Hello. Iâve been to the Bowes Museum. I thought i might
tell you about it.
Housed in a gloriously incongruous French mansion in the small town of
Barnard Castle1, it was built to house the art collections of the noble Bowes-Lyons â a family lucky enough to
count the Queen Mother herself among their members.
Its collection lies largely parallel to the âmainâ visual arts: ceramics, fashion, textiles,
furniture, and other such things which must account for function as much as form. Most of it plunges
headfirst into the latter, a bit frilly even for my often anti-modernist tastes, but i did like this
caduceus-adorned wooden cabinet:
The star of the show here is the Silver Swan, a gorgeous eighteenth-century automaton which preens
and sways on a bed of glass water. Unfortunately, itâs broken, and the closest youâll get to see it
is its dismembered corpse awaiting restoration, so [raspberry noise]. You can,
however, see their exhibition on its legacy, which houses a wonderful collection of modern
animatronics made by crafters and tinkerers from all over the world, like this 10/10 pianist:
There are a few items which donât fit into the above. Theyâve managed to snag some real Goyas,
Canalettos, and El Grecos. (Los Grecos?) They even have Charles Babbageâs Difference Engine, somehow
â i assume itâs on loan from London?
It has now been over three months since i visited the city of Manchester. What once was a vivid
memory has been obscured by the fog of ever-ticking time. But there is unfinished business to be
dealt with â so let me sing to you, dear reader, of Affleckâs Palace.
Cottonopolisâ pop- and counter-culture mecca found its place in a bourgeois defunct department
store; its hollowed husk has been stuffed beyond recognition with dozens of stores over four floors,
from fashion to cassettes to Hatsune Mikuâthemed fizzy pop.
Itâs an absolutely disorienting place to get your head around. The meme up in Newcastle is that the
Grainger Market
is an Escherian nightmare where nothing is ever where it was last time, but Affleckâs is a whole
other level (three of them, in fact). Stairs lead to more stairs which lead to corridors which
somehow lead back to the same stairs. It took me five goes to find the cassette tape store, and when
i did, it was closed for a fag break. Itâs the sort of place where a non-specifically foreign woman
who you never see again sells you a cursed trinket that brings ruin to your family.
I can only tolerate hippie shit in small doses, and, thankfully, this little bath-bomb dispensary
was the perfect small dose. Incense sticks? Tie-dye decorations? Sure, why not.
This shop claims to be Europeâs largest LGBT specialty store, which iâm
sure is true, if only because half of Europe has the same attitude towards gay and trans people as a
moderate Westboro Baptist.
And if counter-culture isnât your thing, thereâs enough stalls hawking Disney merchandise to keep
you occupied. (I clapped when i saw the thing i know!!!)
I hardly even remember getting in or out of the building, which leaves me at a loss for how to end
this post. Maybe itâs more of a feeling than a real place â you just wake up one day, teleported
inside, and have to complete a vision quest to buy a cone of rose-flavoured ice cream to find out
how to leave.
Manchester is not particularly renowned as a home for the aristocracy or patrons of the high arts,
so i was pleased to discover upon a visit that the
Manchester Art Gallery is one of the finest of its
kind.
The Mag (as nobody calls it)âs success lies not in the size of its collection â itâs no larger than
my local, the Laing â but in its presentation. Like many museums, its curators have lately been
making efforts to diversify their collections and make them more relatable to the average yoof of
today. Itâs a process that can often come off as haphazard and rushed1, but
the team at the Mag have pulled it off with care and respect.
Newer works are dotted in each gallery in such a way that they complement, rather than denigrate,
the greats of old. A visa rejection letter from a group of Pakistani artists hangs alongside
Victorian paintings of eastern caravans; where a gallery about protest and revolution could have
added some shrewd, vapid letterpress and called it a day, the museumâs curators have instead chosen
to incorporate a thoughtful self-portrait by a South African painter, made in the wake of the
Marikana massacre.2
The captions accompanying each artwork face a similarly complicated task. Be too conservative and
youâll disappear up your own arse into a world of romanticist masturbation; be too reactionary and
youâll come off as cloyingly didactic, engaging in pseudohistoric iconoclasm for iconoclasmâs sake.
The Mag hit a stroke of genius here: after a brief description in the typical style, the captions
adorning prominent works also include conversations and thoughts from a variety of perspectives, be
it historians, curators, or the artists themselves. Itâs a brilliant way to further inform the
visitor without beating them over the head with one opinion, alienating them with arcane academese,
or leaving out unsavoury histories.
