Lambton Lion Park (NZ298518)

Those of a certain age will remember the North-East’s contribution to the 60s and 70s fad of UK-based safari parks, namely, ‘Lambton Lion Park’. Situated between Chester-le-Street and Bournmoor, it existed for eight short years during 1972-1980.

This odd tourist attraction came about on the whim of the then Lord Lambton, who no doubt fancied squeezing a little bit more money out of his substantial County Durham estate. Jimmy Chipperfield (of circus fame) was consulted in 1970, and two years later African beasts were roaming the banks of the River Wear whilst astonished locals looked on from their cars. The site was officially opened by Lucinda Lambton in July 1972.

The venture was a huge success and in 1975 the decision was taken to upgrade the site – the set-up eventually being relaunched as ‘Lambton Pleasure Park’. New features included the addition of a ‘Magic Castle’, children’s rides and a miniature railway, among other things.

Given its early success, I’m not altogether sure why the park closed in 1980, though there are whispers on the internet about problems with escaping animals and general lack of funds.

After its closure, there was little in the way of public access to the site and the estate fell into general decline. However, it is currently undergoing redevelopment, and has even been used as the setting for the BBC’s period drama, The Paradise, during 2012.

Some great pics here.

Shrove Tuesday Football (NZ275515)

Chester-le-Street isn’t the only place in the North-East with a tradition of playing Shrove Tuesday Football, but it is one of the better known. Not for the faint-hearted, this brutish, dangerous game was finally outlawed (in Chester-le-Street, at least) in 1932. Here’s an abridged report of the 1889 clash taken from the Newcastle Daily Chronicle of 6^th March of the same year:

Mr Joseph Murray, of Newcastle, as the representative of the Murray family, who have provided the ball for sixty-five years, duly appeared at one o’clock with the ball in his hand. Immediately he threw out the ball the fun became fast and furious, and, contrary to all the traditions of the game, the ball went rapidly up the street, all the efforts of the Down-Streeters failing to stay the attack of the Up-Streeters, who seemed bent upon making a strong bid for victory. Right away the ball went upwards, only to be checked opposite the Lambton Arms, and again at the King’s Head; then it did not stop until reaching Red Rose Hall. There a change took place; the Down-Streeters made a big effort, and, by the aid of vigorous play on the part of a few fresh hands, conspicuous among whom was a well-known “county back”, the ball was brought rapidly down street, and its progress was not checked until it was shot into the half-frozen river Cone. Plunging in, through the ice and rushing waters, several adventurous players succeeded in getting the ball once more into play, at the expense of a thorough wetting. In a few minutes’ time the ball was again forced into the river, and this time several youngsters got it upon the ice and tried to play it there, only to drop through the ice at very soft places and to lose the ball through the holes into the water, all of which caused immense amusement to the spectators. The ball again went up the street after a terrific struggle, and there it remained, in spite of the Herculean efforts put forth by the Down-Streeters. A few minutes before six o’clock the ball was returned to Mr.Murray, who addressed the multitude from the window of the Crown Inn, congratulating them upon the magnificent struggle there had been. An announcement was subsequently made that next year a cup would be given to be held by some responsible person on behalf of the winners.

[this abridged version first appeared in the Monthly Chronicle of North Country Lore & Legend in April 1889]

Chester-le-Street’s Missing Gold (NZ277514)

In 1042, Durham needed a new bishop. By whatever means (thanks, supposedly, to the influence of the mighty Earl Godwin), a monk from Peterborough by the name of Egelric landed the job. So up he came to the North-East and began what he must have considered something of a plum job.

Durham had by that time been the home of the mortal remains of St Cuthbert for around half a century. The saint’s previous ‘home’ had been Chester-le-Street, where he had lain during 883-995AD. Since his removal, the little town had lost a good deal of it’s glamour, but Egelric decided to give it a bit of a facelift with the construction of a brand new stone church to replace the battered old wooden affair that had housed Cuthbert’s bits and pieces.

