Old Spital, Stainmore (NY910121)

© Copyright N Chadwick and licensed for reuse

under this Creative Commons Licence.

These days, the Old Spital equates to the farmhouse building of a roadside farmstead on the infamously desolate A66. It was once an old inn; and previous to that - a very long time ago - a medieval hospital, hence the name. Over the years it has invariably featured in the history books as the venue of a tale of folklore-ish proportions known as the ‘Hand of Glory’.

But, starting at the beginning, the medieval hospital was originally set up in the 12th century by the Abbot of Marrick (Richmondshire). Nearby we can find other similarly named place-names such as Spital Grange, Spital Park and Spital Farm. Over the years the Old Spital has been known by a variety of names: The Spittle-on-Stainmore, Spittle House, then, by the turn of the 19th century, the Spittle Inn (having been rebuilt in the late 18th century).

The ‘Hand of Glory’ incident dates to around this time, c.1800, when George Alderson and his family ran what was described as a ‘homely hostelry’. Helping them out - and central to the story - was a maid called Bella. In those days the ground floor of the building was occupied by stables and the like, and the upper stories were reached by stairs from the road. The story goes that on a stormy October evening, after the inn had been locked up for the night, the occupants were roused by a knock on the door. Alderson had been to Brough Hill Fair that day and had in his possession a large sum of money, so was wary of any unexpected visitors. Anyway, the door was answered and what appeared to be a bent old woman in a cloak and hood was admitted. She refused bed or food, insisting instead that she be allowed to rest by the fire as she had to resume her journey early the next morning. A little suspicious of the strange looking character, Bella the maid was instructed to stay in the room with the old lady and she curled herself up in a blanket feigning sleep.

In time, the mystery visitor stood up, revealing themselves to be a tall man disguised in woman’s clothes. From his cloak he took out a withered human hand - the Hand of Glory - and placed in it a candle. He bent over the maid and muttered: Let all who sleep, sleep on; let those who are awake, be awake.

The candle brightened, and the stranger opened the door, stepped outside onto the stairway and called for his companions. But Bella, still awake, rushed to the door, pushed the man down the stairs, and bolted the door behind him. The family, though, could not be woken - until, that is, she doused the candle with a cup of milk. George Alderson, suitably stirred, then rushed into the room and fired his blunderbuss from a window. After some time there was a shout from the darkness: Give up the Hand of Glory and we'll not harm you.

Another shot was fired ... and no more was heard. The withered old hand was, apparently, kept by the Aldersons for some time before being buried beneath the local gibbet.

In case you’re wondering (and I’m sure you are) a ‘Hand of Glory’ is the dried and pickled hand of a hanged man; and the accompanying candle is made from the fat of a hanged man. The two in combination are supposed to have magical powers, including keeping still a sleeping person to whom they are shown. And milk is the only thing that can dowse such a cursed light.

True story (ahem).

Stannington’s Hospitals (NZ182810 & NZ188819)

Source: WellcomeLibrary blog (WI no. L0016013)

A couple of miles north-west of the Northumberland village of Stannington, pretty much in the middle of nowhere, there once stood two really quite extraordinary medical institutions. Until their closures in the 1980s and 1990s respectively, Stannington Children’s Hospital and St.Mary’s Asylum were two of the most interesting places in the North-East.

The former, known more commonly as Stannington Sanatorium, was the very first purpose-built children’s TB hospital in the UK. Opened in 1907, it was built specifically for the needs of youngsters suffering from the disease in the days before the use of antibiotics. Fresh air, exercise and good nutrition were the order of the day, as well as the use of cutting-edge medical techniques – and all done with remarkable frugality due to much voluntary support. It was originally known as ‘Philipson’s Colony’ after one Roland Philipson who had made a generous donation to the appeal for the campaign by the Poor Children’s Holiday Association for just such an institution. In the seventy-odd years of its (sometimes controversial) existence around 11,000 youngsters passed through its doors.

The nearby St.Mary’s Hospital was, somewhat strangely, Gateshead’s official lunatic asylum. Built to the designs of George Thomas Hine during 1910-14, it served as the home of the town’s mentally ill until as recently as 1995. Almost immediately after its opening it was requisitioned by the military for the duration of World War I, but was thereafter returned to Gateshead who added a nurse’s home in 1927-8 (and otherwise modified the site) – before adding yet more buildings in the late 1930s, making St.Mary’s a sizeable concern in its ‘heyday’.

The old asylum site is now disappearing fast under new (and ongoing) development – the old children’s sanatorium up the road having been obliterated several years ago.

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.

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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In the News: the 1970s

Durham County Lunatic Asylum (NZ355305)

About one mile due north of central Sedgefield lies the site of the former lunatic asylum for County Durham, latterly known as Winterton Hospital. Virtually none of it remains today, which is probably just as well given the murky history of these questionable institutions.