Other highlights on the lower floors include a portrait of the early black tragedian Ira Aldridge
(the very first work in the museumâs collection, which rather surprised me coming from the people of
1858), a Ghanaian tapestry that i was surprised to learn was actually made of glass, and a lovely
painting of an industrial scene lit by hazy fog whose name â to current meâs infuriation â i
neglected to include in the photo, taken from an angle so inconvenient that reverse image search
returns nothing of relevance. Past me is a bastard and iâm killing him when i get the chance.
Upstairs sit the galleryâs temporary exhibitions. The most prominently advertised was on the topic
of the history of menâs fashion, something i regrettably could not get myself to muster up any
interest in. Iâm sure itâs quite interesting if thatâs your sort of thing. The other (smaller)
exhibition sits in a surprisingly grand hall which, from what i can tell, normally houses the
museumâs pottery galleries, and itâs about tea. No wait come back i swâ
I jest, but there really is some fascinating stuff in there. The roomâs cabinets are packed with
advertisements, old jugs, and all sorts of other things detailing how hot drinks have shaped Britain
and the world over the years â from sparking conversation to funding colonisation. But there was one
thing that stuck out to me the most. A newly-created work of art, perhaps meant to inspire some
thought or another in the viewer, but that our whole group agreed could only be described as one
thing:
PS: I had to ask what the abbreviation âdblâ (âdoubleâ) on the signs for
upcoming trams meant. My poor exurban soul simply could not comprehend the idea of a transit system
that consistently ran so punctually â i had been thinking it stood for something like
âdelayed by lateâ.
PPS: This was meant to be the last post in the series, but my rambling
about the gallery got so out of hand that i thought iâd spin off its intended complement into its
own part. Tune in next week3 for one last dispatch from Affleckâs Palace.
Manchesterâs influences on British culture and life spread far and wide â music, politics, industry,
TV â but itâs fair to say itâs not exactly renowned for its literary
output. And yet, nevertheless, i found myself wandering the halls of two great libraries in
Cottonopolis.
The first and grander of the two is the Manchester Central Library, whose imposing
hall first squat itself upon St Peterâs Square in 1934. Upon walking in, there are a number of
things the discerning visitor might notice. Hir eyes might wander upwards to the expertly crafted
stained-glass window of Shakespeare and his protagonists, or all the way up to the ceiling,
generously coated with the arms of authorities priestly, princely, and popular. Or, if our
hypothetical visitor is a Geordie, shi might instead notice some things that the rest of the
countryâs eyes would gloss over: clean, well-designed signage; sleek open space; swooshy modern
ĂŠsthetics⊠All paid for out of the councilâs pockets.
There are no decaying bridges, no council computers running Windows XP,
no decade-old untouched brownfields. When ministers talk a big game about âlevelling up the Northâ,
this is the North theyâre talking about. Cumbria? Newcastle? Middlesbrough? Isnât that in Scotland?
Itâs best not to dwell on these things (for cynicism doesnât do the mind good), but one canât help
but feel like theyâre rubbing it in.
The Central Library is a treasure trove. It houses an impressive collection of musical
paraphernalia, from sheet music to encyclo-glee-diĂŠ to biographies of Saint Noel Gallagher. Its
central atrium is home to the âarchives plusâ, where Mancunians can drill into their cityâs history
without needing to be fluent in acadamese. The reference library on the upper floors is so tightly
packed that it uses mechanical bookshelves which reveal themselves with the push of a button. By all
accounts, it serves the people of Manchester well. Perhaps thatâs the problem: for a tourist like
me, itâs hard not to get jealous.
The Portico Library is an older, humbler affair, constructed at the height of the
industrial revolution and taking up but the first floor of its classically-inspired building. Anyone
can enter, but iâm afraid the full collection is a members-only joint; my group were just here to
check out a book a family friend had paid to be restored. (A page fell out while we were handling
it. Whoops!)
While the back catalogues might be off limits to us plebes, thereâs still plenty to pique the
passing itinerantâs interest. The central hall is still decorated in its original homely Victorian
fashion, having a delightfully idiosyncratic way of catalogueing its books: âbiographyâ, âtravels
and voyagesâ, and âpolite fictionâ (a vestige of the time when the middle classes were still joining
âpoliteâ society).
