Nelson’s Forgotten Memorials (NU165028 & NU174029)

Yes, plural. For there are two of them, within yards of each other, in fact, just off the A1 near Swarland in Northumberland. But they take some finding, though.

Swarland Hall is one of the county’s lost houses, having been demolished in 1947. At the time of Lord Nelson’s pomp it was owned by one Alexander Davison, businessman and close personal friend of our great national hero – as well as being his agent for a short period. After the famous British victory at the Battle of the Nile in 1798, Davison redesigned his park at Swarland to reflect, in shape, that of the scene of the battle (Aboukir Bay), and planted it with trees to represent the British fleet in battle order. Not much of this creation remains today, but it is (very) faintly discernable on Google Earth.

Also, after the Battle of Trafalgar (and Nelson’s death), Davison erected a dwarf obelisk beside the old A1 (the modern road runs a little to the east) in honour of his friend. Now known as the Nelson Memorial, it is largely hidden behind a curtain of trees just off the old trunk road, though still accessible to the determined tourist.

Coquet Island (NU294045)

 

This small island, one mile east of Amble off the Northumberland coast, has an eventful history for such a tiny wee place. It is now an RSPB reserve, of course, and a well-protected one at that, with no members of the general public permitted to land on its rocky shores. Even the lighthouse is now fully automated.

 

Not that it has ever been ‘populated’ to any great extent, you understand; hermits are those most closely associated with its barren 15 acres or so. St.Cuthbert spent a little time there, famously granting an interview to Elfed, Abbess of Whitby and sister of King Ecgfrith, during which he was effectively offered the bishopric of Lindisfarne. But the island is most closely tied to the solitary life of one St.Henry of Coquet.

 

Henry came to Coquet Island in the early 12th century, having been guided by a vision to make good his escape from an arranged marriage in his native Denmark and dedicate his life to a one in lonely praise of God. After a quick word with the powers-that-be at Tynemouth Priory, he ensconced himself on the rocky outpost and set about his calling. He lived a severely austere existence, surviving on only three small meals a week and gave up speaking for several years. His extreme mode of living brought much criticism from the monk formally in charge of the island – a manifestation of his envy, presumably, due to what can only be described as the ‘high standards’ of his vows of poverty – and cries aplenty from his relatives back in Denmark to return to the bosom of his family and a hermitage much nearer to home. Being afflicted by a “loathsome affection” to his knee, however, he insisted upon staying put.

 

He was credited with ‘second sight’, of course, as most of his type were. He saw lots of things others couldn’t, made premonitions, magicked up miracles, and was considered something of a wiseman. You know, the usual sort of thing. In early 1127, though, his ulcerated knee finally sent him on his way to the other side, with his remains being buried at Tynemouth Priory.

Amble’s Footie Legend (NU268045)

  

Well, if you’re a Burnley fan, anyway. The chap in question being one John Angus, a ‘one-club man’ who spent his entire professional career playing for ‘The Clarets’.

Angus was born in Amble on 2nd September 1938, and was plucked out of local schoolboy football by the Lancashire outfit in 1954. A year later, on his 17th birthday, he signed his professional papers. He took some months to settle, but the day after his 18th birthday he made his first-team debut for Burnley against Everton, performing well in a 2-1 victory. He was in and out of the team for a couple of seasons; but on the arrival of new manager, Harry Potts, Angus became a regular at right-back. And there he stayed for the rest of his career.

‘Cool John Angus’ was one of the key pieces in the Burnley jigsaw which saw them win the Football League Championship in 1960. He was known for his calm and collected style of play, usually carrying the ball out of defence rather than ‘hoofing it up the park’, as was so often the norm in those days. He was rewarded with international honours at Youth and Under-23 levels; and won a single full cap for England – in a 3-1 defeat against Austria in 1961 – when he was, ironically, played out of position at left-back. With the likes of Jimmy Armfield and George Cohen ahead of him in the queue for the right-back spot, Angus never played for his country again – though England manager, Walter Winterbottom, described his performance as one of the best debuts he had ever seen.

