The Angel of the North (NZ263578)

© Copyright Keith Evans and licensed for reuse 

under this Creative Commons Licence.

Date completed: 1998

Commissioned by: Gateshead Council

Artist: Antony Gormley

Made by: Hartlepool Steel Fabrications Ltd

Cost: £800,000+ (National Lottery)

Construction: Steel, with some copper

Height: 65ft

Wingspan: 175ft

Weight: 208 tonnes

Foundations: 22m deep reinforced concrete piles

… And seen by 33 million people per year!

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Saturday 7th September 2013

The Ravensworth Arms, Lamesley (NZ250577)

© Copyright Alexander P Kapp and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

The Ravensworth Arms pub in the tiny village of Lamesley, a little to the south of the Team Valley Trading Estate, has connected to it two rather significant literary stories. The detail is brief, sketchy and may never be provable one way or the other, but the ‘facts’ are remarkable none the less.

We have come across the great Catherine Cookson before on this blog. Well, it transpires that had it not been for a chance encounter at our drinking hole in Lamesley, the literary world would never have been blessed with the storytelling skills of our famous Dame. For though Cookson was born in Tyne Dock, she was actually conceived during a fling between her unmarried mother, Kate McMullen, and one of the punters of The Ravensworth Arms. Kate just happened to be working there at the time (in late 1905), when in walked the shady Alexander Davies – about whom very little is known – for a brief, but very productive, encounter. Davies is supposed to have been a fairly well-to-do native of Lancashire – and a bigamist and gambler by some accounts – but he soon disappeared from Catherine’s life – probably before she was born, in fact.

Even less is known about the other ‘writing link’ of note. It seems that around four decades or so beforehand, the soon-to-be-famous Lewis Carroll had stayed at the pub for a spell. Not so remarkable you may think, but it is believed that he was working on his ‘Alice’ adventures at the time – enabling The Ravensworth Arms, Lamesley, to claim another notch on its literary bedpost.

Washington’s Tenuous US Links (NZ310566)

© Copyright David Dixon and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

The town of Washington enjoys an elevated status in the annals of history for obvious and very well known reasons: its ‘Old Hall’ is the ancestral home of George Washington, a rather important eighteenth century American. But even the most devoted local would be forced to admit that their town’s claim to fame is a tenuous one.

The ancestry of America’s first president does indeed stretch back to Washington Old Hall – or at least to the building which formerly occupied the site. But the big ‘clincher’ for most interested parties – including the many visiting American tourists – is, of course, the name. There’s no denying, however, that the gap between the last of the family to bear the name who lived at the hall and the birth of George himself is a very large one indeed.

It is with one William de Hertburne – a direct forebear of George – that the story begins. William it was who moved from Hartburn, near Stockton, to the area then known as ‘Wessyngtonlands’ in the twelfth century when he rented lands there from the Bishop of Durham. He then changed his name to William de Wessyngton, which in time came to be spelt ‘Washington’.

The Washington family line of the future president seems quite quickly to have angled off elsewhere. In 1367 they migrated, first, to Lancashire; then Sulgrave Manor, Northamptonshire, from 1539. The family subsequently made its home in Essex, then Yorkshire, and finally, in 1656, they emigrated to the American colonies.

So, as far as I can tell, the last direct male ancestor of George Washington’s to live in the town in Co.Durham that bears his name did so in the fourteenth century – and George wasn’t born until 1732. Though other branches of the family hung on in the North-East, the hall/estate passed through several hands before being sold back to the Bishop of Durham in 1613, and thereafter rebuilt on its original foundations.

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Saturday 7th September 2013

The Great Gertrude Bell (NZ311564)

One individual more than any other helped spread British influence and drive its foreign policy in the Middle East in the early twentieth century. Moreover, that individual was a single, unmarried woman … and she was born here in the North-East of England. Her name was Gertrude Margaret Lowthian Bell.

Born at Washington Hall (now known as Dame Margaret Hall), a little to the south of Washington Old Hall, Gertrude entered this world in July 1868. She was the daughter of a well-to-do family whose general wealth enabled her to indulge her passions and interests across the globe to considerable effect. Although her mother died when she was three, she enjoyed a privileged upbringing and graduated from Oxford University before she was 20.

