“Destiny is all!”

So I said to myself as we rolled downhill from the A1 expressway to the coastal village of Bamburgh, a mere five miles south of Scotland. Soon, I would enter the massive castle dominating the horizon, thereby fulfilling the quest of a semi-fictional Saxon warrior named Uhtred of Bebbanburg over five seasons of the Netflix series, “The Last Kingdom.”

The author rests his weary bones on Alfred the Great’s “Wessex Throne,” used in “The Last Kingdom” series starting in Season Three.

The village of Bamburgh and its namesake castle are located downhill from the A1 expressway, a mere five miles south of Scotland. Bottom: Bamburgh is seen here as envisioned as Bebbanburg during “The Last Kingdom” series on Nexflix over five seasons, plus a full-length film conclusion.

Little did I suspect I would meet this Uhtred face to face…sort of. 

That morning, I had visited with my guide (Alexander Iles) the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, which, like Bamburgh, played a part in “The Last Kingdom,” and a major, more violent, role in the early innings of another Netflix series, “The Vikings.” (See https://sanjuanislander.com/opinion/columnists/column-by-mike-vouri/38881/mike-vouri-on-hadrian-s-wall-parting-the-waters-on-lindisfarne)

Owing to its secure position on an escarpment jutting into the North Sea 1, humans have occupied the castle site for more than 10,000 years, depending on who you read. Some scholars venture a mere 2,000 years. What we do know for certain, thanks to archaeology and medieval historians,  is that in 447 CE, Celtic Britons erected a wooden fort on the rock called Din Guarie, which they held for about 100 years until overwhelmed by an Angle warlord called Ida the Flamebearer. 2 According to legend, Ida abandoned his homeland in today’s Germany, pushed ashore in long ships on the sandy beach below Din Guarie, sacked and burned the fort, beat the crap out of the locals and then declared himself a king. (That’s how you did it in those days. Anointing with holy oil came later.)

It was during the Celtic/Briton period that early fantasists, such as Le Morte d’Arthur author Thomas Malory, identified Bamburgh as Sir Lancelot’s Joyous Garde, where he gave sanctuary to his lover and best friend King Arthur’s wife, Queen Guinevere. As Malory was a Yorkist participant in the 1464 siege of the castle during its medieval period, it is not a stretch to presume that, unaware of (or choosing to ignore) Din Garde’s rustic nature, he equated Bamburgh’s sandstone battlements as the home of Camelot’s greatest knight. It fit nicely with the legend that Arthur and Guinevere (sans Lancelot) lie in enchanted sleep in the Sewingshields section of Hadrian’s Wall. 3

It was Ida’s grandson, Æthelfrith, who named the fort, or buhr 4, for a wife, girlfriend, or queen named Bebba. Thus, Bebbanbuhr, or Bebbanburg, (morphing to Bamburgh in ensuing decades), became a seat of power for Northumbrian kings. But it wasn’t always easy to remained seated on the throne. When Æthelfrith was defeated in battle, his sons escaped to Scotland where they made war as mercenaries and embraced Christianity. The eldest, Oswald, wrested back his country only to be killed in battle eight years later, after which his enemy, King Penda of Mercia (d. 655), ritually dismembered him, for which Oswald was almost immediately canonized. 

Widely accepted as the “last Anglo-Saxon pagan king,” Penda was a ferocious customer who dominated his neighbors, most especially Bebbanburg, which he besieged for months without success. This may have been because one of Saint Oswald’s amputated arms found a home in Bamburgh’s chapel. Presumably this was the extremity that the monk, Aidan, blessed while it was still attached to king’s live body years before. Eventually, the arm was spirited away by a gang of monks who enshrined it in Peterborough Cathedral farther south, or so the story goes. Another arm was pinched by an eagle, who dropped the arm from its perch in an ash tree. Naturally, a spring immediately bubbled up from its base. 

King Oswald wrested back his country only to be killed in battle eight years later, after which his enemy, King Penda of Mercia (d. 655), ritually dismembered him, for which Oswald was almost immediately canonized. I thus far have no explanation as why his fingers are crossed.  

Oswald’s head, meanwhile, rests with the bones of St. Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral, although I’ve failed to divine precisely where in the sarcophagus. However, as you might expect, there is some doubt about the head’s authenticity. Alex pointed out that the cult of St. Oswald went continental in the centuries following his death, meaning there are nine other skulls stashed in reliquaries throughout Europe with a claim to be the genuine article. 