He hung onto the No.2 shirt at Burnley through until the club's relegation from the top division in 1971, played two matches in Division 2 the following season, then retired due to injury. He played a total of 521 games for his beloved club.

Last I heard, John Angus was living in contented retirement in Warkworth.

Warkworth Hermitage (NU241059)

One of the most famous – and curious – of beauty spots in the whole of the North-East is the hermitage hewn into the sandstone bank of the River Coquet near Warkworth. This fascinating corner of the region is accessible only by boat, following a short walk westwards along the river from the castle.

Ascending a short flight of stone steps brings the visitor to the spot in question, amounting to a chapel (complete with ribbed vaulting and an altar), a sacristy and a couple of small rooms presumed to be the hermit’s old living quarters. A quick image search of the internet will bring adequate results for the curious reader, and far more information than I could by way of written description. Either way, one may wonder just how this place came to be. The answer, naturally, lies in legend. Or so we are encouraged to believe.

Sir Bertram of Bothal, one of the Earl Percy’s knights, was betrothed to Lady Isabel, the daughter of a local noble. Wounded in battle, he sent for Isabel, but was dismayed when she failed to show. When he had recovered, he made for her home, only to find that she had set off to meet him upon his original call – so must have been kidnapped. Sir Bertram and his brother then set off in different directions to search for her, and eventually the former tracked her down to her place of captivity – a tower in a remote castle. During a night-time vigil, Bertram spotted a shadowy figure helping his betrothed from her tower and down a ladder. He drew his sword and leapt to her defence, unaware that the other man was his brother. Isabel threw herself between the men in an attempt to prevent the clash, and the sword swept through them both, killing them instantly.

Wracked with guilt, Bertram returned to his Warkworth home and gave all his property and land away to the poor. He built the Hermitage with his bare hands, and there he lived in solitude for the rest of his days in self-imposed penance. Over the doorway he carved an inscription, which, translated, reads: “My tears have been my meat night and day”. The original hermitage was greatly added to by subsequent occupiers over the centuries.

It is now thought that the tale was compiled by a chancing bishop who wanted to be accepted by the Percy family as one of their own. He failed in his aim, though his yarn has survived through to the present. In all truth, the place was more likely built as a simple chantry in the fifteenth century, and was known to have been occupied by a series of clergymen in the decades leading up to the Reformation. But that’s just plain boring.

Saturday 13th July 1174: Bad News Day (NU247062)

During the eighteen month period from April 1173 to September 1174, King Henry II of England, Normandy and Anjou, spent most of his time fending off a revolt from his wife and three of their sons. And all of this at a time when he was in most people’s bad books after the murder of Thomas Becket in 1170. But he came through it all successfully, continuing his rule until his death in 1189.

The north of England suffered a fair bit during this period of upheaval, with the rebels’ alliance with both the Scots and Bishop Pudsey (the most powerful of Durham’s Prince Bishops) bringing a good deal of hassle the way of the local populace. And one day in particular stands out: Saturday 13th July 1174.

Now I’m not sure of the exact order of events on that fateful day, but as for Bishop Pudsey, well, he must have awoken that morning thinking that his plan was coming together very nicely. For that day, forty knights and 500 Flemish soldiers sailed into Hartlepool to support the rebellion, and were placed under the command of the bishop’s nephew, Hugh, Count of Bar.

Elsewhere, and at the very same time, the Scots were busy rampaging around the Northumberland countryside, as they were prone to do. And this summer Saturday morning it was the turn of Warkworth to suffer, as the ravishing hordes descended on the town. Duncan, Earl of Fife, under orders from the Scottish king, William the Lion, unleashed the full force of his army upon the hapless men, women and children of Warkworth, setting the streets ablaze. Amidst the chaos, 300 of them took refuge in the Church of St.Lawrence – but the Earl’s men broke in and butchered them all, paying no regard to age or sex.

St.Lawrence’s Church, Warkworth

But the day was not yet over. The Scottish king, William the Lion, was keen to commence his siege of Alnwick Castle before the day was out, and this he did with such enthusiasm that he ventured too close to the castle’s walls and was snatched and taken prisoner. The Scots were effectively beaten, and the rebellion thereafter crumbled. Bishop Pudsey’s Flemish mercenaries quickly turned on their heels and scarpered home, and the rebel cleric made a hasty peace with Henry II.

