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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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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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.

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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Sunderland Bridge (NZ266376)

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

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

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

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Hylton Ferry (NZ351570)

If you could stop your car on the busy A19 dual carriageway at the point where it crosses the River Wear and peer over its eastern edge into the valley below, you would be staring at the exact spot of the long-gone Hylton Ferry.

The old ferry – and the ford which pre-dated it – used to carry traffic using the original main Sunderland-Newcastle road, in the days before the ‘modern’ bridges which span the river a little downstream. It is difficult to believe it now, but it’s true – and in fact despite being superseded by the Queen Alexandra and Wearmouth Bridges from the 1790s onwards, the old ferry itself didn’t disappear completely until the 1950s. The last ferryman – Charlie Darby – died as recently as 2002, aged 99.

The earliest reference to a ferry on the site is in 1322, when Robert, Baron of Hilton, granted to his chaplain, William de Hilton, “the passage of Bovisferry” – in other words, a means by which cattle could be transported across the river. Quite what forms this ancient ferry assumed over the centuries no one will ever know, but by the eighteenth century it seems to have been assisted by a guide-rope stretched across the river to prevent it from being swept down on the tide at certain times of the day. In the nineteenth century it became known as the Horse Ferry, and it developed into a flat-bottomed boat operated by way of a chain windlass – the chain lying on the river bed, and the whole thing being wound by hand. You can get a pretty good idea of how it looked from the picture below.

Most sources have the chain ferry being dismantled around 1915. But despite this – as well as the coming of the bridges and metalled roads – dear old Charlie Darby kept a ferry service of sorts going for as long as he could, until his boat was pulled from under him fifty-odd years ago – and another ancient way of life passed into history.

 

For further information see here, and here (lots of pics!).

 

Death of the Shipyards (c.NZ380578 & thereabouts)

In 1989, the final remaining vestiges of the shipbuilding industry were wiped from the River Wear when the Pallion and Southwick yards were closed by Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative Government.  It signalled the end of a way of life stretching back more than six centuries.  Here’s how the press reported the sorry episode (exact source unknown)…

 

DECEMBER 12, 1988, saw the final ship to be built on the Wear slide down the slipway on a bitterly cold winter’s night. The chill which affected onlookers not only came from the plunging temperature but from the realisation that an industry, which had sustained Sunderland for centuries, had disappeared. Efforts continued to revive it and campaigners put up a spirited fight. Their hopes were raised repeatedly only to be dashed as time and time again progress became enmeshed in red tape stretched tightly between the European Commission in Brussels and Whitehall in London. It is true that the Sunderland shipyards were struggling to find orders before they closed. The world market for ships was a tough one and the Tory Government decided enough was enough and they were not going to help the Wearside industry any longer. The closure deal was put together by the European Commission and the British Government. It involved a £45million aid package to soften the blow for Sunderland and that meant that a ban - or moratorium - on shipbuilding had to be brought in. Euro-chiefs did not want to see millions of pounds of aid pumped into Wearside to compensate for the loss of a major industry, only to see it start up again a few years later. So unclear at times were the terms of the closure that it was not immediately apparent that the ban was to last for ten years. And so Sunderland resigned itself to the loss of the yards. Events moved quickly. At Southwick, which many still called the Austin & Pickersgill yard, a major auction of plant and equipment was held. Then the demolition squads moved in and the world-famous yard was levelled, crushing any vestiges of hope that it would ever turn steel into ships again. It vanished virtually overnight. The same fate awaited the North Sands yard. It was bulldozed and eventually housed a new university campus. That left only the Pallion yard intact, but, unable to build ships, it was effectively mothballed, frozen in time, a reminder of the glory days of shipbuilding. But its name also served as a rallying call for diehard shipyard campaigners who lived in hope that one day, perhaps, the industry would return. Taken over by an Anglo-Greek consortium and called Pallion Engineering, the yard has been maintained. But, as a fully operational shipyard, building ships, Pallion has slumbered. Shipbuilding on the Wear was, to all intents and purposes, forgotten.

