Stagshaw Bank Fair (NY982679)

Known variously as ‘Stagey Bank’, ‘Stagsy Bank’ or just plain old Stagshaw Bank Fair, the regular social gatherings at this now lonely spot between Corbridge and the Roman Wall were once the largest of their kind in England. They were pretty wild, too, and were eventually banned in the early twentieth century due to the often riotous behaviour which blighted the occasions.

Though it seems an unlikely spot for a get-together today, the venue was ideally placed in days of yore. Yards from the crossroads of the Roman Wall and Dere Street, it was a natural focal point for folk to meet; and meet they did – in their thousands – for several market days over the calendar year. In early May there would be a cattle and sheep market; Whitsun would be a time for horses and cattle; there would a sheep-only fair in early August; followed by another cattle and sheep fair in late September; then yet another market in late November. But the main gathering by far would be the summer event on 4^th July, which would be a true national gathering – not only for agricultural animals and produce but for, well, pretty much everything else, too! 

In view of the antiquity of the site in terms of social comings and goings it is very likely that the roots of the fair go way back – perhaps as far as the days of the Romans, when trade would probably have been conducted between visitors from both sides of the Wall. Little is known of the event’s distant history, but an account from c.1850 of the 4^th July gathering amounts to a description of a free-for-all, with the morning being, generally, for business of all kinds (not just agricultural), and the rest of the day – and the evening, in fact – kept aside for social revelry. There would be entertainment, gambling and much drinking … with a considerable mess being left thereabouts afterwards.

A combination of Stagshaw Bank Fair’s rowdiness and general untidiness led to the whole sorry affair being outlawed in the 1920s. But such is the memory of the main Summer fair that the phrase ‘It’s like Stagey Bank Fair in here’ is often still used by the older generation to describe, say, a messy child’s bedroom or any generally pandemonious situation.  

As a nod to the tradition of the old fair the modern-day agricultural Northumberland County Show is often held in the fields near Corbridge.

Escomb Saxon Church (NZ189302)

[please note this article was originally written in 1994 so may be a little out of date – though, in view of the subject matter, probably not too much!]

It is distinctive of Escomb that it has no history. It is just a little, obscure church – probably preserved by its lack of importance.

[ a former Bishop of Durham ]

Well, maybe so.  Nevertheless, this “little, obscure church” of ours, nestling somewhat embarrassingly in the midst of a 1960s housing estate three miles west of Bishop Auckland, is arguably the finest example of its kind in Britain. Of the three surviving, intact Anglo-Saxon churches nationwide, our very own at Escomb is the pick of the bunch many say. Having been thus preserved by its “lack of importance”, it is now, ironically, perhaps our most treasured relic of Northumbria’s ‘Golden Age’.

The monument’s – and indeed the village’s – early history are shrouded in mystery. Scarcely mentioned in our early written histories, even the source of its name is disputed. Undoubtedly Old English in origin, it may mean Edi, Eda or Ida’s combe (combe meaning a hollow enclosed with hills, or a valley); or, alternatively, may be a derivative of the O.E. edisc (park), Ediscum therefore meaning ‘a place where there are parks’. It seems likely, however, that there has been almost continual habitation in the area since Anglo-Saxon times. The site is certainly typically Anglo-Saxon in nature.

Although similar to its more famous and near contemporaries at Jarrow and Monkwearmouth (built 675-84AD), Escomb Church does, however, exhibit features of an earlier generation. It is, if you like, more ‘Celtic-like’. Prior to the 664AD Synod of Whitby, Celtic Christianity very much held sway over the Roman version in the North.  Escomb, with its circular graveyard, pyramidal construction and Celtic artifacts, hints at a pre-664AD founding. It has unmistakable Celtic dimensions, too.  Its official date of construction of c.675 is probably therefore a little conservative. The locals, once converted in the 640s or 650s, would have soon set to work on their place of worship – it is fortunate indeed for us that they chose stone rather than wood. The choice, though, was an easy one – the crumbling nearby Roman station of Vinovia (Binchester) provided ample pickings.