An exhibition of architectural art circles the middle seating area. While much of it was the usual
arty bollocks, i found myself captured by the adorable cardboard houses of Thu Le Ha, an artist and
volunteer at the library. Ms Ha has a vanishingly small online footprint, but i hope she keeps at it
â this is the sort of thing the world needs more of! Cute little whimsy.
And thatâs all i wrote. Next up, some less wordy centres of Mancunian culture.
P.S. On the way back from the Sigur RĂłs gig, we bore witness to a throng
of teenyboppers and weary parents making their way back from a different gig held at the famous
Arena. What could possibly inspire such turnout from such a young crowd: Taylor Swift? Olivia
Rodrigo? Some K-pop act iâd never heard of? Nope â they were there to
see the Backstreet Boys.
Hello. Iâve been to Manchester. I thought i might tell you about it. Wait no come back i promise
this isn't just showing you my holiday ph
The last time i went to that wonderful southern city, i was hardly ten years old, and hadnât much of
a chance to explore â a mistake i was itching to rectify this go around. Over the next few days iâll
be sharing some of the things i saw, heard, and third verb goes here.
First things first, our tripâs raison dâĂȘtre: Sigur RĂłs were on a world tour, and though
they might not have been schlepping up to Newcastle, i sure as hell wasnât going to miss the chance
to see them.
Sigur RĂłs are a post-rock band, and their gig made clear that itâs with a strong emphasis on the
âpost-â. It was an all-seated audience, with vanishingly little banter from the band (one has to
imagine theyâre not 100% confident in their English), excepting a brief pantomime bit at the end of
âAndvariâ. No complaints from me, though: a laid-back, almost classical atmosphere quite befits
their ĂŠtheral soundscapes. I mean, could you imagine people going wild in the pit to âVakaâ?
As âPopplagiĂ°â came to a close and everyone shuffled out the venueâs doors, i noticed a curious item
at the merch table: an officially licensed Sigur RĂłs tea and incense kit. What a world we live in.
(I didnât buy it â there was only one left, and i probably wouldnât be the one to make the most use
out of it.)
As an official, Lisa Nandyâcertified resident of a Townâą, i was left slightly dumbstruck and
intimidated by the dense forest of tall buildings that is Manchesterâs city centre. Sure, itâs not
like iâm a stranger to the idea of a city, but of the two big cities i have most haunted
over the years , Newcastle only has a stumpy luxury apartment and a few council houses strewn about
the suburbs, while Amsterdamâs skyscraper district is sectioned off behind the other side of a ring
road, far from the centre of town.
But Manchester? Nay â Manchester is Englandâs second city, and theyâll show it any way they like!
Dozens upon dozens of architectural phalli jut up from the ground in all directions, a veritable
orgy of capital. I pray thee, have we as a species learnt nothing from the tales of Icarus and the
Tower of Babel? Nothing✠This is hubris writ large, i tell you!
Or, you know, something like that. Their green spaces donât even have cows.
They both serve the same purpose, really, but i just want to rub in that where we up north has a
fully-fledged metro, Manchester merely has to do with trams. Sure, ours might be
delayed every five minutes, and theirs might be uber-reliable and extend throughout the urban area,
but whoâs really winning?
Manchester has no shortage of iconic residents â Morrissey, Danny Boyle, Burgess, Wanksy â but
Mancunians have taken it upon themselves to idolise two people above all else. Everywhere you look,
there are statues, plaques, and posters in their memory.
The first is Emmeline Pankhurst. An early leader of the suffragette movement, she and her allies
often used violent tactics to get their way, from breaking windows all the way up to arson. You can
see why the left-wing, industrial city, birthplace of the labour movement, would be proud to honour
her.
On a hilltop in County Durham sits the
Penshawi monument, a nineteenth-century folly built to commemorate the late Earl of Durham. Itâs always been on my
bucket list, but itâs a bit of a pain to get to via public transport, and iâd never found the time â
last week, though, i found myself with some time off and decided to make the trip. Iâll let the
pictures do the talking from hereâŠ
Information for visitors
Address:
Chester Rd, Penshaw, Houghton le SpringDH4 7NJ
.
Accessibility: Getting up to the monument requires a steep hike up a hill; if
you have impaired mobility, you may want to think twice before going.
Getting there: The hill is served by the A183 road
and the 2, 2A, and 78 buses. The nearest train station is
Chester-le-Street, five miles away.