While Oswald reached sainthood, it must be said that the quality of Anglo-Saxon kings, much like modern leaders, was subject to a sliding scale. One of the worst was Athelred I (762-796) who watched (maybe) from the ramparts of his timber palisade while smoke billowed from Lindisfarne during the Viking raid. But that was nothing. He murdered his two sons the year before. Next on my Mr. Happy list is Alle (815-867), who threw Ragnar the Viking to the snakes (or wolves) and then paid the price when the Vikings, led by his son Ivar the Boneless, returned for revenge. The Vikings ran the show in Northumbria for nearly 100 years after that. You can watch this series of events in living bloody color in “The Vikings” series, although the producers do contort the facts to appease their audience. You cannot complicate these matters.

The next big shift came in the 1070s with the Normans when they tore down the Anglo-Saxon fort and threw up a “motte and bailey castle,” a wooden fort perched on an artificial mound (the motte), set in an expansive courtyard (bailey, also known as a ward) and surrounded by a wood or stone palisade. These sprang up throughout Europe before the introduction in the 11th century of the stone and masonry bastions that define the word “castle” today. Over the next 150 years the Normans built 1,000 such castles in England and Wales as a means of control. If you were a farmer and complained that the lord of the castle was garnishing too much of your crop, knights would emerge from the gate and bash heads—a far cry from the defensive nature of the Anglo-Saxon burhs that Alfred the Great had developed as a means of defense against the Vikings, an external threat.

Bamburgh’s keep (or fortified tower), a prime example of the upgrade to stone, was erected in 1164 by Henry II, and shares the same architectural features of the famed White Tower in London, which was built neatly 100 years before by his great-grand father, William the Conqueror. Featuring a  turret on each corner, and walls ranging from 15 feet thick at the base to 11 feet on the battlement, it remains standing today in the castle’s inner ward. It dominates the complex, as intended, and is the very one that inspired Malory’s flight of fancy. 

Malory aside, one fiction writer we can be sure of when it comes to Bamburgh’s pedigree is Bernard Cornwell, the British author of The Saxon Stories, a collection of 13 novels that chronicle the adventures of  Uhtred, the Saxon/Dane warrior. Cornwell has drawn upon the murky facts of the period to create a landscape of Anglo-Saxon England fending off assaults from Viking hordes who first come to rape and pillage and then decide to stay. These are the stories successfully adapted into the Netflix series.

Cornwell based his work on one of his ancestors, Uhtred the Bold of Bebbanburg, who, like his fictional character, was a warrior or king who changes sides when convenient. But the similarity ends there as Cornwell’s relative did not arrive on the Anglo-Saxon scene for another 100 years, long after King Alfred was pushing up daisies. The same can be said of “The Vikings” star character, Ragnar, who could not have raided Lindisfarne in 793 and been executed by Aella 70 years later. 

When in a 2015 interview with The Guardian, Cornwell was asked if the television adaptation of his Saxon series was produced in response to the highly successful “Game of Thrones” series on HBO, he responded: 

“I don’t think so, [Game of Thrones] is fantasy, unless the appeal is brutal men in chain mail and leather beating the shit out of each other … I can’t see anything else we have in common. This is rooted in reality. And even though Uhtred did not exist as I have written it, there is always that big story … in the background”.

That “big story” is Alfred’s  drive to unify the squabbling desperate kingdoms into the England we know today, to which he adds an able assist from his character, Uhtred. But it took a long while and a ton of “chain mail and leather” and a cycle of beneficent and megalomanic kings before England became Shakespeare’s “sceptered isle” ruled by law, theoretically applicable to all…equally.

St. Aidan’s Church, founded in 635 by the man himself before he went off to found Lindisfarne. The current parish church dates to the late 12th century, save for a single forked beam, which is reputed to be the very one Aidan was leaning on when he died.

The memorial to St. Aidan sets in a corner where the weary monk expired while leaning against a forked beam that supported the ceiling.

This cycle of good and evil, characteristic of any country, struck me as Alex parked in a field adjoining St. Aidan’s Church, established in 635 by the man himself before he went off to found Lindisfarne. It is likely that from this very field during the War of the Roses forces of the then-Yorkist Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick (1428-1471), blasted Bamburgh’s sandstone walls to…well…sand with solid shot from cannon nicknamed “Newcastle, “London,”and “Dyson.” Conforming to pattern in such matters among the Royals, Warwick, also known as “The Kingmaker,” changed sides three times during the conflict and ended up spitted on a lance. (“He chose poorly.”)

