaunt really fear that large numbers of rebels, poorly armed, untrained and disorganised, would have travelled several miles without artillery or siege equipment and then successfully assault this castle? Perhaps my affection for Dunstanburgh is showing here, or maybe John of Gaunt was a particularly paranoid individual, but I think it more likely that Gaunt would have gone to Alnwick in order to place himself in a more influential location from which to control events, rather than hunkering down by the sea.

The Lilburn Tower in April 2011

Continuing the tour, as you pass by the 'new' gatehouse you once again encounter the hulking structure of the 'old' gatehouse and realise you have come full circle, literally and figuratively. But the wander doesn't stop there, as I always make a point of walking past the castle in the direction of Embleton. Just as Craster affords the best view of the gatehouse, Embleton offers the ground level views of the Lilburn tower, which have become a favourite of photographers and painters. The view varies depending on the weather as the ground below the tower floods easily. Indeed, the most recent archaeological surveys suggest these 'meres' were intended to be part of the castle's original defences and were far more extensive than originally thought, stretching right round and almost connecting with the sea on both sides. This would have created the illusion that the castle was in fact an island, which some commentators have suggested was part of Thomas of Lancaster's original vision of the castle, seeing it as a second Avalon with (of course) himself as King Arthur. There's certainly an ethereal quality, an other-worldliness, about seeing The Lilburn Tower reflected in the surface of the mere below so it's not hard to see why this theory hasn't been dismissed.

Avalon?

Whatever the truth about the once and future king, neither he nor Earl Thomas were able to help Dunstanburgh when war finally came to the castle, in 1461 during the Wars of The Roses as mentioned earlier. Following the Yorkist victory at the great battle of Towton, Dunstanburgh, along with it's fellow Northumbrian strongholds at Alnwick and Bamburgh, became one of the few places still held for the defeated Lancastrians. King Henry VI and Queen Margaret had fled to Scotland and there remained the possibility that, once regrouped, they could launch an invasion from north of the border, using the northumbrian castles as a rallying point and launchpad. To prevent this, the Yorkist leaders resolved to take the fortresses while launching a charm offensive on the Scots in order to diplomatically isolate the Lancastrians.

Viewed from Embleton

What followed was almost a microcosm of The Wars of The Roses as Dunstanburgh was taken, lost, taken again, and lost again before finally being captured for good in 1464. These sieges were conducted more through blockade and starvation than through direct assault and Dunstanburgh at least avoided the ignominy of becoming the first castle in England to succumb to cannon fire (that particular distinction fell to Bamburgh not long after). The main figure in the sieges was Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, better known as 'Warwick The Kingmaker' and there's a small  irony in the fact that Dunstanburgh, which owed it's creation and rise to great Lancastrians, should fall to a great Yorkist. That's if you can call Warwick a Yorkist, but that's an argument for another day.

Dunstanburgh never really recovered from it's mauling during The Wars of The Roses. It's walls were not mended and it's buildings fell into neglect and disrepair until restoration work in the 19th and 20th centuries left us with the glorious ruin we see today. I for one would not have it any other way.

Viewed from Craster harbour

Visiting the Castle

Dunstanburgh Castle lies on the Northumberland coast, roughly 40 miles north of Newcastle. Parking (not free) is available in Craster, just over a mile from the castle. Bamburgh, Alnwick and Warkworth Castles are all within a 12 mile radius of Dunstanburgh. The Castle is open at weekends only from November to March, and all week from April to October. Admission is free to members of both English Heritage and the National Trust.