The industry town of Blyth is bordered on four sides by sights iconic of the NorthÂumÂbrian
experience. To the north lies the eponymous River Blyth, carving out a respectable third to the Tyne
and Tweed in how it has shaped the course of the countyâs history. To the east, the awesome North
Sea ebbs and flows, enticing herds of families out to the beach. Southwards, farms and fields
stretch on until they meet the city streets. And, to the west, the dismal grey
A189 motorway cuts its way through impoverished streets and empty
grassland.
So guess which path the railway sent me down? Thatâs right, it was hugging the fucking tarmac for
me. Thereâs a reason the God of travellers is a trickster.
Newsham is perhaps the prototypical post-industrial suburb. The streets are lined
with drab row-houses and shuttered shops whose walls sit darkened by cigarette smoke. But even here,
there are signs of history, and signs of life. Walking along a small council estate, even in this
decidedly hard-to-do area, people's personalities shine through. One car, judging by the bumper
stickers, belongs to a proud gay naturist. Another house has a carved relief of an Indian chief
(although i doubt the inhabitants have a drop of Native American blood in them). And at the end of
the road lies the holy grail: the old station master's house, whose nearby decaying platforms just
about peek over the fence.
After this, our path splits in two: the main line continues up to Bebside, but a spur branches off
and swings to the town centre. The first one is mostly a boring romp through farmland and reclaimed
forests, so, for now, we'll be following the second line.
There are a lot of things about Blyth that iâm sure the town council would
love for me to tell you about. It has an historic beach (though itâs all the way on the
south end of town, and thereâs no reason for you to make the trek when Newbiggin and Whitley Bay are
closer and just as nice). There's a weekly market on Thursdays (though on the Thursday i went in,
theyâd all packed up already), by the plaza next to the
shopping centre (whose selection of options is laughable when
compared to Manor Walks in the next town over). And
theyâre dead proud of their local football team, the Spartans, who famously performed somewhat above
average in the 1978 FA Cup (never mind that Ashington spawned
two WorldCup winners).
By now you may have noticed that everything in Blyth seems to be a slightly crappier version of
something from elsewhere in Northumberland. This goes too for the ignoble fate of its former
station. While some have been turned into houses, shops, pubs, or just returned to the land whence
they arose, Blythâs once-proud central station is now⊠a Morrisons car park.
The branch line itself is now a straight-on footpath, cutting its way through town with a hospital
and shopping centre on one side and impoverished estates on the other â until about halfway through,
that is, when it suddenly becomes much more suburban in character; charming parks take the place of
pools and appendectomies, while a long allotment fills the other side. (It was also â and i cannot
stress this enough â absolutely pissing it down by the time i got to this end, and as such,
i failed to get any usable footage. Just trust that it eventually meets back up with the main line.)
Back on the main line, the motorway leads to a depressing interchange at Bebside.
Just across from the former site of the station sits the grimiest petrol station corner shop i think
iâve ever been to (no photos, alas, again); the site of the station itself has long been bulldozed
and turned into a horse riding centre.
Iâd love to stay and show you more, but the next phase in our adventure is a big one â because weâll
be taking a brief diversion to County Durham. Itâll all make sense when we get there. Ciao!
Down a narrow alleyway to the back end of St Nicholasâ Cathedral, in Newcastle, one can find a
rather curious decoration garnishing a door on the opposing façade. The âvampire rabbitâ has stood
watch over the cathedral for at least half a century; while records are scarce (a quick search of
Google Books doesnât bring up anything until the twenty-first century), it could well date back to
the buildingâs construction in 1901.
Hereâs the thing, though. Nobody knows how it got there. Indeed, even the name âvampire rabbitâ is a
misnomer; its jet-black fur and red claws were added on some time in the 1990s,i
as were its distinctly batty ears. Some say it was put there to scare away wannabe graverobbers, but
i have my doubts that twentieth-century crooks would be so dumb.
Yet others posit that it represents a
mad March hare, arising at the time
of Easter, or that it refers to Thomas Bewick, a nearby engraver who had a fondness of all things
lagomorphic. Most fascinatingly,
a theory advanced by one Mr Adam Curtis
suggests a Masonic pun in reference to one George Hare Phillipson, a local doctor (hence
vampires) and active Freemason, as was the lead architect, one William H. Wood. It being a secret
society in-joke would also explain why itâs located around the back, rather than the front, which
faces onto one of the busiest streets in town.