 

Astonishingly, King Henry had only just visited Canterbury the day before (12th July) to do penance for his involvement in the death of Thomas Becket in December 1170….

 

Alnmouth’s Wind of Change (NU247100)

The wind in question being the storm of Christmas Day 1806 – the defining moment in the history of this Northumbrian village. If most of the history books are to be believed, that is. But was it?

Many of you will be familiar with the tale. Until the fateful day a little over two centuries ago, Alnmouth was doing very nicely, thank you. It had made a good living from its spot at the estuary of the River Aln: an ample harbour offering shelter to sizeable vessels from Scotland, London and continental Europe, and plentiful trade besides. Plenty of stuff came in, but it was the export of local agricultural produce (wool and grain, mainly) and coal which kept the locals busy. At one time there were sixteen granaries on and around the quayside and room enough for more than a dozen ships at a time in the harbour. And, of course, there were the fishing boats, too. During the 1700s, the port was at its peak.

Then on Christmas Day 1806 came the wind and the rain, an act of God powerful enough to change the course of the river from its southern course around the village’s dilapidated old church to a more northerly one, separating the ruin from its flock – and pretty much destroying what was left of it, to boot.

Afterwards, Alnmouth’s fortunes slowly declined. And the change in luck was blamed on the river. It seemed as if the ships couldn’t navigate the river’s new course quite as easily and trade fell away. That’s what tradition would have us believe, anyway. The fact is, the records show that shipping ‘trends’ didn’t really change at all pre- and post-1806. The river was beginning to silk up anyway, and as ships were simply getting bigger and heavier, the Aln’s days may have been numbered regardless of the weather. Shipping activity to and from the port did not begin to seriously decline until the mid-1800s, a development accelerated by the arrival of the East Coast rail line around the same time. In 1896 the final sea-bound imports arrived – and then, nothing.

The railway, thought to have signalled the end of Alnmouth’s heyday, launched, in fact, a new era in the village’s history. For the rich Victorians discovered the town, and turned it into a fashionable holiday resort. The old granaries were turned into accommodation, the main thoroughfare (Northumberland Street) was developed and Alnmouth found a new niche in the modern world.

Tales from Two Pubs

In Narrowgate, Alnwick, sits a whitewashed public house called Ye Olde Cross (NU185134). You can’t miss it. And when you find it, take a look in the shallow bay window to the right of the entrance, and you will find a curious little display of glassware together with a note which reads:-

These bottles have been here for over 150 years.  Whilst putting them here the man collapsed and died.  It was said that if anyone tried to move them they would share the same fate.  They have never been touched since.

The man in question was the pub’s landlord, who is supposed to have cursed the bottles as he endured his death throes. It was his widow who issued the fateful warning – ignored, apparently, by some poor unfortunate several years later, who similarly perished.

The display has lain untouched since and is covered in cobwebs, giving the pub its local nickname of ‘Dirty Bottles’.
 

Not too far away, on Northumberland Street, Alnmouth, can be found The Schooner Hotel (NU247104), the “most haunted hotel in Great Britain.” The title, twice bestowed by the esteemed Poltergeist Society, has stuck, naturally, if for no other reason than to attract a bit of attention from passing tourists.

However, we are assured that the place has been “thoroughly investigated”, and is “listed on record as having over 60 individual ghosts”. There are many tales of accidental death, suicide, and even mass murder surrounding the hotel – though solid evidence is sadly lacking. Living TV’s Most Haunted called in in 2003, after which it was given a most favourable rating. Room 28 is the spookiest, they say, the setting of the mass murder of a French family by a gypsy for their belongings three centuries ago.

The Schooner’s reputation hasn’t deterred the famous from staying over. Charles Dickens, Douglas Bader, and King George III have all spent the night there – as well as John Wesley, who was aware of the village’s reputation for “wickedness”, though this was probably a reference to its smuggling history more than anything else.

So if you ever have the chance of staying there, well, remember, Room 28 is the one you should insist on.

