Shildon: Trains for the World (NZ233257)

If Shildon is known for anything it is its contribution to the history of the railways. If you’re not sure what I mean, then look it up. We’re talking about the 1820s and 30s here, of course – the very earliest days of the industry proper, when a certain Mr Timothy Hackworth was the main man in these parts. I’m sure you’ll have heard of him.

You may also have heard of the Stockton & Darlington Railway, which hosted the very first passenger steam railway journey on 27^th September 1825. The workshops for this company (the Soho Works) were at Shildon, and it was Hackworth who was very much the man in charge at this famous establishment.

The North-East of England didn’t only give railways to the UK, of course, but it gave them, in turn, to the world. There are many examples of this proud boast, but two notable cases (at least) are linked directly with the Shildon plant. For both Russia and Canada have this modest County Durham town to thank for the founding of their rail networks.

Russia came knocking in 1835 when they needed a steam locomotive to make their very first railway line, from St.Petersburg to Tsarskoye Selo, viable. It was built to the standard designs of the day, then, remarkably, Hackworth put his sixteen-year-old son, John, in charge of operations. And, despite the huge logistical problems of transporting a loco 1,600 miles across land and sea and getting the engine up and running, the young man completed the task successfully. By the late summer of 1836, with the engine fully operative, the youngster was being praised from all quarters, including a very pleased Tsar Nicholas I.

The General Mining Association of Nova Scotia, Canada, then came along in 1838, and placed an order for three engines. These were the first contraptions of their kind to run in British North America, being shipped out in the spring of 1839. The very first loco was named Samson, and ran from its inaugural journey in the autumn of 1839 until 1882 – and it still survives to this day. Amazingly, its driver throughout its working life was a Shildon employee of Timothy Hackworth’s, George Davidson, who emigrated to Nova Scotia with the engine. 

The Samson, pictured above in days of old together with its very first passenger coach, is now on display at the Nova Scotia Museum of Industry. It is one of only three surviving locomotives designed by the great Timothy Hackworth (the others being Derwent and Sans Pareil).

Wallsend and The Grand Duke (NZ310664)

 

As part of the Europe-wide celebrations following the overthrow of Napoleon, a state visit to the UK was arranged for Alexander I, Emperor of Russia, in 1816. Accompanying Alexander was his 20-year-old younger brother (and future Emperor), The Grand Duke Nicholas. It was a holiday the young man would never forget.

Nicholas must have fancied himself as something of a man of the world; an adventurer even. For, breaking free of the royal party, he determined upon some new personal experiences as part of what he must have considered to be his exciting ‘alternative tour’. Top of his list of ‘must-dos’ seems to have been to visit a coal mine; and so, in view of the pit’s famed reputation, he was ushered north to Wallsend Colliery.

The esteemed dignitary’s arrival sparked a burst of regionalistic verve. Wearside welcomed him first, with a visit to the river’s then famous bridge; before moving onto Newcastle and an introduction to Thomas Bewick, among others. Eventually arriving at Wallsend on 16th December 1816, he was given a prolonged tour of the colliery site, before being invited to change out of his glittering finery and into a deputy-overman’s outfit, prior to being escorted to the gaping hole that was the pit-head.

The chosen mode of descent for The Grand Duke was considered the safest of its day. This involved the riding of a large iron hook at the end of a long rope, by which he was told to cling to firmly, whilst keeping himself clear of the black and dripping walls with a short stick during his long, slow drop.

At the time, Wallsend Colliery was one of the most profitable in the land and produced the very finest quality coal. The visit was meant to impress and enlighten, but ended up delivering a little too much in the way of information. For when Nicholas was brought to the very edge of the pit and looked down into the abyss, he stepped back hurriedly, holding up his hands in horror, exclaiming in French, “Ah! My God! It is the mouth of hell! None but a madman would venture into it!”

He hastily retreated, changed quickly back into his splendid military attire, and left Wallsend Colliery as fast as his carriage would carry him.

Bomarsund & a Piece of Military History (NZ270845)

What an odd name for a village, you may think. Slap bang in the middle of the south-east Northumberland coalfield, this little settlement on the short stretch of road between Bedlington Station and Stakeford offers a curious little conundrum to those who are interested in the origin of our place-names. A quick search of the internet soon solves the problem, of course. And it turns out that this former pit village owes its moniker to an obscure piece of British military history buried deep in the folds of the Crimean War.

