Another lovely day after a frosty start; the Northumbrian weather is certainly making up for that we experienced in the Lake District. Last on my list of things to do, is to visit the Farne Islands. We are not sure that trips run this late in the year but we are off to Seahouses to find out. A close sighting of some more deer on the way. We are fortunate, there are several trips to the Farnes today. We choose the 11am sailing on Glad Tidings VI, which allows us to land on one of the thirty islands. The mate on the Glad Tidings VI is a member of Chris’ fan club and he asks if he has seen Chris on television. Chris admits to having been televised; no one asks me about my starring role. I’ve been up the Franz Josef glacier, I know about dressing for weather conditions, so I am suitably attired for a trip on the North Sea, fleecy jumper, fleecy coat, waterproof coat, thermal gloves, woolly hat. I do rather resemble a Michelin person but I am certainly not cold.

We see a large colony of Atlantic grey seals at very close quarters. During the nesting season there are apparently over a thousand guillemots on four rocky stacks alone. The Farnes are also home to seventy thousand puffins, known locally as Tommy Noddies, sadly they have virtually all left for their winter quarters and we don’t see any. We pass the Longstone Lighthouse, built in 1826 and home of Grace Darling. We also see Harcar Island, which was the scene of her rescue in 1838. She and her father rescued nine crew members of the Forfarshire, although forty three perished.

Bamburgh Castle from Farne

We land on Inner Farne and one of the rangers tells us about their work there. They have no mains water and only solar electricity. Until this year there were no flushing toilets either. Mind you there warnings in the toilets, which use sea water, that the cisterns may take fifteen minutes to refill so ‘flushing’ may be a relative term. Let’s hope there isn’t a queue. We see St. Cuthbert’s Chapel with its C17^th carving and the C15^th pele tower that was erected as a defence against both the French and the Scots. We walk round the island and chat to the rangers. One of their tasks is to weed between the boardwalk panels, which seems to be a painting the Forth road bridge sort of a task. On the way home our skipper suddenly turns round and heads back towards the islands, what is going on? It seems there has been a sighting of a Minke whale. I have already played the how many photos of water where a whale was three seconds earlier can you take? game when in New Zealand but I can’t help but bow to peer pressure and join in.

We go on an affordable diesel hunt on the way home and this takes us back past the mega second hand bookshop. This time we both go in and I do buy a couple of books. It is such a great concept, every town should have one.

We wake to a white world as there has been a frost over night but another lovely autumn day. Today we are going to the Northumberland Record Office. Yes it is Sunday but yes we really are going to a Record Office and yes it really is open. The recently created archives complex at Woodhorn is a joy to behold. Situated on an old pit, with some of the workings still on display, it has a museum on site and is next to a Country Park AND is open weekends. Other archives take note, although it was disappointing that more people weren’t taking advantage of this. The Country Park is potentially handy for non-researching travel companions; I though recruit my travel companion to assist. It was one of those days when you try to cram a fortnight’s research into two hours. We don’t do too badly until it comes to trying to use the reader printer, when all common sense seems to desert us and we really can’t seem to get it to produce a decent copy. Encouraged by a fellow researcher who informs us that inadequate copies are not charged for, we try several times with varying success. I end up threading the film in backwards and requiring frequent help from the staff. Felling like both a newbie and a numpty, I give up the plan to obtain copies of all parish register entries for my direct ancestors.