 

[Text taken from here]

 

Old Wearmouth Bridge (NZ397575)

  

It is difficult to believe that the River Wear at Sunderland was not bridged until the 1790s. Wearside’s growing wealth was, of course, based upon shipbuilding and the export of coal – and the tall-ships of the day needed lofty access to the river’s lower reaches. Any such bridge would have to arch high above the river, and stone – the commonly-used material of the day for such projects – would surely be too expensive for such an exercise. After all, the river valley was wide (250ft) and fairly deep at this point. But the need was becoming pressing by the end of the eighteenth century and something had to be done.

Sunderland’s current Wearmouth Bridge is familiar to us all nowadays, of course; but its predecessor, the extraordinary ‘Iron Bridge’, had an unlikely link with an internationally famous historical hero. Thomas Paine, author of the seminal The Rights of Man, is the chap in question. Paine’s writings would help shape the post-revolutionary development of both France and the United States in the 1780s and 90s, but he had many other interests, too – among them, inventing. And though it has been the cause of much controversy over the years, it seems that it was a design formed originally by Paine in 1787 for a bridge over the Schuylkill River in Pennsylvania which eventually found physical form over the dear old River Wear.

The story is complex and unclear, but it is now generally accepted that the original ‘Iron Bridge’ at Sunderland, built during 1793-96, was based, at least loosely, on Paine’s original ‘American’ model. For reasons of finance, it seems, the US scheme never came to fruition, the half-finished, British-built bridge, finding itself being shipped north by its Rotherham constructors to form the basis of Sunderland’s brand-new industrial wonder.

Local MPs, Rowland Burdon and Ralph Milbanke, were the driving forces behind the scheme. After much research, both wood and stone were discarded as possible building materials; then, somehow, Paine’s iron-bridge design seems to have risen to the top of the pile. The world’s first-ever such effort, the famous ‘Ironbridge’ at Coalbrookdale, had been completed as recently as 1779 – but this famous gap measured only half of that to be bridged at Sunderland. Nevertheless, Burdon, Milbanke and their team (including, notably, engineer Thomas Wilson) bravely went for it, and gave the Walker Ironworks in Rotherham the go-ahead to start (or, perhaps, continue) the manufacturing process.

In the meantime, huge abutments were raised on the north and south banks of the Wear (completed in 1795), then two enormous wooden scaffolds were erected in the river to take the weight of the iron arches during construction. Six iron ribs were swiftly lifted into place to form the skeleton of the bridge, after which a further year was spent on applying the finishing touches. The new erection, at the time justly considered one of the wonders of the world and built at a cost of some £30-40,000, was finally opened on 9th August 1796. It was the largest single-span iron bridge on the planet, and over 80,000 folk turned up to witness the occasion.

Linking Bishopwearmouth and Monkwearmouth in this way proved to be the making of Sunderland, which flourished thereafter. It was a magnificence piece of engineering and much lauded in its day; but its design was flawed. As early as 1805, repairs were deemed necessary when the heat of the sun caused the cross-tubes which held the ribs together to loosen. And so the remedial work continued, until, in 1857, the famous Robert Stephenson took it upon himself to oversee extensive restructuring. The bridge was stripped back to its bare ribs, new iron-work added, and the abutments were raised to straighten out the lop-sidedness of the structure and to iron out the bridge’s distinctive hump. The result was a neater, simpler affair and bore the inscription, in Latin, “Do not despair, have faith in God.” It was re-opened in March 1859.

The volume of traffic over the fine old structure, however, continued to escalate, until it was decided to replace the bridge completely in the 1920s. But that, as they say, is another story.

Note:

The illustration shows a somewhat stylised engraving of the original Wearmouth Bridge, depicted prior to Robert Stephenson’s alterations. In reality, the bridge was a little lower and more elongated.

 

[ the above article is a slightly abridged version of the article which first appeared in Volume 2 of Aspects of North-East History – see www.lulu.com/historymick ]