Now this is all supposed to have happened towards the end of the bishop’s reign, around 1054-56. The story goes that during excavational work for the new edifice a hoard of gold was found, the workmen having stumbled upon the treasury of the old Roman garrison. Reports vary slightly as to what exactly happened next, but it would appear that Bishop Egelric exercised what you might call his ‘executive right’ and appropriated the gold for himself and did a runner back to Peterborough.

More kindly reports have him ‘retiring’ the bishopric of Durham in 1056 and assuming some prominent post at Peterborough, where, suitably endowed with a mysterious fortune, he set about rebuilding many of the roads and pathways of the Fens. The new church at Chester-le-Street was built, however, though presumably the money had already been put aside for this task.

According to Arthur Mee’s Durham (1953), the dubious cleric ended up being thrown in the Tower of London for his misdeeds several years later by William the Conqueror.

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A Chester-le-Street First (NZ277514)

As most aficionados of the history of Chester-le-Street are keen to relate, this famous old town in the heart of County Durham was the original long-term resting place on the English mainland of the mortal remains of the great St.Cuthbert … before they were whisked off to first Ripon, then eventually Durham for permanent burial. The famous saint lay in stately repose at Chester-le-Street for some 112 years during 883-995AD.

When they arrived, however, the travelling monks didn’t expect to stay long. They’d been on the run for seven years with Cuthbert’s coffin and treasures and fully expected to move on again soon enough. So though there was plenty of stone lying around from the days of the Romans, they decided to throw up a temporary wooden church and dedicated it to St.Mary & St.Cuthbert.

By and by, they decided to stay put for a few generations – so they turned their thoughts to other religious matters. Not least was the first ever translation of the (Lindisfarne) Gospels into what we may consider to be a form of English – a task completed between 947 and 968 by ‘Aldred the Scribe’ by way of the scribbling of notations in Old English alongside the original Latin text.

So quite a coup for Chester-le-Street: the site of the first English translation of the Gospels – or at least the earliest surviving copy. So next time you see a copy of the famous Lindisfarne Gospels look out for Aldred’s writing between the lines!

A bit fuzzy, but you get the idea

In case you’re wondering, a short while after the removal of Cuthbert’s remains in 995AD a permanent, stone church was built on the site of the wooden affair around 1056 – bits of which can still be found in the fabric of the present-day parish church. 

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The Ghost of Lily Lumley (NZ288511)

Lumley Castle, near Chester-le-Street, has put the willies up many an unsuspecting visitor over the years thanks to rumours of ghostly goings-on in its ancient corridors. The most famous is that of Lily of Lumley, the wife of the castle’s founder Sir Ralph Lumley.

After a few years frantic activity in the name of his country, Sir Ralph returned from a spell in prison in Scotland to his manor house near Chester-le-Street in 1389 and obtained permission to convert the said building into a castle. This he did, though, as chance would have it, he fell out of royal favour and ended up losing his head in 1400.

During one of his absences from his new abode, two Catholic priests are said to have confronted his wife, Lily, to question her about her failure to embrace ‘the Faith’. When she again refused to comply, it is said that the two clerics grabbed her and threw her down the castle well to her death – presumably in an attempt to save her soul.

Realising the trouble that they were now in, they hatched a cunning plan to extricate themselves from the unlikely predicament. They made haste to a nearby village, ‘borrowed’ a sick young woman and took her to a local nunnery. As expected, she soon died and the priests managed to persuade Sir Ralph that the woman was his wife, and that whilst he’d been away she’d decided to become a nun.

Gullible Sir Ralph appears to have swallowed the story and that seems to have been the end of it. But, of course, the ghost of Lily lives on, and has, from time to time, been known to drift up from the depths of the well and wander the corridors of the castle.

Lumley Castle is now a hotel and many guests have reportedly been spooked by Lily’s wanderings – including the many famous cricketers who frequent the establishment when playing at the nearby Riverside Ground.