Some strokes of luck though. The baptism entries for siblings of great great grandma Pearson are of the Dade Register format. These are hugely detailed, giving mother’s maiden name, position in the family and the parish of origin of both parents. Next, to ask for the Board of Health maps mentioned in my newly acquired book about Morpeth. These are brilliant and show that 42 Newgate Street today, as photographed on Friday as the abode of Isabella Pearson in 1851, was not number 42 in 1851. Number 42 was then down one of the ‘lanes’ hidden behind the then number 39. Fortunately, on Friday, I did duck up some private alley to see what was there and I think I have captured a picture of Isabella’s home behind the shops without knowing it at the time. Today has not been an overwhelming success as regards getting copies of documents. The member of staff at the desk is unsure if I can photograph the map; they can do it for me at great cost. He agrees to ask the boss when she comes back from lunch. It must have been a good lunch as I have permission! My reaction to the news that I am allowed to photograph a 120″ to the mile (yes that was the scale) map of Morpeth was something akin to an X factor contestant learning that they had been put through to the next round. I am not sure clenching my fist bringing my bent elbow down and hissing ‘YES!’, was wholly appropriate but hey. I do decide not to ask if I can stand on the table to take the photograph, which I have done in another repository; I have probably embarrassed my fellow researcher sufficiently.

We reluctantly leave the archives, stopping for a quick look at the naive art created by miners in the mid 20th. We have a bit of trouble pinpointing a couple of family locations before arriving at the row of cottages inhabited by John Hogg in 1851. I am very pleased to have positively identified an ancestral abode at last. We can’t ignore the Braund research so finish the day at Cramlington, a much larger settlement than we were expecting. Some Braunds who had been mining in Cornwall were drafted in to the Cramlington mines in the 1880s when the Northumbrian miners were on strike. This probably didn’t endear them to their new neighbours. We arrive at the church at an appropriate time, squeezing in our visit between a christening and harvest festival.

It is a glorious autumn day again, we can see for miles and the trees are turning. Off in a south westerly direction today to visit the homes of early generations of the Hogg family. Some of these are not yet confirmed as my ancestors but I thought I’d better get to these places while I have the chance, in anticipation of being able to add them to the tree at a later date. We begin by visiting Chesters Roman Fort, situated on the River Tyne alongside Hadrian’s wall. At last I get my first glimpse of a fragment of the wall itself. The bath house, close to the river is particularly well preserved. There is a museum of various artefacts including Roman gravestones. I should stress that I am not anticipating being able to add any Roman legionaries to the family tree. it seems that these artefacts were collected by a chap who probably dug them up in his garden. I can’t even dig up a Victorian pipe or bottle. There has been a very heavy dew and today I haven’t brought any spare socks so I am destined to spend the day with damp socks drying on the dashboard.

Chollerton church is two miles away from the Roman Fort. This is the place where two generations of potential Hogg ancestors married, perhaps the home of the brides. I wonder if they were aware of the significance, or even the existence, of the Roman remains on their doorstep? Sadly, the church was virtually rebuilt in the C19th so would not be as the Hoggs would have known it. The porch has various fragments built in to it including a carving of some shears. This is described in the guide book as a grave cover and apparently the shears indicate a female grave but I am not convinced of this, surely a shepherd would be more likely? Inside an inverted Roman alter has been converted for use as a font.

After a brief visit to Hallington and Kirkheaton, both essentially a few cottages a farm and not much else, we head to Thockrington. This is truly something else and everyone should come here at some point in their lives. The church is on top of a hill and accessed by a farm track. Apart from a single farm there is nothing in sight but sheep. The 360 degree views are spectacular and we can see for miles in all directions. This just has to be where three generations of my ancestors were baptised and buried. Apart from my potential Hogg ancestors, who have unmarked graves, the graveyard is the last resting place of William Beveridge, father of the NHS. The village of Thockrington disappeared after 1847 when a cholera epidemic, reputedly brought to the village by a returning sailor, wiped out the inhabitants. The ‘road’ and I use the word advisedly, to and from Thockrington is barred by several farm gates, which it is my job to open and close. Working out how to open some of them requires an engineering degree. I am able to sneak in the odd swing on a gate, solely in the interests of keeping out of the mud of course.

The View from Thockington Church

Great Bavington, another middle of nowhere hamlet, is next on the itinerary. This is one of several locations that great great grandfather, John Hogg, listed as his place of birth. Great Bavington contains some fascinating C17th cottages, a well hidden Victorian postbox, which is apparently still emptied and the 3rd oldest Presbyterian Church in the country, dating from 1725. Two more quick stops at ancestral churches and we head home having felt that all this Hogg hunting has certainly taken us to places other tourists do not reach.

