The river is calm; it flows gently into the North Sea. But the sea beyond the wide welcome of the harbour arms is wild. Waves crash against the Tynemouth headland; shredding on the crags, the foam flies as high as the ruins on the promontory above. There was once a castle here where the kings of Northumbria are buried; a monastery too, fortified against Vikings with prayer. All this salt creates a fascinating microclimate. On the crags themselves and on the sloping earthworks protecting the old monastery, grows an oddity. Familiar yet somehow strange, at first sight I thought it was spring cabbage. Was someone using the steep sides as an allotment? Further investigation revealed that it was seakale. This wild plant, thriving in the thin, sandy, salty soil that so few plants can tolerate,