Driving up from Penzance the radio announced that the whole of England was hot and sunny except the North East.
Arrived to cold and grey after a 11 hour drive, it makes Penzance seem like St Tropez.
Berwick is a very curious place – great Georgian (and older) archiecture, it just needs a damn good scrub. The town is built on more layers than Gormenghast and has more secret passageways, look out points and cobbledy streets than St Ives. Unfortunately 50% of all the shops are closed down, pubs are burned down and the streets run down.
No real sign of life except a non-stop convoy of Chelsea tractors and BMW’s.
The bridges are superb though. The Jacobean bridge catches the evening sun and the honey/rose stone begins to look like a box of crayons left to melt in the sun.
The campsite looks down over the mouth of the Tweed immediately next to the local amateur football ground.
Between shouts of “to me, to me” I hear distant bells – I presume they must emante from the very old, very big church in Berwick, but soon realise that the bells actually come from the Berwick ice cream van doing the rounds on the camp site.
I am overlooking the ermmm ‘lovely sandy beach’ at ermmm ‘Spittal’.
Berwick could be, should be one of Northumberlands jewels.
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