Name Changes and Funny Names (c.NZ360720)

The town now known as Whitley Bay seems as embedded in the popular culture of the North-East as any other place you care to name. It is as utterly distinctive to us locals for what it is and what is once was as anything else in the region’s rich history. And the splendidly named and beautifully formed landmark that is the Spanish City dome is unmistakable.

But the town’s name hasn’t always been as instantly recognisable. The name ‘Whitley’ goes way back, coming from the Old English wyt-leah, meaning ‘white meadow or pasture’; but it was for many centuries known simply as Whitley, and was a tiny place by today’s standards. In the Victorian era, however, it seems to have been known as Whitley-by-the-Sea, so as to distinguish it from Whitley Chapel and Whitley Castle in Northumberland. Then, in around 1902, the seldom used ‘by-the-Sea’ bit was dropped and replaced with ‘Bay’, allegedly to avoid confusion with Whitby in Yorkshire.

But wherever did the ‘Spanish City’ come from?

The answer is remarkably simple. In 1904, a merry band of entertainers known as the Toreadors Concert Party entertained visitors in an open-air theatre in Whitley Park. They had been brought there not from Spain, but from a few miles down the road by Mr Charles Elderton, who ran Hebburn’s Theatre Royal. For the occasion, the area was decorated in the Spanish style, and it became known as ‘the Spanish City’. It grew to be so popular that within a few years The Whitley Pleasure Gardens Company Ltd. was formed and a large fairground was established on the site. By 1910 the famous Dome was complete – in the Moorish style – and a legend was born.

 

The Backworth Treasure. Possibly. (c.NZ306722)

The Backworth Treasure, or Hoard, amounts to a collection of gold and silver objects found in 1812 – supposedly in a field near Backworth. As you can see, there’s a lovely silver pan, three spoons, a couple of brooches and several items of jewellery. There is also a single coin.

The hoard is something of a mystery. Not for what it is or represents – it is almost certainly an offering to the mother-goddesses, buried in the 1st or 2nd century AD – but rather for its somewhat circuitous route to its current home in the vaults of the British Museum. According to the esteemed British historian and archaeologist, Francis J Haverfield, who was at his academic peak around a century ago, the collection of goodies was first sold by its unknown discoverer to a Newcastle silversmith. They were then “all, or nearly all” resold to a Mr J Brumell, a Newcastle collector, from whom most of the objects passed, eventually, into the care of the British Museum in 1850.

No one seems to quite know where the reference to Backworth came from, nor is there any solid evidence as to its exact date of discovery. Furthermore, various descriptions of the find and its contents vary, suggesting that the treasure has been somewhat ‘diluted’ over the years as it passed between dealers. There is a clear suggestion that an 18inch-long silver dish has disappeared, and that there was not one, but in excess of 280 Roman denarii coins rattling around inside the silver pan. Inscriptions found on the goods leave us in little doubt that they were buried as a dedication to pagan deities.

Anyway, despite its cloudy history, we’re happy to claim the tidy little treasure as one of our own.

Battles and Moving Villages (NZ270720)

Camperdown is a settlement squeezed between the little village of Burradon to the north and Killingworth to the south, in the upper reaches of what is now Tyne & Wear. It does not loom especially large in the history books, but its presence on the modern-day map is the result of a curious and pretty much undocumented series of events.

The place didn’t even exist until the 1820s. But with the sinking of Burradon pit in 1820 and the construction of the Seaton Burn waggonway in 1826 a few buildings began to appear, and the small collection of streets came to be known as Hazlerigge, after the name of the local landowning family. However – and no one seems to know quite why – the inhabitants of the little place soon began referring to their new village as Camperdown, with the first reference appearing in the local parish register in 1840. The new label almost certainly came from the famous battle of the same name fought between the British and Dutch in 1797. Camperdown was an important and decisive victory during the Napoleonic wars, and was probably the biggest battle we’d ever won at sea at the time. It was not uncommon for places to be named after such important events, and interest in the Battle of Camperdown continued for many, many years after 1797.