Alnwick Castle: The Star of the Show (NU188137)

We’ve all wondered, haven’t we? Every time it pops up in another film – Alnwick Castle, that is. I mean, just how many films has this place featured in over the years? Well, I don’t think anyone really knows for sure, but here’s the best I can come up with. I make it fifteen…

1954 Prince Valiant

1964 Becket

1971 Mary, Queen of Scots

1977 Count Dracula

1979 The Spaceman and King Arthur

1982 Ivanhoe

1983 Robin Hood and the Sorcerer

1991 Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves

1998 Monk Dawson

1998 Elizabeth

1998 A Knight in Camelot

2001 Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

2002 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

2009 Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

2010 Robin Hood

Some of these are, I admit, TV movies, but they still count as feature-length efforts. And in addition to the above, there have been more than twenty TV programmes or series filmed at the old place – among them, The Black Adder, The Adventures of Robin Hood, Robin of Sherwood, The Glass Virgin and Ivanhoe (the series); as well as the odd short film.

I’d be interested to know if anyone can add any more.

In Demand: Alnwick Castle

The Smithsonian Museum and its North-East Connection

I can’t possibly leave the subject of the life of the 1st Duke of Northumberland without claiming a neat little piece of glory for the region. For the very famous Smithsonian Institute and all its related museums and educational centres throughout the US owes its very foundation to the man – or rather, the man’s son.

Or, to put it more brusquely, the Duke’s illegitimate son.

The mighty American organisation was founded thanks to a bequest left in the will of one James Smithson, a British mineralogist and chemist, who died in 1829. Smithson had been a wise investor, amassing a huge fortune which he left, initially, to his nephew. However, it was stipulated in the will that if the beneficiary were to die without issue (which he thoughtfully did, in 1835), then the money should be passed “to the United States of America, to found at Washington, an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men.”

James Smithson – or Jacques Louis Macie, as he was originally known – was born in Paris in 1764 to one Elizabeth Hungerford Macie (nee Keate), following an affair with a prominent English landowner, Sir Hugh Smithson. Sir Hugh, who would eventually become the 1st Duke of Northumberland, was, at this time, married to Elizabeth Seymour, a Percy heiress, and had actually changed his name to Hugh Percy in order to inhert the earldom of Northumberland on his father-in-law’s death in 1750 – and would eventually be created 1st Duke in 1766.

Heavily influenced by his mother’s side of the family (his father, Hugh, never acknowledged him), James took the scientific route, being elected to the Royal Society in 1787 aged only 22. In 1802, a little after his mother’s death, he changed his name from Macie to Smithson. He died in Genoa in 1829, his remains being later moved and reburied in Washington D.C. at the Smithsonian Institution Building.

Astonishingly, James Smithson had never set foot in the US during his lifetime, and the reason for his bequest is unknown.

More Favourite Picnic Sites

The previous blog entry concerned a Northumbrian beauty spot which held a special place in the hearts of the 1st Duke and Duchess of Northumberland. As it happens, the environs of Alnwick are strewn with such eighteenth century ‘picnicking areas’, if the history books are to be believed.

Hulne Park, that splendid, sprawling (and, happily, open to the public) expanse of countryside to the north-west of the town, contains two of these haunts, with a third lying a little to the north of the estate boundary. Brizlee Tower lords it over them all, sitting, as it does, on a hilly prominence at NU158148. I mean, have a look: it’s magnificent…

Brizlee Tower
© Copyright Les Hull and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

It was designed, like Ratcheugh Observatory, by Robert Adam, in 1777 for the 1st Duke – a year after the death of the Duchess to commemorate her life (he had, after all, inherited his title through her line in 1750, lucky chap). It stands 87 feet in height, and provides spectacular views of the surrounding parkland – itself laid out by ‘Capability’ Brown – but is nothing more than a folly. The tower has recently undergone repair after being placed on the English Heritage ‘at risk’ register. It is a Grade I listed building.

Hulne Priory (NU164158), though not an actual creation of the 1st Duke and Duchess (it was founded in c.1260), was most certainly added to by them both before and after the latter’s 1776 death. For once, the Duchess would at least have been able to enjoy her summer days in and around the old place, much as tourists do today. But to get there you’ll have to walk!

