William Davage travels north
Heather land and bent-land,
And valleys rich with corn,
God bring me to Northumberland,
The land where I was born.
Tyneside was my home, Northumberland my back garden. I went to Alnwick for a week of nostalgia-fuelled visiting, recapturing memories of childhood. Crossing the River Tyne always elicits a leap of joy, but also a slight chill. My grandfather told me about the opening of the Tyne Bridge – he said that the day before it was to be opened by King George V and Queen Mary, the bridge was incomplete. There was a gap in the middle, and all the men from Newcastle (including my grandfather) and all the men from Gateshead pushed from either side until the gap was closed. I was only five, and I believed him. Was that the trigger for my vertigo?
***
Heather land and bent-land,
Black land and white,
God bring me to Northumberland,
The land of my delight.
There is no mining to speak of now, but the countryside is rugged, wild, enchanting. It is resonant of the past, from its coastline of sandy beaches, with the great castles of Bamburgh and Dunstanburgh – magnificent in its romantic, ruined and brooding isolation, waves crashing on the rocks below, sheep safely grazing on the headland approach from Craster – punctuating and dominating sections of it. The coastal plains leading to the hills and moors afford spectacular scenery, more than enough to delight the eye and senses.
Nestling in a bend of the Coquet, roofed and restored, is the exquisite twelfth-century Augustinian priory of Brinkburn, secluded and serene. Wallington Hall, the home of the high-minded Trevelyans and Blacketts over three centuries, is a Palladian gem. When young, I often went to sit in a graceful Edwardian conservatory amidst glorious fuchsias in the Walled Garden. It remains a tranquil haven, although the fuchsias are not as abundant as thirty years ago. Alnwick Castle successfully integrates a medieval castle, a nineteenth-century stately home, and the world of Harry Potter. There is an impressive array of paintings. As well as fine family portraits can be found excellent examples of Canaletto, Raphael, Velasquez, Gainsborough, and Van Dyck. The garden is popular, and has much to entertain children; but my plantsman companion did not rate it a top-flight horticultural experience. Alnmouth has charm even on a rainy day; but the small parish church was not open. The Franciscan friary was also closed, as it is one week a month to allow the friars to recover from their onerous activities.
***
Land of singing waters,
And winds from off the sea,
God bring me to Northumberland,
The land where I would be.*
National Trust is leading the way in rip-off Britain and is increasingly irritating. In the past few years entry fees have increased by a third, no concessions are allowed to non-members for the elderly or the unwaged. “We are a charity; we do not discriminate,” I was told at Cragside. Of course they are discriminating in favour of the comfortable middle-class on above average salaries and pensions. There has been an unnecessary, stupid, expensive re-branding; removing the definite article and painting everything a lighter shade of green. A deceased donor was outed, it was insisted that volunteers should wear LBGT lanyards, they were refused the option to wear them voluntarily. As resignations, cancelled subscriptions and donations began to threaten, there was a humiliating climb-down. Worse, there has been a trivialisation and infantilisation of several houses with unseemly gimmicks: talking travel trunks at Wallington. Rooms are antiseptically dressed with no sense they were lived in. The political agenda is less than subtle. In a gloomy corridor at Wallington photographs of the staff are displayed as the “silent voices.” At Cragside you could not pay by debit/credit card on entry to the grounds but you could in the restaurant. The kiosk could have been moved to a place where there was signal but that would mean some cars may drive around the grounds without paying. This is intolerable for what has become a mendacious and rapacious charity. (The) National Trust is rapidly becoming a national disgrace.
*W. W. Gibson (1878-1962)
Thurifer is away this month.