After lunch and a pint in the pub we returned to the church, which is capped by a magnificent Saxon hammer beam ceiling, much like an inverted ship’s hull. Alex directed me to the memorial to St. Aiden, placed in a corner where the weary monk expired while leaning against a forked beam that supported the ceiling. I immediately recalled for Alex a World War II Bill Mauldin cartoon wherein Willie tells Joe (buried in rubble), “It ain’t right to go around leanin’ on churches…” to which Alex looked blankly at me. This what I have come to call an “old man reference.” 

The beam, by the way,  is now part of the ceiling and is the only fragment of the 635 CE church that survives, according to Alex. 

The current parish church dates to the late 12th century, right around the time Henry II completed the castle keep, which I was anxious to see by then. But not before we peeked into the crypt from an outside stairwell to see the ossuary boxes aligned behind an ornate screen holding the 91 skeletons unearthed just below the castle between 1999 and 2007. I had to wait my turn on the step to see these “Bamburgh Bones,” which Alex explained have revealed a fund of information about Anglo-Saxon residents dating to the time of St. Oswald.

Finally, we walked up the modern blacktop road that passes below the extended curtain wall and circles the castle’s inner ward (the main buildings) to the twin towers flanking the “Great Gate,” built around the same time as Henry II’s keep. Establishing the gate off-center and uphill stymied any momentum to be gained with a battering ram, and meant that, in theory, the besieged, with enough food and water, could hold out until the enemy gave up and went home. As Bamburgh castle had a well driven through the rock, still visible today in the keep, and gardens and paddocks for cattle within the walls, no military force conquered the castle until Moe, Larry and Curley (er, Newcastle, London, and Dyson) arrived with The Kingmaker. Those who study the development of castles in the Middle Ages would describe the above as elements of “concentric fortification,” i.e. the implementation of multiple wards (courtyards) surrounding the heart and nerve center of the castle.

The pulverized curtain walls of Bamburgh Castle remained as they were from the 16th to 19th centuries, rising in ghostly tendrils exposing the ruins within, which proved ideal for painters and lithographers who fed the romantic notions of Georgians and Victorians.

In passing through the fortified inner gate (today’s ticket booth) we continued uphill through a passageway under the Constable tower and onto the “typping vale,” a rampart that overlooks the white-sand beach and the North Sea on one side, and abuts the stone wall of a faux version—known locally as a ”folly”—of the Anglo-Saxon chapel ruin on the other. Above it all, loom the state apartments of the Inner(-most) Ward and the castle keep, all of which—save for the keep with its 15-foot-thick walls— were blown to smithereens by Warwick and only rebuilt in full starting in 1894. That is when the mechanical genius and industrialist William Armstrong (1810-1900) bought the castle and fully restored it to its present state. 5. 

Bamburgh Castle’s curtain walls and Inner Ward structures were restored in 1894 by the a new owner, the  industrialist William Armstrong (below).

Before then,  partial refurbishment by an 18th century owner had paved the way for the surviving buildings and grounds to be used as a hospital and a school for girls. The pulverized curtain walls remained as they were, rising in ghostly tendrils exposing the ruins within, which proved ideal for painters and lithographers who fed the romantic notions of Georgians and Victorians. There is that nostalgic something about the ivy-covered walls of a battered old castle and the secrets it holds.

The seventh century “Bamburgh Sword,” unearthed by the archaeologist Brian Hope-Taylor. The find was significant because the blade was “pattern welded,” which meant that it was probably owned by a high ranking warrior, possibly a king.

If you want to see that at Bamburgh today, you must move through the East Ward, pass through another barrel-vaulted tower and meander down to the West Ward’s far corner to Oswald’s Gate, named for the saint/king and the original passage into the castle. This is where archaeologists have been working in recent years, but one needs to return to 1960 for a truly astounding find—the seventh century “Bamburgh Sword,” unearthed by the archaeologist Brian Hope-Taylor. The find was significant because the blade was “pattern welded,” that is, formed by the armorer with six strands of iron, woven to provide strength and flexibility—more so than any bladed weapons of the era. 6. As such, only an ealdorman (earl) and better yet, a king (possibly Oswald) could afford one. Unfortunately, more than 40 years went by before all this came to light as Hope-Taylor took the blade home after unearthing it. It was rediscovered in a suitcase in his garage after his death.  