As for the name Hazlerigge, well, this continued to be used somewhat loosely in the area; but by 1872, the Newcastle Weekly Chronicle reported that the old name was no longer being used by the residents and that they preferred to use Camperdown. And so it eventually became official.

Now you’re probably looking at your map and thinking, hold on a minute, I know fine well that Hazlerigg (no ‘e’) still exists, so what exactly are you talking about? Well, yes, the name did indeed live on – well, after a brief gap, anyway. In the 1890s, when a new coal pit was sunk a couple of miles to the west of Camperdown near Wideopen, the name Hazlerigg was adopted by the new settlement which subsequently developed around the pit-head.

So now you know. For much, much more on the history of Burradon and Camperdown see http://www.burradon-camperdown.co.uk/ .

 

The ‘Black Diamond’ of Seaton Burn (NZ238740)

Many of you will be familiar with William Irving’s famous painting of The Blaydon Races.  A quick search of the Internet soon brings the well-known canvas into view (see also links below).  In the middle distance on the right-hand side you will see a curious little character known as ‘The Black Diamond of Seaton Burn’.  Here he is:
 

The man in question was, supposedly, a black prize-fighter resident of the Northumberland village – some sources placing him in the eighteenth, others in the nineteenth, century. No amount of research seems to be able to pin this chap down, which has led many to suppose that he may be a fabrication of the artist’s imagination – like so many other of the characters depicted in the famous painting.

But “of Seaton Burn” is really quite specific, others say. Surely such a man must have existed? Maybe they’re right. But maybe he wasn’t black after all. As some of you may know, one of the most famous boxers of all time, Tom Cribb, was also known as ‘The Black Diamond’ on account of his routinely filthy appearance as a coal heaver at Wapping Docks at the turn of the nineteenth century. Now Cribb never lived in the North-East, but there would certainly have been plenty of other pitmen pugilists around at the same time, one or two of whom no doubt borrowed Cribb’s famous nickname.

The debate is an interesting one, and can be followed further here – with more on Irving’s painting here.

The Blackleg Miner (c.NZ287748)

 

One of the most infamous English folk songs of the 19th century, The Blackleg Miner is set in and around the Northumberland villages of Seaton Delaval and Seghill. An uncompromising statement aimed against mining strikebreakers, it has been revived and reused countless times over the years – most recently during the UK Miners’ Strike of 1984-85. It needs little more in the way of introduction, and nothing in the way of explanation…

 

The Blackleg Miner

It’s in the evenin’ after dark,
When the blackleg miner creeps ter wark,
In his moleskin pants and dirty short,
There goes the blackleg miner.

He taeks his pick and doon he goes,
To hew the coal that lies below,
There’s norra woman in this toon row,
Would look at the blackleg miner.

For Delaval is a terrible place,
They rub wet clay in the blackleg’s face,
Around the pits they run a foot race,
To catch the blackleg miner.

Divvn’t gan near the Seghill mine,
For across the top they’ve stretched a line,
To catch the throat and break the spine,
Of the dirty blackleg miner.

Well, they taek his pick and duds as well,
And they hurl them doon the Pit of Hell,
So off you go and fare thee well,
Yer dirty blackleg miner.

So join the union while you may,
And divvn’t wait till yer dying day,
For that may not be far away,
Yer dirty blackleg miner.

 

St.Mary’s Island & Lighthouse (NZ353755)

St.Mary’s Lighthouse has adorned the coast of Northumberland for over a century. Brilliant white against an azure sky, it presents one of the county’s finest summer sights.

The rocky, tidal outcrop 2½ miles north of Whitley Bay, known as St.Mary’s, or Bates, Island, has been home to a light of sorts for the past 400 years. It was not until 1898, however, that what may be called a proper lighthouse was erected. Its light burned for 86 years, being decommissioned by Trinity House in 1984. It was then bought jointly by the local council and others for the benefit of the community, and soon reopened as a tourist attraction.

