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.

Battle of Neville’s Cross (NZ260424)

© Copyright GordonGriffiths and licensed for 

reuse under this Creative CommonsLicence.

This most famous of military encounters – perhaps the most notable in County Durham’s history – took place between the English and (of course) the Scots on 17^th October 1346. On this occasion, it was the former who emerged victorious, placing the latter on the back foot for many years thereafter.

The battle took place during the Hundred Years’ War between England and France. The French, keen to divert the enemy away from hostilities in the south, persuaded King David II of Scotland to open a second front – which he duly did (if a little late) in the autumn of 1346. In early October, he led 12,000 troops over the border and into the northern counties of England, expecting little in the way of opposition.

After a week or so of pillage, they arrived on the outskirts of Durham City on 16^th October and camped at Bearpark, to the west. The English, however, had drawn together a military presence in the area, and, under the command of the likes of the Archbishop of York and the Lords Ralph Neville and Henry Percy, skirted around the threatened city considering their options.

Early on 17^th October 1346, a Scottish raiding party fell upon a branch of the English army, were duly routed, and were then followed during a hasty retreat to the site of the main invasion force. Various manoeuvrings followed in the ensuing hours, until the two forces were drawn up against one another at roughly the spot where the present-day railway line crosses the Great North Road (now the A167). A procession of monks from Durham Cathedral then performed a ceremony within sight of the brooding Scots to raise the spirits of the English ranks.

The English, though fewer in number, were better positioned than the Scots; and their longbow salvos soon overwhelmed the enemy’s pike. After three hours, King David of Scotland slipped away wounded, but was found hiding under a narrow bridge which still crosses the River Browney to the east of Bearpark. The day, for the Scots, was lost, and their king taken south – where he languished in Odiham Castle, Hampshire, for more than a decade. He wasn’t released (on payment of a hefty ransom) until 1357.

As for the commemorative cross, this was erected by Lord Neville shortly after the battle. It has been periodically vandalised and altered over the years – but a small fragment remains in the nearby suburbs.

St.Cuthbert’s Final Resting Place? (NZ273421)

Via Wikipedia (public domain)

As we all know, the mortal remains of St.Cuthbert lie in Durham Cathedral, right? Well, probably. The picture above tells us the official story, but a legend has persisted for centuries that the great saint’s bones actually rest elsewhere – and that the secret location has been passed down to a select handful of clerics still living today.

The history of St.Cuthbert’s remains and all the various relics that went with him is a lengthy one. To cut this very long story down to a manageable size, after his death in 687AD he was shipped from pillar to post for several centuries until he was finally laid to permanent rest within the walls of the newly-built cathedral around the turn of the twelfth century.

He has been disturbed at least thrice since. Once in 1541 when the Dissolution targeted the city, then in 1827 and 1899. The sum of the various investigations carried out at these times seemed to confirm the traditional story of the various shenanigans surrounding his post-mortem adventures – yet a curious rumour persists. Was, in fact, the body switched at some point, and the real remains hidden elsewhere?

The story goes that when Henry VIII and his chief minister Thomas Cromwell turned their eyes to Durham Cathedral in the dying days of the Dissolution, the monks panicked and substituted Cuthbert’s remains for some other nobody – probably a quick body switch during an overnight stay in the desecration process. As it happens, the ‘sacred remains’ – whether genuine or not – were reburied in due course, and remain where you will find them today, duly marked by a dirty big tombstone. Another version has Cuthbert’s genuine remains being desecrated, re-buried, then subsequently switched during 1542-58 for fear the royal commissioners should return for another poke at the same.

If the true remains were ever secreted away – to another spot in the cathedral, or elsewhere – nobody knows. Well, apart from a long, thin line of trusted clerics through which the secret has passed these past 450 years. 

Durham Cathedral & the Dunbar Martyrs (NZ273421)

For all its Norman grandeur, Durham Cathedral was the scene of one of the most heinous war crimes in British history. The story of the Dunbar Martyrs is hardly a secret as such, but over the years the harsh facts of the sorry episode have certainly been conveniently and repeatedly skirted around.