Earliest documentary records dating from c.990-95AD concern the mortgaging or pledging of the estate (church included) to a Danish Earl, Northman, who, it seems, quickly sold it back to the See of Durham. It then fell under the administration of the parish of Auckland St.Andrew in the late thirteenth century, and its somewhat undefined role remained largely unchanged with its post-Reformation appointment as chapel-of-ease to its big brother.

Come the nineteenth century and Escomb itself was finally made into an ecclesiastical parish in its own right. A vicarage was built in 1848 (priests had previously been non-resident) and all looked rosy. The tiny churchyard soon filled, however, and a new church was built and burial ground created as early as 1863 half a mile away. The old church was thus abandoned and left to decay.

Thanks largely to the efforts of a certain Dr.Hoopell, however, the old building was rescued from imminent demise. Funds were raised throughout the late 1870s, local support rallied by the caring and much-loved incumbent, T.E.Lord, and tasteful refurbishment work carried out. Bishop Lightfoot did the honours on 4^th October 1880 as the chapel was re-opened to the public.

By all accounts Victorian village life was pleasant enough thereafter under the watchful guidance of the Revd Lord. The ‘new’ church remained the parish church; its ancient neighbour being used periodically when the fancy arose. Twentieth century life took its toll, however, and the village gradually declined until clearance work in the 1960s preceded the construction of the present housing estate.

During the 1960s, too, it was decided to demolish the Victorian church (due to upkeep problems) – an act finally carried out in 1971. In the meantime the old Saxon church was overhauled again (including the installation of heating and lighting) in preparation for its restoration, once again, to the status of parish church proper in 1970.

So, a “little, obscure church” with a fascinating story… and a happy ending!

***

Don’t miss the chance to visit the place today; for if you’re ever in the area a quick diversion to take in the ‘Church of St.John the Evangelist, Escomb’ is well worth the effort. By reading the notice on the gate you’ll find the key to the same hanging on the wall of a nearby house (just take it without knocking). The church is open 9.00am-8.00pm during the summer and 9.00am-4.00pm in the winter.

Mention should be made of some of its features. Internally, the building measures 43ft x 14ft (nave) – the chancel being some 10ft square. The walls are an impressive 2ft 5in thick, and the building stands some 34ft to the point of the roof.

The southern porch and bell-cot were added during the twelfth or thirteenth century and, originally, there was an additional building to the west (the chancel is on the east wall) – though only traces of the foundations of this remain. Many extra windows have been added over the years. The site was, incidentally, excavated in 1968.

Note the narrowing or pyramidal form of all the vertical features of the church, including the building itself. Curiously, the upper courses of stone are much smaller than the rest (though still the originals).

Inside, there are medieval grave-covers lining the porch, an odd-shaped font and some original Anglo-Saxon pebbled flooring to the west of the nave. But most interesting of all is the cross fragment behind the altar and the complete Roman arch which now frames the entrance to the chancel – undoubtedly from the Binchester ruins. The fading artwork on the underside of the arch is some 800 years old.

Roman markings adorn the building inside and out. Indeed, many of the stones have clearly been fashioned by Roman masons. High on the exterior of the north wall is the legionary inscription “LEG VI”, though another legend on the inside of the same wall was not spotted until 1969 by an eagle-eyed schoolboy!

Evidence of an earlier age comes in the form of the Celtic cross over the porch entrance. What is probably the oldest Saxon sundial in the country sits high on the south wall, whilst a seventeenth century version adorns the porch.

Today the church is whitewashed within, but most probably would have also been brightly plastered without, too, in the Middle Ages. Those twelfth century paintings would also have adorned a good deal of the interior. By sitting alone on the back pew in complete and utter silence it is easy, even today, to picture the ancient scene of yesteryear. Simple, austere, reverent beauty.

And most moving.

[ This article has appeared in various publications over the years, including in my Aspects of North-East History, Vol.1 – see here ]

Summerhouse Earthworks (NZ202189)

(taken from The Victoria History of the County of Durham, 1905)

Around and about us there are layers of history buried beneath our feet. The vast majority of it remains hidden and undiscovered, a good deal has been wiped out completely – and just here and there can be found tantalising glimpses into the world of our ancestors. Only by tapping into the archives can we begin to make a little sense of these faint ghosts from our distant past.

