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.

‘Seaton Carew’ (NZ525296)

Always considered something of an odd title for a town, the name ‘Seaton Carew’ has puzzled historians and students of place-name meanings for decades.  And I’m not at all sure that we’re all yet agreed on the definitive answer.

There can be no doubt about the first two syllables.  ‘Sea-ton’ is from the Old English sae-tun, meaning ‘sea settlement’.  The ‘Carew’ element undoubtedly comes from a personal name – an early surname – which most seem to agree on as having come from one Petrus Carou, who held land in the vicinity in 1189.  So we have “the settlement by the sea belonging to Peter Carou.”  Sorted?  Not quite.

The thing is: where does ‘Carou’ come from?  And the jury is still out on this one.  Search far and wide on the Web and across several trusty tomes of reference, and you will get no further than either Norman French or Welsh or even Cornish.  Peter Carou’s nationality (or, perhaps, that of his ancestors) cannot, it seems, be pinned down, and experts old and new seem divided about whether ‘carou’ comes from the very old Celtic root word car (love) or the Welsh caerau (forts) or caer-rhiw (fort-hill).  So the old ‘Carou’ family were either of Norman stock, or were well-to-do Welsh seafaring sort.  Take your pick.

Interesting, though.

Hartlepool’s Submerged Forest (NZ520315 & thereabouts)

On the foreshore at Hartlepool, and a little to the south towards Seaton Carew, lies an expanse of ancient submerged forest dating to around 6-8,000 years ago.  It isn’t always submerged: the occasional harsh winter scouring brings it to the surface once every decade or so, when it then makes the news for a short period before disappearing from view.

In Mesolithic times, this little corner of the North-East was covered with woodland and peat bog – and extended a good way out to sea, too, with Britain, at the time, still connected to mainland Europe via a chunky land-bridge.  When the sea level rose, the forest was flooded, and the present-day coastline slowly developed. 

Several archaeological investigations have taken place in the area in recent decades, during which time worked flints and lines of stakes, etc., have been discovered, including a two-metre stretch of wattle hurdling dated to 3,600BC.  In 1971, the remains of a Neolithic man were found in nearby peat deposits.

But ancient remains have always been coming to the surface, ever since the 18^th and 19^th century development work in and around the town.  And records show, in fact, that a ‘wood of Hartlepool’ still existed as recently as the 13^th century.

It is now a Site of Special Scientific Interest. 

More info here, and a picture of one of the famous stumps can be found here.

Heugh Battery (NZ532338)

Heugh Gun Battery was built on Hartlepool Headland from 1859, when fears of a French attack on the British mainland were rife.  Nine guns were placed in three locations, though not all emplacements remain.  The original guns had a range of about a mile and a half, but were never fired in anger.

In the 1880s and 1890s the weapons were upgraded, then at the turn of the century a major overhaul of the whole site took place with substantial restructuring in concrete – most of which remains today.  The new guns which were fitted at this time had a range of over seven miles and, thanks to the uncertainties of 20^th century international relations, were kept primed until the mid 1950s.

In 1914, they became the only British mainland guns to engage a 20^th century enemy when they exchanged blows with German warships who were having a pop at the nearby town.  During WWII, the guns were upgraded again, doubling their range, but were never used.  Eventually, the defences were, of course, rendered useless by the development of long-range nuclear missiles, and the battery was closed in 1956.

[Information taken from the Heugh Battery Museum website]

Harvest Time at the Harbour (NZ522338)

Such was the decline in the fortunes of Hartlepool’s once renowned harbour, that by the dawn of the nineteenth century it was out of commission entirely.

Incredibly, in 1808, a ‘grant of the harbour’ was made to an individual, who immediately enclosed the silted expanse for the purpose of agriculture.  The enterprising maritime farmer successfully grew corn on the huge slake for some time, whilst arguments raged about the state of the once great port and its protective, but crumbling, pier – the storms of 1810 further heightening tensions.

In 1813, local citizen and burgess, William Vollum, indicted the enclosure as a nuisance by way of a petition.  The case went to court in Durham and a verdict delivered in his and the town’s favour – and the harbour was saved.  In time, and after many more years of debate, the area was returned to its watery state thanks to the demands of the industrial revolution.

