Page 22 of My Summer of Magic Moments

Anonymous, about Bamburgh

The next morning, Claire stood crumbling butter onto a dough mix, then gently pushing the dough and butter together with the heel of her hand as she followed the recipe for chocolate brioche. Something sweet and comforting – that was what she needed. In less than a week she would be going home. Home. That word felt hollow. Back to her old life, anyhow, or elements of it. It would be lovely to see her friends and family, of course, but not so easy to be back in the marital house, the red-brick semi-detached one she’d been so excited to move into six years ago. The one with the ‘For Sale’ sign outside. The one she couldn’t wait to leave.

With a line-up of brioche buns in the oven, she went out and sat in the seaside garden. She looked across a calm, sparkling sea to a summer-blue sky, the sun warmer today, prickling her bare arms with heat. You really could get all seasons here in one day. For all the ups and downs of her stay, she loved this quirky cottage and its amazing sea views, the storms and the sunshine. Where you could sit and watch the world go by, or join in with the children paddling and go dip your feet in the rushing waves.

Sitting there with the warmth of the sun on her skin and the salt-tang of a pleasant breeze, watching the sea glint and roll and hearing its rush and pull was pretty magical. She thought back to how much she’d enjoyed last weekend with Sally, how they’d got closer again, reconnected. Laughing and chatting over a glass of chilled wine with someone you loved, be it a sister, friend or lover … that was magical too.

A lover, hah … she wasn’t doing so well in those stakes. But the touch of a lover could be so very special when it was right. She sighed, remembering how it had felt all those years ago with Paul right back at the very beginning. And then Ed. Well, to start with, that day in the rain, anyhow. She could still feel the intense burn of his kiss. The warmth of his strong arms around her. It had been rather wonderful while it lasted. And, it had left her wanting more, which wasn’t a great scenario considering the circumstances. Best to leave that one well alone.

Oh well, she might one day find a lover who wouldn’t run away from the scene, or wouldn’t marry her and then run off with another woman six years later, just as she was given the all-clear from cancer. She could still believe in the magic of love, couldn’t she? Life was going to be good again, wasn’t it? She was just finding her feet at the moment.

She checked her watch – fifteen minutes had flown by. She ran back to the kitchen to retrieve the brioches just in time. They’d reached a deep-golden colour, the dark chocolate beginning to ooze from the sides. She left the batch on the side to cool, but couldn’t resist taking one to eat straight away. She popped the kettle on for a fresh cup of tea.

Settling back into her wobbly chair, mug of tea on the little table beside her, she dunked a chunk of still-warm brioche into it and took a buttery, chocolatey bite. Delicious! Suddenly she felt truly alive, every sense tingling. She could smell, taste, touch, hear, see … She could breathe, and walk, and run, and swim – if she wanted to. She had made it through, and she was determined not to take life for granted ever again.

She decided to check over her ‘Magic Moments’ article that she had written yesterday, and send it off to the paper asap. She felt encouraged that her boss had replied to her email asking her to send him the finished article so he could take a look and consider it. They’d already had two weeks with the guest journalist hosting her column. Next week she’d be back (just like good old Arnold Schwarzenegger) and she needed to return with a bang. She had no intention of losing her features slot, or her job. She loved writing, and she sure as hell needed the money right now. Once the mortgage was taken out of the house sale, what was left – and then halved – would be eaten up as a deposit on a new flat, and then after that all the bills would be hers alone. It was a daunting thought, but she’d manage somehow. She felt ready. And ‘a place of her own’ had rather a nice ring to it. She licked the chocolate off her fingers and went inside to get her laptop.

Claire was determined not to waste the last two days of her holiday. Yes, she’d come with the aim of getting lots of rest and recuperation, and she’d had plenty of that; but she felt she wanted to discover a little more about this amazing place with its traditional Northumberland stone-cottage village and the most stunning castle dominating the dunes. In fact, that would be the perfect place to start this morning – a tour of the castle. She’d seen it was open to the public. It would be great to see it from the inside, as well as the out.

She went up for a quick shower – another cool one, water on the blink again – then got dressed in pale-pink cropped chinos and a T-shirt and packed a hoodie into her rucksack along with a bottle of water, an apple and a book.

She walked along the beach. The sands were damp and flat today – the tide was still out. After half an hour, she took the path through the dunes and headed for the road that wound its way up the side of the mount the imposing castle was based on. It appeared to be the only way in.

An ancient stone entrance tower with a horseshoe-shaped arch greeted her, but it had a heavy wooden gate across it. Claire checked the sign: she’d set off so sharp, the castle hadn’t yet opened. She had twenty minutes to wait until ten a.m., so she wandered back down and found a spot in the dunes where she could look out to sea, watch the waves and the world go by and read her book. It was pleasant there. An azure-blue day, with only the odd puff of cloud out on the horizon. She kicked her shoes off, used her sweatshirt as a rug to sit on, and made herself comfortable.