It all began with Oliver Cromwell’s defeat of the Scots at the Battle of Dunbar in September 1650. Thereafter, the English leader, not in the best of moods, proceeded to ransack much of Scotland whilst sending 5,000 prisoners on a forced march south, where they were bolted up in Durham Cathedral. During their journey they covered 120 miles in eight days with no food or water (except whatever they could quickly scavenge) – and almost half the soldiers died en route, with the remaining 3,000 being crammed into the cavernous cathedral building and castle on 11^th September.

And there they were kept until 31^st October, with virtually no food or water – or indeed heating. They helped themselves to much of the woodwork within in an attempt to keep warm, but illness and disease quickly gripped the prisoners, with dozens dying every day. One of the few items to escape the captives’ makeshift fires was a clock embossed with a Scottish thistle – an item which survives to this day.

Of the 3,000 who began the ordeal, around 1,400 survived – and most of these were promptly sold as slave labour to the new English colonies in the Americas. About 500 were pressed into lengthy military service overseas.

During maintenance work in the 1940s a mass grave was allegedly discovered to the north of the cathedral, it being (it was assumed) the Scottish burial pit. Subsequent investigations have, however, failed to confirm the theory.

A campaign is currently underway to erect a memorial to the victims of this appalling episode.

Ode to Durham (NZ271418)

Cast in stone on Prebends’ Bridge, Durham City:

Grey towers of Durham
Yet well I love thy mixed and massive piles
Half church of God, half castle 'gainst the Scot
And long to roam those venerable aisles
With records stored of deeds long since forgot.

[From Sir Walter Scott’s Harold the Dauntless, published 1817]

The Roman Empire’s Most Northerly Farm? (NZ288419)

A little to the east of Durham City sits a spot on the map which goes by the name of Old Durham. It is aptly named, as here was said to sit what is thought to have been the most northerly farm in Roman Britain. Well, of those that have so far been found, anyway.

Sand quarrying led to the accidental discovery of promising-looking relics there in the late 1930s, so the site was properly examined, archaeologically, in 1940. Broken Roman tiles seemed to indicate the former presence of a Roman bath house. It was speculated that a Romano-British villa-farm may have occupied the spot – but subsequent quarrying activities destroyed what was left of the aging bits and bobs.

Circumstantial evidence has since backed up the original archaeologists’ claims, and Old Durham is now generally regarded as the best candidate for the most northerly farmstead-villa of the old Roman Empire. It is known that a Roman way, Cade’s Road, passed nearby, for one thing – and ancient bridge footings have also been found a matter of yards away, suggesting it was may have been a busy little place. The site was probably active from the second to the fourth centuries, with the bath house added late in the day.

Much of the area is today taken up by Old Durham Gardens (see here), the recently revitalised grounds of an originally 17^th century manor house. Though the building was demolished within decades of its construction, the grounds continued to be used during the 18^th, 19^th and early 20^th centuries as a place of public recreation. Following a period of decline after WWII, the site has been brought back to life by the local council in recent years.

Sherburn Hospital (NZ307415)

Sherburn Hospital, 1774

The site on and around the institution formerly known as Sherburn Hospital, a little to the east of Durham City, has a lengthy history. Chances are, in fact, that not even the locals realise quite how far its story stretches back.

The set-up was founded as a leper hospital way back in 1181 by the famous Bishop Pudsey, and dedicated, rather clumsily, to “Our Lord, to the Blessed Virgin, to St. Lazarus and his sisters, Mary and Martha”. It came with extensive lands and has somehow managed to survive all that has been thrown at it since.

