In the only howling day of rain on our holiday we’re in the car. We stop on the way North in Alnwick, where Autumn has most definitely arrived. We pull in to the free parking to find that there’s no such thing as free parking. We have to buy a disc in order to park for as long as we want. We do get to keep the disc. Next time we come to Alnwick, if we haven’t lost it by then, we can park for free. The thing we were most recommended to see in Alnwick is the book shop, where we find every other visitor to the town on a day like today. Rain patters on the corrugated plastic roof of the old station building. Death Cab for Cutie plays across the speakers. The entire space smells like must and old books. There’s not much going on, and I’m not much interested in browsing for something particular. We brave the rain to look through town, looking for somewhere to get a drink. Nothing appeals. The castle want too much money so we decline to give it to them. Instead we return to the road. By the time we reach Seahouses, the world is grey and bleak. Our accomodation is a small cabin behind the main road. It is surprisingly cosy. We get the fake fire on before the heating kicks in. I get acquainted with the kitchen and make a basic smoked mackerel pie, which might be one of the best things I’ve made in an AirBnB kitchen on a holiday.

We start early again in the morning. We make our way down to the beach while the tide is out. A whole lot of birds again, but actually not that many really. The Farne Islands are visible under grey skies. The masses of rock are much closer than either of us had expected. We’ve opted not to do a boat trip, the puffins aren’t around at this time of year and maybe we should just leave the birds to it. There are people out with us, not many, mostly dog walkers. We’re all headed in the same direction, North. Rachael and I pause for a break on the steep slope of the sand dunes defending the land from the sea. We roll clumps of damp sand down the hill, hoping for a snowball effect without getting one. As we get up to carry on, I accidentally roll my water bottle down the dune too. We carry on along the beach, watching waves break over wreckage, peering in rock pools, damming up trickles of sea water trying to get home. At the far end of the beach, Bamburgh Castle makes me dream of downloading video games and embarking on campaigns of conquest across Medieval Europe. Up close the castle is another massive infrastructure project. How many bricks? Impossible to know. We go beyond the walls, stopping at the lighthouse for sandwiches and another tea. A white stag illuminates an outcrop. There’s no information, how long has it been here? Why is it here? What is it for. Another list of questions goes without answer. Rachael and I beachcombe along the way back, picking up bits of sea glass and getting wet boots. In Seahouses we make a quick stop and a loop around the village. Farne Gifts has to be home to the largest collection of tat I have ever seen, where I inevitably buy a deeply upsetting magnet for old mate Mark’s fridge.

Our early starts are becoming normal. The tide as much as anything defining our plans for the day. The causeway to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne is clear from 07:30. Rachael takes great pleasure in driving through the salt water puddles and seaweed that litter much of the road. On arrival there are only a handful of cars in the carpark. The perfect time to arrive. We just have to remember to leave before 13:00 otherwise we’ll be trapped on the island all day. We opt to head out away from the castle towards the beach. Snow globe murmurations on the foreshore. We don’t know what the birds are, only that there are a lot of them and not as many as there used to be. We watch them dip and sway for what could be hours but might have only been minutes. We return to the castle grounds. Actually finished, no tarpaulin over the top like last time I was here, but closed on Fridays. We don’t venture in, but do explore the lime kilns. Even now the island remains quiet, a few other walkers come through where we stop for a tea. We follow the shoreline back to the village, the monastery ruins. Rachael again scours the tideline for sea glass. She tells me that she’s surprised as an adult to find that quicksand isn’t the level of threat she thought it would be growing up. She’s not wrong. I remember plenty of fear that getting stuck, being swallowed by a beach would be one of the ways I might come to an end. Instead, I find the gift shop and buy some supposedly authentic mead.

The car park is full when we make our getaway. I watch the poles stretch back to the mainland, marking the safe route through the mud. Maybe out there the risk of quicksand is real. Rachael drives us back down the coast, beyond Bamburgh and to our fourth castle; the ruins of Dunstaburgh. I’m retracing steps all day and I don’t mind. We park up in the quarry and head into Craster. I insist on buying some kippers from the smokehouse on the harbour. I know I like fish, I know I liked smoked foods but sometimes I forget. I look forward to stinking the house out and having some authentic old school breakfast later. We eat our packed lunch overlooking the small harbour before heading up the coast towards the crumbling walls of Dunstaburgh. When we arrive it turns out this is one of the only places where the National Trust cards I borrowed off my parents come in handy, even though the castle is managed by English Heritage. We get in for free! We wouldn’t have bothered otherwise and I’m surprised at how good the ruins are. You’re allowed to go up the quite literally falling apart gatehouse towers. Pigeons roost in the window cavities. Wind roars around the open parapet. I don’t last long on the exposed top. Rachael seems to enjoy it. We walk the inside perimeter of the walls before it’s time to head back. Back to Seahouses for one more night and then the almost five hour long, straight line drive home.