South Durham has many such spots. The Romans drove Dere Street through these parts, of course, and much of the human activity that followed during the Dark Ages was wiped from the face of the earth during the Norman ‘Harrying of the North’ and other such cleansing operations. Later still creations, such as the remarkable lost village of Ulnaby (13^th-16^th centuries) as well as that at Walworth (among others), provide evidence aplenty of the fluctuating fortunes of local life. And at the little village of Summerhouse, a few miles NW of Darlington, lies another odd little example of our mysterious past.

At the southern extremity of the settlement’s north-south village green can be found an area of apparently open countryside – but which, in fact, contains a series of winding earthworks. As can be seen from the image above, the small, central section encloses an area of land (about 15m or so square), with a southern ‘feed-off’ into a larger moated area. Towards the west there is a sluice-gate which regulated the flow of water into the system from a small lake. The lake is now a wood.

Not a lot is known about exactly what the system of moats was protecting, but the faint remains of a tower within the smaller enclosure suggest that there was a fortified manor house on the spot. Adjacent and to the south lie remains of another, larger building – then there is the even more expansive and partly-moated area further to the south. All very mysterious, and abandoned long, long ago – though it is likely that the earthworks may hint at a connection to the Raby estate (their ‘summer house’?), and the monks of Durham City also had interests hereabouts.

By way of further illustration, here is a splendid aerial shot (taken from the west, facing east).

Winston Bridge (NZ142162)

© Copyright Hugh Mortimer and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

Winston Bridge straddles the River Tees at a point which may once have been bridged by the Romans. There was certainly a medieval bridge dating from around 1424, though the current effort was thrown up in the 1760s.

It is a rather special structure in that at the time of its erection it was the largest single-span stone bridge in England – and most probably, in fact, the whole of Europe. It was the work of amateur architect, Sir Thomas Robinson, and measures some 112ft (34m). Impressively, it was one of a handful of bridges on the Tees to survive the Great Flood of 1771.

It is built from hard blue ragstone – which means that the material, astonishingly, came from Kent – though even this robust old structure has recently been strengthened by the addition of iron bolts (which can be clearly discerned in the picture above). It once played a crucial role in the transportation of coal from Durham to Yorkshire, but the rise of the railways soon put pay to that. Still, though, it rose to fame again as recently as 1988 when a Spitfire was flown through its airy expanse for the TV war drama A Piece of Cake – an impressive piece of footage which was then reused in the even more recent Foyle’s War.

Roman Piercebridge (NZ210157)

Piercebridge, on the southern edge of England’s North-East, is one of Britain’s most famous Roman settlements. Yet it is perhaps the least understood, due to the rather inconvenient fact that the modern-day village sits squarely atop the old fort. We don’t even know its Roman name, for heaven’s sake. Anyway, here’s what we do know…

• c.70AD – The Romans arrive in the Piercebridge area, advancing north from York and building Dere Street as they go. A timber bridge is built over the Tees by 80AD. The first Roman fort is established by the early 2^nd century – originally named Magis, Morbium or Vinovium by the Romans (we’re not quite sure which) – in order to defend the river crossing point against the Brigantes. No trace of this assumed first fort has so far been found, although a fort of unknown date existed a mile to the south – possibly the missing fortification;
• c.125AD – The civilian vicus (settlement) is well established;
• 130-150AD – The original Roman timber bridge is washed away in a flood. A new bridge is eventually built 200 yards downstream by around 200AD;
• Early-mid 3^rd century – The Roman fort is rebuilt in stone. The few visible remains that we see today date to around 260-270AD;
• 330AD – Fort abandoned for c.20 years;
• 350-410AD – Final period of Roman occupation/use. The Romans leave Britain by 410AD. Locals make some use of remains, it seems;
• 6^th century – Probable final time of occupation by locals. The bridge continues to be used for upwards of a further 1,000 years;
• 1933-38 – Excavated;
• 1940s/50s – Periodic excavations;
• 1969-82 – Excavated, including the discovery of the remains of the late 2^nd century ‘new’ stone bridge (in 1972);
• Late 20^th-early 21^st century – Periodic investigations by the Northern Archaeology Group, including many dives in the Tees to retrieve thousands of artefacts;
• 2009 – Time Team excavation/evaluation.

