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 It is difficult to believe it now, but it’s true – and in fact despite being superseded by the Queen Alexandra and Wearmouth Bridges from the 1790s onwards, the old ferry itself didn’t disappear completely until the 1950s.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!).

 

Sir Joseph Wilson Swan (NZ375579)

The inventor of the incandescent electric light bulb was born at Pallion Hall*, Sunderland, on 31st October 1828. Leaving school at twelve, he was apprenticed to a firm of local chemists, before moving onto a similar firm run by John Mawson, in Newcastle. In time, Swan would develop many new processes in the burgeoning photography business – patenting the carbon process for photographic printing in 1864, and inventing the dry plate (1871) and bromide paper (1879).

Swan was an enthusiastic member of the Newcastle Literary & Philosophical Society (which still exists), and became hooked on the search for a practical electric light bulb after witnessing an early demonstration in which a wire was made to glow after being placed across a battery. Early models by Swan and others were pretty useless affairs, but our man persevered with wires of many different materials – eventually falling upon specially coated carbonised paper, of all things. But only when there was no oxygen present would the filaments hold firm – and try as he might, he couldn’t get a completely ‘clean’ oxygen-free vacuum.

In the end – and after more than a quarter of a century of trying – he had to essentially invent the world’s first artificial fibre (a sort of rayon, or artificial silk), which would then be carbonised, placed in an oxygen-free tube, then heated. By the late 1870s he was at last able to get his special filaments to glow white without burning out. After showing a few friends, he then demonstrated his process to a packed Lit & Phil Society lecture theatre in Newcastle on 3rd February 1879, and the world would never be the same again.

Swan didn’t bother properly patenting the carbon-filament making process, and so allowed Thomas Edison to steal a good deal of his thunder over the coming months and years as the American tried to claim the credit, quite wrongly, for the new invention. A dispute arose between the two of them during 1879, which exploded when Swan opened his light-bulb factory in Benwell, Newcastle, in 1881. Eventually, however, they buried their differences (or rather their similarities!) and joined forces with the ‘Edison & Swan United Electric Light Co.’ in 1883.

Swan’s home at the time, Underhill in Gateshead, was the first private home to be lit by electric lighting. Most of Swan’s experiments were conducted in the property’s greenhouse - and Underhill still stands in Kells Lane to this day. The great man was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in 1894, knighted in 1904 and died in Warlingham, Surrey, in 1914.

* Pallion Hall was demolished in 1901. It used to sit a little to the north of the present-day Pallion Metro Station, not far from the River Wear.

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 ]

The Codex Amiatinus (NZ402578… possibly!)

  

One of the world’s greatest historical treasures, the Codex Amiatinus is the oldest surviving one-volume Latin Bible in the world. One of three Anglo-Saxon Bibles produced by the twin monastery of Wearmouth-Jarrow, it is the only survivor, and dates from the early 8th century. It is likely that the Venerable Bede himself was involved in its compilation.

Now in the Laurentian Library in Florence, it is considered one of the globe’s greatest artistic artefacts. It is a huge tome, with over 2060 vellum pages, made from 515 animal hides and weighing in at an incredible 75lb. Written by several scribes, the original three-Bible project was a mammoth task – most other monasteries were, at the time, reproducing just the four Gospels or the Book of Psalms. The surviving copy was intended as a gift for Pope Gregory II from the then head of the Wearmouth-Jarrow monastery, Bishop Ceolfrith. However, on his way to Rome to deliver the goods, Ceolfrith died in France in AD716 – though his followers completed the task in his honour.

Much of the book’s history thereafter is unknown, though it eventually surfaced at a monastery at Monte Amiata in Italy. Highly prized, it was for many years thought to be a 6th century Italian work; its true origins only being discovered after close scrutiny following its move to Florence after the monastery closed. By this time it had been given the name ‘Amiatinus’ after the religious house where it had spent so much of its time.

The Codex Amiatinus is perhaps the North-East’s greatest ever creation, and something of which we should all be very proud. But was it produced in Wearmouth or Jarrow, or both? Truth is, I don’t think anyone will ever really know for sure. Oh dear, another Tyneside/Wearside dispute.

See here for a much fuller (and very entertaining) history of the manuscript.