Hulne Priory: church in foreground, tower behind.

Finally, there is Heiferlaw Tower (NU183177), built in the late 15th century for the monks of Alnwick Abbey – most probably as a lookout and/or beacon to warn of Scottish raids. It is built in the style of a bastle: animals/storage at ground floor, accommodation above. After the Duke & Duchess had finished using the place for their leisure purposes, it came back into use, briefly, as a lookout point during the Napoleonic Wars.

There’s a nice pic of Heiferlaw Tower here , from where you can access plenty more information on all of the abovementioned sites.

Ratcheugh Observatory (NU224146)

© Copyright Ian Paterson and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

This curious construction sits upon Ratcheugh Crag, about 2 miles NE of Alnwick, in full view of the East Coast railway line. Commissioned by the 1st Duke of Northumberland, designed by the great Robert Adam and built by John Bell of Durham, its exact date of erection cannot be precisely pinned down – but was probably thrown up around 1770-80. It is what can only be described as a useful folly – if that isn’t a contradiction in terms – the first floor offering spectacular views of the coast and surrounding countryside.

This lofty site was a favourite picnic spot for the Duke and his Duchess, though some sources suggest the building was built in memory of the latter, who died in 1776 – which would be a shame, really, as I’m sure she’d have loved it. The structure has recently undergone repair, and is occasionally opened to the public.

The 2nd Duke later added a cottage for a keeper near the observatory (not in picture), to give the whole craggy prominence a rather eccentric look. Hereabouts, too, are to be found many Iron Age relics – and Ratcheugh Farm is a regular venue for the age-old pastime of point-to-point horseracing.

An odd and interesting place is Ratcheugh.

RAF Boulmer (NU255135)

In 1940, at the height of the German bombing raids during World War II, land was requisitioned from a local farmer by the War Department and Northumberland County Council was tasked with the construction of a dummy airfield near the village of Boulmer on the North-East coast. Within weeks, grass runways had been cut, plywood and canvas ‘aircraft’ assembled and several false outbuildings erected.

The idea was to draw the Luftwaffe away from ‘proper’ bases nearby, such as RAF Acklington a few miles to the south. And it worked. Two raids are recorded at Boulmer, one each in 1940 and 1941 – both of which caused considerable damage. However, information thereafter came to hand that the Germans had pretty much sussed Britain’s cheeky nationwide subterfuge, and the decoy airfield network was not maintained beyond late 1942. It therefore seemed as if RAF Boulmer’s days were over as the government changed tack.

However, in March 1943, the airfield was back in favour as its conversion into a fully-fledged airfield began. Three runways and a scattering of outbuildings were laid out, the new RAF Boulmer acting as both a satellite airfield to RAF Eshott (near Felton) and a training base.

The end of hostilities in 1945 brought the closure of the complex; but the onset of the Cold War saw the airfield resurrected yet again. A new Operations Site was built a little to the west of the old base (with a number of the old buildings being recycled), and from 1953 RAF Boulmer once again became a valuable link in the UK’s defence system as an Air Defence Control Centre – high powered radars and all.

And it still plays an important monitoring role to this day as a NATO Control Reporting Centre, with responsibility for the 24-hour surveillance of UK airspace. Aircraft operations proper did not return until 1978 when a Search & Rescue Team were relocated there after the closure of RAF Acklington. Sea Kings continue to whirl out of RAF Boulmer to this day, as over 1,000 staff man the various operations based there.

Earl Grey’s Legacies (NU262175)

Charles, 2nd Earl Grey, is famous for (a) being the architect of the Great Reform Act of 1832, (b) a blend of tea, and (c) having a thumping great monument in his honour slap-bang in the middle of Newcastle. He lived from 1764 to 1845, his ancestral home being Howick Hall on the Northumberland coast.

As prime minister during 1830-34, he oversaw the passing of perhaps the most famous act in British parliamentary history, when his Whig government saw off stiff opposition from the Duke of Wellington to effect the passing of the Great Reform Act. To say nothing of the Abolition of Slavery Act a few months later.