Fish-waste and Tatties (NZ528338)

Despite being a thriving port of some importance for many centuries, Hartlepool was in general decline during the eighteenth century.  Before its dramatic recovery during the Victorian era, its population numbered no more than a thousand or so, all of whom were crammed into what we now know as The Headland.  During the sleepy 1700s, the town tried, not altogether successfully, to tempt folk to its bracing climes by way of medicinal springs, particularly the iron-salt spa near the Westgate.  For some reason, Thomas Gray, the famous poet, visited in July 1765 to take the waters, and wrote to his friend Dr Wharton:

I have been for two days to taste the water, and do assure you that nothing could be salter (sic) and bitterer and nastier and better for you... I am delighted with the place; there are the finest walks and rocks and caverns.

Some weeks later, he wrote again:

The rocks, the sea and the weather there more than made up to me the want of bread and the want of water, two capital defects, but of which I learned from the inhabitants not to be sensible. They live on the refuse of their own fish-market, with a few potatoes, and a reasonable quantity of Geneva [gin] six days in the week, and I have nowhere seen a taller, more robust or healthy race: every house full of ruddy broad-faced children. Nobody dies but of drowning or old-age: nobody poor but from drunkenness or mere laziness.

He wasn’t the only one impressed with the locals.  Isambard Kingdom Brunel remarked in 1831, on the eve of the settlement’s industrialisation:

A curiously isolated old fishing town – a remarkably fine race of men. Went to the top of the church tower for a view.

If only he were able to climb the steps of St.Hilda’s tower now and see the difference.

Monkey News (NZ528338)

With apologies to natives of Hartlepool, who must be heartily sick of the tale…

The Fishermen Hung the Monkey, Oh!

During the Napoleonic Wars the sole survivor of a wrecked French ship – an innocent monkey – was supposedly washed ashore at Hartlepool.  He was promptly hung by the local fishermen for fear of him being a spy.  The story was captured in song by Tyneside artist Ned Corvan in the 1860s.  Many versions of the song prevail – here is one.

In former times ‘mid war an’ strife,
When French invasion threaten’d life,
An’ all was arm’d up te the knife,
The fishermen hung the monkey, Oh!
The fishermen wi’ courage high,
They seiz’d the monkey for a spy,
Hang him, says yen; says another, he’ll die,
They did, an’ they hung the monkey, oh!

They tried ivery means to myek him speak,
They tortured the monkey tiv he loud did squeak,
Say yen that’s French, another it’s Greek,
For the fishermen they got drunkey, oh!
He’s all ower hair sum cheps did cry,
E’en up te summic cut and sly,
Wiv a cod’s head then they closed an eye,
Afore they hung the monkey, oh!

Some the monkey’s fate they did bewail,
For all the speechless pug had his tail (tale),
He’d be better off i’ Durham jail,
For the monkey wis tornin’ funkey, oh!
They said he myed sum curose mugs,
When they shaved his heed an’ cut off his lugs,
Sayin’ that’s the game for French humbugs,
Afore they hung the monkey, oh!

Hammer his ribs the thunnerin’ thief,
Pummel his pyet weel wi’ yor neef,
He’s landed there for nobbit grief,
He’s aud Napoleon’s unkey, oh!
Thus to the monkey all hands behaved,
Cut off his whiskers one chep raved,
Another bawled oot he’s niver been shaved,
So they commenc’d to scrape the monkey, oh!

They put him on a gridiron hot,
The monkey then quite lively got,
He rowl’d his eyes tiv a’ the lot,
For the monkey agyen turned funkey, oh!
Then a fisherman up te monkey goes,
Saying hang him at yence, an’ end his woes,
But the monkey flew at him and bit off his nose,
An’ that raised the poor man’s monkey, oh!

Now let us hope that iver at sea,
We’ll still maintain sovereignty,
May France and England lang agree,
An’ niver at each other git funkey, oh!
As regards poor Pug, aa’ve had me say,
His times they’ve past for mony a day,
But in Hartlepool noo, thoo’ll hear them say:
Whe hung the monkey, oh?

[Note:   Nobbit - nothing but;   funkey - in a passion]

The fame of the Hartlepool monkey was spread nationwide by Hartlepool Rovers’ rugby team who, during the 1890s, adopted a stuffed monkey as a mascot and hung it from the crossbar before each match.