Thanks to her family contacts, she was afforded the opportunity of an early visit to Persia in 1892 – and stayed overseas for a decade, travelling widely and writing profusely. She was passionately interested in history, archaeology and languages – dabbling, too, in mountaineering – and began spending more and more time in Syria and Palestine in the years immediately before the First World War. The delights of the Ottoman Empire, Mesopotamia, Arabia, Babylon and many other exotic places were also devoured by her insatiable appetite for knowledge.

She served with the Red Cross in France in the early stages of World War I, before returning to the Middle East, where the British government used her in an official capacity to help shape and build their imperial ambitions. Her knowledge and relationships with local tribesmen paved the way for many a British success in their international manoeuvrings with the Arab nations. Gertrude worked periodically alongside the famous T.E.Lawrence during this period – essentially as a spy during hostilities.

From 1915 until her death in 1926, Bell spent most of her days in the country now known as Iraq, helping to establish its borders (among other things). For several years leading up to her death in Baghdad, she served in the Iraq British High Commission advisory group and was a confidante of King Faisal. She effectively acted as a mediator between the burgeoning Arab government in Iraq and the British government (who were keen to see Iraq established as a self-governing state). She was awarded a CBE for her considerable efforts in the region over many years.

In addition to all of this, Bell did much to preserve the new Iraq’s heritage and culture, thanks to her interest in archaeology and history. The setting up of the National Library of Iraq and the Iraqi Museum were largely down to her. The strain of her workload made her frail, and she eventually died, aged 57, soon after a bout of pleurisy in July 1926 – possibly from an overdose of sleeping pills. She may or may not have committed suicide. Such was her reputation that her funeral in the Iraqi capital was a major public event.

It is fair to say that the lines Gertrude Bell helped to draw in the sands of the Middle East during the creation of Iraq (and Jordan, in fact) have indirectly led to the troubles of late in the region. But Bell herself certainly foresaw these problems, and made the best of what may be considered an almost impossible job. In fact, if others since had been blessed with the diplomatic skills of the frail little spinster from Washington, Co.Durham, then things may have panned out a good deal better in this tender part of the world. 

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Saturday 7th September 2013

Penshaw Monument (NZ334544)

(from Wikipedia)

Perched high over the River Wear on a grass-covered mound at a height of some 450ft stands the distinctive outline of one of the region’s most prominent landmarks: that of Penshaw Monument.  Offering outstanding panoramic views to those who take the trouble of scaling its lofty heights across the Wear basin and beyond towards the vast tracts of lower Tyneside, this most classical and unlikely of creations dominates the skyline for miles around.

Formerly known as Pensher Hill Monument, the site itself is perhaps best known as the night-time lair of the legendary Lambton Worm (though some claim that nearby Worm Hill is the better bet).  The medieval monster, whose dirty deeds are recalled in many varied versions of prose, is said by one such account to have slept coiled “ten times round Penshaw Hill”, from which it crept nightly to prey on local livestock and young children.

It was in honour of a Lambton, in fact, that the present structure was ultimately erected many centuries later in 1844.  The famous County Durham family had long owned the hill, and it was to the memory of one of the most famous of their clan that the temple was raised by his contemporaries.  Radical ‘Jack’ Lambton, later to become Sir John George Lambton, enjoyed an illustrious career prior to his somewhat premature death at the age of 49 in 1840.  Having represented the county of Durham for fifteen years as an able Member of Parliament he went on to become the first Earl of Durham, and ultimately held the prestigious offices of Lord Privy Seal and that of the first Governor-General of Canada (among other titles).  By all accounts he was a well respected gentleman: humanitarian, well and widely educated, multi-talented and amiable, he would most probably have been embarrassed by the lavish tribute afforded him by his colleagues and subjects in the wake of his death.  No expense was spared: top local architects – the father and son partnership of John and Benjamin Green (who had only a few years previously completed two of Newcastle’s most famous landmarks, the Theatre Royal and Grey’s Monument) – were commissioned to the task, and soon the plans were complete.

The opening ceremony – the laying of the foundation stone – took place on Wednesday 28^th August 1844, and was conducted by Thomas, Earl of Zetland, who bore the illustrious title of Grand Master of the Free and Accepted Masons of England.  Over 30,000 locals are said to have witnessed the occasion.

The finished monument – based on the famous Temple of Hephaestus (or Theseus) in Athens – measured, or rather measures, 100ft by 53ft in length and breadth, and is 70ft high, with eighteen columns in the classical style, each 6ft 6in in diameter.  A monument fit for a god, never mind a Lambton!  Make no mistake, Penshaw Monument is no folly – nothing could be further from the truth.  Now in the capable, caring hands of the National Trust, it is open to the public all year round during daylight hours – though access to the top of the monument itself is restricted to weekend tours in the summer.