The name ‘Winterton’ came from the former mill which occupied the site prior to the construction of the purpose built asylum in the late 1850s. Designed by John Howison, it was originally a 300-bed affair spread over three floors, with male wards to the west and female wards to the east. It was Elizabethan in style, mainly red-brick in construction, and came with so many extras that it was self-sufficient for much of its lifespan (including its own water supply, farm, fire service and cricket team).

It was more than doubled in size during 1875-80 – including the building of a new chapel (St.Luke’s) to hold all 700 inmates. More improvements and additions were made in the early 1930s, with the number of patients peaking at around 2,000 in 1954 – by which time it had effectively merged with the growing Sedgefield General Hospital under the auspices of the NHS. Additions continued to be made through the 1960s and ‘70s, with the institution carrying on in one shape or another until its eventual closure in 1996.

Almost all of the asylum buildings have been demolished (a new housing estate and other new buildings occupy much of the site), though a few lodges, etc – and the chapel – remain. Intriguingly, during demolition previously forgotten basement tunnels and rooms were discovered containing preserved specimens taken from patients decades previously.

More detailed information (and some great pictures) here.

Sir William Turner (NZ593216)

Everyone who has the slightest interest in the history of Cleveland is well aware of the Sir William Turner Almshouses, Kirkleatham. But who exactly was this most generous of men?

William was born in Guisborough, a little to the south of Kirkleatham, in 1615, to an already well-to-do family.  In the early 1620s, his father bought the Kirkleatham estate and began developing the site as the family home. But William was more than capable of making pots of money of his own, proving this following his move to London as a young man where he excelled in the fabrics wholesaling business.

After a long and successful career, during which time he amassed a huge fortune, he was knighted by King Charles II in recognition of his public works – and even found himself serving as Lord Mayor of London in the late 1660s, shortly after the infamous fire, during which time he worked closely with the likes of Christopher Wren in the rebuilding of the capital.

In the mid-1670s, Sir William, perhaps mindful that he had never married nor had children, surrendered most of his wealth to build the now famous almshouses in Kirkleatham – an institution founded in 1676 as the Sir William Turner Hospital. He determined that the hospital be established for the care of 40 people: ten old men, ten old women, ten boys and ten girls.

After his death in 1692 aged 77, control of the almshouses passed first to his nephew, then his great-nephew, Cholmley Turner. The great man’s will also made provision for the founding of a Free School in the village – a task completed by Cholmley in 1709, and which survives today as Kirkleatham Old Hall Museum.

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Hospital of God (NZ491275)

Copyright of Peter Robinson Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic

The modestly named ‘Hospital of God’ in Greatham village a little to the south of Hartlepool has origins stretching back many a century.  It was founded in 1273 by Robert de Stichell, the then Bishop of Durham, as a refuge for the poor and elderly. 

However, by the 16^th century it was being used more as a “house of entertainment for gentlemen”, and, though it was ‘reformed’ in 1610, it eventually fell into a state of considerable disrepair by 1724.  It seems to have then revived briefly – including a move to allow women access to the facilities from 1761 – before declining again by the end of the 18^th century.

At the turn of the 19^th century the site was cleared and the present structure built during 1803-04.  It is likely that the original buildings occupied the lawned area in front of the present, and rather pleasant, affair – though no traces remain.  For the last two centuries it seems to have been in continuous use and added to from time to time.

The institution still cares for the infirm today, with 63 almshouses maintained on the site and around the village.

King Ecgfrith’s Port (NZ345655)

Jarrow Slake, that oddly-named area of reclaimed land on the south bank of the Tyne neighbouring St.Paul’s Church, has a recorded history going back to the time of Bede. The area was then a large expanse of mud-flats into which the River Don wound before emptying itself into the Tyne – but at high tide would fill with water, hence its original name of ‘King Ecgfrith’s Port’, named after the Dark Age Northumbrian king who gifted the land to the monks of Jarrow.

In time, a new name came into use: Jarrow’s Lake – which in turn became corrupted into Jarrow Slake. Little more than a treacherous expanse of gooey mess – as well as an unofficial bird sanctuary – for centuries, it was eventually put to good use in Victorian times as a pond for timber seasoning, for which it served its purpose for around a century from the 1870s. The Slake was also home to an isolation hospital for several years from around 1930, to which access was gained via a catwalk.

In 1972, reclamation work began, and the area was used as a landfill site for some time. Eventually amalgamated into the surrounding landscape, the Slake’s 120-acre muddy expanse finally disappeared for good in the early 1980s. Latterly it has been used as a car distribution terminal for Nissan.

For some fabulous photos of the old Slake, see here. And the area, on a map, as it is now – still, pleasing, called Jarrow Slake!

P.S. The illustrated gibbeting is probably that of William Jobling in 1832 (but that’s another story, see here). Though there is no sign of the cage, the artist may have omitted it in error.