Andy Capp (NZ514345)

Andy Capp, that fag-bearing, beer-swilling – and hen-pecked – stereotypical northern bloke, was born in Hartlepool – or rather his creator was, namely one Reginald Smyth, in July 1917, at 52 Union Road.

Reg was a very ordinary sort, born to working class, often bickering, parents, who had been forced together by a shot-gun wedding.  His father liked his drink, and his mother never tired of reminding him of it – sound familiar?  Well, although Andy Capp’s long-suffering wife, Flo, was based on Reg’s mum, Andy himself was an amalgam of much that was evident by way of male role models in the days of his creator’s youth – and not specifically his own father.

The family wandered between Hartlepool and Sunderland as the marriage ebbed and flowed, young Reg leaving school at 14 to become a butcher’s boy.  He later saw action during WWII in Africa and the Middle East – a time during which he honed his cartooning skills with his ‘pals’.  After the war, he joined the GPO and married.

Encouraged by his friends and family, he embarked on a little cartooning work for the Northern Daily Mail, then got his break with The Daily Mirror in 1954 when he was taken on full-time – and added an ‘e’ to his surname so that he may seem ever-so-slightly posher to southern readers. His famous layabout creation finally appeared on 5^th August 1957 when Reg was prompted by his boss to devise a new character – and Andy Capp, the man who was a ‘handicap’ to his wife, was born.

Andy – and Reg – went onto international stardom, of course; but the artist soon tired of life in London and moved back to Hartlepool for the final two decades of his life, dying in 1998 aged 80.

[the above is based on an interview given by Smyth’s cousin, Ian Smyth Herdman, to the Sunderland Echo on 10^th August 2007 – see here]

The Witches of Hart (& Elwick) (NZ470351)

From A History of the County of Durham, Volume 3 (1928):-

Its near neighbourhood to the port of Hartlepool produced in Hart an unenviable number of witches and women of immoral life.  In 1454, ‘Helena de Inferno, alias morans in inferno, alias Meldrome,’ seems to have been as bad as her name implied.  On 28 July 1582, Alison Lawe of Hart was prosecuted for being ‘a notorious sorcerer and enchanter.’  Two women of the neighbourhood had consulted her and asked her for cures for the sick.  Fortunately this was before the outbreak of the witch superstition in the 17^th century, and Alison was condemned only to stand with a paper on her head once in Durham market, once in Hart Church and once in Norton Church.  She was peacefully buried at Hart six years later on 5 August 1588.  In 1596, Ellen Thompson ‘fornicatrix and excommunicated’ ‘was buried of ye people in ye chaer at ye entrance unto ye yeate or stile of ye church-yard on ye East thereof.’  On 12 February 1641, Old Mother Midnight of Elwick was buried, but it does not appear how she earned her name.

It is believed that the three latter, ‘confirmed’ witches are buried over the sty from Hart Cemetery so that locals could regularly walk over their graves in unconsecrated ground on their way to and from church.  This would ensure that they would be kept well-and-truly trodden underfoot.

Vulcan Over Wingate (NZ403372)

On 7^th January 1971, in broad daylight, an Avro Vulcan XM610 Bomber soared across the skies of the North-East before crashing into a field near Wingate in Co.Durham.  There was no loss of life, but the incident has entered local folklore – being especially vivid in the memories of those children of the local junior school who were staring up at the roaring aircraft as it fell to earth yards from their playground.

It all started as a routine practise sortie across the North Sea and the rural reaches of the Borders, until metal fatigue in one of the engines sent the warplane and its five-man crew into panic stations.  As Captain Bob Alcock ordered his crew to eject one by one, he wrestled with the controls with ever-increasing desperation – but all to no avail, the Vulcan giving up the ghost as it careered across Northumberland and East Durham.

Alcock directed the aircraft sea-ward and ejected.  Unfortunately, the Vulcan had other ideas and dipped downwards, smashing deep into a farmer’s field between Wingate and Station Town – 100 yards from the aforementioned school.  For their attempts to save the plane, and their efforts to steer it clear of settlements, the crew all received awards – Alcock gaining the Air Force Cross.

More detail can be found at www.neam.co.uk/wingate.html, with some interesting comment at www.seaham.org.uk/forum/showthread.php?t=232 .  Eye-witness accounts seem to vary slightly, and doubts have been cast upon the pilot’s alleged attempts to steer the plane to a ‘safe’ crash.