[ this is one of many articles to appear in my Aspects of North-East History, Volume 1 – see ‘Buy My Books’ at top of blog ]

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Saturday 7th September 2013

The Lambton Worm (NZ310540)

One of the most famous of our local songs, there follows one version of The Lambton Worm. It was said to lurk in and around the River Wear near the Lambton Estate in Co.Durham. A spot still called Worm Hill is said by most accounts to have been its night-time lair – though the following poem names Penshaw Hill as the location in question.

One Sundaa mornin’ Lambton went a-fishin'’ in the Wear;

He cowt a fish upon his heuk, he thowt lukk't vurry kwee-a.

Noo whattna kind ov fish it waaz yung Lambton cudd’na tell;

He had’na mind t’ carry it hyem, so he hoyd it doon a well.

(chorus)           

Whisht! Lads, haad yer gobs,

An’ aa’ll tell ye aall an aaful story.

Whisht! Lads, haad yer gobs,

An’ aa’ll tell ye ‘boot the worm.

Noo Lambton felt inclined t’ gan an’ fite in forrun waars;

He joined a band ov nites wee caired for neetha woonds nor scairs.

So off he went t’ Palestine where kwee-a things him befell;

An’ vurry syun forgot aboot yon kwee-a worm in thu well.

(repeat chorus)

Thu worm got fat an’ growd an’ growd, an’ growd t’ an aarful size;

Wi’ a git big gob, an’ git big teeth, an’ git big goggly eyes.

An’ when at neet it craaled aroond t’ pick up bits o’ news;

If it felt dry ‘pon the road, it milk’t a dozen coos.

(repeat chorus)

This feorful worm wud often feed on caalves an’ lamms an’ sheep;

An’ swally little bairns alive wen thay lay doon t’ sleep.

Wen it had eetin’ aall it cud, an’ it had had its fill;

It craaled away an’ lapp’t its tail ten times roond Pensher Hill.

(repeat chorus)

Thu nooz ov this myest aarful beast an’ its kwee-a gannins on;

Syunn cross’t the seez an’ reach’t thu ee-as of bowld and brave Sor John.

So hyem he came an’ cowt the beast an’ cut it in twe haalves;

An’ that syunn stop’t it eetin’ sheep an’ bairns an’ lamms an’ caalves.

(repeat chorus)

So noo yer naar hoo aall thu foaks on byeth sides o’ thu Wear;

Lost lots o’ sheep an’ lots o’ sleep an’ lived in mortal fee-a.

So let’s hevv one t’ brave Sor John, wee kept the bairns fram harm;

An’ saved thu caalves by myekin’ haalves o’ thu aafull Lambton Worm.

(chorus after last verse)

Noo, lads, aa'll had me gob,

That's all aa knaar aboot thu story,

Of Sor John’s clivvor job,

Wi' thu aaful Lambton Worm.

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Saturday 7th September 2013

Roots of Beamish Museum (NZ220540)

The Colliery, Beamish Museum

(© Copyright Ashley Dace and licensed for reuse under this Creative CommonsLicence)

In 2010, Beamish Museum celebrated its 40^th birthday. It is the oldest regional ‘open air’ museum in England.

Incredibly, the idea for ‘Beamish’ was first floated back in 1958. It stumbled forward in fits and starts during the 1960s, gradually gathering items of all shapes and sizes from the public which were stored in an old army camp near Brancepeth. In total, more than twenty huts and hangars were filled with material.

Thanks, primarily, to the efforts of its first director, Frank Atkinson, the project gathered steam, and the collection was eventually brought to its current site near Beamish village in 1970 – the moment when the first staff members were formally appointed and the museum properly born. Even then, the amount of material was substantial, ranging from the smallest household item up to engines, vehicles and whole shops. Such was the enthusiasm for the scheme that a ‘Friends’ support group was established several years before the museum opened.

In 1971, the very first public exhibition – entitled ‘Museum in the Making’ – was established in Beamish Hall, and it was such a success that the final go-ahead was given to the concept of an ‘open air’ museum in the hall’s grounds. The following year saw the opening of the site as we know it today – if a good deal shorn of its now familiar attractions. A few cottages were erected in 1972, and in 1973 the railway station and pithead were constructed and the first trams began to run.