Lanchester: Site of the Battle of Brunanburh? (NZ160469)

A few hundred yards to the SW of Lanchester in Co.Durham lie the remains of the Roman fort of Longovicium. And it was here that, possibly, was fought one of the most important encounters in English history: the Battle of Brunanburh.

I say ‘possibly’ as no one really knows where this history-shaping clash took place, only that it happened in the autumn of 937AD. But, my goodness, it was an important one, as King Aethelstan of the recently formed England led his forces to a crucial victory over the combined armies of Scotland, Strathclyde and the Irish Vikings. The battle put the English nation firmly on the map for good.

What is not on the map, though, is the venue. Several sites across the north of England have been put forward, with current thinking favouring a spot on the Wirral peninsula. However, as has already been suggested (here), the North-East of England also lays claim to the battle; but recently it has been proposed that the aforementioned site near Lanchester could well be the spot we’ve all been looking for these past few hundred years.

By studying the word itself, historian Andrew Breeze suggests that ‘Brunanburh’ means ‘the burgh by the Browney’ – that is, ‘the stronghold near the River Browney.’ The stronghold being, of course, the old Roman fort, with the River Browney running around the foot of the hill below. To help seal the deal, the Roman road of Dere Street runs north-south through the site, which, it is suggested, would have facilitated the movement of the respective armies to and from the site. This, frankly, makes a lot more sense than the awkward situate of the Wirral … and may well give the region another important historical claim to fame.

Holystone: Lies & Legend (NT952029)

© Copyright Andrew Curtis and licensed for reuse 

under this Creative Commons Licence.

Scarcely can an ancient site have attracted so much in the way of historical speculation than that of the Lady’s Well, a little to the north of Holystone, Northumberland. For such a well-known site, incredibly little is known of the origins of its fame, save that it has been there for a very long time and that folk never tire of making up tales about the place.

Essentially, of course, it is a natural feature of the landscape: a spring. And it is an abundant one at that, issuing forth an astonishing 560 gallons per minute. Clean, fresh water being such a precious commodity in the old days, these sorts of places were very important to our ancestors. This particular spot has gone by a number of names in its time: St.Ninian’s Well, Paulinus’ Well and (Old) Lady’s Well being the best known. It has given rise to all sorts of stories over the centuries, too, the most famous being that the early Christian missionary, Paulinus, baptised King Edwin and 3,000 of his followers there in 627AD. A flat stone which once lay near the spring was even said to have been the platform upon which the mass ceremony was conducted.

Nobody even seems to know the sequence of events which took the originally natural site through to its present look. Circumstantial evidence would suggest that it was revered from the earliest days of human habitation of the region. The Roman road that passes almost over the spot would suggest that the invaders made much use of the watery facilities, too, in the early centuries AD (the NE-SW orientation of the pool matches the course of the ancient road). It may well have been the Romans who tidied and paved the area, and it probably acted as a shrine of some sort, too, to the passing legions.

There can be no doubt that the early Christian leaders thereafter made use of the spring, though any links to the likes of Paulinus and St.Ninian are purely speculative. However, when the nearby nunnery (originally Benedictine, then Augustinian) was built at Holystone around 1124 the legends came crawling out of the woodwork – an attempt, of course, to attract attention and funds to the impoverished institution. In all likelihood, the legend of Paulinus and the baptising of the 3,000 probably took place in York, in fact.

By the time the nunnery was dissolved in the days of Henry VIII the lies and legend surrounding Holystone’s Lady’s Well had become well established ‘fact’. The local catholic gentry in particular latched on to the stories and propagated them in the ensuing centuries. Then, at some point in the 1780s, the site was restructured along the lines we see today, supplemented by a little Victorian tinkering during 1861-2 (when the statue of St.Paulinus was moved and the cross erected to replace it).