It is the turn of the Hogg family today so we set off for Morpeth via a couple of very small places. We then drive in to Morpeth which is a very interesting town. Councils in Morpeth and the surrounding areas appear to have acquired a job lot of begonias so the town is looking very attractive. Someone or other’s law states that every house in which my ancestors lived has subsequently been demolished and in this case, are now an old people’s home and Morrison’s car park. We do have some luck with 42 Newgate Street. Chris is inside number 44 asking where number 42 is just as I spot the number on the door of 42; good job I sent him to recee. Many of the shops have old photographs in their window, together with information about previous occupants. Unfortunately most of these do not go back before the C20th.

We call in at Morpeth Tourist Information Centre where they are playing some jolly Northumbrian pipe music. This may not be such a good idea as they sell numerous fragile items and I just hope no one starts dancing some kind of reel. The assistant tells us that they have only just set up again, having evacuated as a precaution during last week’s floods but apart from one closed bridge, there is no obvious evidence of flooding in the town. Many of the old Morpeth streets have alleys or courts hidden behind them and I manage to pick up a book about these that looks very interesting. Apparently the medieval ploughing strips correspond with the later burgage plots and what are now the frontages of the shops in the historic streets. An oxen-pulled plough creates a strip five and a half yards wide and many of the shops are this width. The book also contains several old maps that will be useful. It also has extracts from the Report to the General Board of Health in the mid nineteenth century, when the Hoggs were here. Needless to say they mostly lived in the poorest streets. This is the stuff from which family histories are made.

I have checked carefully and St. Mary’s church, ‘the best C14th church in Northumberland’, is allegedly open today, that would be allegedly. I am already a bit annoyed that they haven’t responded to my enquiry concerning the burial places of my ancestors. Now I am even more annoyed that I can’t get in the church. The churchyard is huge and there doesn’t seem to be any sort of system with, for example, burials from a certain period in one place. I don’t believe that there are any surviving relevant gravestones but had they answered by enquiry I might have been able to find the burial plots of four of my ancestors. I do find the grave of suffragette, Emily Wilding Davison, who threw herself under the king’s horse at the Derby. The railings round  the grave have been decorated with suffragette coloured ribbons.

We return to the van in good time, so I can start writing up all this family history before I forget.

As we seem to be fitting more in to each day than planned, we decide we can find time to visit the archives at Berwick on Tweed, as advised by our friend from Norham. This has to be today as they only open twice a week. Typically the weather is better today than any we’ve had so far. Although tiny, Berwick archives ranks up there with the best I’ve been to, certainly in terms of the helpfulness of the staff. The tithe schedule suggests Norham mill was not on the site of 95 year old Bill’s house but on the opposite side of Norham’s main street. I can still not be certain if this was the mill associated with Peter Eadington. I manage to find reference to Peter in some manorial records and in the 1798 Land Tax, now available on ancestry. We exhaust the possibilities of the archives in good time and plan to return south down the coast road. We then realise that we have time to visit Holy Island today, instead of leaving it until later in the week.

From Lindisfarne causeway

I was imagining something akin to St. Michael’s Mount but Holy Island is much larger, with dwellings and shops, more like one of the smaller Scilly Isles. We drive across the causeway, park up and walk to the Tudor castle, another link in the chain of border defences. Following the union of the crowns it had less significance. It is sunny at last and I am very taken with the panoramic views and clear skies here in Northumberland, not dissimilar in some ways to Australia. The Castle too is unexpected, much more like a residence, having been converted to a holiday home in 1902 by Edwin Lutyens. The kitchen has a high backed curved settle that takes my fancy. It even incorporates a useful cupboard in the back, originally for hanging bacon. I wonder if anyone will notice if I take it home with me. I haven’t worked out how I would get it through my front door but that’s probably the least of my worries. There is an exhibition of tiny cotton bound figures, clothed in Fimo, by Laura Johnson, scattered throughout the castle’s rooms.