An interesting piece of recent history.

Catherine of Wingate (NZ377377)

Catherine Howard, fifth wife of Henry VIII, is thought to have been born in Wingate, Co.Durham – probably, one can safely assume, in the little hamlet now known as ‘Old Wingate’ a little to the west of the coalmining creation that is the modern-day Wingate.

Admittedly, Catherine’s exact date and place of birth have never been proved beyond doubt.  Even the year of the event itself has been given variously as anywhere between 1518 and 1524.  She was the daughter of Lord Edmund Howard and Joyce Culpeper, and was technically a commoner.  A very young Catherine married an ageing Henry in the summer of 1540 at Oatlands Palace in Surrey.

The young woman was soon in trouble with the powers-that-be.  Rumours began circulating almost immediately of her infidelities – especially with courtier Thomas Culpeper.  Proof was slowly collected by dubious means, it being necessary, eventually, to manufacture a new law (actually, a bill of attainder) which made it treason, and punishable by death, for a queen consort to fail to disclose her sexual history to the king within twenty days of their marriage, or to incite someone to commit adultery with her.  In February 1542 – within two years of her marriage – she was sent to her grave by way of a single blow of the executioner’s axe.  She may not even have been out of her teens.

The Castle Eden Beaker (NZ428384)

The Castle Eden Beaker, now housed at the British Museum, is a classic example of what is commonly known as a ‘claw beaker’ – for obvious reasons – and is a remarkable survival of the early years of Anglo-Saxon England.  This exquisite relic measures approximately 19cm in height by 9.5cm in diameter.

Dated to the late 5^th century AD and of Frankish origin, it was unearthed under a hedge near to St.James Church, Castle Eden, a little to the south of Peterlee, in 1775.  The area, at the time being worked upon by local landowner, Rowland Burdon (the church had been built only a few years previously), was found by a humble estate worker.  The base of the item was protruding out of the ground when found.

The piece must have been imported in the decades after the Roman legions left these shores – perhaps as a possession of its migrant continental owner – and was carefully buried as the sole grave good alongside its human partner as part of an elaborate ceremony.  It must have been a highly treasured possession.

The item is made of pale greenish-blue glass with blue trails.  Both body and claws are all ‘blown’, with the latter having been applied to the cooled body as a lump of glass which was then blown into shape through the wall, drawn out and reattached to the body.  After its discovery, it was passed down through various families and individuals, until it arrived, still intact, at the British Museum in 1947.

It is the only one of its kind to be found in England.

Get Carter Finale (NZ465400)

© Copyright Andrew Curtis and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

Blackhall Beach.  The wasted shore, the aerial flight.  And Jack Carter finally gets his revenge in the climactic scene of the classic 1971 gangster flick, Get Carter.  Today, faint traces of former days of industry can be made out as per the above image, with the line of the aerial flight still discernible by way of the concrete channel running across the foreground.  The overhead conveyor once carried coal waste from nearby Blackhall Colliery over and out to sea – and provided Michael Caine with a handy means of disposing of the body of his final on-screen kill forty years ago. 

The black beach and its coaly waves are beginning to disappear, too, thankfully – though one can’t quite yet call it pretty.

More excellent ‘then and now’ shots here (and use the ‘back’ and ‘next’ button for more).

Mr Peter Lee (NZ420400)

Founded in 1948, the County Durham town of Peterlee is named after the famed miners’ leader of the same name, that is, Peter Lee.  But who was this man who had the unusual distinction of having a brand new settlement bear his name?

Lee was born in 1864 in Trimdon Grange, in the delightfully-named Duff Heap Row.  He was one of eight children and, naturally, found himself thrown down the Durham pits from an early age.  By the time he was 21 he had worked at 15 different collieries.

Despite having little schooling, his mother’s love of reading gave Lee a lifelong drive towards self-education – though he didn’t learn to read and write until his early 20s.  Seeking wider horizons, he emigrated to the USA in 1886, where he worked the mines of Ohio, Pennsylvania and Kentucky.  He returned to County Durham in 1888, and became a delegate to the Miners’ Conference for Wingate Pit.  He married, too, in 1888, and continued to develop his various interests and career for the next few years.

