Confined to barracks
Saturday had us confined to barracks.
Wind and rain battered Northumberland while we stayed indoors, feeling cosy until a particularly violent gust made us glance at each other and wonder whether everything outside was still attached.
Meg ventured out for a few short trips under protest. Usually, getting her through the door requires very little persuasion. This time, she seemed to think we’d misunderstood what dogs actually needed.
By Sunday, we had to get out.
A few weeks earlier, we’d missed Sunday lunch at The Dirty Bottles in Alnwick because it was busy. Today, we decided, would be the day. Afterwards, we’d head up to Chillingham Castle for something suitably spooky before its winter closure.
Lunch and a haunted castle. A perfectly reasonable Sunday.
A little Christmas shopping, accidentally
We were too late to book a table, but The Dirty Bottles told us they kept some available for walk-ins from noon. We set off early, picking our way past branches and debris scattered along the roads.
Thankfully, there were no fallen trees or serious problems on our route into Alnwick. The wind had eased, the sun was shining brightly, and the prospect of someone else making Sunday lunch was doing wonders for morale.
Alnwick was nicely quiet. With twenty minutes to spare, we pottered around and discovered Ruby Tuesday, a lovely little independent shop that immediately had us planning Christmas presents.
This is what market towns need.
Quirky shops where you find something you hadn’t thought of buying. Little bakeries. Butchers who’ve been there for a hundred years. Country clothing shops. Preferably a cheerful gentleman in an apron, standing with his hands on his hips and greeting passing ladies with, “Morning, ma’am.”
I appreciate I may be describing a town from a slightly different decade.
Still, I’d happily take more of that over another vape shop, betting shop or the fourth barber in the same street.
Anyway. Ruby Tuesday was lovely, and we spent a very pleasant fifteen minutes mentally distributing its contents among our family.
A corner table at The Bottles
We arrived at The Dirty Bottles at noon and claimed a table in the corner. Perfect.
Quite a few other tables had reservation signs showing times an hour or more away. Those were unavailable, even if you thought you could comfortably eat before the booking arrived.
I can understand it. Nobody wants the awkward conversation with a table still working through pudding while the next party stands beside them in their coats.
It did leave us wondering whether a few extra lunches might have been squeezed in. On the other hand, the room never felt overcrowded during our visit, which suited us very well.
We were surprised to discover The Dirty Bottles belongs to Greene King. Once you have your table number, you can order food and drinks through their app, and everything arrives at the table. You can order at the bar too, but the app was easy enough.
A historic inn, a comfortable corner and Sunday lunch ordered by phone.
Tom was having a relatively successful day with technology at this point.
A proper Sunday lunch
We both chose turkey.
It came with Yorkshire puddings, pigs in blankets, vegetables, stuffing and gravy. Tasty, plentiful and exactly what we’d hoped for after a day listening to the weather throw itself at the house.
A good pub Sunday lunch, served by friendly, helpful people. Two lunches and drinks came to less than £40, which we thought was very reasonable.
The place feels cosy, and with Alnwick Castle just a stone’s throw away, it’s easy to imagine travellers arriving at the inn in rather less comfortable circumstances than ours. Wet coats, muddy boots, loud conversations and perhaps a few bawdy evenings.
I could do without the televisions, personally. But that’s my preference. Everything else worked very nicely.
Then there are the bottles.
The story goes that a landlord touched the bottles in the window while cleaning and promptly died. His wife declared them cursed, and there they stayed.
Mmm.
I’m happy to leave that one filed under “excellent pub stories”. The lunch, at least, gave us nothing to fear.
Chillingham would have to wait
After lunch, we headed towards Chillingham, only to find ourselves rerouted around a fallen tree.
I mentioned to Tom that Dad probably wouldn’t be impressed to hear he’d been driving me around the countryside in the middle of a storm.
Tom pointed out that the storm was practically over.
I promised not to tell.
When we reached the castle, it was closed. Apparently, some people had shown rather more sense than us and decided against receiving visitors that day.
We’re running out of time before the winter closure, so you can probably guess what we’re hoping next week’s post will be about.
For now, we changed the plan. We’d scoot across to Bamburgh, then collect some cake from Beth at The Lazy Cow on the way home.
There was still plenty of Sunday left.
“Come on, girl…”
Near Bamburgh, Tom pulled over beside the dunes to give Meg a little run.
“Come on, girl.”
Off they went.
Unfortunately, before leaving, he locked the car using the boot.
Properly locked it.
Alarm-set, doors-secured, wife-still-inside locked it.
I sat very still. Barely daring to breathe, in fact, although I’m not sure what I thought that would achieve.
Then everything started flashing and screeching.
Our car has a little proximity toggle that we use instead of carrying a key. It’s waterproof, lightweight and lives in Tom’s bumbag. The actual keys were safely tucked away at home.
The toggle has no buttons.
No helpful little unlock button. No obvious off switch.
Across the dunes, Tom turned and came running back, breathless, shouting and pointing.
“Switch it off! Switch it off!”
I looked around the car for whatever it was I was apparently supposed to switch.
The app. The APP.
Tom got almost to the car, only to find a barbed wire fence between him and the door.
He couldn’t reach the outside handle. I couldn’t open it from inside.
Screeching. Flashing. Wailing.
And that was just Tom.
With the windows up and the alarm going, I could barely hear him. He was pointing and gesturing. I was pointing and gesturing back. Neither of us was becoming any more useful.
“The app! The APP!”
Eventually, I realised he was pointing at his phone, which he’d left in the car.
Right. Progress.
I knew his passcode. We don’t have any secrets.
As far as I know.
I unlocked the phone, found the car app and tried to open the car.
It wanted Tom’s Face ID.
Of course it did.
Tom’s face was outside the car. I was inside the car. This, I felt, was the very issue we were trying to resolve.
By now, I wasn’t entirely confident it would recognise his red and increasingly annoyed face anyway, even if I could somehow have lowered a window and thrown the phone to him.
Afternoon entertainment
There was only one thing for it.
Tom set off a few hundred metres back through the dunes to the gate, then made his way round to the car by the road.
Meanwhile, we had become the afternoon entertainment for a row of holiday cottages opposite.
Whole families stood at their windows watching.
I sat in our flashing, wailing car, looking out at our audience and wondering how much of this had carried through the double glazing.
When Tom finally reached the door, I could already picture the slightly embarrassed smiles we’d exchange with the spectators as we drove away. I was also fairly certain a discussion about my handling of the emergency was imminent.
But, to my surprise, Tom accepted that he had locked the car with me inside it, and that I’d done everything I could.
No argument. No suggestion that I should somehow have produced his face from my handbag.
I think he was still worried I’d tell Dad he took me out driving in a storm.