We walk across to look at the walled garden, designed by Gertrude Jekyll, which is about 500m from the castle. This was formerly the vegetable garden for the garrison. Apparently, having a garden a distance away from the house is not unusual in this area. Chris examines the cobles and other boats in the harbour. There are several upturned hulls that have been turned into sheds. The priory is next on the list. Of course Lindisfarne had a very important role to play in the establishment of Christianity in Britain; Aiden arriving from Iona in 635. The present priory was built in the C12th on the spot where St. Cuthbert had been buried before his body was taken with the monks fleeing Viking raids. At the height of the wars with the Scots, the priory was embattled. It fell into ruin about two hundred years ago.

Even further north today as we head for Norham, former home of the Eadington family. There is a beware of the otters sign near the camp site. Chris says our neighbour has seen one so maybe we will go otter hunting one day. We do see some roe deer on our journey. We arrive at St. Cuthbert’s Church in Norham, which is inevitably covered in scaffolding. 4 x great grandfather, Peter Eadington, was the local miller. I have ascertained that the mill no longer stands but Chris is asking locals where it used to be, without success. We enter the church where the vicar and two parishioners are pew moving. The vicar sports two earrings (in the same ear); he’s my kind of vicar. The wooden predecessor of the current church was reputedly brought from Holy Island. The Lindisfarne monks took refuge in Norham from the invasion by Hubba the Dane, bringing with them the body of St. Cuthbert. The church was badly damaged in the border raids associated with the Battle of Flodden of 1513. The Parliamentarians also caused some minor damage when they were in the village with Cromwell in 1648 and 1649. I already know that there are no relevant gravestones, which is a shame as gravestones in the area seem to contain quite a bit of information. Many also seem to be eroded in the centres in a strange way, presumably because of the sandstone that has been used.

Amazing co-incidence, one of the pew movers lives in the miller’s house! He kindly asks us back to examine his deeds. He shows us ‘Miller’s Path’, alongside his house and the alleged former mill. This is now named Tower Cottages, inhabited by 95 year old Bill, who comes to the door just as the vicar arrives; the vicar must think we are stalking him. I had been thinking water mill but apparently the mill that was Bill’s house was a windmill. There is some controversy over whether the mill actually was a mill or whether it was a dovecot. Our benefactor’s home is lovely, with a large and eclectic selection of books. His deeds do clearly state that the owner in the late C18th was a miller. Unfortunately no mention of Peter Eadington but maybe he was an assistant miller, or worked at another mill. It turns out that our helper is a fellow member of the Guild of One Name Studies.

We take a look at the exterior of Norham Castle, now closed for the season. It was an important part of border defences. We decide to take a long way round back to the van so I can visit Scotland, which I’ve never done before. We drive past Jedborough Abbey; Jedborough was the former home of Mary Queen of Scots. Next is the Kielder Forest with panoramic views and a glorious rainbow; a complete arc that is actually revealing both its ends. Next a detour to Great Tosson, one of the settings of the novel Devil Water by Anya Seton. This was my favourite book as a teenager and it recounts the story of the Radcliffe family’s involvement in the Jacobite Rebellion. I am re-reading it in honour of our trip. Our journey back to the van takes us through Rothbury, where the Jacobities rallied before the rout at Preston in 1715.

Today we are in search of the ancestral haunts of the Pearson family. My great great grandmother Elizabeth Pearson gave her place of birth as Togston Barnes, which I have identified on my trusty OS map, so off we set so I can take a photograph. Finding what is now Togston Barnes Farm was not the problem. It was more the three German Shepherds and the warnings of possible dire fates should anyone trespass. Nor was I reassured by what I assume are the dogs’ names, Tinker, Lizzie and Rosie, carved on the gates. I decide that our best course of action might be to pretend we are lost, followed by a hasty retreat. This is not Chris’ modus operandi and he winds down the window, that would be the window on my side of the car, to talk to the lady who has come out to investigate why the dogs are pacing threateningly and barking quite a lot. She a great deal friendlier than the dogs and the signage, not that that would be difficult. She tells us that there is a lack of grazing in the area because insufficient top soil was put back following open cast mining in the area. It seems likely that the Pearsons lived in cottages attached to the farm rather than the farm itself but who knows.