(Monk)Wearmouth Church (NZ402578)

 

 

[text from The Monthly Chronicle of North-Country Lore & Legend, November 1891 - author J.R.Boyle FSA]

 

 

The tower and the west wall of St.Peter’s Church, Monkwearmouth, are now the only portions remaining of the monastic establishment founded at this place in the year 674 by Benedict Biscop, and immediately endowed with great liberality by King Ecgfrith. Before the sister house at Jarrow was founded, seven years later, Monkwearmouth was the home of Bede, who has left a valuable record of the early history of the twin monasteries in his ‘Lives of the Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow.’

The early churches founded in the North were chiefly built of timber, ‘after the manner of the Scots’; but Biscop built his churches of stone, ‘after the manner of the Romans.’ And it is interesting to find that the same great founder of churches also brought makers of glass from France, who not only, as Bede tells us, glazed the windows of Benedict’s churches, but taught their art, which till that time had been unknown in Britain, to the natives.

The sight of a structure which has withstood the storms and changes of more than twelve centuries is always impressive; but especially is this the case when, as at Monkwearmouth, that structure is linked with an event of absorbing interest in the early history of our country. Biscop and Bede were great men. The former was a great builder, a man of large and liberal views, and a generous patron of literature and the arts. The latter was the great scholar of his age. Jarrow and Wearmouth were the principal seats of learning, not in the North alone, not in Britain alone, but in the whole of Western Europe. The perishing sculptures which adorn the sides of the entrance of this ancient tower may seem rude to us, but no one can fail to see in the baluster shafts which are built into the same doorway, and which also occur in the little windows high up in the west wall of the nave, evidence of genuine and refined art. And it must not be forgotten that the famous Codex Amiatinus, the most valuable MS now in existence of the ancient Latin version of the Bible, with its beautiful calligraphy and its gorgeous illuminations, was certainly written either at Jarrow or at Monkwearmouth.

We have only space to add that the lower portion of the tower is of much earlier date than the upper part. This lower part was originally not a tower, but a porch, the ‘porticus ingressus’ as it is called by Bede. The gable line of its original roof may be seen rising to a point between the second and third string courses.

 

 

 

Hylton Castle (NZ358588)

  

[thanks to Craigy144 at en.wikipedia]

 

This curiously-situated relic of the past has withstood the ravages of time, the elements and local redevelopment since its original construction around 1400 by one Sir William Hylton, whose family had estates spread across the northern counties. It is not known if there were any previous buildings on the site, though there is some speculation that a wooden structure may have stood thereabouts as early as the late eleventh century when William I granted the land to the family.

Today only the impressive gatehouse tower remains, though other buildings at one time existed to the east, probably arranged around a courtyard. The now ruinous west-facing frontage of the former castle was four stories high (but is now, more-or-less, three), though it still has its four turrets. Carved figures once stood on the battlements, and distinctive heraldic carvings can be made out across the still impressive façade, featuring the arms of the king, the Hyltons and related families. Interestingly, on the eastern face can be seen the ‘stars and stripes’ of the Washington family.

The ruin bears the marks of numerous additions and alterations, including nineteenth century Gothic windows, and scars which give away the former presence of wings added and destroyed over the centuries. Internally, the Great Hall would have been on the first-floor, with private chambers, for the most part, taking up the higher levels. What remains of St.Catherine’s Chapel, founded in the mid-twelfth century, lies nearby.

The Hylton family retained their rank and status until the mid-sixteenth century and the Civil War; but afterwards remained wealthy enough to both retain and develop the castle until the last of their line died in 1746. It passed through several hands in the ensuing two centuries, during which time many of the more obvious alterations evident today were carried out – though much had to be demolished during the twentieth century due to general decay and vandalism. The state took the structure over in 1950, and it is now looked after by English Heritage. The surrounding parkland is neatly maintained by the local community.

The castle was said to be haunted by the Cauld Lad of Hylton until he was appeased with the gift of a cloak and hood.
 