A quick glance at the records, however, would suggest that Sir Ralph Lumley never even married a woman by the name of Lily…

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William Shanks and Pi (NZ345499)

Pi, the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter, is perhaps the most famous of our mathematical constants. It has fascinated many of the brightest sparks in the history of mankind, often dominating the thoughts of far too many for far too long. It even has a film of its own.

Just as strangely fascinating as pi itself are the odd-ball folk who have, over the years, dedicated large chunks their lives to its calculation. Yes, mathematicians are strange creatures, and the extraordinary William Shanks was no exception.

In the long chronology of the computation of pi, that of Mr Shanks’ is right up there with the best of them. And he was a North-East boy: born in Corsenside, Northumberland, but who lived out the final several decades of his life in Houghton-le-Spring. He settled there in 1847 after marrying his wife, Jane, in London the previous year.

He owned and ran (and lived in) a private boarding school in Nesham Place, an activity which afforded him plenty of time to indulge his passion for sums and such like. He was soon publishing works on mathematics, and began working on the expansion of pi at an early stage. Beginning in the early 1850s, he pushed the computation of the famous constant out beyond 500 decimal places – then 600, then finally (in 1873, after a bit of a rest) claimed a whopping 707. During his ‘gap years’ of 1850s-early 1870s he worked on many other mathematical problems, including the calculation of e and Euler’s Constant y to more decimal places than ever before. He also published a table of prime numbers up to 60,000, found the natural logarithms of 2, 3, 5 and 10 to 137 places, and a whole host of other bits and bobs.

Shanks’ work on pi remained unchallenged (and unbettered) until 1946, when his landmark 707 decimal places was found to contain an error at the 528^th place when a certain D.F.Ferguson tapped the problem into his desk calculator. Shanks’, on the other hand, had no such luxury of course. He would work for hours, manually, on his little problems most mornings, then check for errors in the afternoons – taking him a good twenty years get as far as we can get in a split second today.

William Shanks died, aged 70, in 1882, and was buried in nearby Houghton Hillside Cemetery. 

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The Gilpin Thorn (NZ340498)

Until twenty years or so ago there stood in the corner of the garden of the Rectory at Houghton-le-Spring an ancient, natural relic known as the Gilpin Thorn. It was an ugly, gnarled affair – a hawthorn tree most probably – which was said to have been planted by Bernard Gilpin, the great ‘Apostle of the North’. Gilpin was the local rector at St.Michael and All Angels Church during 1558-1583, and was much famed for his piety and benevolence. The tree is said to have sprung from a cutting taken from the famous Glastonbury Thorn.

This local landmark was, until the mid-20^th century at least, maintained with some care – or so it seems. Reports from Victorian times have the tree being braced with collars, then when, under its own weight, it split in two, its tired limbs were propped up by timber supports. Pictures from the 1950s show the tree struggling manfully on, but by the 1980s it appears to have entered a phase of terminal decline. Local vandals helped it on its way to an undignified death and removal around 1990.

But the story does not end there. A local man, Peter Tate, had had the foresight to take seeds from the old tree before it expired, and saw to it that two new seedlings were born. One of these was planted in the grounds of the Rectory … though it appears that both specimens have now disappeared, whereabouts unknown.

What a strange old story.

Note: Almost all of the information upon which this article is based was taken from the Houghton-le-Spring Heritage Society website – an excellent little article, within which you will also find some nice pictures. It’d be great if anyone could shed further light on the mystery of the missing saplings – do comment below if you can help.

Apostle of the North (NZ342498)

Bernard Gilpin is one of the true icons of the history of the North-East of England. He was born in Kentmere in what we now call the Lake District, but earned his fame as Rector of Houghton-le-Spring during 1558-1583.

Gilpin was born into a well-to-do family in 1517 and attended Oxford University where he became a student of religious doctrine. Prior to his appointment at Houghton-le-Spring he moved through various posts and places during what was, of course, a period of turbulent religious and political manoeuvrings (the 1540s and 1550s). He even spent a spell on the continent during the reign of Queen Mary.

