Bad Start for the Lumleys (c.NZ300493)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Bob Paisley of Hetton-le-Hole (NZ351475)

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

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

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

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

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

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Football’s First Lord (NZ237490)

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

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

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

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

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

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Sacriston’s Roots (NZ235480)

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Bobby of Sacriston (NZ238477)

(from Wikipedia)

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

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

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

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

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

Oldest Holiday Resort? (NZ297471)

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

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

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

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

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

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West Rainton’s Pyramid Fragment (NZ323469)

© Copyright Alexander P Kapp and licensed for 

reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

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

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

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

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

Tale of Two Gilberts (NZ234457)

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

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

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

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

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

Lots more info on the history of Witton Gilbert here.

Pity Me (NZ265455)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dare I say, there may be more!

Mrs Byron, Briefly (NZ351442)

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

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

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

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

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

The Hallgarth Tragedy (NZ320433)

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

Eighteen hundred three times ten,

August the eighth that day –

Let not that Sunday and that year

From memory pass away.

At Hallgarth Mill near Pittington,

Was done a murder foul,

The female weak – the murd’rer strong –

No pity for her soul.

Her skull was broke, her throat was cut,

Her struggle was soon o’er,

And down she fell, and fetched a sigh,

And welter’d in her gore.

Her fellow servant, Thomas Clarke,

To Sherburn slowly sped,

And told a tale that strangers six 

Had done the dreadful deed.

Now, woe betide thee, Thomas Clarke!

For this thy coward lie;

A youth like thee for girl like her

Would fight till he did die.

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

“And nearly have killed me”;

But when upon him folks did look,

No bruises could they see.

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

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

Dryburn Gallows (c.NZ263438)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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