 

The Fulwell Giant (c.NZ384599)

From a letter which appeared in The Gentleman’s Magazine of October 1763:-

A few weeks ago a gentleman from Durham shewed me some large teeth and two Roman coins. The teeth, he said, he took out of the jaw of a gigantic skeleton of a man, and the coins were found in the grave near it. The account he gives is in the substance as follows: Upon Fulwell hills, near Monk-Weremouth, within a measured mile of the sea, there are quarries of lime, which he rents of the proprietor. In the year 1759 he removed a ridge of lime-stone and rubbish upon one of these quarries, which was about twenty-five yards in length from East to West; its perpendicular height about a yard and a half, its breadth at the top was near six yards, and the sides were sloping like the ruins of a rampart. In the middle of this bank was found the skeleton of a human body, which measured nine feet six inches in length; the shin bone measuring two feet three inches from the knee to the ankle; the head lay to the West, and was defended from the superincumbent earth by four large flat stones, which the relater, a man of great probity, who was present when the skeleton was measured, and who himself took the teeth out of the jaw, saw removed. The coins were found on the South side of the skeleton, near the right hand. (Signed) “P. Collinson.”

Co-op Milk Tokens (c.NZ360614)

 

This is something many of you will remember: a 1 pint milk token issued by the Co-operative store – in this case, the one at Boldon. These were purchased by customers in-store from about WWI onwards, and used to pay your milkman when he was on his rounds. They would be handed to him in exchange for your milk or, usually, left out on your doorstep with the empties. This meant that no cash was exchanged and no change need be given. If the price of a pint went up, the colour or shape was changed – and if you were stuck with some old tokens, you simply made up the difference in small change.

The advantage of buying the pre-payment tokens at the Co-op was that your purchase would go towards your ‘dividend account’ (a sort of early loyalty bonus). Other tokens could be bought for other food items such as bread, and even for coal. Early tokens were made from iron, brass, copper, bronze or aluminium, and later ones from plastic.

The tokens fell out of use in most areas many years ago, of course; though at least a few were still in circulation as late as 2006!

[the above image was taken from the Boldon History website]

The Boldon Book (c.NZ360614)

 
As many people know, the famous Domesday Book of 1086 does not cover English lands north of the River Tees. For whatever reason – be it that the area had been ‘wasted’ by the Normans in previous years, or, more likely, that the region was considered ungovernable – the surveyors studiously avoided the present-day counties of Northumberland and Durham when the most famous manuscript in English history was compiled 900+ years ago.

King William I was happy to let the infamous Prince Bishops of Durham get on with it up here, it seems. And they were pretty powerful men in their day. Perhaps the most famous of them, Hugh de Pudsey, considered himself so important, in fact, that he commissioned a ‘Domesday Book’ of his own in 1183 – a work that came to be known as ‘The Boldon Book’.

Though it differs in both its function and scope from Domesday, it still provides an important snapshot of the region in the late twelfth century. Basically, it presents an assessment of the land’s worth, its annual returns and its customary tenures – and paints a picture of a settled system of Anglo-Saxon feudalism going back generations. Unlike its big brother, it presents a more colourful image of everyday life, with several amusing and seemingly mundane observations.

The Boldon Book does not cover all of Northumberland and Durham, but includes almost all of the latter, and large tracts of land of the former which were then the property of the Bishop of Durham (some areas on the southern bank of the Tweed and the area around Bedlington). The name ‘Boldon’ comes from the text’s tendency to refer back to the Boldon entry (one of the first in the manuscript) when a settlement’s tenurial set-up was similar to the aforementioned village (viz. ‘as of Boldon’). The book lists each settlement in turn, giving an account of tenants’ obligations – both individually and collectively.

The original text has long since been lost, but four copies survive – including one in Durham’s Chapter Library. Transcriptions and interpretations have appeared in the Surtees Society publications (vol.25), the Victorian County History, and one or two other places; but the most accessible by far is that published by Phillimore & Co. Ltd in 1982 – which can still be found in libraries and, occasionally, in second-hand bookshops or online.

Whitburn’s Curious Custom (NZ405616)

   
From The Monthly Chronicle of North-Country Lore & Legend, May 1891:-

2nd April – At a wedding which took place at Whitburn Parish Church, a curious and very ancient custom was observed. What were described as ‘hot pots’ were brought by several of the residents of the village, and, as the party were leaving the church, the bride and bridegroom were invited to taste the liquid contained in them. The mixture consisted of various ingredients, and looked and tasted something like brewers’ yeast. The villagers claimed that the custom prevailed only in Whitburn, and that it was so ancient that the origin of it could not be traced.