The island is linked to the mainland by a concrete causeway which is covered at high tide, leaving the island itself separated from the shore by a short strait. The island has been extensively used over the years. It is thought to have been home to hermits prior to the construction of a chapel dedicated to St.Helen in the late eleventh century. Mention is made even at this early time of the maintenance of ‘a light’ in the tower. A burial ground existed next to the chapel for 700 years, but by 1860 all remains of the building had disappeared. The occasional mention of the name ‘Bates’ Island is a reference to one Thomas Bates, who owned the small patch of ground in the 1580s as Surveyor for Northumberland under Elizabeth I.

In ‘Smugglers’ Creek’ on the north of the island was found, in 1722, the body of Anthony Mitchell, a customs man – he was presumably killed by smugglers. A few years later, in 1739, Michael Curry, a local glassworker, was hanged in Newcastle for the murder of Robert Shevil, the landlord of the inn at Old Hartley – and his body was hung in shame from a gibbet at what became known as ‘Curry’s Point’, where the causeway meets the mainland. A plaque now marks the spot.

The island has seen a good deal of action over the years. Shipwrecks a plenty, for one thing; and in 1799 the island was used to isolate cholera-stricken Russian soldiers on their way to fight Napoleon. In 1855 George McEwan and family built the present-day cottage, and even opened a pub on the island. However, following a dispute with neighbouring landowners on the mainland, the McEwans were unceremoniously evicted in 1895.

Soon after this Trinity House decided to site a new lighthouse on the island and, nearly three years later, on 31st August 1898, the famous 137-step beacon was officially opened. Its lights ran on paraffin (kerosene) – and continued to do so until 1977 – the fuel being delivered every six months to the storage tanks under the tower. The oil lamp was replaced by an electric equivalent in the late 1970s, and the lighthouse became fully automated in 1979. Upon decommissioning in 1984 most of the lighthouse’s internal workings were removed. However, the building – and island as a whole – continues to serve the local community as an important tourist attraction. And you can still climb to the top!

The Lighthouse was given a facelift during 2008, and now looks better than ever.

P.S. To learn more about the island – and for some nice pics – see here.

Note: This article, and many others besides, can be found in the author’s collection of local history material here (and scroll down to Aspects of North-East History, Vol.1).

Seaton Sluice’s Sluice (NZ338768)

An unlikely name for a coastal village if ever there was one; but the little piece of engineering ingenuity which gave this settlement its name is worthy of investigation.

You see, before it ever had a sluice, Seaton Sluice, as a name, quite obviously didn’t exist. The area around the outflow of the Seaton Burn was known as, firstly, Hartley Pans, then Hartley Haven up until the mid- to late-1600s. The tiny little natural harbour shipped salt and coal, but was prone to silting – an issue which greatly hindered the port’s economic viability. The problem was solved by the local landowner, Sir Ralph Delaval, who hit upon the clever idea of constructing a pier with sluice gates that trapped the sea-water at high tide. By opening the gates at low tide, the water would rush out and cleanse the harbour. Everyone was so pleased with the new-fangled set-up that they re-christened the village Seaton Sluice. This all happened during 1660-90.

This worked with varying degrees of success for several decades; until, that is, the Delavals’ ambitions moved to a new level in the 1760s. Sir John and his brother, Thomas, decided that is was time to construct a new entrance for the village’s harbour, and set about cutting a new channel through solid rock to the east of the old entrance. A monumental task in its day, the new Cut, or ‘Gut’, measuring 52ft deep x 30ft wide x 900ft long, could be ‘sluiced off’ at both ends, thus allowing ship-loading to continue no matter what the state of the tide. Completed in 1764, the Seaton Sluice MkII proved to be a resounding success – in 1777, for instance, 177 ships carrying 48,000 tonnes of coal sailed from the harbour. The ingenious initiative also greatly helped the growth and prosperity of the local bottleworks – another Delaval family institution.

All of this is still very much in evidence today at Seaton Sluice – with many more historical remnants on view, besides. The area around the village and Seaton Delaval Hall is well worth a day’s outing, though a little historical research beforehand will help the visitor appreciate all there is on offer.

