Newbiggin-by-the-Sea

Initially, the footpath ran northwards away from the beach before hitting the outflow from the River Wansbeck.  There was a short diversion inland alongside the river before the footpath went across the top of a spectacular weir. The weir creates quite a large lake to the west. The last time I was here a walker informed me that he quite often sees Otters in this area. I didn't see any Otters today though, but there were plenty of birds and rabbits going about their business.

The footpath went along the north of the river, back towards the coast, before diverting off into a caravan park. There were signs to keep you on track through the large site, but some of them could be easily missed. The final exit point back on to the coast path was conveniently blocked by a caravan, and I had an aimless wander for a few minutes before finding the exit gate. Back on the muddy path, I continued northwards along the clifftops.

'Can't you keep your dog under control!' A young Lurcher type dog had come bounding up to me like a hound from hell, and wiped its front paws over my trousers, dashed off, and then nearly tripped up another nearby dog walker. It was the other dog walker who had shouted at the Lurcher's owner, who I noted only needed a bowler hat, to be a doppelganger for Oliver Hardy. 'I'm local. I'm from Ashington' was the non-sequitur response from Oliver. The miserable dog walker made his way down on to the beach and Oliver waddled off with his canine missile towards Spital Point, leaving me on my own on the top of the cliffs above Spital Carrs. It provided a great view of the vast arc of Newbiggin-by-the-Sea's beach. I'd stood on this exact spot four day's before (see Newbiggin And The Powerhouse), although it had been lovely and sunny on that occasion.  Photograph taken, I turned around and started retracing my steps back to Cambois.

Cambois

Amazingly, my short term memory served me well, and I made my way back through the caravan park without losing my way. By the time I got back to my car, a light rain had started and I put on my anorak. The weather prospects looked so unpromising at that point that I almost decided to call it a day and drive off, but in the end I decided to continue. It was possible to walk southwards along the beach at this point, but I decided to take the path along the top of  the small cliff. There is a collection of outdoor exercise machines that are gradually rusting away along this section of the path. I've never actually seen anybody using them which seems a bit of a shame really, since I'd guess they are quite expensive. Most people seemed to get their exercise by just walking along the beach. The reason I'd decided to take the clifftop path was to visit the Cambois colliery wheel that is tucked away in some undergrowth on the other side of the coastal road. It is situated in a circular viewing area that would have been quite pretty when it was first created. Unfortunately the area has now been neglected and I couldn't even find an information board about it. The last time I was here, I looked the colliery up on the Durham Mining Museum website where it listed the 111 men that had been killed there. It is hard to believe that so many were killed at one colliery. It's a shame that this memorial isn't kept a little neater out of resect.

Barry

'I'm Barry, what's your name?' The request seemed a bit forward, since I'd only known Barry for 2 seconds, but he had the air of a respectable chap and so I gave it to him. 'Well Nunian, if you head along here, and turn right at the beach house....' and then 15 minutes later Barry was telling me about his brother-in-law, who I may, or may not meet, who would be shooting in the fields north of the River Blyth. 'Don't worry, as long as you stick to the footpaths, you'll be fine. Just say you talked to Barry.'  By the time Barry had finished I think he'd told me about his personal experience on every footpath in Northumberland. His output was only broken, to intermittently check whether his Spaniel was still around, or fallen asleep. The conversation was very useful though. I'd had a nasty feeling about the route the England Coast Path would take around Sleek Burn and the River Blyth, and the conversation with Barry was confirming this. He told me about the huge British Volt buildings that are being built on the north side of Sleek Burn. 'There's loads of construction lorries running along the road to and from the site; it's not very nice walking.' I agreed that it didn't sound much fun at all. I didn't fancy being splashed by construction traffic as I walked along the road. I could see the massive metal frames of the buildings being constructed even from here. Barry recommended that I just continue down the coast to North Blyth. Given the rainy conditions this seemed preferable and I thanked him for his local knowledge. 

I dropped down on to the beach and started walking southwards to North Blyth.

North Blyth

An oil rigg had been hauled on to the land at North Blyth and was being dismantled. I'd asked Barry about this, and he'd told me that it had '...stunk horrible when it first arrived.' I was curious as to what an oil rigg would smell like, but the conversation had moved on a couple of subjects before he stopped for a breath, and by that time I'd forgot about asking him. From the beach, I sniffed the air, but I couldn't smell anything. There again, this was my ninth day I'd been wearing these walking trousers and so the smell would have had to overpower them first. The size of the salvage exercise was quite amazing with some nearby houses providing some scale.

The rain started drifting in clouds from the sea. The nice sandy beach finally ran out into rocks and I headed up on to the low level cliffs to continue my journey southwards. A railway line ran alongside the path and finally terminated at some some massive hoppers. There was a large blue and yellow coloured machine in the industrial area that looked like some unit for unload and loading ships. My way south was now blocked with a high metal fence, although confusingly, there seemed to be a gap for pedestrians in it. A nearby sign quoted a 1967 trespassing law and it was unclear whether you could proceed, or not. Looking at the map, it didn't look like I could go much further anyway and so I decided to head back.

Return

There was a van parked at the North Blyth carpark with the company name 'Woof Around The Clock' printed on its side. Further along the path I could see a woman making progress with a pushchair. She had half a dozen dogs on leads and another half dozen were free to roam. She seemed to be spending most of her time picking up dog shite which was then deposited in a repository on to the pushchair. In terms of a career, I'm glad I didn't choose this one. 'It's a lovely day for walking' she shouted to me as I approached. I checked her innocent face and there was no hint of irony. Her response seemed overly optimistic as rain thudded off my hood. 'Have you ever lost any of your dogs?' I asked. 'Only once, but I soon found him okay again. It does make me nervous when they stray too far away though.' One of the smaller dogs had had a shite, and she sorted out another plastic bag. I left her to it. She seemed happy enough. 

Back at the carpark a fellow was trying to coax a hippopotamus up a ramp into the boot of his 4x4. I thought it was a hippopotamus, but when I enquired, he told me it was a Mastiff. 'I've bought a new ramp and he doesn't like it' he explained at the animals reluctance to get into the car. He backed away from the ramp and led it in a circle by its lead, pretty much like they do when a racehorse refuses to go into the starting gate.  Much to the frustration of the owner, it took three refusals, before the dog finally climbed the ramp and squeezed itself into the back of the car. 

Despite the horrible weather, it had been an interesting walk. I'd also met Barry, the fount of all knowledge about Blyth. From this chance encounter, I'm now much more confident about what path to take when I return here at a later date to continue the North East England Coast Path Venture.