        

Whitburn’s Carroll Connection (c.NZ410620)

It is a connection from not so very long ago, but it is a link which has already become swathed in legend, myth and hearsay. Just how strong is, in fact, Whitburn’s claim to be the source of inspiration of so much of Lewis Carroll’s genius works of child fiction?

Carroll certainly visited the town on a regular basis: on the occasions of his visits to his relatives, a Mr and Mrs Wilcox – the former being his uncle, the latter his cousin. He stayed at their residence in High Croft, Lizard Lane, and would often also visit the Williamsons at Whitburn Hall – who themselves often entertained their child relatives, among them the famous Alice Liddell.

The writer would often entertain the younger members of the families with which he stayed by utilising his imaginative story-telling skills. He would undertake walks in the nearby woods and along the local beaches, and weave his experiences into tales and poems – ditties and yarns which would often find their way into published works such as the Alice books in later years. Hence Whitburn’s claims for its expansive beach and the roots of The Walrus and the Carpenter, and that of Jabberwocky in the local legend of the Lambton Worm.

Jabberwocky was, indeed, most probably first narrated to his little friends at Whitburn; and it is now generally accepted that The Walrus and the Carpenter was written during one of Carroll’s stays in the town, too. However, various (rather more direct) Walrus connections to the area have yet to be proved beyond doubt – the appearance of a stuffed animal at Sunderland’s Museum certainly seems to have occurred after, and not before, Carroll got lively with his imagination. There is some evidence, however, that he may have encountered such a rigid incarnation at his sister-in-law’s house, Southwick Rectory, around 1869.

There is something rather pleasing about the uncertainty, nay, daftness, of it all.

More Carroll nonsense (actually, a very eloquent piece) can be found here.

Cleadon Landmarks 2: The Windmill (NZ389632)

© Copyright DAVID ELSY and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

Situated on its lofty perch atop the Cleadon Hills, this ruined windmill was probably constructed in the 1820s – though an earlier construction may well have occupied the blustery site. It is likely to have fallen out of use after it was damaged by a storm in the 1870s, for it is not mentioned in directories after this time.

During World War I it was used for target practice, though it has since been partially restored. In the late 1970s, what was left of the mill’s internal machinery was removed, and the entrances barred.

The ruin is said to be haunted by the ghost of Elizabeth Gibbon, a miller’s daughter who threw herself from the top of the mill tower after suffering a broken heart. The windmill was actually operated by a family of that name at the time of the 1870s storm, so maybe the story is true, if not the ghost.

Despite the structure being Grade II Listed, there is a threat that it may be demolished soon – if rumours on the Internet are to be believed.

For some beautiful images of Cleadon’s landmarks, see here.





 

Cleadon Landmarks 1: Water Tower (NZ387636)

  

 

Looking much the same in 1900 (above) as it does today, Cleadon Water Tower was built during 1859-62 as part of the water pumping station of the Sunderland & South Shields Water Company – an organisation which itself had only been formed after an Act of Parliament of 1852. The plant fell out of use years ago, but the tower and many of the outbuildings remain, having found alternative uses. The tower is, in fact (or rather was), a chimney for the old steam-powered pumps which drew clean water from the depths below. The well itself, one of several in the area, was 12ft in diameter and 258ft in depth. Strangely, little is known of the pumps which drove the station – they were removed in 1930 when the plant was electrified.

The elegant Italianate brick construction was designed by Thomas Hawksley and was typical of its day. It is 100ft tall, with a balcony near its summit, and is visible for miles around. An internal staircase spirals around the chimney’s central flue – a void now largely filled with radio aerials and the like.

Souter Lighthouse (NZ408642)

 

© Copyright malcolm tebbit and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

When it commenced operations in 1871, Souter Lighthouse was the most advanced in the world. Designed by James Douglass, it was the first to use electricity. The 800,000 candle-power light was powered by a steam engine from a dedicated engine room.

Though located on Lizard Point it somewhat strangely takes its name from Souter point a mile to the south. It was, in fact, the intention to build the lighthouse on the latter site, but this was changed at the last minute due to the lie of the land. The original name, however, was retained – though this was thought to have been done to avoid confusion with Lizard Lighthouse in Cornwall.