The Dissolution was the biggest hurdle, of course – but limp through the troublesome days of Henry VIII it did, re-establishing itself as “Christ’s Hospital in Sherburn” in 1585. In time, and with the discovery of coal reserves under its associated lands, it became very rich and was able to expand considerably during the Victorian era – branching into education, for one thing. It became what we would recognise as a ‘modern’ hospital during the 1860s-70s following construction work – though there were only 35 beds initially. However, a dispensary administered treatment extensively to the poor of the parish free of charge.

In time, its mode of operation shifted, having spent the past several decades as a care home of sorts, whilst providing financial support to establishments across the county – it closed as a hospital shortly after WWII with the birth of the NHS. It is now a pleasant enclave of Listed Buildings set around a grass court with fine gardens – the old hospital chapel being the only twelfth century survival.

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Durham City’s First Railway Station (NZ288408)

One’s arrival at Durham City’s present-day railway station, high to the north-west of the tight little conurbation, gives the lucky participant one of the finest views of the East Coast Main Line: the stunning vista that is Durham and its mighty Norman Cathedral. If ever there was an excuse to dismount and get out the camera, then surely this is it.

But Durham’s county town was not an easy place to reach by rail due to the awkward topography thereabouts. Following the birth of the railways in the North-East in 1825, the rail network spread rapidly throughout the region; but the task of linking County Durham’s two main towns, Sunderland and Durham, was easier said than done.

Shincliffe Village, a little to the south-east of Durham City – and very much outside the city boundary – was the unlikely setting of the very first railway station to serve the county’s ‘capital’. Moving coal from pit to port was the primarily use of the burgeoning rail network, of course, and one such line was thrown across the countryside from Sunderland to the pits and collieries to the south of Durham City at an early stage. This line passed through Shincliffe – the nearest it crept to the county town – so a decision was made to upgrade the line for passenger use as far as the little village. A brand new station was therefore built there to accommodate the travellers, and it opened on 28^th July 1839.

The village of Shincliffe had been served by a bridge over the Wear (which leads to Durham) for many, many centuries – possibly as far back as the Romans. A new structure had been thrown up as recently as 1824, so it was no doubt considered an easy enough two mile trip into town from this point – at least by the standards of the time. Needless to say, though, as people’s expectation grew, so easier access was sought, and a succession of new lines and stations eventually rendered Shincliffe Village Station redundant – though it hung on until 1893. Traces of it still remain in the village, apparently.

Pineapple Church, Rocket City (NZ305384)

© Copyright OliverDixon and licensed for reuse under this Creative CommonsLicence.

This extraordinary sight is the famous ‘Pineapple Church’ of Bowburn, County Durham – complete with its detached ‘Rocket’ spire. The unusual combo – more properly known as Christ the King Church – helped make the former pit village rather well-known during its short lifespan, Bowburn being often referred to as ‘Rocket City’.

The ‘Rocket’ was the first to hit the skyline – in 1963 – being commissioned by Father Bill Armstrong and designed by Harold Wharfe. The planned new church took a good deal longer to build, being capped off with its fruity topping in 1976 and dedicated in 1978. In case you’re wondering, the distinctive dome was made from fibreglass.

However, like much of that which was built in the 1970s, the church proved to be of problematic design and questionable construction. It soon began to demand too much in the way of maintenance, was closed in 2004 and then demolished in 2007. A new, and painfully plain, church was built in 2008.

The crazy spire remained, though … but not for long.  In October 2009, shortly before it was due to be cleaned, a gale brought it to ground. It was hastily carted off to the scrapyard before anyone got the daft idea of re-erecting it.

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Sunderland Bridge (NZ266376)

Visitors to this little village by the side of the old Great North Road often wonder about the origin of its place-name. After all, Sunderland proper lies a good fifteen miles to the North-East of this settlement. Can the two possibly be connected in some distant way?

Well, yes and no. By a strange coincidence, both lie adjacent to the River Wear. Moreover, both just happen to have the same place-name derivation. But that’s it, I’m afraid: there the similarities end. Sunderland Bridge, like its more famous namesake, is so labelled due to its being ‘sundered’ or ‘separated’ land. In the case of ‘little Sunderland’, the village was an isolated portion of the ancient parish of St.Oswald in Elvet to the north, from which it was separated by the aforementioned river. One may speculate that the ‘Bridge’ bit was added to distinguish it from ‘big’ Sunderland – perhaps. 