From the castle’s far extremity, we retraced our steps uphill, entered the Inner Ward and climbed the stairs to the King’s Hall. Although Alex told me ahead of time that Armstrong had restored the hall, I presumed it would look as it did when occupied by kings: from Henry II to Henry VI and several more between them. You know, the stuff you see in France? The place where castles, as we know them today, were invented? Walk-in fireplaces, tapestries, armor, flags, banquet tables?

Instead, beneath another magnificent hammer beam ceiling (fashioned of teak Armstrong imported from Thailand), is a hall full of light that streams through arched portals with leaded glass onto the glossed wood floors. At the far end of the hall is a cross hall that is more like a Victorian sitting room with plush chairs, a grand piano and a dinette set for afternoon tea. But the biggest surprise was a life-sized poster fronting an exhibit in the center of the hall. 

It was Uhtred himself, welcoming me to Bebbanburg!

OK, not the real guy, but the fictional hero portrayed with gusto by the German actor, Alexander Dreymon. The exhibit of costumes and props, staged in cooperation with Carnival Films, had opened the month before and was scheduled to run through February. In promoting the show, a PR department staffer at Bamburgh Castle wrote:   “Fans of The Last Kingdom will be able to see for themselves that Uhtred’s sword has returned to Bebbanburg as he said it would!..The exhibition (is) located in the Castle’s King’s Hall on the very footprint of Bebbanburg’s medieval banqueting hall – our Valhalla – where the real Uhtred could have feasted. It gives me goosebumps just thinking about it!” 

I took a pass on the goosebumps. But it did underscore for me that series such as “The Last Kingdom” and “The Vikings” do open a window to history…if we choose to climb through it and visit the library or even Wikipedia.
The marquee poster at the head of the exhibit also totes historical context in that it “…retells the story of the blood thirsty clashes between the Saxons and invading Danes (Vikings) in the 9th and 10th centuries…” Loosely at best. But I could tell Alex got a big bang out of my reaction, especially after hearing me prattle the morning long about watching the whole series. At one juncture, I voiced my dismay that King Athelstan, the first ruler of a united England, is portrayed as a malleable twit steered by his traitorous lover into unforgivable acts in the grand finale, “Seven Kings Must Die.” Uhtred sets him on the right path once again in the end, after which he ponders over whether or not he should join long-departed comrades in communal “ARGHS” as he hallucinates a Valhalla banquet hall. 

The camera pans away from Uhtred, still trying to make up his mind, and dissolves into today’s Bamburgh Castle, accompanied by a coda of Valkyrie wailing by the Faroese singer Eivør. (I darn near choked up recounting the scene to Alex.) That’s when I remembered what Holden Caulfield said in The Catcher in the Rye:

 “If there is one thing I hate. I hate the movies. Don’t even mention them to me.“

 I kept my trap shut after that. 

Ok, back to the exhibit. The costumes and key props are arranged on both sides of a flat-black partition running half the length of the hall. They include two worn by Uhtred, and one each of his sidekicks— Sihtric, Finan and Father Pyrlig—but, surprise-surprise, also on view was the dusky garb of the feral Viking sorceress Skade, positioned in front of the shield of her lover, Bloodhair. Why her? Why not the serene warrior/princess Æthelflæd, or  Breda, Uhtred’s first love, who, in a fit of revenge castrated his eldest son? (This was deemed OK in the end as he was set on being a monk.)  I was not alone. While plumbing the web that night to learn more about the exhibit, I stumbled onto a Reddit “Last Kingdom” blog, wherein Skade’s costume drew a heavy dose of vitriol from the fans. The consensus is that this loathsome character is undeserving of the honor: 

 “When I see the Skade costume I was like ‘insert poop emotion here.’”

Surprise-surprise, also on view was the dusky garb of the feral Viking sorceress Skade, positioned in front of the shield of her lover, Bloodhair.

Nitpicking period clothing enthusiasts also abounded on the site. While the display of Uhtred’s famed sword, “Lizard, er, Serpent’s Breath,” hanging next to one of Dreymon’s costumes, elicited praise from the faithful, the authenticity of his gear not so much. Evidently, Anglo-Saxon warriors never wore their swords on their backs as Uhtred does in the show. He should have hung the weapon from his belt, as was customary by then, we are told. This reminded me of my time as a National Park Service ranger when I hosted Civil War reenactors in our annual Encampment. Woe betide the man who used the wrong thread to sew on his buttons or purchased his trousers from “farb” purveyors.