Though decommissioned in 1988, the lighthouse is still fully operational – with engine house, light tower and Victorian Keepers’ Cottage all open to the public under the guiding hand of the National Trust.

It is, of course, haunted.

The official website can be found here. As for the ghost, try here.

The Village That Vanished (NZ407644)

Before 1874 there was nothing, and after 1970 there was nothing. But in between thrived the cliff-top colliery village of Marsden in the narrow band of greenery which now exists between the main road and the coast, immediately north of Souter Lighthouse.

You can barely imagine it ever existed today, but it very much did. And it all began, as it so often does, with the sinking of a couple of coal shafts – on this occasion by the Harton Coal Co. – in the shape of Whitburn Colliery, a few hundred yards to the south of the future village. The labour demand for both this and the emerging limestone quarries and lime kilns in the area necessitated the construction of a new settlement, and thus the brand new village of Marsden was born with its 135 houses set out in nine rows.

The inhabitants of the ‘new town’ were well catered for. All had gardens or allotments, there was a post office, a Co-operative store, two chapels (Anglican and Methodist), a Miners’ Institute & Reading Room, a sports field, and a school. The famous ‘Marsden Rattler’ connected the villagers’ tiny railway station – said to be the smallest in England – to the rail network, and carried the men to and from work. At its peak around 700 folk lived there.

After doing very nicely for a good half century, one by one the local industries began to disappear during the 1930s, ‘40s and ‘50s, and employment opportunities began to wane. In 1968, the failing Whitburn Colliery finally closed, by which time Marsden was already in decline. The decision was then taken to entirely dismantle the village as part of a beautification process – and almost everything was swept away in a very short space of time. Only the old school building and a chapel were left standing.

So next time you visit Souter Lighthouse, take a sweeping look to the north and try to picture it all. Here’s a map to help you…

 (taken from www.bornyesterday.org.uk/old_marsden.html - not sure who owns the copyright).

See also www.marsden-ons.co.uk/MFHN/marsvill.htm .

Marsden Lime Kilns (NZ405645)

 

© Copyright Mick Garratt and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

   

Marsden Limekilns, facing bleakly out to sea at the southern extremity of Marsden Bay, are one of only three Scheduled Ancient Monuments in the Borough of South Tyneside, the other two being Arbeia Roman Fort and St.Paul’s Monastery. They are unmissable to anyone using the present-day A183 Coast Road.

The massive creations date from the 1870s, being an off-shoot industry of the nearby (but long gone) Whitburn Colliery. The limestone which was processed in the kilns was quarried literally yards away on the clifftop above, the stone being fed into the top of the complex. Coal from the nearby pit fuelled the kilns, heating and breaking down the stone to produce quicklime, which was used to neutralise soil, and also had uses in the cement, steel and chemical industries. The kilns to the right pre-date the circular affairs to the left, the latter being added in 1895. The insertion of the raw material at the top and the extraction of the quicklime at the base was almost continuous when the kilns were operating full-pelt. A railway line at the front took the goods to South Shields for shipping.

When the colliery closed in 1968 the limekilns went with them, their source of power gone.

Dame Flora Robson (NZ371658)

 

Flora McKenzie Robson, one of the twentieth century’s greatest character actresses of stage, film and TV, was born at 11 Village Terrace, Westoe, on 28th March 1902. Her father, a shipping engineer, relocated the family to the south of England in 1907, where Flora spent most of the rest of her life. From the age of five she competed in recitation competitions, eventually attending RADA as a youth.

Lacking what may be described as ‘glamorous looks’, Robson took on character roles from an early age – a career decision which was to see her excel over the following decades, though her fame didn’t begin to surface until the 1930s. In fact, such was the uncertainty of her ‘trade’ that she spent several years employed as a factory welfare officer in east London in the 1920s. The early 1930s, however, began to bring real stage success – based largely at the Old Vic.