 

“Strange Tales” of Seaton Delaval Hall (NZ322766)

From The Monthly Chronicle of North Country Lore and Legend (December 1887):-

Strange tales used to be told by the old people of the neighbourhood of the mode of life of the Delavals in these extravagant days [late 18th century]. All the members of the family, male and female, were models of grace and beauty, the men perfect Adonises, the women worthy to contest the palm with the Cyprian goddess herself. They lived for luxurious enjoyment, love, and gallantry, the gayest of the gay, the wildest of the wild. Lord Delaval entertained an almost perpetual crowd of company at Delaval Hall. The frequent fêtes and masquerades that were given converted the house and gardens into a perfect fairyland, with throngs of gay and lively creatures frolicking and flirting about, as in the fabled isle of Calypso. The most extraordinary pranks used also to be played, to the amusement of all but the actual sufferers. The house was fitted up with strange contrivances for performing practical jokes. Beds were suspended, for instance, by pulleys over trap-doors, so that when the guests had retired after a carouse, and were just dropping asleep, they were rapidly let down into a cold bath! Another contrivance was that of partitions between sleeping rooms, which could be suddenly hoisted up into the ceiling, so that when ladies and gentlemen were retiring to rest, and had doffed all their finery, and were in various stages of undress, they were astonished to see the walls of the rooms disappear in a moment, as if by enchantment, the guests finding themselves in a miscellaneous assembly of both sexes in the oddest and most embarrassing plight imaginable.

 

 

 

Seaton Delaval Hall’s Extra Bits (c.NZ325765)

Seaton Delaval Hall, recently saved for the nation by a high profile campaign by the National Trust and a tenacious gang of enthusiastic locals, lies in a landscape full of interest to the amateur historian. However, rather than the old hall itself (whose history is interesting enough), it is to the pile’s lesser known outlying landmarks that I shall be turning to in this short article.

Perhaps the most conspicuous of the estate’s secondary constructions is the 18m-high stone obelisk 900m south-by-south-west of the hall. This was erected to the memory of Admiral George Delaval, the man who was responsible (with a little help from architect Sir John Vanbrugh) for the construction of the mighty edifice itself. The Admiral had bought the estate in 1718 from his debt-ridden kinsman, and was in the process of building the hall when he was tragically killed in spectacular fashion in 1723. When out riding in the fields he was unseated, caught his foot in a stirrup, and was dragged several hundred yards across the countryside before coming to a lifeless rest where the monument now stands. A second, now ruinous, obelisk lies just off the north side of the A190 a little to the west of the hall, marking the spot where the Admiral was originally unseated.

He wasn’t the last of his family to die an unusual death. Half a century later, a certain John Delaval, the then heir to the estate, died in 1775, aged 20, “as a result of having been kicked in a vital organ by a laundry maid to whom he was paying his addresses.” His father was so distraught, that he built a grand mausoleum in his honour half a mile east of the hall. The building is now ruinous.

© Copyright Michael Batey and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence. 

New Hartley Pit Disaster (NZ308768)

On 16th January 1862 one of the worst mining accidents in British history befell the workforce of New Hartley Colliery, a little to the north of Seaton Delaval in the South-East Northumberland Coalfield. A total of 204 men and boys – from age 10 to 70 – lost their lives underground when they became trapped and suffocated before help arrived. The catastrophe was to lead to a notable change in the industry’s working practice across the globe.

At the time of the accident the mine was served by a single shaft, as was the norm. This sole point of access took the miners to and from the coalface, and was the means by which both materials and air entered and exited the bowels of the earth. The mighty pumping beam cast its great shadow over the shaft head – as it did countless collieries the world over – its job being to clear the pit of flood water. And on that fateful winter morning its brittle cast-iron form snapped under the strain, sending 20 tons of metal thundering down the 12ft-square shaft, taking all with it. The beam, it is believed, had suffered a fatal fracture a week beforehand when it was rather heavy-handedly reassembled after its bearings had been replaced.

