My father-in-law used to come fishing here. It was only worthwhile, he says, when there was a good northeasterly. But then the trouble was that you had to stand on Blyth beach in a good northeasterly.
The wind is from the east today, but it’s brisk rather than wild. It’s late afternoon and the grey day is sinking into the sea. To the north, the neo-industrial Blyth headland leads the eye out to a line of churning offshore wind turbines. Behind us, stiff-grassed dunes screen off the A193. South is the old harbour village of Seaton Sluice, and the enticing lights of the King’s Arms.
