retiredmartin

July 2024. Craster.

Despite the drizzle, an absolute joy of a Saturday on the Northumbrian coast.

At risk of this blog turning into “The Hairy Bikers but in a reasonably-priced car“, I have to bring you the culinary highlights, which oddly don’t involve a cheese and onion bap and a packet of Pipers.

Having turned down the £27.95 Seafood Sharing Board in our posh pub, I was relying on something special in the Creel and Reel trailer two minutes out of town, Bamburgh Castle still looming in the murk.

Pay by contactless, take one of those little vibrators (No.12) that tell you when it’s cooked, and make a huge mess in the car before heading off.

The calamari wasn’t the problem,

nor the scallop and bacon roll.

No, it was the fishy chips, a layer of cheesy haddock on fries that has left a smell that even Tesco’s finest air freshener can’t remove a week later.

But it was £20 well spent. Check Mrs RM’s Instagram here. You’ll notice the absence of a reel on the boats from Seahouses to the Farne Islands to see bird droppings which so traumatised our toddlers 22 years ago and still looked terrifying now.

I would have been tempted by a smoked kipper in Craster, a village of 305 souls surviving on terrifying parking charges,

a bracing coastal walk around the harbour,

and an unexpected trade at the lone pub seemingly catering to hen parties,

like the loud ladies who shouted greetings (I think) as we overtook them on the way to the bar.

Mrs RM had urged us to do the Fisherman when we stopped next door in 2018, and I apologised to her now.

Particularly when it looked like I’d never ever get served as all the young walkers had increasingly complex orders. Goodness knows what that Ship at Low Newton by the Sea was like at that moment.

Had those hens and muddy ramblers really walked mile along the coast, or merely from a hotel in Embleton?

I don’t care. It smelt of pub, and peaty fire, and that Farne Island beer was a sherberty™ 3.5+.

Actually, I think that smell was drifting in from the smoke house.

A couple of German cyclists, caked in mud, asked me how long it would take to cycle to Dunstanburgh Castle, shimmering in the distance.

“Ten minutes” I said confidently, the way men are apt to do.

I hope they never track me down.