The debris which blocked the miners’ only means of escape proved impenetrable to the desperate rescuers over the coming days; the sounds of the entombed men and boys below a constant torment. After repeated collapses, the cause was lost – the trapped workers eventually falling silent. A little over a week later their bodies were finally recovered, many in quiet and peaceful repose, as if sleeping after a day’s hard work – brothers arm in arm, and fathers and sons in touching embrace.

Some good came of it, though. Such was the national public outcry that it was decreed that henceforth all mines should have two separate means of access and escape. Furthermore, the incident led to the establishment of the Miners Permanent Relief Fund – a fund that has since conferred benefit upon thousands in the mining community, including widows, orphans, injured workman and the aged.

The monument (pictured) stands in St. Alban's churchyard in Earsdon.

Read more here and here.

 

Tommy Thompson (NZ275783)

Thomas W.Thompson was born to become a miner, or so it seemed. A native of Shankhouse, Cramlington, that’s just what he became, in fact, like countless others of his generation, born, as he was, in 1884. But he dreamed of better things. Learning that a family friend had emigrated to America in the late 1800s, he set his dream into motion and decided to do likewise. So in 1910 he set sail.

He must have had some drive, though, for by the early 1920s he was the owner of a coal mine in East Peoria, Illinois, called the Manhattan Coal Co. In 1926, he married Hazel Appleby, who was 17 years Tommy’s junior. It seems that in Hazel’s father, John, Tommy had found a useful ally in his rise to the top.

His business was a strong one, and he was able to ride the Great Depression, it seems, with some ease. Such was his standing, that he was even able to co-found the First National Bank in East Peoria in 1934. Additionally, he became a director of a major savings & loan company, and ran a real estate business, the Manhattan Realty Co. – all of which helped him keep going after his coal company ceased operating in around 1940.

There is no doubt that Tommy was a major figure in the business life of his town. However, he and Hazel had no children, and she committed suicide in 1951, aged only 50. Tommy himself passed away in August 1965, aged 81, and was buried next to his wife – a very, very long way away from the Great Northern coalface of his youth, and a self-made man if ever there was one.

The great working class hero even has his own Facebook page here!

 

Cramlington’s Airships (NZ254782)

In its pre-‘New Town’ days, Cramlington was a good deal smaller than it is today. It was essentially rural for centuries; and even after the first coal pit was sunk there in the 1820s it remained modest in size.

However, in 1916, the town was selected as the site for the establishment of the ‘No.36 Home Defence Squadron’, with the protection of the coast south from Cramlington all the way down to Whitby coming under its remit. There was already a small base on the site, so the move was more of an ‘upgrade’, and it did its bit during the Great War by bringing down a zeppelin over Hartlepool in November 1916. When the airships were withdrawn from the skies, the base reverted to a training camp and the squadron was disbanded in 1919. Though the outfit has been reformed and disbanded several times since, its base was never again to be sited at Cramlington.

But the town is perhaps more famously remembered in aviation history as the home of a British airship landing ground and shed, from the latter stages of WWI to the 1930s. At a time when Britain was looking for ways to provide additional aerial scouting cover over the North Sea at the height of WWI, a site near Nelson Village to the NW of Cramlington was selected as a landing/technical site for our ‘Submarine Scout’ airships. However, the facility was not completed in time to be of any use during hostilities, with the war coming to an end before the base was finished.

The site was still completed, though, and some post-war activity did take place. But the complex was eventually taken over by a private company, who themselves constructed a modest airship which did some aerial photography and advertising during 1929-30 – before being lost in a storm over Belgium.

And that seems to have been that, with the giant airship shed surviving until the 1960s when it was demolished as part of Cramlington’s ‘New Town’ development.

See here for further information and some pics.

 

Plessey Waggonway (NZ229791 to Blyth)

Described as one of the earliest and longest waggonways in Northumberland, Plessey Waggonway is known to have ran from Plessey Hall Farm eastwards for some five and a half miles to the port of Blyth. It was in use from at least as early as 1709 and continued carrying goods – mainly coal – until 1812. Though it was very probably far from the earliest – nor, indeed, the longest – in the county, it is remarkable for its survival in the landscape.