On his return to England, he was invested with the archdeaconry of Durham by his mother’s uncle, the Bishop of Durham (in 1556). Gilpin, though, had a history of attacking clerical vices – a stance which brought him many enemies. Twice at around this time he was openly attacked by his peers, but defended by the Bishop. It was then that he was handed the attractive post at Houghton-le-Spring. Attacked again thereafter he was summoned to London, but was saved possible martyrdom by breaking his leg en route and the convenient death of Queen Mary. So off he toddled back to the North-East.

During his long tenure as Rector at Houghton-le-Spring he gained a reputation for great benevolence. The richness of his office enabled him to entertain the great and the good – as well as the poor. Every Sunday from Michaelmas to Easter he kept open house, providing dinner for all who came. He also aided in the education of the local children, including the building of a grammar school in the town.

Gilpin, though, gained his reputation proper by travelling widely across the region, from Northumberland to Yorkshire and from Cumberland to Teesdale, where he spread the word of God and became the so-called ‘Apostle of the North’. He was offered other posts, including the See of Carlisle, but preferred to carry on the work he had started from his base in Houghton-le-Spring.

In 1583, aged 66, and much weakened by a recent accident with an ox in Durham Market, Bernard Gilpin died, and was laid to rest in his church. His tomb still adorns the interior.

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Bad Start for the Lumleys (c.NZ300493)

The Lumley name looms large in the history of County Durham, and the rise of the family in the region begins with an Anglo-Saxon noble by the name of Ligulf (or Liulph) in the aftermath of the Norman Conquest. Fleeing the encroaching Normans in the south, he settled ‘up north’ and made a new home for himself among the followers of St.Cuthbert.

He married into the Northumbrian Royal family (to whom he was distantly related) and settled down at what became known as the ‘East Hall’, near the present-day village of Great Lumley. It is long since ruined and (I think) gone, but it was the scene of one of the seminal moments in North-East history.

After the Normans had so savagely ravaged, or ‘harried’, the north during 1069-70, King William I entrusted the bishopric of Durham to one William Walcher. A decent enough man by all accounts, he wasn’t the best of delegators, entrusting much of the administration of his lands to Gilbert and Leofwin, who did their very best to enrage the locals.

Our man Ligulf actually got on quite well with Walcher, but had a bit of a disagreement with him and his deputies on account of some rough treatment he had endured. Much affronted by the accusations, Gilbert and Leofwin conspired to seek revenge on the Saxon upstart. The former is thought to have paid Ligulf a not-so-friendly visit at his East Hall home and murdered the poor chap – probably sometime in the late 1070s

This did nothing to improve relations with the locals. The Normans and their supporters were hugely unpopular in the region, and the murder of Ligulf – a very well-liked guy – was the last straw. So although he wasn’t personally to blame for the crime, Walcher’s failure to punish the miscreants led directly to his own demise. As any student of North-East history will know, the bishop and his entourage (including his two hated henchmen) were soon afterwards jumped upon and slaughtered during a visit to Gateshead.

Walcher’s murder in 1080 brought a further ‘harrying’ for the north by King William’s men. Much of the local nobility were slain or scattered for good – but, as we know, the Lumley family managed to survive.

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Bob Paisley of Hetton-le-Hole (NZ351475)

Bob Paisley, the man who was so famously associated with Liverpool FC at the height of their powers a generation ago, was born in Hetton-le-Hole. He was a servant of the club for more than half a century.

Paisley was born in the County Durham village on 23^rd January 1919, leaving school in 1933 to become a miner. He later became an apprentice bricklayer, and soon forced his way into the famous Bishop Auckland non-league team – winning the Amateur Cup with them in 1939. Just prior to the outbreak of World War II he was snapped up by Liverpool FC, but had to wait until 1946 to make his full and proper debut for the Merseyside club. He served as a ‘Desert Rat’ during hostilities.

He played for Liverpool until 1954 – for many of those years as club captain – before moving behind the scenes. He was first a physio, then a coach (under Bill Shankly), being finally promoted to the post of first-team manager in 1974.