Over the years it has also been known as ‘Sunderland juxta Croxdale’ (juxta meaning ‘near’), and even simply ‘Sunderland-by-the-Bridge’. The bridge, in case you’re wondering, is the stone effort which lies nearby, and which has its roots in the 13th/14th century. Though the old river crossing is still in use, the weight of the main road is now taken by a modern-ish metal affair – and for good measure the East Coast Rail line also crosses the river a few yards upstream.

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Mr Newcastle (NZ342363)

Like the rest of the North-East’s football teams, Newcastle United’s glory days have long since disappeared over the horizon. But a constant in their much more successful decades during 1920-1960 was one George Stanley “Stan” Seymour, who was born in the County Durham village of Kelloe on 16^th May 1895*. The great black and white mainstay represented the club at every level: as a player, manager, chairman and director prior to his death in 1978.

Ironically, though, Seymour was rejected by the club as a teenager, but returned to grace the team’s left wing in a spectacular playing spell during 1920-29 – which included an F.A.Cup victory in 1924 and a League Championship success (the club’s last) in 1927. He famously supplied the ammunition for legendary centre-forward Hughie Gallacher during 1925-29, as well as bagging 70+ goals himself during his nine-year stay. He appeared twice (unofficially) for England, too.

He retired from playing in 1929 and set up a sports shop in the city centre (which survived for many decades), before being recalled as a director of the club in 1938 – and effectively managed the team for the next 16 years (with a break during 1947-50). He steered Newcastle United to back-to-back F.A.Cup Final wins in 1951 & 1952, before stepping down and moving upstairs to become chairman (1954-56). His presence continued to overshadow the club and city in the ensuing years, before he returned briefly as the club’s president during 1976-78 – dying in office in December 1978.

There is a great debt owed by Newcastle United to Stan Seymour for all of his services to the club.

[‘Wor Jackie’ Milburn]

* Some sources give his birth year as 1893.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning (NZ331359)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning is recognised – and was acknowledged in her lifetime – as one of the best known and most popular poets of the Victorian era. And though she lived most of her life in Herefordshire, the south of England and Italy, Elizabeth was actually born at Coxhoe Hall, Co.Durham, in 1806.

Although she came to vehemently oppose slavery, her family fortune was largely derived from the industry – from sugar plantations in Jamaica. At the time of her birth, the family lived at the aforementioned mansion situated between Coxhoe and Kelloe, though they would move to their famous Hope End estate near the Malvern Hills in 1809. Elizabeth was the eldest of twelve children, and was herself baptised at Kelloe parish church shortly before the move.

She was a deeply studious child, an avid reader and wrote poetry from any early age. Her mother would compile collections of her work, and her father would encourage her efforts, too – and she was educated thoroughly at home whilst her brothers were formally schooled. She became an ardent feminist after studying the work of Mary Wollstonecraft.

Published from an early age, she built up and maintained correspondence with many leading classical scholars. However, from the age of 15 she suffered a lengthy and undiagnosed illness, which troubled her for the rest of her life. The opiates and morphine she took to combat the pain may have contributed to her vivid imaginings.

Financial misfortune took the family to London, where she expanded her social circle to include the likes of Wordsworth, Coleridge and Tennyson. She spent some time in Torquay for health reasons, but returned to the capital for her most prolific period of the early 1840s. She married Robert Browning in 1846, and they moved to Italy – being largely disowned by her family. Despite her ill-health, they had a son, Robert, in 1849, but her frail body finally gave way to death – probably from lung disease – in 1861. She was buried in Florence – a long way from her place of birth here in the North-East – and was lauded long after her death.

Coxhoe Hall eventually found its way into the hands of the Coal Board, was used to house enemy PoWs during WWII, and then fell into disrepair prior to its demolition in 1956.