Though now overlaid for long stretches by both the A192 and A1061, it can be seen in places as an earthwork over six feet in height. Out of commission by the time of the birth of the railways proper, it was used to transport coal on horse-drawn waggons and was made from beech wood rails laid on oak sleepers – though iron runners were used in later years. The horses would have been small in stature, each animal pulling a ‘chaldron’ of 52 hundred weight – and would be expected to make two round trips per day.

One may look at Plessey and its environs today and wonder what all the historical fuss is about. But this now largely empty space on the map was once a thriving village, with coal being mined from the immediate area – and shipped to London – from as early as the thirteenth century. Plessey Hall Farm itself dates from 1680, but the site was almost certainly occupied by an earlier building belonging to the Plessis family and formed the centre of the local manor. A series of lumps and bumps in a nearby field provide likely evidence of the deserted medieval village.

 

Blyth Battery (NZ321794)

Blyth Battery is a decommissioned coastal defence artillery station on the Northumberland coast a little south of the town whose name it bears. It was originally built during WWI to defend two vital assets – namely, the port of Blyth and the nearby submarine base – and then upgraded for re-use during WWII. It has recently been re-opened as a military and local heritage museum.

One of the best survivals of its type in the country, Blyth Battery is, in fact, a complex spread over a small area, comprising gun and searchlight emplacements and associated buildings. Though the temporary structures which once adorned the site have disappeared, all the major buildings survive and are Grade II listed.

During the restoration project of the past couple of years or so, a clever colour scheme was employed to differentiate between the periods of contruction (based on samples salvaged from the structures themselves) – grey = WWI, pink = WWII, and white = alterations between and after the Wars.

If you fancy a visit – and it’s free – take a look at http://blythbattery.org.uk/



The Bedlington Terrier (NZ260818)

Often referred to as a ‘lamb on a leash’ (or something similar), the Bedlington Terrier is a breed of dog named after the town of Bedlington, Northumberland. Somewhat nippy for a terrier, it is (or rather was) traditionally used for hunting quarry that involved quick-turning prey. The dogs would often have long hair around their fore-quarters to protect them from the snapping jaws of their victims – which included such animals as otters, badgers, foxes and vermin.

The history of the breed goes back in excess of two hundred years. It was originally known as the Rothbury Terrier, after a group of Staffordshire nailors introduced the curious canine to the Northumberland town when relocating there in the eighteenth century. The progenitor of the current breed, though, is usually held up as being ‘Old Flint’, a dog born in 1782 and belonging to ‘Squire Trevelyan’. It became the ‘Bedlington Terrier’ from around 1825, when a local mason, Joseph Aynsley, renamed the breed, no doubt as a result of its popularity among the town’s mining community. They were also known as ‘Gypsy dogs’, due to their association with poaching.

Usually mild-mannered and intelligent, they make excellent and loyal companions nowadays; but owners should remember that they are bred for hunting and, indeed, combat – where they are said to fight to the death. Since their Bedlington days, though, they have become ‘the miners’ dog’, and would often be raced, much as whippets and greyhounds are today.

As many of you will know, the town’s football team are known as the Bedlington Terriers.

Bedlington’s Place in Railway History (NZ276820)

The history of Bedlington Iron & Engine Works is a complex, detailed – if surprisingly short – one. However, it played an absolutely crucial role in the development of the railways. Sited on the tidal limit of the River Blyth, either side of Furnace Bridge, they were at the very forefront of the Industrial Revolution here in the North-East.

Ironworking probably began in this little rural corner of the region in the 1730s. Its progress was somewhat chequered, however, and it was not until Biddulph, Gordon and Co. took over the enterprise in the early nineteenth century that things really began to take off. The company ran the site for fifty years as the ‘Bedlington Iron & Engine Works’, exploiting the existent facilities to maximum effect with the dawning of the age of steam.

It was the invention (and patenting) of cleverly-designed malleable rails for the railways in 1820 at Bedlington by John Birkenshaw which brought the works into the limelight. This development – and the process by which they could be manufactured cheaply and in high quantities – enabled the laying of long lengths of rail, and greatly facilitated the birth and expansion of the new industry in the 1830s and 40s.