Yeavering 1: Yeavering Bell (NT928293)

Of all the magical, mystical locations in the entire North-East of England, many would argue that the twin-peaked hill of Yeavering Bell on the edge of the Cheviots is the most evocative of them all. It is the much heralded site of the region’s largest Iron Age hillfort – with a grand history stretching back further still.

It is not a huge hill at a modest 361m (1,182ft), but such is its situate on the very northern edge of the Cheviot range overlooking the rivers Glen and Till and the Milfield Basin that it has always loomed large over the lives of those who have lived there. From at least the late Neolithic period (around 4-5,000 years ago) man has looked up in awe and wonder at the Bell, using it to align stones and monuments – and to build a temple there, too. Among a patchwork of ancient remains a Neolithic burial cairn adorns the eastern summit.

During the Bronze Age (2000BC – 800BC), again, man made use of the hill – there is certainly plenty of evidence of burials in the immediate vicinity. But it is in the Iron Age (800BC – 50AD) that the site came into its own, and it is from this era that the encircling wall on Yeavering summit dates. It would have been a tribal stronghold of the mighty Votadini, with walls 10ft thick and 8ft high in places enclosing a spacious 12 acres.

The remains of around 130 stone and timber roundhouses, as well as the wall itself, can still be made out – the latter being still remarkably substantial. This equates to a sizeable settlement for its day, though no one has quite been able to work out why it was situated where it was (on top of an exposed hilltop). Perhaps it was a safe, defendable position, a high status location, a combination of both, or perhaps something else entirely. There are four entrances to the ‘fort’, one of which incorporates a guard-house; additionally, there is an inner, much smaller fort.

There is still much to learn about Northumberland’s premier archaeological site. No one seems to know exactly when, or why, it was abandoned (though finds there extend into the Romano-British period). However, the hill’s magnetic appeal never did fade completely, as a little after the Romans left a royal palace would spring up in the shadow of Yeavering Bell about a mile to the north.

Copyright issues prevent me from reproducing images from elsewhere, but some great pictures can be found here. The fort is open to the public – see the leaflet available here.

Through the Ages: the A697

Look at your modern-day road map in the area to the east of Thrunton Woods and you will pick up the prominent red trunk road that is the A697. It curves elegantly around the contours of the moorland thereabouts, avoiding all settlements of any size for several miles north from the village of Longframlington until the traveller reaches Powburn, some 11 miles distant. This mundane stretch of road has been redirected and relain over at least three different courses during the centuries and the evidence is easy enough to make out.

First of all – or at least as far back as we are able to go – there is the Roman road, the Devil’s Causeway. Your trusty OS map will show you that this early thoroughfare danced either side of the present-day road in a characteristically straight line on its way from Tynedale in the south to Berwick in the north. For occasional stretches it actually lies under the A697 – most notably for a two-mile run north of Powburn.

In time, of course, the road faded from view and out of use for the most part. In areas where it disappeared completely, new highways and byways were cut, linking the developing towns and villages. Actually, these ‘new’ roads were more often than not ancient tracks and drove roads which were revived and developed after the Romans left. In our example, the ‘new’ route through the area took folk over the moors to skirt the eastern fringe of what is now Thrunton Woods, and onwards through Whittingham and Glanton, before dropping down onto the Roman road again near Powburn. This road still exists (for most of its route, anyway) as a minor backroad, being familiar to those of us who regularly visit Thrunton Woods for its woodland trails.

As roads became evermore important for trade and commerce, so their generally poor condition became more and more of a concern. The muddy mess that was the Whittingham-Glanton route formed part of a major link between Newcastle and Edinburgh, especially after the opening of the bridge at Coldstream in 1767. Traffic increased (including the introduction of passenger and mail stagecoaches) and the roads deteriorated rapidly. In time, Parliament stepped in to force improvement with the passing of the Turnpike Acts.

In about 1840, a decision was taken to build a new trunk road along the course with which we are familiar today. The A697, as it is now called, skirts away from Thrunton, Whittingham and Glanton, gliding unhindered through gentle moorland to the east. It then drops down through Crawley Dene to Powburn, where it meets up with its predecessors.