As a tea enthusiast, he received his special blend as a gift from a Chinese mandarin to suit the water from the well at Howick, using the oil from bergamot orange rind to offset the taste of the lime in the water. Lady Grey used the tipple in London when entertaining, and it proved so popular that she was asked if it could be sold to others – which is how it came to be sold worldwide. The Greys, however, failed to properly protect their ‘invention’ and did not make a penny from the tea's astonishing success.

As for Grey’s Monument in Newcastle, this was raised in his honour in 1838, and it still stands to this day, proudly dominating the cityscape at the head of Grey Street – itself recognised as one of the finest thoroughfares in the country.

Grey spent much of his life at Howick Hall, including the last 45 consecutive years of his eventful existence. The beautiful gardens are today open to the public (the hall is closed for the time being); but perhaps the most curious of Grey’s legacies is a little building which lies about a mile to the east of the hall on the very edge of the sea. Constructed in the seventeenth century and altered in Earl Grey’s heyday, The Bathing House was used by the Earl, his wife and their 15 children as a private changing room for their lazy days by the sea. Stone steps were cut into the rocks leading down to a quarried-out rock-pool and private beach. It is now used as a holiday cottage.

© Copyright Phil Champion and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

Kips, Kippers and Kippering (NU258198)

Craster (and Seahouses, for that matter) is famous for its kippers – herring (or salmon) fish cured by splitting open, salting, and drying in the open air or smoke. This process of preservation means that the fishy results can be transported long distances before consumption, this usually being via a short grilling for breakfast. The etymology of the word is a curious one, with a connection, it seems, to the modern-day slang for a short sleep – as in ‘having a kip’.

Chronologically, it is difficult to say which came first: the kipper or the kip. The explanation which follows is therefore somewhat circuitous, seeming in places to fall back and in on itself. But I shall have a go.

We’ll start with ‘kipper’, whose meaning is as per above (noun, as in ‘a kipper’, or verb, as in ‘to kipper’). There is an argument which states that the word is derived from the Old English kippian, to spawn; which may be connected to the ‘kip’, or small beak, that male salmon develop during the breeding season. The word kip, kippen or kippa seems to have also generally meant ‘to catch’ across several ancient European languages; similarly, the English kipe denotes a basket used to catch fish – and this ‘catching’ variant of the word seems to go back many centuries, so it could be the original source of the term.

Quite how the terms for the fish ‘beak’, the catching process and then the fish itself came to be related to the curing process of ‘kippering’, though, is not clear. There is a clue, perhaps, in the Danish word kippe, meaning a doss house or hut, which just happens to be the word used to describe the ramshackle sleeping accommodation of the women who used to work on the fish in Craster (viz. ‘kip houses’). And, so the argument goes, because these horrible places were only fit to sleep in, this is where we get the phrase ‘having a kip’ from, when we mean to have a sleep.

So does the word ‘kipper’ (noun and verb) come from the women who slept in the ‘kips’, which was a Danish word, originally? Or does it all start from the old European kip/kippen/kippa, meaning ‘to catch’? I have successfully managed to completely confuse myself … and very probably you too.

Talking of kips, I think it’s time to have a lie down.

Dunstanburgh Castle’s Wandering Knight (NU257218)

One stormy winter’s night as the skeleton of Dunstanburgh laboured through another of its strenuous battles against the wicked Northumbrian elements, there came to the doors of this desolate fortress the gallant knight, Sir Guy.

Unable to gain entry, the pathetic figure of Sir Guy settled himself as best he could in the porch and prepared for a long cold night. As he sat watching the storm, unable to sleep, there was a huge crack of thunder on the stroke of midnight and the castle doors burst open. In the doorway there stood a huge figure of an old man, bathed in flames, with a flowing robe and a long, white beard. As Sir Guy stood transfixed, the old wizard extended a crooked, beckoning finger and the brave knight crossed the threshold.

After passing through a labyrinth of passages filled with eerie sounds and strange creatures they passed into a huge, dimly-lit subterranean hall. A hundred black steeds and their white knights lined the walls, spell-bound, and opposite Sir Guy there stood two giant skeletons guarding a crystal tomb, within which lay a beautiful young woman in a deep sleep. One skeleton held a sword, the other a horn, and only a courageous knight brave enough to come thus far and to then make the correct choice between the two could break the spell, he was told.

