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Travellers, when approaching the village, will be taken by the sight of the castle rising high above the houses, perched on the rocky base, and though impressive, it still seems to emulate a semi-collapsed wedding cake with differing levels and elevations. Somewhat confined by the rocky platform or sill, it is host to a number of wall enclosures, bringing the visitor up to the inner square keep and some unusual features.
Bamburgh Castle is without doubt a spectacularly beautiful sandcastle of red rock, almost romantic in its landscaping with its tiers bursting out of the coastal beach.
~ Alistair Braithwaite’s Touring Guide of Northern Castles
Arriving in the village of Bamburgh, head throbbing, sore eyed and exhausted by the journey, I resisted the lure of the spectacular silhouette of the castle perched above the town’s outline, and went in search of my accommodation. I needed a well-earned rest after the longest drive of my life.
The Vauxhall Corsa, bright red, and in immaculate condition for its age, had appeared a week ago outside our house, right on cue, as David had arranged. Dad had insisted on giving the car a “good look over”, which amused and annoyed me at the same item. He never gave Mum’s rust bucket the same treatment. Unsurprisingly, Dad’s mechanical skills were limited to topping up the oil and a tyre pressure check. For ten minutes he had unproductively fiddled with things under the bonnet.
‘It will do,’ he had said, slamming the bonnet shut.
The boot space disappointed him. ‘A tad on the small size for your gubbins. You’ve got luggage, camera stuff, tripods, Wellington boots.’
I had shooed him away with a wave of my arms. ‘Dad, it’s summertime.’
‘Welly boots.’ He had snorted. ‘It’s thenorth.’ He said the word as if he was describing a foreign country with an extreme climate. The furthest north we had ever been was a trip to the Viking Jorvik Centre in York.
My first Northumbrian bed and breakfast was a typical family home. The pebble-dashed semi-detached house was on the outskirts of Bamburgh and part of a small row of similar housing. The couple on the doorstep greeted me in unison and helped unload the car. It wasn’t long before I realised the elderly couple operated like conjoined twins to the extent they completed each other’s sentences. Beverly and Bert – they insisted I called them by their first names – were retired and relied on the busy summer period to bring in extra income.
The two bedrooms they let to boarders had been their sons’. Divested of childhood trappings and replaced with ubiquitous Laura Ashley, everything matched in perfect harmony. I offered them a weary smile of gratitude. Beverly chatted amiably about her grandchildren, or grandbairns, as she pronounced in her Northumbrian dialect, while re-arranging the tea set on the dresser. My weary limbs yearned for a long soak in the bath.
‘Dinner?’ Beverly asked. Bert held the bedroom door open for her. ‘For an extra fiver; it’s not a problem.’
I grabbed the offer without hesitation. Any plans I might have had for eating out on the first night disintegrated at the sight of that bed. The food turned out to be delicious and homely. I made appreciative noises as I ate.
‘Why are you up here?’ Their voices blurred into one unit.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin and for a few seconds an awkward silence descended while I composed an answer. Foolishly I hadn’t prepared myself for the curiosity of B&B owners with their empty nests. A minor flaw in my plans. The exact nature of the project was something that I had glossed over when I had told my parents my news. Mum had fretted over the fact that I didn’t know Medici’s real name, nor the purpose of the photographs.
‘All I have to do is take photos of these castles,’ I’d said, ‘send him the digital files and I get a very expensive camera to keep. Think of it as a commission. I’ve got a job and I’m being paid.’
‘Expenses,’ Dad had muttered from behind the barricade of his newspaper.
‘A very generous living allowance. Okay, what about this. I’m a student studying castles and improving my photographic skills to boot.’
‘Pity there’s no qualification at the end of it,’ Dad had said, dryly.
In the end, after I’d persistently repeated the benefits, Dad had proved more sanguine; he simply shrugged his shoulders. ‘If he’s paying you, giving you the money, then you should go with your gut feeling.’
I needed a less revealing answer for my hosts and an explanation popped into my head. ‘I’m a freelance photojournalist.’ Not quite truthful, but it summoned up my activities without having to explain the mysterious arrangement with Medici. ‘I’m photographing castles for a commission. Nobody famous…’ I ended limply. I asked if they had internet access. ‘I have to check my emails.’
Bert cleared his throat. ‘We have a computer. Our son Graeme set it up for us. We use it to check bookings.’
‘Do you mind if I quickly used it?’
‘No problem.’
The boxy computer rattled and huffed during its lengthy boot-up and then took several attempts to load my webmail account. I sent a mail to David, asking if there were any last minute requests from Medici. With my parents and Yvette, I opted for a quick text message. The mobile reception was reasonable.
Beverly provided me with a pile of towels and a hair dryer.
‘You’re welcome to join us in the lounge.’
‘Thank you, but I’m very tired. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow, perhaps.’ I backed away.
Beverly’s dimples deepened. ‘Of course. Photographer. Castles.’ She nodded, slowly.
Post-bath, I arranged the photography equipment on the bed: three lenses, spare battery, pocket tripod and the newly acquired Canon EOS digital camera, which had arrived three weeks earlier, giving me sufficient time to practise at Ashby-de-la-Zouch. There was some adjusting to its weight and feel in my hands. Each piece of apparatus served a purpose. A fixed length wide angle lens for the scenic shots, a zoom lens for detailed close ups and the luxury object: the tilt and shift lens, which enabled me to take shots of buildings without distortion. The latter happened to be key to the types of photographs I needed to satisfy Medici’s requirements. In his detailed breakdown of views and locations, he had been particular about angles, whether upward or downward. There was also my trusty film camera, looking slightly scratched and neglected next to its juvenile digital cousin.