In the forty years since, Beamish has gone from strength to strength, picking up many national and international awards along the way. It is almost entirely self-funding, and attracts between 300-400,000 visitors per year.

No Place: Now Gone? (NZ217531)

If you have ever travelled along the A693 between Stanley and Chester-le-Street, you may have noticed a sign-post pointing south to a village called ‘No Place’. Strictly speaking – and somewhat ironically – it no longer exists.

The original No Place consisted of a row of four terraced coattages in the middle of a field to the south of the main road. The very earliest OS maps from the 1850s show them sitting in splendid isolation; then in the 1890s terracing began appearing a little to the north (between the cottages and the road) – a little settlement which came to be known as ‘Co-operative Villas’. In time, the old cottages fell into disrepair and it was decided to demolish them around the time of the Second World War. Such was the affection for the curious old place-name, however, that the residents of Co-operative Villas unofficially took on the name for their own collection of streets.

In the 1980s, a sustained attempt was made by the local council to re-impose the name of ‘Co-operative Villas’ on the little settlement, but the locals wouldn’t have it. Such was the strength of feeling that the powers-that-be accepted the status quo … and the place known as No Place now has (officially, it seems) two names. Even the road signs bear both monikers.

As is so often the case with these odd-sounding names, no one seems to know for sure quite how No Place got its name. It could be a shortening of North, Near or Nigh Place, or just a nickname that stuck due to its isolation. I’ve also read that the original settlement sat on the boundary between two parishes, neither of which were prepared to ‘claim it’ – hence ‘No Place’! And some even argue that it comes from the reputation of the local pit as being ‘no place to work’.

All very strange – but quite wonderful, all the same.

North Country Brags (NZ281531 & NZ282552)

The imaginings of our ancestors knew no bounds. Goblins are one such entity said to have haunted the lanes and backwaters of our countryside – and the North-East is no different to anywhere else in the UK. In this part of the world, though, they seem to have been known as ‘brags’, and were able to shape-shift at will, it would appear.

One of the most famous of these unearthly creatures is ‘The Picktree Brag’, which was said to have wandered the countryside around this tiny village between Chester-le-Street and Birtley. The most notable account is that given by a 90-year-old woman in the 1830s – as told to local noble Sir Cuthbert Sharp, who handily commited the tale to print.

As is so often the case, the ‘brag’ was never seen distinctly, but was more often heard or ‘sensed’ in the dead of night. “It sometimes appears as a calf … or a horse … whinnying every now and then. It also came like a ‘dickass’,” she was heard to say. Others, she exclaimed, saw it as ‘four men holding a sheet’, or as a naked man without a head. It would often accompany the midwife on her rounds in the shape of a horse – and if anyone tried to mount it it would throw them violently and run off, ‘laughing’ loudly.

Other northern legends refer to such spirits appearing as a man, an ox or a hound – but it was most often in the form of a horse or donkey, making a terrifying noise, that the ghostly beast would materialise. Strangely, the nearby village of Portobello (a little to the north) also harbours a similar legend. But I mean, come on, let’s be reasonable … it’s probably the same creature ‘doing the rounds’. Common sense, really.

Biddick Hall (NZ314528)

© Copyright PGlenwright and licensed for reuse 

under this Creative CommonsLicence.

A little to the north of Bournmoor and to the west of Shiney Row, lie the beautiful, tranquil grounds of Biddick Hall. The residence – now a privately-owned venue for functions – dates primarily from the eighteenth century and has been associated with the famous Lambton family since they purchased to estate at the tail-end of the 1500s.

The equally well-known Bowes family originally owned the land and the first manor house, but the site was remodelled by the Lambtons in the early 1700s – in a style described as ‘Queen Anne Baroque’. The somewhat eccentric and oversized Ionic pilasters of the entrance dominate the structure – it has been suggested that the design may have been based on a sketch by Sir John Vanbrugh who worked at Lumley Castle in 1721.

About a century later, in c.1837, the Lambtons moved out and into their brand new Lambton Castle to the south-west. ‘Lesser’ family members (and occasionally tenants) then took over at Biddick Hall, though it continued to be added to, structurally, until well into the twentieth century. With the decline of their ‘castle’, the top-rank Lambtons moved back to Biddick in 1932 after some further remodelling.

As per the recently revamped Lambton Castle, Biddick Hall was used in 2012 by the BBC in the production of the period drama The Paradise.

