We returned to the yachts, and once more made sail. We got a good view through our glasses of the old towers of Dunstanborough Castle. As the wind fell light, we pulled in to have a look at it, papa being anxious to do so, as he had visited it in his younger days. The weather-beaten ruin stands on the summit of a black cliff, rising sheer out of the ocean. Three towers, one square, and the others semicircular, remain, with the greater portion of the outer wall, enclosing several acres of green turf, over which, instead of mail-clad warriors, peaceable sheep now wander. The principal tower overlooks a deep gully or gap in the rocks, up which the sea, during easterly gales, rushes with tremendous force and terrific noise, lashed into masses of foam, which leap high over the crumbling walls. This gully is known by the significant name of the Rumble Churn. This ocean-circled fortress was erected—so say the chroniclers—in the fourteenth century, by Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. Many a tale of siege and border warfare its stones could tell; for the Cheviot hills—the boundary between Scotland and England—can be seen from the summit of its battlements. Having bravely held out for Queen Margaret of Anjou, it was completely dismantled in the reign of Edward the Fourth, and has ever since remained like a lion deprived of its claws, crouching over the ocean, a sad memento of its former power. Had it remained until gunpowder was in general use, it would probably have been entirely overthrown.
Papa described to us Warkworth Castle, which stands further south, above the banks of the Coquet river, on a high wood-covered hill. The greater portion of the ruins remain; indeed, the woodwork alone has disappeared, and the masonry is in so good a state of preservation, that the late Duke of Northumberland proposed to restore it, and make it his residence, instead of Alnwick Castle. Near it a hermit dwelt in a cavern: he became a hermit in consequence of having killed the brother of his betrothed, whom he mistook for a rival, after his return from the Crusades.
We sighted Coquet Island, with its square white lighthouse, from
which a light burst forth as we approached. Near it were the castellated dwellings of the keepers, painted different colours. In its neighbourhood are dangerous rocks, and over each a red ray is shown, to warn vessels which might otherwise run upon them. We were now almost constantly in sight of some light, which enabled us to know our exact position. Dick and I turned in while Coquet Island light still shone brightly.
We expected the next morning to be off Hartlepool, at the mouth of the Tees; but when day broke we found ourselves in sight of a picturesque castle standing on a point of land, with a broad river flowing below it, and a town at its foot. When we asked Truck what it was, he answered:
“That’s Tynemouth, at the mouth of the Tyne; and the captain says he intends to run in there to have a look at the place. It’s as well worth seeing as any place we have been to. Beyond it you see North Shields, and South Shields on the southern bank; and higher up is Newcastle, where coals come from, as you’ve heard tell of.”
We laughed at Truck’s description. “If they don’t come from Newcastle, I don’t know where else they come from,” remarked Dick.
“A good many other places, young gentleman. There’s no small quantity shipped from Sunderland and Swansea; and also from some of the Scotch ports. If we go up to Newcastle, we shall see the curious way they are put on board the colliers.”
“But why haven’t we got further?” I asked, “Because we have had light winds, and the tides have been against us most of the night,” answered Truck.