In time, film roles followed. Most notably, of course, were her two performances as Queen Elizabeth I in Fire Over England (1937, picture above) and The Sea Hawk (1940); but memorable roles followed in Saratoga Trunk (1945 – Oscar nomination), Caesar & Cleopatra (1945), Black Narcissus (1947), and the ‘Holiday Camp’ series of films. A host of stage, film and TV appearances followed throughout the ‘50s, ‘60s and 70s. Many will remember her for her role as the Queen of Hearts in the 1972 production of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and her final film appearance as a Stygian Witch in Clash of the Titans (1981).

Her largely unheralded charity work helped her to a CBE in 1952, then a DBE in 1960. She never married nor had children, and lived for many years before her death at her Brighton home with her two sisters. She died in 1984.

IMDb entry here.

South Shields Museum & Art Gallery (NZ364673)

This splendid institution turned 150 years of age in April 2010 and, though it’s a little late, let’s have a celebratory look back at its history.

The building now occupied by the museum and art gallery was built during 1859-60 as the South Shields Mechanics Institute for the purposes of providing the working classes with a means by which they may educate themselves. Sir Robert Ingham, MP for South Shields and President of the Mechanics Institution, would have had quite a say in the matter, no doubt, and it was he who laid the foundation stone in 1859. Built at a cost of £2,700, the Institute was opened in April the following year, but proved too costly to run so was sold onto the Borough Corporation in 1871 for use as its planned Free Library.

Eventually, in October 1873, the building was indeed opened as the town's first public library. However, within a few years the building began doubling up as a display venue for relics from the nearby Roman fort, and a move was made to open a museum within the building – a development which came to fruition in 1876. As the years went by, other artefacts would be added to the museum’s collection as seafarers brought items home from all over the world.

The museum and library continued to share the building until 1976, when the new library complex opened in Prince Georg Square – after which the old building was rebranded as the ‘Museum and Art Gallery’. Since then, significant improvements have been made to the building, inside and out – most notably in 2001 and during 2003-4.

Catherine Cookson, 1906-1998 (NZ355653)

[The following article originally appeared as an obituary in the now defunct North-Easterner Magazine in 1998]

An Obituary of Dame Catherine Cookson

Loved and respected by thousands of admirers the world over, Dame Catherine Cookson, author extraordinaire, died peacefully in her sleep on 11th June 1998 – a few days short of her 92nd birthday. She was arguably the greatest and perhaps the most famous living North-Easterner until her recent passing, selling more than 100 million copies of her 100 or so novels worldwide in 18 different languages. Though she didn’t begin writing until she was 44 years of age, for the last decade of her life she headed the list of the most-borrowed library books in the UK. She was awarded an OBE in 1985, and became a Dame in 1993.

Catherine was born on 27th June 1906, at 5 Leam Lane, Tyne Dock, on the south bank of the Tyne, the illegitimate daughter of a tragic, broken alcoholic, Kate McMullen. For the first seven years of her life she was led to believe that Kate was actually her elder sister, and was brought up by her grandmother Rose McMullen and ‘step-grandfather’ John McMullen – whom she believed to be her real parents. Her biological father was one Alexander Davies (her birth was actually registered under the name of Davies), a well-to-do regular at the pub where Kate worked. However, Alexander had left the scene by the time of her birth - never to be seen again.

Catherine endured a childhood of abject poverty – very much the norm amidst the docklands of Tyneside. Shortly after learning the truth about her parentage, she was molested by an Irish lodger who lived next door – at the time her mother’s boyfriend. Furthermore, she suffered regular beatings at the hands of the uncaring Kate, and endured a life of general drudgery. The family soon moved onto Jarrow in 1912, a house which was permanently filled with lodgers thus putting yet further strain upon the young Catherine. Five years later, in 1917, her grandmother, Rose, died – and Catherine herself, in fact, almost died soon afterwards as the wear and tear on her young body took its toll. But, pulling through, she determined to make good, and pushed herself through a series of self-improvement projects in her teens, despite her low social standing.

Shunned by her boyfriend on her 21st birthday she decided to break her ties with the North and fled south – firstly to Essex, and then to Hastings where she found a fairly well-paid job as a workhouse laundry manageress. She scrimped and saved her money, only to learn that, to her horror, her mother, Kate, had decided to move south to live nearby. Catherine, however, was eventually able to take out a mortgage on a large house in 1933, and took in guests – keeping her mother at arm’s length in her old house in the centre of Hastings. One of Catherine’s lodgers, Tom Cookson, was to eventually become her husband – tying the knot, as they did, on 1st June 1940. Her mother returned in disgust to Tyneside.