During his nine-year tenure in charge, Liverpool dominated the sport both at home and abroad. He won six League Championships, three League Cups, one UEFA Cup and, most notably, three European Cups (the latter being a record for a manager). In 1983 he was succeeded by Joe Fagan, though he later returned to work for the club as an advisor and director.

He was married to Jessie (in 1946), with whom he had three children, and finally left the club in 1992. He died in 1996, aged 77. In 2008 a grand memorial was unveiled to him in his home town – see here.

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Football’s First Lord (NZ237490)

In the little village of Edmondsley, a mile or so north of Sacriston, was born the first professional footballer to become a Member of the House of Lords. He began life as Thomas Burlison in 1936, and ended it as Baron Burlison of Rowlands Gill in 2008.

Our man’s extraordinary rise to prominence began in humble enough fashion – as a panel beater, in fact – before exploiting his footballing skills as a pro at Lincoln City, Hartlepool and Darlington during 1953-1965 as a wing half. When playing for Hartlepool, they were once thrashed 10-1 by Wrexham, and Burlison would later joke: “That was the day when I knew I would never play for England.”

Never far from his working class roots, he then became a regional officer at the General & Municipal Workers’ Union (later the GMB) – and eventually regional secretary in 1978. From then until deep into the 1990s he operated at the highest levels within this powerful union, but never quite reached the post of general secretary. He was a quiet man, maintaining a low-profile, but became known as ‘The Fixer’ on account of his sprawling network of contacts and wide general influence.

He served as treasurer to the Labour Party during 1992-96, was northern region chairman of the TUC and helped many prominent politicians on their way to the top – Tony Blair included. He was vital in the formulation of ‘New Labour’, having spent much of his political career countering the radical activities of the left.

By then a resident of Rowlands Gill, he was created a life peer in 1997 and moved into the House of Lords as ‘Baron Burlison of Rowlands Gill’. ‘Hurlyburly Burlison’, as he was known, was married with two children, and died in Gateshead in 2008.

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Sacriston’s Roots (NZ235480)

Sounds very ‘religious’ doesn’t it? And you’ll not be surprised to learn that, yes, the town of Sacriston does, indeed, owe its founding to something relating to the cathedral down the road.

On a little spur overlooking the woods to the north-west of the settlement was the site of a now long-gone medieval manor house. Hugh Pudsey, perhaps Durham’s most famous Bishop, gave the area to the sacristan of Durham Cathedral monastery in the 12^th century, and eventually a manor house was built there in the 13^th century. In case you’re wondering, a sacristan was a senior monk responsible for sacred relics, together with the general day-to-day running of a religious house (these guys were more recently known as sextons).

During its early history, the plot of land was farmed by monks and the revenue raised was used to provide the sacristan with, effectively, his living. Over the years, bits and pieces were sold off, and on the Dissolution what was left was passed back to Durham Cathedral.

On maps thereafter it was shown as Sacristan Heugh, but with the coming of large-scale mining in the 19^th century – and the development of the nearby town – the area took on the name of Sacriston. However, locals did (and still do) refer to the town affectionately as Segerston or ‘Segga’, a term derived from the old spelling/pronunciation of the root word for ‘sacristan’.

Though a few stones from the old manor house survived within Heugh House, a farm building later constructed on the site, the complex was demolished shortly after World War II owing to subsidence caused by the surrounding mineworks. 

Sir Bobby of Sacriston (NZ238477)

(from Wikipedia)

Perhaps Sacriston’s greatest claim to fame is its status in the realm of professional football – namely, as the birthplace of Sir Bobby Robson, one of the most famous figures in the history of the sport. His links with the town, though, are somewhat tenuous. He will certainly have had no memories of his first home, as he and his family moved to nearby Langley Park within months of his birth.

Born on 18^th February 1933, Robert William Robson was the fourth of five sons of Philip and Lilian. Chasing work as a miner, Philip soon took his family to their new home a few miles to the south-west – and there Bobby grew up and attended the local primary school. Fired by watching Newcastle United with his father, he took to the game himself at an early age, playing for Langley Park Juniors – before moving on quickly to the professional ranks with Fulham, for whom he made his debut in 1950.