Lambton Lion Park (NZ298518)

Those of a certain age will remember the North-East’s contribution to the 60s and 70s fad of UK-based safari parks, namely, ‘Lambton Lion Park’. Situated between Chester-le-Street and Bournmoor, it existed for eight short years during 1972-1980.

This odd tourist attraction came about on the whim of the then Lord Lambton, who no doubt fancied squeezing a little bit more money out of his substantial County Durham estate. Jimmy Chipperfield (of circus fame) was consulted in 1970, and two years later African beasts were roaming the banks of the River Wear whilst astonished locals looked on from their cars. The site was officially opened by Lucinda Lambton in July 1972.

The venture was a huge success and in 1975 the decision was taken to upgrade the site – the set-up eventually being relaunched as ‘Lambton Pleasure Park’. New features included the addition of a ‘Magic Castle’, children’s rides and a miniature railway, among other things.

Given its early success, I’m not altogether sure why the park closed in 1980, though there are whispers on the internet about problems with escaping animals and general lack of funds.

After its closure, there was little in the way of public access to the site and the estate fell into general decline. However, it is currently undergoing redevelopment, and has even been used as the setting for the BBC’s period drama, The Paradise, during 2012.

Some great pics here.

Shrove Tuesday Football (NZ275515)

Chester-le-Street isn’t the only place in the North-East with a tradition of playing Shrove Tuesday Football, but it is one of the better known. Not for the faint-hearted, this brutish, dangerous game was finally outlawed (in Chester-le-Street, at least) in 1932. Here’s an abridged report of the 1889 clash taken from the Newcastle Daily Chronicle of 6^th March of the same year:

Mr Joseph Murray, of Newcastle, as the representative of the Murray family, who have provided the ball for sixty-five years, duly appeared at one o’clock with the ball in his hand. Immediately he threw out the ball the fun became fast and furious, and, contrary to all the traditions of the game, the ball went rapidly up the street, all the efforts of the Down-Streeters failing to stay the attack of the Up-Streeters, who seemed bent upon making a strong bid for victory. Right away the ball went upwards, only to be checked opposite the Lambton Arms, and again at the King’s Head; then it did not stop until reaching Red Rose Hall. There a change took place; the Down-Streeters made a big effort, and, by the aid of vigorous play on the part of a few fresh hands, conspicuous among whom was a well-known “county back”, the ball was brought rapidly down street, and its progress was not checked until it was shot into the half-frozen river Cone. Plunging in, through the ice and rushing waters, several adventurous players succeeded in getting the ball once more into play, at the expense of a thorough wetting. In a few minutes’ time the ball was again forced into the river, and this time several youngsters got it upon the ice and tried to play it there, only to drop through the ice at very soft places and to lose the ball through the holes into the water, all of which caused immense amusement to the spectators. The ball again went up the street after a terrific struggle, and there it remained, in spite of the Herculean efforts put forth by the Down-Streeters. A few minutes before six o’clock the ball was returned to Mr.Murray, who addressed the multitude from the window of the Crown Inn, congratulating them upon the magnificent struggle there had been. An announcement was subsequently made that next year a cup would be given to be held by some responsible person on behalf of the winners.

[this abridged version first appeared in the Monthly Chronicle of North Country Lore & Legend in April 1889]

Chester-le-Street’s Missing Gold (NZ277514)

In 1042, Durham needed a new bishop. By whatever means (thanks, supposedly, to the influence of the mighty Earl Godwin), a monk from Peterborough by the name of Egelric landed the job. So up he came to the North-East and began what he must have considered something of a plum job.

Durham had by that time been the home of the mortal remains of St Cuthbert for around half a century. The saint’s previous ‘home’ had been Chester-le-Street, where he had lain during 883-995AD. Since his removal, the little town had lost a good deal of it’s glamour, but Egelric decided to give it a bit of a facelift with the construction of a brand new stone church to replace the battered old wooden affair that had housed Cuthbert’s bits and pieces.

Now this is all supposed to have happened towards the end of the bishop’s reign, around 1054-56. The story goes that during excavational work for the new edifice a hoard of gold was found, the workmen having stumbled upon the treasury of the old Roman garrison. Reports vary slightly as to what exactly happened next, but it would appear that Bishop Egelric exercised what you might call his ‘executive right’ and appropriated the gold for himself and did a runner back to Peterborough.