Suffering three miscarriages and a nervous breakdown, Catherine’s problems continued, however. She even spent some time in a psychiatric hospital near Hereford during the war, eventually returning to her Hastings home where she spent many a lonely night without husband Tom who was away on RAF duty. Suffering a fourth miscarriage, she eventually found solace in writing. Struggling for themes and a style, she began to make use of her own life experiences which finally found form in her first published novel, Kate Hannigan, in 1950. It earned her £100 – a huge amount of money in those days; but, more importantly, was to launch her on a career which was to bring her worldwide fame, and a fortune beyond her wildest dreams.

The publication of Kate Hannigan was only the first step on the long road to fame for Catherine Cookson – who was, by then, already 44 years of age. Her life until then had been a one of perpetual heartache, it had seemed; and even throughout the early years of her new career her health remained a constant problem. She suffered a hereditary blood disorder all her life, and was in constant need of medical attention – and regular blood transfusions. Against the odds, though, she lived on, and on, and continued to write, and write. The money began to pour in as the years rolled by; and when authors began to be paid a fee each time their books were borrowed from libraries it was the making of her – though she donated her first year’s income from this scheme to less fortunate writers than herself. Indeed she was to donate millions of pounds to all sorts of charities and causes over the years.

In 1961, writer’s cramp forced Catherine to start dictating her work. In 1968, she won the Winifred Holtby Prize for the Best Regional Novel for The Round Tower; and the following year one of her best-loved novels, Our Kate, was published. She was made a Freeman of South Shields in 1973, and was granted the Freedom of the Borough in 1974. In 1975, she and husband, Tom, decided to establish a base in the North-East and bought a house in Jesmond – but made the move north permanent in 1976 by buying a house in Morpeth. They later bought houses in Corbridge and Langley, Northumberland. Catherine was elected Variety Club Woman of the Year in 1982 (an honour later gained on two further occasions), and was named as Britain’s top creative writer by Woman’s Own magazine the same year. In 1983, she was awarded an honorary Master of Arts degree by Newcastle University.

She achieved true national acclaim in 1985 when she was awarded an OBE. It was at about this time, too, that many of her novels started being dramatised for TV in a big way – The Fifteen Streets being perhaps the most famous, appearing on our screens in 1989 – and winning the Best Network Programme on TV Award. But in 1990 Catherine suffered two heart attacks – though she recovered, and enjoyed another honour in the shape of an honorary doctorate from Sunderland Polytechnic in 1991. The very same year she and Tom moved into a bungalow in Jesmond.

On January 1st 1993, Catherine was made a Dame in the New Year’s Honours list – the ultimate accolade. By then she was a novelist of international repute. And in her native North-East there were permanent tributes to be enjoyed by all in the shape of, most notably, the ‘Catherine Cookson Country’ tourist trail (which effectively doubled the number of tourists to South Tyneside, Catherine’s ‘home patch’ of her childhood) and the permanent ‘Catherine Cookson Display’ at South Shields Museum & Art Gallery. Both attractions still bring in thousands upon thousands of Cookson fans to the region every year.

But perhaps Dame Catherine Cookson’s greatest legacy is her immense charity donations. £1million to Newcastle University for research into blood disorders; £100,000 to Jarrow’s ‘Bede’s World’; £224,000 to help Durham Cathedral display its ‘Treasures of St.Cuthbert’; £187,000 to safeguard the future of Newcastle's Hatton Gallery; Children’s Literacy in Newcastle received £163,000; South Shields Volunteer Life Brigade were handed £163,000, too - as was the Library Campaign; and she celebrated her 80th birthday in 1986 by donating £160,000 to various causes. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Yes, Dame Catherine Cookson was, indeed, one of the world’s best-loved story-tellers. But she was much more than that. When she died peacefully of heart failure in her sleep on 11th June 1998, the people of the North-East had lost a living legend whose generosity knew no bounds. Her husband of almost 60 years, Tom, followed her to the grave less than three weeks later, on 29th June 1998, aged 86.