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The Trimdon Grange Explosion (NZ368357)

The Trimdon Grange explosion of 16^th February 1882 left 74 men and boys dead. Within hours, famous local song-smith, Tommy Armstrong, had penned the following to help raise funds for the dependants…

Let’s not think of tomorrow, lest we disappointed be,

Our joys may turn to sorrow, as we all may daily see;

Today we’re strong and healthy, but how soon there comes a change,

As we may see from the explosion that has been at Trimdon Grange.

Men and boys left home that morning for to earn their daily bread,

Little thought before the evening they’d be numbered with the dead;

Let us think of Mrs Burnett, once had sons and now has none –

With the Trimdon Grange explosion, Joseph, George and James are gone.

February left behind it what will never be forgot:

Weeping widows, helpless children, may be found in many a cot;

Little children, kind and loving, from their homes each day would run,

For to meet their fathers’ coming, as each hard day’s work was done.

Now they ask if father’s left them, and the mother hangs her head,

With a weeping widow’s feelings tells the child its father’s dead;

Homes that once were blessed with comfort, guided by a father’s care,

Now are solemn, sad and gloomy, since the father is not there.

God protect the lonely widow, help to raise each drooping head,

Be a father to the orphans, never let them cry for bread;

Death will pay us all a visit, they have only gone before,

We may meet the Trimdon victims where explosions are no more.

By Tommy Armstrong, 1882.

Garmondsway & the King (NZ342348)

On the face of it, there doesn’t appear to have ever been very much in the way of activity in and around Garmondsway. The few farm- and home-steads which remains in the landscape a couple of miles west of Trimdon don’t appear to have seen much action over the centuries.

A railway line once helped serve the old limestone quarry to the north, the empty expanse of Garmondsway Moor lies to the south and – going way back – an old Roman road (now the A177) skirted the area a little to the west.

But look on the modern-day map and you’ll see the site of the old abandoned medieval village marked at NZ342348. Nothing much to look at now, maybe, but at one time this tiny settlement was important enough to receive mention in the history books as having been visited by King Canute.

For, in 1027, shortly after a slightly more high-profile pilgrimage to Rome, England’s then monarch decided to set out on a local mini-pilgrimage to the shrine of St.Cuthbert at Durham. On the way, the royal retinue passed through Garmondsway; and it was here – at a distance of some 5 or 6 miles from their destination – that they decided to complete the remainder of the trip barefoot, as pilgrims are prone to do. Canute is also rumoured to have shaved his hair and beard clean off for the occasion.

The Brass House Farm Murders (NZ273327)

In 1683, one of the most infamous incidents of mass murder in the region’s history took place at Brass House Farm (now High Hill House Farm) a little to the west of Ferryhill. It was committed by teenage servant Andrew Mills, who killed his master’s three children…

1682/3 Jan.25 – A sad, cruel murther committed by a Boy about 18 or 19 years of age, nere Ferryhill, nere Durham, being Thursday at night. The manner is by report:- When the Parents were out of dores, a young man, being Sone to ye house, and 2 Daughters, was kil’d by this Boy with an axe, having knockt ym in ye head, afterwards cut their throats; one of ym being asleep in ye bed, about 10 or 11 yeares age; the other Daughter was to be married at Candlemas. After he had kil’d the Sone and the eldest Daughter, being above 20 years of age, a little Lass her sister, about ye age of 11 yeares of age, he drag’d her out of bed and kil’d her alsoe. This Andrew Millns, or Miles [Mills] was hanged in irons upon a gybett, nere Ferryhill, upon the 15^th day of August, being Wednesday this yeare, 1683.

[from the diary of Jacob Bee, resident of Durham City]

Mills was hanged at Durham, and his body suspended in chains upon a gibbet – reportedly a mile north of Ferryhill and within sight of the scene of his terrible deed.

Website devoted to story here, and expanded contemporary account here.