 The killer object in the exhibit, for me anyway, was the presence of Alfred’s “Wessex Throne.” (Not the real one of course.) “Visitors are welcome to sit on the throne for pictures but please be careful when touching,”  the sign read. My guess is this meant not parking chewing gum on the underside or eating crisps (potato chips) from the snack bar while on board.

We gave the snack bar a pass, but we did visit the gift shop on our way out. It is a private enterprise, as is the castle, run by Armstrong descendants who live on the grounds, collect admissions and run a bed and breakfast in the castle and beachside cottages nearby.  In rummaging among the books and gimcracks, I found coasters for my son, also named Alex, who is an enthusiastic fan of the “The Last Kingdom,” though not enough to be a member of  the blogging community. One of them reads, “Arseling and Proud,” and the other, what else?

“Destiny is All.”

 Day was done and as we motored back to Newcastle and my hotel that hugs the bank of the River Tyne, where the ultra modern Millennium footbridge crosses, I pondered the long-ago Anglo-Saxon world. As in our own age, it amounted to much more than the tattooed warriors with Mohawk cuts portrayed on television. However much we enjoy the posturing and grunting, it’s best to maintain our perspective. The author of this literary universe certainly does.

“It was a terrible, terrible time to be alive,” Cornwell told The Guardian, in closing the interview. “You planted your crops but had no assurance you would live to harvest them. In many ways it is unfashionable, the heroic age, we have turned our back on it, and I am glad of that. I don’t want to live in an age when alpha males have carte blanche to do whatever they want.”

Neither do I. Take note.

For further reading: Marc Morris’s The Anglo-Saxons: A History of the Beginnings of England, 400-1066 and Castles: Their History and Evolution in Medieval Britain; and Alexander Iles blog, https://ilestours.co.uk/blogs/. The menu at the top of Alex’s blog page links to his tour website. If you’re up for a deep dive, the internet will take you to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, begun during the reign of Alfred the Great, the Venerable Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, Gildas’s De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae, William of Malmesbury’s Deeds of the Kings of the English and Henry of Huntington’s History of the English. Special thanks to my son, Alex Vouri, for steering me in the right direction concerning swords, Vikings and other fun stuff.

1. The escarpment is an extension of the Whin Sill, a tabular layer of the igneous rock dolerite in County Durham, Northumberland and Cumbria in the northeast of England. The Romans took advantage of the formidable central section—the Hadrian’s Wall-Pennines Sill— when building Hadrian’s Wall. Bamburgh more properly occupies the”Farne Islands” section.
2. The Angles came from the base of the Jutland peninsula, while the Saxons to the southwest along the coast of the North Sea within reach of the British Isles. They settled first on Britain’s eastern seaboard and worked their way to the border of Wales and north to Hadrian’s Wall. These peoples blended to become what we know today as the Anglo-Saxons.
3. We are not even certain that it was that Malory who authored the book! As many as four 15th century Malorys are cited as potential authors of the classic.
4. Buhr or burg derive from the Germanic bergen, meaning to “shut in” or “protection.” The term advanced to mean boroughs or towns, and though originally established for military purposes, i.e. Bebbanburg or Bamburgh, they were eventually applied to towns exclusively where people united for the common good. Think of how many communities in the United States employ the term. The first that comes to mind: Fort Pitt, or, Pittsburgh.
5. A Newcastle native, William Armstrong developed hydraulic machinery, including cranes and gates for dockyards and next branched into bridge and ship building. Breech-loading cannon and other armaments followed, which were employed on his battleship HMS Victoria (notoriously sunk during maneuvers in the Mediterranean). The ships and guns were manufactured up the River Tyne at Elswick, which required construction of an 1876-vintage swing bridge to enable shipping to pass through to the North Sea. The bridge is still in use. When asked if he felt guilty about creating the means of death and destruction, Armstrong wrote: “It is our province, as engineers to make the forces of matter obedient to the will of man; those who use the means we supply must be responsible for their legitimate application.”
6. It is so named because the interweaving of different grades of metal created a unique “pattern” running the length of the blade. The swords were considered the highest quality until the development of crucible steel in Europe in 9th century. In the novels and series, the character Brida comments on the patterns on the blade of Uhtred’s “Serpent’s Breath.”