More kindly reports have him ‘retiring’ the bishopric of Durham in 1056 and assuming some prominent post at Peterborough, where, suitably endowed with a mysterious fortune, he set about rebuilding many of the roads and pathways of the Fens. The new church at Chester-le-Street was built, however, though presumably the money had already been put aside for this task.

According to Arthur Mee’s Durham (1953), the dubious cleric ended up being thrown in the Tower of London for his misdeeds several years later by William the Conqueror.

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A Chester-le-Street First (NZ277514)

As most aficionados of the history of Chester-le-Street are keen to relate, this famous old town in the heart of County Durham was the original long-term resting place on the English mainland of the mortal remains of the great St.Cuthbert … before they were whisked off to first Ripon, then eventually Durham for permanent burial. The famous saint lay in stately repose at Chester-le-Street for some 112 years during 883-995AD.

When they arrived, however, the travelling monks didn’t expect to stay long. They’d been on the run for seven years with Cuthbert’s coffin and treasures and fully expected to move on again soon enough. So though there was plenty of stone lying around from the days of the Romans, they decided to throw up a temporary wooden church and dedicated it to St.Mary & St.Cuthbert.

By and by, they decided to stay put for a few generations – so they turned their thoughts to other religious matters. Not least was the first ever translation of the (Lindisfarne) Gospels into what we may consider to be a form of English – a task completed between 947 and 968 by ‘Aldred the Scribe’ by way of the scribbling of notations in Old English alongside the original Latin text.

So quite a coup for Chester-le-Street: the site of the first English translation of the Gospels – or at least the earliest surviving copy. So next time you see a copy of the famous Lindisfarne Gospels look out for Aldred’s writing between the lines!

A bit fuzzy, but you get the idea

In case you’re wondering, a short while after the removal of Cuthbert’s remains in 995AD a permanent, stone church was built on the site of the wooden affair around 1056 – bits of which can still be found in the fabric of the present-day parish church. 

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The Ghost of Lily Lumley (NZ288511)

Lumley Castle, near Chester-le-Street, has put the willies up many an unsuspecting visitor over the years thanks to rumours of ghostly goings-on in its ancient corridors. The most famous is that of Lily of Lumley, the wife of the castle’s founder Sir Ralph Lumley.

After a few years frantic activity in the name of his country, Sir Ralph returned from a spell in prison in Scotland to his manor house near Chester-le-Street in 1389 and obtained permission to convert the said building into a castle. This he did, though, as chance would have it, he fell out of royal favour and ended up losing his head in 1400.

During one of his absences from his new abode, two Catholic priests are said to have confronted his wife, Lily, to question her about her failure to embrace ‘the Faith’. When she again refused to comply, it is said that the two clerics grabbed her and threw her down the castle well to her death – presumably in an attempt to save her soul.

Realising the trouble that they were now in, they hatched a cunning plan to extricate themselves from the unlikely predicament. They made haste to a nearby village, ‘borrowed’ a sick young woman and took her to a local nunnery. As expected, she soon died and the priests managed to persuade Sir Ralph that the woman was his wife, and that whilst he’d been away she’d decided to become a nun.

Gullible Sir Ralph appears to have swallowed the story and that seems to have been the end of it. But, of course, the ghost of Lily lives on, and has, from time to time, been known to drift up from the depths of the well and wander the corridors of the castle.

Lumley Castle is now a hotel and many guests have reportedly been spooked by Lily’s wanderings – including the many famous cricketers who frequent the establishment when playing at the nearby Riverside Ground.

A quick glance at the records, however, would suggest that Sir Ralph Lumley never even married a woman by the name of Lily…

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William Shanks and Pi (NZ345499)

Pi, the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter, is perhaps the most famous of our mathematical constants. It has fascinated many of the brightest sparks in the history of mankind, often dominating the thoughts of far too many for far too long. It even has a film of its own.

Just as strangely fascinating as pi itself are the odd-ball folk who have, over the years, dedicated large chunks their lives to its calculation. Yes, mathematicians are strange creatures, and the extraordinary William Shanks was no exception.

In the long chronology of the computation of pi, that of Mr Shanks’ is right up there with the best of them. And he was a North-East boy: born in Corsenside, Northumberland, but who lived out the final several decades of his life in Houghton-le-Spring. He settled there in 1847 after marrying his wife, Jane, in London the previous year.