He spent six years at the London club, before moving to West Brom (1956-62) – and then returned to Fulham for a second spell during 1962-67. He played primarily as an inside-forward, and though he never won a major honour at club level, he did earn 20 caps for England. In his personal life, he married Elsie in 1955 and they had three sons together.

Robson moved into management in 1968, where he stayed in continuous employment for 36 years. First Fulham and (notably) Ipswich Town, then a spell as England manager during 1982-1990, before many years abroad with PSV Eindhoven (twice), Sporting Lisbon, Porto, Barcelona and then, of course, back home with Newcastle United, completed a glittering career. He won many, many major club honours across Europe (though, ironically – and typically – none with Newcastle!), and famously took England to the semi-finals of the 1990 World Cup. He was deservedly knighted in 2002.

He died on 31^st July 2009 amidst great outpouring of grief and mourning by folk across the North-East. His name lives on in the activities of the high-profile Sir Bobby Robson Foundation, which funds cancer projects across the region.

Oldest Holiday Resort? (NZ297471)

Finchale Priory is a somewhat isolated, ruinous affair tucked away in a bend of the River Wear about four miles north of Durham City. It has, rather curiously, been used as a holiday resort by one section of society or another for around 800 years.

Its roots lie in the twelfth century when it was the base for Saint Godric, a merchant-cum-sailor-cum-monk, who eventually ensconced himself there as a hermit. It is said that he lived to be more than 100 and to have sat out the last six decades of his life at Finchale. Needless to say, by the time he passed away in 1170, he had become something of a celebrity, having enjoyed many visits from the great and the good.

Soon afterwards, the little collection of hermit-like buildings at this quiet spot in the countryside was ‘developed’ by successive Priors of Durham into a Benedictine outpost of the mighty mother church down the road. For the next three hundred years or so the complex at Finchale slowly grew – though, in all honesty, it was never overly utilised.

The newly-formed Finchale Priory survived as a religious house until 1535 and the Dissolution. For much of its history during 13^th-16^th centuries it was effectively used as a holiday retreat for monks from nearby Durham, who would go there in groups of four for three-week periods and where they would ‘enjoy’ a slightly more relaxed timetable for the duration.

These days much of the surrounding countryside is taken up with the long-established ‘Finchale Abbey Caravan Park and Eco Village’ – see here.

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West Rainton’s Pyramid Fragment (NZ323469)

© Copyright Alexander P Kapp and licensed for 

reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

St.Mary’s Church, West Rainton, was built in 1864 to replace an earlier chapel which occupied the site. It is notable for its rather lofty tower – some 130ft in height – which seems to be somewhat out of proportion to the rest of its modest frame.

The disparity is explained by the fact that the tower and spire were added in 1877 thanks to the generosity of Sir George Elliot, MP, in memory of his daughter, Elizabeth. Elliot, an extraordinary character who rose from trapper boy to the baronetcy, had a colourful network of high-ranking contacts. One of his many roles was as financial advisor to the Egyptian Khedive.

It was this unusual link with the Land of the Pharaohs which gave the church and village its famous historical relic. For there exists a granite tablet within the church which records the gift of the tower and spire by Sir George – and the inscription also states that the tablet is a portion of a block of stone obtained by Elliot in 1876 from the Great Pyramid of Giza … with the permission of his pal, the Khedive, of course.

There is a similar ‘Giza stone’ in Penshaw Church – near to where Elliot lived as a boy.

Tale of Two Gilberts (NZ234457)

Let’s get one thing straight before we start: the pronunciation is Witton Jilbert, not Gilbert. Sounds a bit French? That’s because it is – well, Norman, actually.

The village a few miles north-west of Durham City was originally called simply Witton (probably meaning ‘the white fortified settlement’ – perhaps containing whitewashed cottages), with roots in the Anglo-Saxon era. But then along came the Normans and things got a bit more complicated.

