down by the quayside

Our stomachs filled with the English breakfast, our hearts buoyed up by a tour of the old priory, and our bodies purified by the frigid waters of the North Sea, we were sitting pretty. There we were, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on the afternoon of June 14th, in Tynemouth, Newcastle, England, fresh off a tour of the priory and a dip in the North Sea. Now to head south along the coast, turn west at the mouth of the River Tyne, and head down to Fish Quay.

"Quay" is an archaic word for dock or wharf, and it's pronounced like the word "key," in case you didn't know.

So how does one get from the priory to Fish Quay, you ask?

Hadrian's Cycleway, of course.


You've heard of Hadrian's Wall, right? Well, this is Hadrian's Cycleway. Same principle. Keeps the marauding Picts at bay by making them run themselves silly just trying to find something to pillage.

The breeze from the North Sea sprang up as we strolled to the cycleway. It whipped my fedora off my head just as a car was driving by. The trusty Stetson blew into the middle of the street and was caught under the front tire. The driver never even stopped. I was frozen in place. It was as though my best friend had been struck down by a hit-and-run. Jeff valiantly ran into the street and snatched the crushed piece of headgear before further harm came to it. Heart in my mouth, I inspected it. Except for a few grease stains, it was perfectly fine. I whacked it into shape and stuck it back on my head, my heart filling with the warm bubble bath of relief.

That fedora is quite precious to me. It's my Indiana Jones hat. My mother bought it for me in Wyoming from the "thirds" section of an outdoor clothing store. It was third-quality, a throwaway, something someone hadn't wanted and had returned. I loved it from the moment I saw it. That hat and I have gone places. Together we've braved the blizzards of North Dakota; staved off the hellish suns of the Mojave Desert; plundered the blue skies over California; navigated the mean streets and leafy trails of South Korea. Now we were in England together, and in a moment's carelessness I'd nearly lost my faithful companion.

It pays to invest in crushable hats.

We took a right-hand turn once we got on the cycleway, and went up a grassy hill to snatch a peek at the Collingwood Monument.


Admiral Lord Cuthbert Collingwood, as I've explained previously, is a god among Geordies, Lord Nelson's second-in-command at the Battle of Trafalgar, who took over after Nelson was killed. Did a darn fine job of it, too.


His statue stands eternal sentinel at the mouth of the Tyne, keeping an eye on the North Sea and any naughty Vikings, Spaniards, Franks or Huns that might try to sneak over and get up to their old tricks. A couple of "radgie lasses" were helping Collingwood out that particular afternoon.

Then we strolled on another mile or two and found ourselves in Fish Quay. Though the fishing industry in Newcastle has long since passed by the wayside, the neighborhood still smells predominantly of icthyoids.

Adam directed us to the second-best shop in Tynemouth, Waterfront Fish and Chips. It was voted the best in the region by some newspaper or other, but Adam insisted that there was another place elsewhere in the city that was a lot better. It wasn't in walking distance, though.

Besides, who could argue with this?

(Smithy, this is strictly NSFW.)


Even though we were still stuffed to the gills with breakfast, we ordered up the largest helping of cod we could get. And it was delivered to our table promptly thereafter, with mushy peas, a heaping pile of chips, and enough curry sauce and malt vinegar to drown Moby Dick.

Couldn't hardly fit it and Jeff's head in the picture frame together.


Man, it was good. Real English fish 'n' chips. I'd finally tasted 'em, with mushy peas and everything (think creamed corn, but it's peas...with just a tiny hint of sugar). Suddenly my list of things to eat before I die was one item shorter. (Next up is scorpion on a stick.)

Then it was up the hill back toward Tynemouth centre, passing by some of the quaintest house fronts you could hope for in a seaside town. Mom, if you could've only seen them...


Our final stop was the Cumberland Arms, in Front Street, where Jay and Elaine eventually joined us. We made a jolly night of it. The Paraguay-Italy match was on. We each had at least one glass of every single beer and cider on tap, excitedly recounting what we'd seen and done that day, laughing and jibing when Jeff accidentally spit up a gobful of beer, getting languorously buzzed as the sun outside refused to set. Three or four hours we were there, and it was still twilight when we left. The Land of the Eternal Sunset saw fit to bless us with one more heavenly tapestry, one more long evening to take pleasure in each other's company before Jeff and I departed for Ireland the next morning.


Good times to be had in the far north of England. The best of times, in fact.