The time soon passed, and after half an hour she set off once more. A straggle of tourists were now at the gatehouse, and she queued up to pay her entrance fee and buy a guidebook, to discover some of the historic background to this amazing place.

As she walked through the cool shade of the arch, it felt like stepping back in time. It was far bigger within the high stone walls than she’d imagined. Roads and grassy areas as well as many impressive stone buildings, all intact, spread before her. This was no ruined castle. On the way to the tallest of the buildings, she paused to climb some intriguing stone steps and peered over the protective wall and out across the sweep of dunes and golden bay. The view almost took her breath away: the Holy Island of Lindisfarne away to the north, the panorama of sea and sands leading out to a gently rolling North Sea, and away to the south she could just about make out her cottage nestled in the distance, and, further down the coastline, at the far end of the bay, the roofs of the harbour town of Seahouses, where she had sat eating fish and chips with Sally.

The guidebook said the grand stone tower, which was central to the castle site, was the Keep, the oldest remaining part of the castle, built way back in 1164. It was a massive square structure with an interesting bottle-shaped door that apparently let horsemen ride in at a gallop whilst still mounted. Her mind’s eye conjured up a knight in his spurs, clad in a gleaming suit of armour. Inside the tower, she found that as well as many armaments, there were impressive but bulky shiny metal suits on display. How on earth the soldiers walked, let alone did battle in them, was a mystery.

The whole castle captivated her. The King’s Hall was a fabulous, spacious wood-panelled room where ceremonies and grand parties had taken place. The display of porcelain dinnerware was impressive enough to vouch for a host of royal celebrations. Kings had owned the castle and stayed here for over twelve hundred years, until it was sold into private ownership in the 1600s – the current owners being the Armstrongs. Parts of the castle were now let as private apartments, she read. Wow, imagine this being your family home! It was a far cry from her semi in Gosforth.

Claire spent over two hours touring the site, losing herself in the past, in awe of the dramatic, beautiful fortress and its historic residents. She realized she felt hungry and spotted a welcome sign for the Clock Tower Tea Rooms.

Sitting at a table by the tall leaded windows with a cup of Earl Grey tea and a deliciously moist slice of Victoria sponge, she dipped into the guidebook once more. The castle hadn’t been built on the sandy dunes at all, but on an outcrop of volcanic whinstone. The Anglo-Saxons, the Vikings, William the Conqueror and many more had all experienced this place. There must have been so many battles, so much bloodshed, and centuries of love and loss within these walls.

After a happy and interesting three hours, Claire headed out of the castle grounds, with a last glimpse at the glorious panoramic coastal view, trying to soak it all into her memory, then headed back to the dunes to sit once more in a sunny, sheltered spot with her book.

She must have relaxed so much that she dozed off, wakening to the sound of a gull and a warm glow of sun that made her skin feel a little tight on her cheeks. She was thirsty. Taking a sip of water from her bottle, which had warmed in her bag, she thought she’d pop to the village.

The deli was crammed full with a family choosing ice creams and a further couple waiting to be served. Claire waved cheerily through the window at Lynda, who smiled back at her as she passed a creamy, vanilla-filled cornet over the counter. She decided she’d pop in and see her friend tomorrow on her last full day. She hadn’t tried the local pubs at all yet, having been a little reticent about venturing in on her own, but she suddenly found she fancied a long, cool drink. Why not … why not indeed?

There were two hotels in the village, both with bars – one at the top of the main street, the other at the base, near the castle. In the middle, just past the deli, was a more traditional-looking pub, aptly named the Castle Inn. Claire pushed open the heavy wooden door and went inside. It had wood panelling to halfway up the wall, and was hung with old paintings and photographs of the area. It had a cosy feel, with real fireplaces and a welcoming wooden bar area.

‘And what can I get you?’ the middle-aged barman asked warmly.

‘Hmm.’ She fancied trying something a bit different, maybe something local. ‘Do you have any local drinks? Anything you can recommend?’

‘Well, there’s an Alnwick rum, or there’s a Northumberland gin called Hepple, unless you’re a beer drinker – in which case we have lots of real ale.’

Claire couldn’t quite imagine herself sitting there with a pint. ‘The gin sounds perfect … with some tonic, please.’ A long cooling drink was just what she needed.

‘Ice and a slice?’

‘Yes, please.’

She watched him pour the gin and add cubed ice and a slice of lime, then pour the tonic, which bubbled down over it all. Fizzy, long and cool – perfect.