We move on to the nearby coastal town of Amble where Isabella Pearson, mother of Elizabeth, lived with her children when she was widowed. Chris enjoys looking at the harbour and we see some moulds for fibre glass boats. There are many sea birds in the estuary of the River Coquet and I spot an eider duck. I try to photograph some typical Amble cottages, such as Isabella might have inhabited. Unfortunately it is recycling day and I have trouble finding any that do not have bright blue bins outside. I have a cursory but unsuccessful look for a welly selling shop to solve the leaking shoe problem. Difficult to retain dry feet when looking round churchyards.

Next stop is Warkworth, just up the road. We look round the church then visit Warkworth Castle, originally built c. 1200 by Roger Fitz Roger but later the home of the Percy family who made many additions including the impressive tower and the Lion Gate. Warkworth was the first market town to declare for James, the Old Pretender, during the 1715 Jacobite Rebellion.

Lion Gate, Warkworth Castle

Finally we move on to Alnwick, the ‘big town’ where Isabella Eadington and John Pearson married in 1809. On Martha’s recommendation I visit Barter Books, a wonderful emporium in the old railway station. There is a distinct lack of parking and we are not in a designated parking space so Chris elects to stay in the car. Apart from the books, the atmosphere is great and there are opportunities to sit in front of  the open fire with a coffee and read. The shop owners were responsible for re-popularising the wartime ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ slogan that has now caught on. The church was locked but we wander round the town and then home via food shopping. I manage to escape the book shop without parting with any money so I risk the antiques centre. I am obviously feeling restrained as I don’t buy anything there either.

The morning breaks and this is what passes as a dry day in Cumbria so we decide to walk in to Coniston before setting off for Northumberland. It is predictably muddy and there is the odd shower but we have at least got out on foot. Chris spots a couple who look remarkably like our friends Dave and Gloria from Essex; that would be because they are our friends Dave and Gloria from Essex. What a shame we are leaving today so we can’t meet up.

Overlooking Coniston

We set off on our 145 mile, four hour journey to River Breamish near Alnwick. As we travel eastwards on the A69 the scenery changes and become less barren and we see our first dry roads for a week. The views are beautiful as we drive along parallel to Hadrian’s Wall, although glimpses of the wall itself elude us. We cross the River Tyne, with no fog in sight. As we get nearer to Newcastle there are some signs of industrialisation. We then start travelling northwards on the A1 and the lovely scenery reappears and even better it is bathed in sunlight. The drystone walls have disappeared and the building style is very different from further east, with plenty of yellowish stone. This is the furthest north I have ever been and I am excited at the prospect of treading in the footsteps of great grandfather John Hogg and his ancestors.

The site at River Breamish is lovely, with plenty of wildlife promised. I spot what I think may be a blackcap. Unfortunately, as I was already pushing it with the number of books I have on board, I left the decent bird book at home so a positive identification will have to wait. The site is within a mile of an antique centre and the nearest town is home to one of the largest second hand bookshops in the country, perhaps staying here should have a government health warning. We go for a brief walk round the nature trail attached to the site. Although today is the best weather we’ve had since Tewkesbury, there are clear signs of the heavy rain that also affected this area last week. I am still having problems with my boot leaking and I point out a possible crack in the sole. Chris is unconvinced but nonetheless decides to test my theory by attempting to insert the handle of a teaspoon through the alleged hole. The spoon handle disappears convincingly. Gratifying though it is to have been proved right, I am yet to be persuaded that this was the most sensible course of action. The hole may be repairable but probably not within the next week. Inspired by the lack of rain I do some washing at the site laundry, where the sinks are designed for vertically challenged persons with very long arms. I wonder if the designers own shares in the local chiropractor.