He owned and ran (and lived in) a private boarding school in Nesham Place, an activity which afforded him plenty of time to indulge his passion for sums and such like. He was soon publishing works on mathematics, and began working on the expansion of pi at an early stage. Beginning in the early 1850s, he pushed the computation of the famous constant out beyond 500 decimal places – then 600, then finally (in 1873, after a bit of a rest) claimed a whopping 707. During his ‘gap years’ of 1850s-early 1870s he worked on many other mathematical problems, including the calculation of e and Euler’s Constant y to more decimal places than ever before. He also published a table of prime numbers up to 60,000, found the natural logarithms of 2, 3, 5 and 10 to 137 places, and a whole host of other bits and bobs.

Shanks’ work on pi remained unchallenged (and unbettered) until 1946, when his landmark 707 decimal places was found to contain an error at the 528^th place when a certain D.F.Ferguson tapped the problem into his desk calculator. Shanks’, on the other hand, had no such luxury of course. He would work for hours, manually, on his little problems most mornings, then check for errors in the afternoons – taking him a good twenty years get as far as we can get in a split second today.

William Shanks died, aged 70, in 1882, and was buried in nearby Houghton Hillside Cemetery. 

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The Gilpin Thorn (NZ340498)

Until twenty years or so ago there stood in the corner of the garden of the Rectory at Houghton-le-Spring an ancient, natural relic known as the Gilpin Thorn. It was an ugly, gnarled affair – a hawthorn tree most probably – which was said to have been planted by Bernard Gilpin, the great ‘Apostle of the North’. Gilpin was the local rector at St.Michael and All Angels Church during 1558-1583, and was much famed for his piety and benevolence. The tree is said to have sprung from a cutting taken from the famous Glastonbury Thorn.

This local landmark was, until the mid-20^th century at least, maintained with some care – or so it seems. Reports from Victorian times have the tree being braced with collars, then when, under its own weight, it split in two, its tired limbs were propped up by timber supports. Pictures from the 1950s show the tree struggling manfully on, but by the 1980s it appears to have entered a phase of terminal decline. Local vandals helped it on its way to an undignified death and removal around 1990.

But the story does not end there. A local man, Peter Tate, had had the foresight to take seeds from the old tree before it expired, and saw to it that two new seedlings were born. One of these was planted in the grounds of the Rectory … though it appears that both specimens have now disappeared, whereabouts unknown.

What a strange old story.

Note: Almost all of the information upon which this article is based was taken from the Houghton-le-Spring Heritage Society website – an excellent little article, within which you will also find some nice pictures. It’d be great if anyone could shed further light on the mystery of the missing saplings – do comment below if you can help.

Apostle of the North (NZ342498)

Bernard Gilpin is one of the true icons of the history of the North-East of England. He was born in Kentmere in what we now call the Lake District, but earned his fame as Rector of Houghton-le-Spring during 1558-1583.

Gilpin was born into a well-to-do family in 1517 and attended Oxford University where he became a student of religious doctrine. Prior to his appointment at Houghton-le-Spring he moved through various posts and places during what was, of course, a period of turbulent religious and political manoeuvrings (the 1540s and 1550s). He even spent a spell on the continent during the reign of Queen Mary.

On his return to England, he was invested with the archdeaconry of Durham by his mother’s uncle, the Bishop of Durham (in 1556). Gilpin, though, had a history of attacking clerical vices – a stance which brought him many enemies. Twice at around this time he was openly attacked by his peers, but defended by the Bishop. It was then that he was handed the attractive post at Houghton-le-Spring. Attacked again thereafter he was summoned to London, but was saved possible martyrdom by breaking his leg en route and the convenient death of Queen Mary. So off he toddled back to the North-East.

During his long tenure as Rector at Houghton-le-Spring he gained a reputation for great benevolence. The richness of his office enabled him to entertain the great and the good – as well as the poor. Every Sunday from Michaelmas to Easter he kept open house, providing dinner for all who came. He also aided in the education of the local children, including the building of a grammar school in the town.

Gilpin, though, gained his reputation proper by travelling widely across the region, from Northumberland to Yorkshire and from Cumberland to Teesdale, where he spread the word of God and became the so-called ‘Apostle of the North’. He was offered other posts, including the See of Carlisle, but preferred to carry on the work he had started from his base in Houghton-le-Spring.

In 1583, aged 66, and much weakened by a recent accident with an ox in Durham Market, Bernard Gilpin died, and was laid to rest in his church. His tomb still adorns the interior.

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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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