After much thought Sir Guy chose the horn and, as he blew, the hall came to life. The knights awoke and the horses reared excitedly. The girl, too, awoke for a moment then passed sadly back into her deep sleep. Whereas he might have bravely taken the sword, he had selected the horn – a symbol, even if he did not realise it, of a cry for help. He had, of course, made the wrong choice. The resounding sound of an evil cackle of laughter filled the hall and darkness descended, Sir Guy collapsing unconscious.

Waking in the porch the following morning he frantically re-entered the castle and searched its corridors for the enchanted hall and its sleeping beauty, but nowhere were they to be found. It is said he continued his search until his death, and that his ghost continues the search to this day.

[text lifted unashamedly from Aspects of North-East History, Volume 1 … but that’s all right, because I wrote it myself]

Embleton’s Link with the Titanic (NU230225)

William Thomas Stead (above) is generally regarded as the father of modern journalism – and, many say, of all its ills. He wrote widely, profusely and usually in a sensationalist manner. He was also a native of Embleton, Northumberland.

The son of a Congregational minister, W T Stead was born in the summer of 1849. He lived for a time in Howdon-on-Tyne and was schooled in Wakefield, then found himself back in the North-East as an apprentice in a Newcastle merchant’s office. Quickly branching out into journalism, he worked for some time as editor of the Northern Echo, before advancing to London’s Pall Mall Gazette – becoming its editor in 1883. During his six-year tenure he made quite an impact in journalistic (and political) circles, where he developed his characteristic investigative style and championed the use of the interview. He was often accused of ‘creating’ the news rather than reporting it.

From 1885, he threw his weight behind the campaign against child prostitution; his ‘staging’ of the purchase of a young girl from her mother landing him a jail sentence. The great ‘Crawford Scandal’ of 1886 also attracted his attention. In the 1890s he turned his mind to many new and different spheres of writing during an enthusiastic period of reforming vigour. He was a pacifist, a psychic researcher and a great visionary – his reforming ideas and ideals often years ahead of their time. He claimed to be in contact with the spirit world, and was said to have hinted at the mode of his death on several occasions.

The nature of his demise – aboard the Titanic in 1912 – was typical of the man. He was on his way to a peace conference in the US when the iceberg struck, and Stead dutifully helped several women and children into lifeboats. He then retired to the 1st Class Smoking Room where he settled down with a book, no doubt mindful of his deathly premonitions. A later sighting has him clinging to a raft with John Jacob Astor IV, the wealthiest man on the ship, the pair of them relinquishing their grips after they became frozen, Leonardo DiCaprio-style. His body was never recovered.

It was widely rumoured that he was due to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his pacifist work, until his fateful trip intervened.

Vanishing Rock (c.NU245230)

Among the rocky protuberances in and around Embleton Bay lies a famous lump of sandstone known as ‘The Vanishing Rock’. As the tides come and go and the sands shift to and fro, so this feature moves into and out of view, as befitting its name. Nothing unusual in that, you may think; but this particular rock has the name “Andra Barton” (among others) chiselled into its surface, in rough but distinct lettering. Sir Andrew Barton was High Admiral of Scotland around the turn of the 16th century, who, acting under the protection and in the name of the Scottish Crown, made something of a nuisance of himself to the Portuguese and the English upon the high seas. In short, he was considered a pirate by non-Scots, or a privateer, at best. He was defeated in battle with the English in 1511 – some reports have him slain in the fight, others that he was captured and beheaded. The loss of Barton did not go down well with the Scots – one of many grievances which led, eventually to the clash at Flodden in 1513.

As for the ‘Vanishing Rock’, I shouldn’t rush to Embleton’s sandy expanse hoping to catch a glimpse. For the last time it was seen was in 1974.