A trip to South Africa in 1896 proved a turning point in his life.  He became a born-again Christian and, on his return to his homeland, added Methodist preaching to his spare-time obsessions.  From 1900, he found himself working at Wheatley Hill as a checkweighman, and moved onto the parish council – eventually becoming its chairman.  He was now responsible for much of the necessities of everyday life: sanitation, new roads, cemeteries, etc.; and as chairman, too, of the local Co-operative, he was becoming highly influential in local affairs.

He was elected chairman of the Durham County Water Board, then joined the County Council itself in 1909 – eventually becoming its chairman in 1919 (England's first Labour county council).  In the meantime, he continued to campaign vigourously for improvements to the welfare of miners, rising through the ranks of, firstly, local organisations, then the Miners’ Federation of Great Britain (the forerunner of the National Union of Mineworkers) – becoming its president in 1932.

He died in 1935, having very much established himself as a local hero, and was interred in Wheatley Hill Cemetery.

Turning The Tide

What does a historian make of a project designed to wipe all traces of industrial activity from a stretch of coastline in an attempt to revert it to its former, natural beauty?  In the case of the Durham Heritage Coast, as it is now called, surely no one can complain.  For as recently as the early 1990s, the East Durham seaboard was an industrial wasteland, made famous by distinctly unglamorous appearances in such films as Get Carter and Alien 3.

A century of coal mining activity had scarred the coast beyond recognition, waste-dumping from the scattering of collieries betwix the Tyne and the Tees placing the beaches in some areas beneath ten metres of black slag and poisoning the water and its natural habitat for several miles out to sea.  Flora and fauna were devastated.  Come the closure of the pits in the years leading up to the early 1990s, locals had long since turned their backs on the disgusting mess and cared little for nature’s woes in the face of their own collective economic plight.

The mid-‘90s saw a sea-change, though.  With the availability of Lottery Fund cash, the local authorities rallied, and, with the help of a host of other organisations and vested interests, launched the ‘Turning The Tide’ (TTT) project in 1997 – and the clearance work began.  Astonishingly, within its five-year remit, TTT had utterly transformed the landscape: by 2002 the coastline was well on its way to an incredible recovery – a process now being continued by local groups, the Durham Heritage Coast Partnership and nature itself.

Today there are 15 miles of new coastal footpaths and more than 30 miles of cycleways criss-crossing a unique magnesian limestone landscape which is home to all manner of rare and beautiful plants, insects and animals – all suitably protected by law and freed from farming use.  For once, the wiping of our historic past has been welcomed by one and all – though it lives in on a scattering of information panels the length of the coastline.

The video, here, says and shows it all.

Captain of the North (NZ443412)

Ex-professional footballer Stan Anderson published an autobiography in 2010 entitled Captain of the North (see here).  Never can a book have borne a more appropriate title: for the man in question is the only individual, ever, to have captained each of the region’s ‘Big Three’ football clubs – Sunderland, Newcastle and Middlesbrough.  Stan was a cultured, whole-hearted midfielder with an eye for goal; considered to be ahead of his time by many in the way he played and thought about the game.

Anderson was born on 27^th February 1934* in Horden, Co.Durham.  After turning out for the colliery’s team as a teenager whilst learning plastering and plumbing, he eventually signed professional forms for Sunderland in 1951 and made over 400 appearances for the red and whites – gaining two England caps in 1962 and forming part of his country’s 1962 World Cup squad.

In 1963, he moved to rivals Newcastle United, where he stayed for two years, steering them to promotion in 1965.  He then signed for Middlesbrough as player-coach, then became manager during 1966-73 (amazingly, he had been rejected by the Teesside club whilst playing for Horden Colliery).  Thereafter, he had spells as a manager at AEK Athens, QPR, Donaster Rovers and Bolton Wanderers, before retiring to care for his wife in 1981.

He is now into his late 70s and lives in Doncaster.

* Strangely, his exact date of birth varies between sources – 27^th February 1933 and 12^th December 1933 are also given.  If you’re reading this, Stan, do put me straight!

The Deserted Village That Never Was (NZ432417)

Well, sort of, anyway.  The so-called ‘Yoden Village’, still shown on most modern-day maps a little to the north of Peterlee, certainly existed – but it was never known as Yoden, so far as recent historical research has been able to ascertain. 