First there was Gilbert (Jilbert, remember) de la Ley, who lived in these parts as Lord of the Manor during c.1120-80. Many records survive which seem to indicate that this chap was something of a God-fearing philanthropist, using his wealth to good effect, including much work in connection with the local leper hospital and gifts given to the Prior of Durham.

Whilst there are many reasons to assume that it was this Gilbert whose name was affixed to the village’s name, there is, however, no record of the ‘name change’ until a good deal later (around 1300). And by this time another similarly-named individual had passed through the history books, namely, one Gilbert de la Latone, whose family had obtained the estate around 1200. Though the de la Latones only held sway in the area for a few short generations, the village attracted a great number of posh folk to its streets during this time as Witton Gilbert became a bit of a hot spot for countryfied second homes for the upper classes of nearby Durham City.

So which Gilbert should take the credit? Perhaps we shall never know for sure. But isn’t it strange how folk memory hangs onto the slightly unusual pronunciation of a local place-name for so many centuries?

Lots more info on the history of Witton Gilbert here.

Pity Me (NZ265455)

What an odd-sounding place-name! And we can’t sweep past this little outpost to the north of Durham City without having a bash at its derivation. Truth is, no-one seems to have the definitive answer, no matter what they say. Take your pick…

Theory No.1 – it is derived from the French petite mer (or the Norman petit mere), meaning ‘little sea’ (perhaps meant as ironic, given the arid nature of the land thereabouts);

Theory No.2 – it is a corruption of ‘petty mere’ (small lake)

Theory No.3 – it is a corruption of ‘peaty mere’ (peaty lake);

Theory No.4 – it is a corruption of ‘pithead mere’ (a boggy area into which the water from pithead pumps was dumped);

Theory No.5 – it is a corruption of ‘pitty mea’, meaning a pitted/uneven meadow;

Theory No.6 – it is from old British/Celtic words meaning ‘field of graves’ (Beddan Maes);

Theory No.7 – “a whimsical name bestowed in the nineteenth century on a place considered desolate, exposed or difficult to cultivate” (Mills, A. D., The Oxford Dictionary of British Place Names);

Theory No.8 – The monks carrying the coffin of Cuthbert dropped it near this spot – the saint imploring them to take pity on him and resume their task with more care;

Theory No.9 – during a flight from a Viking raid, a group of monks stopped there and sang the 51^st Psalm, the Latin version of which includes the words Miserere mei, Deus, which can be delivered in English as “Pity me, O God”.

Dare I say, there may be more!

Mrs Byron, Briefly (NZ351442)

Anne Isabella Milbanke, as has already been related on this blog, was the all-too-brief wife of the very famous and very unpredictable Lord Byron. This short-lived affair brought a singular and very talented child into this world, namely one Ada Lovelace, perhaps the world’s first computer programmer. But of this strange and swift affair, the North-East of England can not only claim the venue of the famous wedding (Seaham Hall, in 1815), but it can also bag Milbanke herself as a daughter of the region. For Anne was born at Elemore Hall, two or three miles south of Hetton-le-Hole in Co.Durham.

The stately pile we see there now (as then) was built in the mid-eighteenth century by George Baker (the then owner) to replace an earlier manor house. It stayed in the family for its entire existence as a private residence, until the mid-twentieth century.

Sir Ralph Milbanke and his wife, Judith, who were otherwise based at Seaham Hall, found themselves staying at Elemore in May 1792, where young Anne was born on 17^th May – the couple’s only child. She was educated to a high standard and became a formidable (and perhaps prudish) intellectual and moral figure – quite the wrong sort for the likes of her half-mad future husband.

Byron (if you’ve read my related post) described Anne as “a very superior woman, and very little spoiled, which is strange in an heiress … an only child, and a savante … a poetess, a mathematician, a metaphysician … there was never … a more amiable being.” After a long, drawn-out courtship, he finally did the decent thing in 1815 – then almost immediately abandoned his pregnant wife for good. She saw out a still comfortable existence thanks to her well-to-do connections and an inheritance which saw her, eventually, become Baroness Wentworth by a circuitous route. Along the way, she devoted herself to social causes, including, notably, the abolition of slavery. She died in 1860 (outliving her talented daughter) and was buried in London.