Lime Kilns? (various locations – Beadnell’s at NU237285)

Many of you will have noticed large man-made, cave-like structures dotted around the British countryside, and perhaps even be aware that they are lime kilns. Maybe a teacher or a relative pointed this out to you years ago – information which you have sagaciously passed on to the next generation, of course. But did your teacher/parent/mentor – and, in turn, your good self – really know what was meant when some adult show-off uttered unconvincingly “Well, they’re, er … lime kilns, aren’t they. For making, erm, lime.”?

Well, lime – or, rather, quicklime – is indeed produced inside a lime kiln. And it is achieved, basically, by the heating of limestone to 900-1,000°C, at which temperature the stone ‘calcinates’, or breaks down. Carbon dioxide is given off, leaving calcium oxide – or quicklime. In other words:
CaCO3 + heat = CaO + CO2
or,
Limestone + heat = quicklime + carbon dioxide

Quicklime is really useful stuff, and can be used in mortar/plaster, paper/glass/steel production, sewerage treatment, etc., but is especially handy in agriculture (to counter acidic soils) and to hide the smell of decomposition in open graves (plague outbreaks, and the like). Curiously, before electric lighting came along it was used in theatres as an illuminant – as it glows brightly when heated to high temperatures (hence ‘limelight’). Anyway, historically, at least, there was quite a demand for the stuff.

The thing is, quicklime is rather unstable. Left to its own devices it will react naturally with carbon dioxide in the atmosphere and revert to its ‘natural’ limestone state. Transportation, therefore, is/was a problem – as was easily lumping about the limestone, and, indeed, the coal needed to heat the kilns themselves. So, this is why you find so many lime kilns near the coast: easy to get the limestone/coal in, and easy to get the quicklime out. So quayside spots like those at Seahouses and Beadnell were perfect. Improvements in the transportation network during the nineteenth century led to many more inland (and often much larger) sites being developed.

So the next time your little sidekick asks the question, you know exactly what to say. And, moreover, you’ll know precisely what you’re talking about.

Beadnell Lime Kilns
(by Tom Curtis)

Grace’s Plot. Not. (NU178350)

When the tourist visits Bamburgh, Grace Darling is never far from their mind. I cannot believe that there is anyone reading this who isn’t aware of this young woman’s deeds, so I shall not insult your intelligence by recalling them here. Anyway, as you amble past the churchyard in this picturesque little village, you will find yourself drawn instantly to a large ornamental affair, thus:

“Ooh, look! It’s Grace Darling’s grave,” you will say. Well, it ain’t, actually. Which is a shame really, ‘cos it’s a lovely piece of work. Turns out that Grace, who died of TB in 1842, aged 26, is buried, along with her parents and siblings, in a much more modest plot 20 yards to the east of the fancy erection. The splendid effort which draws all the touristy attention is simply a memorial paid for by public subscription and erected shortly after her death. It was placed where it stands at the request of local seamen, who insisted that it should be clearly visible from the sea.

So don’t do what I did when I was last there (“Ooh, look, blah, blah,” take a quick snap – see above – and move on), but have a scout around and do the job properly, you lazy day-tripper.

St.Cuthbert’s Devils (NU218360)

As you will no doubt know, St.Cuthbert spent a good deal of his time as a hermit living on Inner Farne. As he was somewhat in demand for one reason or another, he must at times have felt like the hermit-in-the-hole in Monty Python’s Life of Brian when another interruption came his way. But before he settled down to his expected life of solitude it is said that he had to first banish certain ‘demons’ or ‘devils’ from the island so that he could get some peace. This he did, sending them packing to neighbouring Wideopens Island.

Long after Cuthbert had been carried off the island in a box and laid to rest, more recent inhabitants of Inner Farne reported catching sight of these creatures:

… Clad in cowls, and riding upon goats, black in complexion, short in stature, their countenances most hideous, their heads long – the appearance of the whole group horrible. Like soldiers they brandished in their hands lances, which they darted after in the fashion of war. At first the sight of the cross was sufficient to repel their attacks, but the only protection in the end was the circumvaliation of straws, signed with the cross, and fixed in the sands, around which the devils galloped for a while, and then retired, leaving the brethren to enjoy victory and repose.

Quite what the brethren were ‘on’ it is impossible to say. A little too much of the local mead, perhaps?