More torrential rain over night and this continues the next day. No longer can this be described as showers or drizzle and we exercise caution, staying in the van for the morning. We then take the short journey to Troutbeck, near Windermere to visit Townend House, home of the Browne family for over four hundred years. This is certainly one of the gems of the National Trust. The basis of the house is late C16th, with later additions. There is plenty of mock Jacobean carving, done by Victorian owner George Browne. Browne had delusions of grandeur and made up his own coat of arms. The property has an extensive library dating back 500 years. Chris is fascinated by the full length musket and a pike that looks a little thin for use. Apart from the wood and the books, I am taken with the smoke hole above the chimney, the weaving looms and the rush light holder. There are also large glass bowls of water, which, when placed near the candles, helped to concentrate the light. I finally manage to get a photo of a rush holder. In extravagant households both ends of the rush would be lit – hence ‘burning the candle at both ends’. A fascinating property, all the better for being a real home and some interesting guides to chat to.

Townend, Troutbeck

By this stage, we are no longer taking any notice of the weather forecast. I would like to place on record however that no Carol, we did not experience the best day of the week with sunshine everywhere. We leave the van promptly and head back across Wrynose Pass and continue on to the Hardknott Pass. There are various notices warning us that this is pretty much unsuitable for almost any form of traffic but it sounds like fun. A very narrow winding road with hairpin bends at a gradient of 1:3; who needs theme parks? I can’t help wondering how long it must have taken to build all the miles of drystone walls that we see and how long they have been there.

On the way to Hardknott Pass

Chris is dressed for the weather forecast, a mistake. I have been a little more cautious but I soon change my mind about getting out of the car to look at the remains of the Roman bathhouse that was attached to a fort in the middle of the pass. This ‘unmissable’ site will have to remain missed, or at least only viewed from a distance. Apart from the drizzle, there is a very keen wind making the conditions raw. One can only have sympathy for the Roman soldiers, fresh from Mediterranean climes, who were stationed at what is believed to have been called Mediobogdum. The Romans were allegedly responsible for this road, which connected their fort at Ambleside to the coast at Ravenglass. The twists and turns are certainly not reminiscent of the Romans.

With perfect timing, we arrive at the prosaically named Boot to board a train at Dalegarth Station. This is the terminus of the Ravenglass and Eskdale Steam Railway. Always a sucker for a preserved railway, we plan to take the return trip to Ravenglass, the only coastal town in the National Park. A three foot gauge railway was built on this route in 1875, primarily to carry iron ore. This short-lived line was replaced by a 15 inch railway in 1913. It is one of the oldest and longest narrow gauge railways in the world. As predicted by the timetable, our outward journey is by diesel locomotive. We can choose between an open carriage, a fully enclosed option or an open carriage with a roof. With an eye on the darkening clouds, we opt for the roofed open carriage. Chris is finding this a tad chilly but I am putting on a brave face and wishing I hadn’t left my 1646 spun and knitted hat in the van. I am pleased that our return journey is accomplished courtesy of a steam engine, the River Irt. Built in 1894, this engine is the oldest narrow gauge engine in the world. This time we succumb to the luxuries of first class; padded seats and an enclosed carriage.

Back at Boot, we drive across Eskdale to Wast Water, another on the ‘unmissable’ list and billed as ‘Britain’s favourite view’. From here we can see Scafell, if only we could work out which of several peaks it is. Chris braves the elements in his three quarter length walking trousers to help a damsel in distress who is unable to lift her bike over the stile. Despite the weather conditions, there are several divers in Wast Water. There is also a line of orange floats, which look like something out of an extreme challenge. No one is trying to cross the lake by leaping from float to float though. It turns out that these are to facilitate getting an electric cable across the lake.

We drive back out to the coast, head northwards and return to the van in a large clockwise sweep, taking us past Helvellyn, also not identifiable, Grasmere, famous for Wordsworth and Ambleside.