During the course of the twentieth century, Elemore Hall passed out of the hands of the Baker family, through the hands of the local council and National Coal Board, and has for many years been known as Elemore Hall School – an institution for children with social, emotional and behavioural problems. It still sits in wonderful isolation in its woodland setting, and has enjoyed a recent bout of remedial work to its decaying fabric.

The Hallgarth Tragedy (NZ320433)

In 1830, a little to the north-east of Durham City, took place one of the county’s most infamous murders. Two servants, left alone at Hallgarth Corn Mill, found themselves, apparently, the victims of an attack by a gang of local rogues. But all was not as it at first seemed.

Eighteen hundred three times ten,

August the eighth that day –

Let not that Sunday and that year

From memory pass away.

At Hallgarth Mill near Pittington,

Was done a murder foul,

The female weak – the murd’rer strong –

No pity for her soul.

Her skull was broke, her throat was cut,

Her struggle was soon o’er,

And down she fell, and fetched a sigh,

And welter’d in her gore.

Her fellow servant, Thomas Clarke,

To Sherburn slowly sped,

And told a tale that strangers six 

Had done the dreadful deed.

Now, woe betide thee, Thomas Clarke!

For this thy coward lie;

A youth like thee for girl like her

Would fight till he did die.

“They’ve killed the lass,” it was his tale,

“And nearly have killed me”;

But when upon him folks did look,

No bruises could they see.

And therein lies the clue to the true murderer’s identity: No bruises could they see. Another 28 stanzas later and poor young Clarke was dead by way of the hangman’s noose, his corpse on its way to Durham Infirmary for dissection. The evidence suggested that he himself had committed the dastardly deed rather than the ‘phantom’ gang of Irishmen to whom he had so earnestly pointed the finger of blame.

He pleaded his innocence until his dying breath, the case arousing astonishing levels of public interest along the way. Little wonder, then, that some unnamed local poet should cash in on the tragedy with his lengthy ballad.

Dryburn Gallows (c.NZ263438)

Precisely upon the spot where the shiny new University Hospital of North Durham now sits (the old Dryburn Hospital) is the site of Durham’s old gallows. The venue dedicated to the saving of lives these past several decades was, strangely, once the setting for the violent dispatch of life for many a year. It is perhaps doubly ironic that the site is also opposite County Hall, the centre of present-day local government.

The older part of the now largely modern hospital complex was once Dryburn House (or Hall), and in its grounds was located the gruesome place of execution for local ne’er-do-wells. All sorts of folk were sent to their deaths there, including some accused of witchcraft – and others of being gypsies! Much of this happened during the tough old days of the sixteenth century, and one execution in particular stands out from the rest.

It concerns a troublesome Catholic priest by the name of John Boste, who had for years made a damn nuisance of himself by preaching secret masses and making a second home for himself of various priest-holes across the land. Eventually he was collared near Durham City, and sentenced to hang at Dryburn on 24^th July 1594 – not before, however, a spell on the rack in the Tower of London, where he refused to renounce his Popish beliefs.

He was to be hanged, drawn and quartered, of course, but could not have imagined the horrendous nature of his eventual death. As is often the case with botched hangings, the ‘drop’ was pitifully insufficient, and the poor cleric hung for some time kicking and twisting on the end of the rope – until the executioner cut it and he fell to the ground. As he stood there, gasping for breathe, the hangman pounced on him. He was first castrated, then his abdomen was slashed open, allowing his insides to spill out – and was then polished him off by having his heart cut out. Oh, then his head was removed and displayed to the watching throng.

Then there was the quartering to sort out, too, of course.

Boste was canonised in 1970, and pilgrims still visit the nearby Durham Martyrs’ memorial, which was erected to the memory of Boste and two of his similarly executed comrades.