The A697 has been tinkered with plenty since, but mostly just a little widening and considerable resurfacing. Its ‘history’, though, is still plain for all to see on the modern-day map.

Note: this short piece was inspired by Mike Smith’s article at www.powburn.com/a-history-of-the-a697/  

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Wrekenton: Named by a Historian! (NZ274590)

You don’t have to look far into the history of Wrekenton to discover that it appears to have been named by a historian. The famous antiquarian, Rev John Hodgson – he of the History of Northumberland fame – is said to have manufactured the word. He wrote, “After the enclosure of the common (in 1822), Mr Watson, of Warburton Place, Carrhill, founded a considerable village at this place, which, at my suggestion, he called Wrekenton.”

Hodgson created the word from the nearby Roman road, the Wrekendyke, which runs from this spot all the way to South Shields. Thus, ‘Wrenken-ton’ means ‘the homestead by the Wrekendyke’. Clever, eh? And so antiquarian-like!

‘Wrekendyke’ itself is an Anglo-Saxon word derived from the Old English wraecca, meaning ‘fugitive, or criminal’. So we have ‘the fugitive’s ditch/dyke’. We can just about recognise the old term in the modern word ‘wretch’.

It is possible that a Roman fort sat hereabouts, too – perhaps on the local golf course – but no trace of any such structure has yet been found.

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Saturday 7th September 2013

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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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.

Great Stainton’s ‘Paved Road’ (NZ337220)

The village of Great Stainton is so named, one assumes, to distinguish it from lesser known – and smaller – places of the same name scattered around and about the Co.Durham settlement. There’s Little Stainton, Stainton Grange and Stainton Hill House – to name the few I can find on a modern-day map. It is also probably the ‘original’ Stainton, situated, as it is, directly upon the course of an old Roman road – the Great being added in the 17^th century.

The thoroughfare (which no doubt pre-dates the Roman era) runs roughly north-south through the village along the course of the present-day metalled road. It was once known as ‘Stainton-in-the-Street’ or ‘Stainton-le-Street’, being reference to its situate – though, interestingly, the place-name experts would have us believe that the word ‘Stainton’ on its own actually means ‘farmstead by the paved road’ (from the Old English stanwegtun).

An early Roman coin from the reign of Emperor Vespasian (9-79AD) was found in the churchyard, indicating that the legions came this way at a very early point in their occupation of Britain. When the Anglo-Saxon settlers came along and started tagging names to their places, they came to this corner of the region, found a few houses sitting astride a nice cobbled road … and Stanwegtun was born.

Having said all this, the staggered (Roman) crossroads 200 yards north of Great Stainton was most probably the site of the first community. For here there are faint traces of the settlement shown on the early OS maps as ‘Cross Hill’.

Buckton Dovecote (NU081386)

I have a soft spot for dovecotes. But you don’t see a lot of them these days, especially up north. But there’s an ever-so-nice one sitting a few yards to the west of the A1 in North Northumberland, about 4 miles north of Belford. It’s a little ‘industrial’, as dovecotes go, but it has that solid, compact, folly-like demeanour which I find so cutely attractive. Cuddly, almost.

Buckton Dovecote is cheating, though. For it has recently undergone a substantial facelift thanks to English Heritage and Natural England – and doesn’t it look absolutely splendid:

Dovecotes were probably introduced to the UK by the Normans – though the Romans may have beaten them to it briefly in the early centuries AD. The ‘beehive’ example at Buckton dates back to at least the early 17th century and, like all structures of its kind, was intended to house doves (or, more likely, pigeons) so that their eggs may be conveniently harvested, their manure collected and, of course, the birds themselves slaughtered for the dining table. Internally, beehive dovecotes contained dozens (sometimes hundreds) of nesting boxes for the birds, who could enter and exit through the roof, with a human-sized door allowing access for the collection of eggs and, er, droppings.

There is currently no public access to Buckton’s fine little effort, but it can be seen from both the A1 and the minor road which leaves the main thoroughfare at Buckton.

[info and image from the splendid Archaeology in Northumberland, Vol.18, by Northumberland County Council]