The origins of this curious little settlement have long been in dispute, with initial, erroneous, assumptions setting its roots in the pre-Conquest era.  Simeon of Durham, writing in the early 1100s, was long thought to be referring to the site with his ‘Ioden’ and ‘Geodene’ place-names, but these are now thought to refer to ‘Eden’ to the south of Peterlee.  Nineteenth century antiquarian, Robert Surtees, seems to have invented (or reinforced) the myth by ascribing the term ‘Yoden’ to the site in the pre-Victorian era.  ‘Yoden’ doesn’t even appear on OS maps until the back end of the nineteenth century – prior to this (and especially prior to Surtees), the place seems to have been unnamed.

Scholars, it seems, were complicating the matter quite unnecessarily.  Current theories identify the ‘deserted medieval village’ in question simply as that of ‘medieval Horden’.  Modern-day Horden lies about a mile to the east, of course, so it makes sense.  Moreover, it lasted for just a century: from around 1335 to 1431, after which quarrying overtook the site (with any earlier, ‘Anglo-Saxon’ village more likely to have been around Horden Hall to the north).  It probably consisted of no more than two rows of eight crofts in total.

For detailed speculation, maps, and the like, see here.

The Temporary Ghost Town (NZ397410)

Shotton Colliery was a nineteenth century ‘new town’, built a mile or so to the north-west of old Shotton village.  The pit was sunk and began operations in the early 1840s, struggled on for a few decades – never being very profitable (if at all) – before closing in the mid 1870s.

The 1881 census returns for the colliery town indicate that a huge number of houses were empty, which has led historians to believe that the place was akin to a ghost town.  When the pit closed, folk had no alternative but to up sticks and move in their search for work – a common enough exercise for your average pitman family.  The houses built during the 1840s and ‘50s were simply left behind as the workforce moved on.  As the 1880s and ‘90s progressed, the population grew even thinner, until only a handful of folk rattled around the empty streets.

However, in 1901 the pit was reopened, the houses re-fitted within weeks (it seems that no vandalism had taken place), and the town burst back into life.  By 1906, over a thousand men and boys were in employment, rising to almost 2,000 by 1913.  The coke ovens and brickworks were reopened, too.  It quite literally boomed.

In the 1950s, however, the decline began to set in again.  Prior to the colliery’s final closure in 1972, most of the old housing had been demolished – and today there is little sign that a pit ever existed there.

Further reading here.  Pictures here.

Haswell Colliery Disaster (NZ373423)

28^th Sept 1844 – One of the most destructive explosions which ever occurred in the Durham coal field took place at Haswell colliery, the property of Messrs Plummer, Taylor, and Co., when ninety-five human beings were deprived of life. The explosion occurred in the Hutton seam, almost immediately after a fall of stone from the roof, which had liberated a vast quantity of gas; and only four persons in the mine succeeded in escaping.  On the 30th, fifty-four bodies were interred side by side in South Hetton churchyard, thirty-one at Easington, and the remainder at more distant places. The pit had been seven years at work, and was considered a very safe one. A subscription was immediately set on foot for the relief of the sufferers, and the sum received amounted to £4,264.

[From Local Historian's Table Book of Remarkable Occurrences Connected with the Counties of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, Northumberland and Durham by M.A. Richardson]

Ironically, the disaster struck a few weeks after the debilitating Miners’ Strike of 1844.  The colliery had opened in 1835 and closed in 1896.  Nothing of the colliery village remains – though a ruined fragment of the pithead itself still stands, accompanied by a modern-day memorial to the 95 dead.

The Easington Hare (NZ415435)

In days of old when hare coursing and hunting were a popular sport, the men of the area around Easington were constantly taunted by an animal which seemed forever beyond their grasp, namely, the legendary Easington Hare.

One day, when they were out hunting, they fell upon the troublesome creature in Castle Eden Dene, a couple of miles to the south of the village.  Setting off in pursuit with their bloodhounds leading the way, the men chased the hare across the fields until they reached Easington village.  Here, however, the beast gave them the slip once more, squeezing through a hole in the wall of a cottage – but not before one of the dogs had briefly grabbed its rear leg.

Hastening indoors, the hunting party found nothing within the building save for an old women nervously tending her injured leg.  The secret of the mysterious hare’s seemingly supernatural powers had been uncovered!  The men turned and left the woman and her home, and never again were they troubled by the pesky creature.