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.