 

It all began with Sweden’s defeat at the hands of Russia in the Finnish War of 1808-09, after which the Aland Islands and Finland became part of the Russian Empire. Despite the terms of the peace treaty forbidding it, Russia began to build a fortress at a place called Sund on the Aland Islands from 1832 – in the strait between Sweden and Finland in the Baltic Sea. This was a strategically sensitive spot on the globe, and the British were not happy about it. So, during the Crimean War of 1853-56, we (and the French) took the chance to blow the still unfinished fortress to smithereens in 1854. The ruins can still be seen today.

 

The Battle of Bomarsund, as it was called, must have been seen as quite an important victory at the time, for the guy who sunk the brand new pit shaft in the middle of nowhere a little to the south of Stakeford decided to call it Bomarsund Pit – officially known, however, as Bedlington F Pit. Sunk in 1854, the new colliery soon attracted a few rows of houses, and the village was born. The pit finally closed in 1965.

Newbiggin’s Long Stretch (NZ314880)

Newbiggin-by-the-Sea has several claims to fame – my favourite, perhaps, being its place in submarine telegraphy history.

The laying of telegraph cables under the sea must have been a heck of a job, especially when you consider that it began as long ago as 1850 with a stretch across the English Channel. This unravelling of the first cable – presumably, an immense task – was thwarted by French fishermen after three days when they accidentally severed it. A year later they tried again, but ran out of wire before they reached the continent, bodged the repair, then had to do it all again a few weeks later.

So by 1868, they’d had a bit of practice. And this time it was the turn of the North Sea, and the first ever link-up between the UK and Scandinavia. The scheme was part of a master plan to link England, Scandinavia and Russia, by the Dane, C.F.Tietgen, using contractors R.S.Newall & Co to make and lay the cables. The vessels Archimedes and Chevy Chase were chosen to make the journey.

All that seems to survive of the momentous occasion is a short report in The Times which informs us that on 9th September 1868 “cables were floated by tar barrels, towed ashore by Danish seamen in longboats, then pulled up the beach by horses and placed in trenches cut by local fishermen – they terminated in the ‘Cable House’.” Longboats, eh?

Anyway, this was a notable first for Newbiggin, believe me. And the ‘Cable House’ actually still exists! Here it is…

 

The building's owners still received rent for what is known as ‘wayleave’ (permission for the cable company to access their equipment) until as late as 1960 when the firm set up by C.F.Tietgen all those years ago (The Great Northern Telegraph Co.) finally ceased to operate from the town.

 

More information on the industry’s history can be found here. The above photograph was lifted from http://www.newbigginbythesea.co.uk/ . Oh, and there’s a nice picture of the little plaque you can (just) see above here.

Berwick v. Russia and Other Unfinished Wars (NT997533)

Most of us have heard the story of how little Berwick-upon-Tweed remained at war with mighty Russia way after the Crimean War peace treaty was signed in 1856. In case you are blissfully unaware, it goes something like this….

Because of Berwick’s tendency to change hands between England and Scotland, old-time proclamations often referred to “England, Scotland and the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed”. Such was the case when the official declaration of war was made against Russia in 1853, when Queen Victoria supposedly signed herself as “Victoria, Queen of Great Britain, Ireland, Berwick-upon-Tweed and all British Dominions”. Though the war was wrapped up in 1856, the Treaty of Paris failed to include the “Berwick-upon-Tweed” bit, seemingly leaving the little border town at war with a substantial world power.

Investigations in the 1970s, however, revealed that Berwick was not named in either proclamation, and that the yarn had been spun by a lecturing vicar in the early twentieth century who hadn’t done his research properly. As it happens, the Wales and Berwick Act of 1746 had quite clearly stipulated that all references to England in matters relating to law should include Wales and Berwick – so the doubts about the 1853 or 1856 utterances were irrelevant. To ease all doubts, a Soviet official visited the Mayor of Berwick, Robert Knox, in 1966 to effect a peace treaty, ‘just in case’. It was at this meeting that Knox uttered the famous words: “Please tell the Russian people that they can sleep peacefully in their beds.” Unfortunately, Mayor Knox almost certainly exceeded his powers when signing the agreement, thus invalidating the belated ‘peace treaty’ – and any official paperwork concerning the meeting has been lost.

This all raises the question of whether other similar ‘conflicts’ have remained unresolved for lengthy periods of time. Wikipedia’s snappily-titled ‘List of Wars Extended by Diplomatic Irregularity’ gives a few interesting examples, including the incredible fact that the Second World War between the Allies and Germany did not technically end until the latter’s unification after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989-90. It was all to do with the fact that the Potsdam Agreement of 1945 concerning the governance of Germany couldn’t be properly and absolutely imposed until the nation was recognisably re-united. Consequently, the state of war persisted until the signing of the ‘Treaty on the Final Settlement with Respect to Germany’ on 12th September 1990.