In the 1850s, rail production and forgings were at their peak as the Crimean War effort was in full swing. Additionally, between 1837 and 1852, around 150 steam engines were manufactured – including many for George Stephenson. However, it wasn’t to last. Competition from the likes of Middlesbrough forced the works out of the market in 1867, remnants of the site falling into gradual decay until the plot was cleared in 1959. Virtually nothing of this important piece of North-East history remains visible today.

For more information see here. 

High Light, Blyth (NZ320814)

One of Blyth’s oldest structures, ‘High Light’ stands in a curious position for a lighthouse, adjoining a house at the rear of Bath Terrace. Being some 100yards inland, it is difficult to imagine it ever being of any use to passing mariners, but when it was built in 1788 it was, believe it or not, a few yards from the shoreline.

It was constructed in three stages, a process evidenced in its appearance. In 1788, it was raised to some 35ft, with another 14ft being added exactly a century later. In 1900, it was heightened by a further 12.5ft, extending it to its current 61.5ft – each ‘storey’ being necessary due to the rising heights of the surrounding buildings. It was de-activated in 1985, and became a Grade II listed building in 1987.

As can be seen from the picture, the building has a flat roof with railings, and internally is served by a spiral staircase + ladders in its top two (later) section. The lighthouse worked in conjunction with ‘Low Light’ (itself rebuilt in 1936) – well, until 1985, anyway, when new navigational aids were brought into use.

 

North Blyth Staithes (c.NZ314823)

If, like me, you love seeing the North-East depicted in old movies, then you’ll know all about the classic British gangster flick, Get Carter. A marvellous 1971 effort – if for no other reason than to see so much of the region as it was forty years ago – the closing scenes are famously acted out on Blackhall Beach, just north of Hartlepool.

However, the scene immediately preceding the ‘beach chase’ between Michael Caine and Ian Hendry (where the two are seen scrambling over giant coal staithes, before progressing to the beach) was actually filmed thirty miles north, at what used to be North Blyth Staithes. Nowadays, there ain’t much to see on the seafront at the Blyth estuary – and it is really quite peaceful; but at one time it was a hive of activity. As recently as the early 1960s, it was Europe’s busiest port for shipping coal, with five sets of staithes and numerous other loading points. But the subsequent decline of the coal industry led to to the staithes being left as idle skeletons for many years, until the North Blyth set – originally built during 1910-23 – were severely truncated in the 1990s.

Nowadays, Blyth makes a decent living, ironically, from importing goods. This amounts mainly to material for the nearby Alcan works – namely, alumina and, believe it or not, coal.

For some absolutely splendid ‘then & now’ shots of the North Blyth Staithes (and dozens of other scenes from the famous film) see the Get Carter Tour website. Look for the ‘Locations Tour’, and then the ‘Staithes’ links. Super stuff.

 

Lost Vikings (c.NZ305840)

Cambois – another of those odd-sounding place-names of the North-East – is situated on the Northumberland coast, roughly equidistant from Newbiggin-by-the-Sea to the north and Blyth to the south. Pronounced ‘Kammus’, it’s name is Celtic in origin, and means ‘bay’. And, in 1859, it was the the site of a small but unusual archaeological find.

The discovery in question amounted to a cist burial containing three bodies, an enamelled disc-brooch and a bone comb. A ninth century tumulus on the east side of the River Wansbeck had been excavated, and of the bones only the skulls survived (believed to be that of a woman, aged 45-60, and two males, one in his 20s and one in his 40s). What made the find so unusual was that the mode of the burial and the objects found indicated that it was Scandinavian (i.e.Viking) rather than Anglo-Saxon.

Viking influence in Northumberland in the ninth and tenth centuries was negligible, with both finds and place-names being very thin on the ground. But even if the Cambois cist was not an actual Viking burial, the interment is certainly heavily laden with Scandinavian influences.

It was, and still is, a bit of a mystery.

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.