Perhaps we might never know for sure. In any case, itâs a fascinating little secret â what do you
think is most likely?
Last time on The Garden: A strip mall turns out to be a place of immense historical curiosity, i am interrupted by a
rude troupe of boy racers, and find myself caught up in the lyrics of a pro-union folk song.
Leaving Seghill, going past a house with a conspicuous
Northumbrian flag, the
landscape once again slips swiftly back into ruralia â a common occurrence on this leg of the
journey. No sooner had i left behind the station house than i found myself on a dirt path which i
wasnât quiiiite sure i was meant to be on.
This was the small hamlet of Mare Close, essentially a farmhouse surrounded by a few cottages. I
have a sneaking suspicion that everyone living there has been friends since primary school, though
i'll never know for sure. Opposite the cottages, by the next leg of my route, lay a
small village church and
graveyard which i dared not enter. Onwards.
Seaton Delavalα sits at the heart of the valley. Turning
one way, there lies a charming local coöperative store, a
genuine lordly manor (owned by
the townâs namesake De la Val family, who came over after 1066), the
previously-blogged village of Holywell, and, eventually,
the seaside settlement of Seaton Sluice.ÎČ Unfortunately, weâll be turning
the other way, by where once stood a colliery.
The former site of Delavalâs station can hardly be considered a sight for sore eyes. Cars and
lorries pass by, horns blaring, trying to weave their way between those turning into the nearby
petrol station.Îł The location of the station itself is an uninspiring gravel
pit on one site with an overgrown nettle-filled path on the other; next door is a chain pub whose
car park will be getting embiggened to accommodate the extra traffic once the railway reopens.
16 January, 1862. Itâs half past ten â or, at least, it might be. Youâve been labouring
away in the coal pit since two in the morning, and youâve not seen the sun since. The shift is
almost over, and itâs time to swap over with the next group.
One by one, your comrades file in line to get out. A huddle of people enter the rusting lift. The
familiar ketter-ketter-ketter shudders through the cave â but then, for a fraction of a
second, all falls silent.
Your heart races. A drop of water falls from the ceiling. Nobody makes a sound.
And then, all of a sudden, it is as though Thorâs hammer has crashed
into the ground. The earth around you shakes in terror, lets out what can only be described as an
otherworldly scream, as ten tonnes of blood-red steel smash into the floor.
This was the
Hartley Pit disaster, and its shockwaves can still be heard across town.
Just across from the telltale jackhammers and yellow tape of a housing estate so new Google Maps
hasnât caught up yetΔ sits a lovely memorial garden, explaining the story of
the tragedy, with a poem to contemplate as you ramble along the path.
In terms of stations, the town has had two â Hartley and Hartley Pit â both right next to each
other, and neither seeming to have any chance of reopening.
I was a bit anxious about continuing on, because there were several serious-looking men in hard-hats
and high-vis jackets, but they didnât seem to mind. They really, really should have tried to stop me
from going to where i was going next.
Coming up on The Garden: your author tries not to disturb some horses, desperately tries to avoid going to fucking
Blyth, and accidentally sneaks in a brief trip to Durham. I promise, it makes sense in
context.
Last time on The Garden: the axe falls on the Blyth and Tyne line, and i foolhardily decide to walk its lengthâŠ
Our journey begins at NorthÂumÂberÂland Park, in North Tyneside. Though itâs the
first station weâll be visiting, it was the last to be constructed, having only opened in 2005 â and
itâs quite easy to tell, even after sixteen years of wear and tear; the place is outfitted with
modern amenities, lifts, ticket machines flush with the wall, and, more lately, pandemic-themed
graffiti opposite the platform. This unassuming metro station will, according to the county
councilâs plans, serve as the interchange between the old and new lines, heavy rail and metro
meeting one last time before splitting apart and going their separate ways.
Setting off from there, the first thing that caught my eye were twin giants: a frosted glass-covered
car park and a red-brick Sainsburyâs, unexpected icons of the modern British condition. It didnât
get much better from there; down the road lies an American-style strip mall lined with bookmakers
trying to get people to piss away all their money.
This southernmost tip of NorthÂumÂberÂland is criss-crossed by innumerable public footpaths, cycle
paths, bridleways, and other routes for non-metal-box-related transport; ducking onto one of the
reclaimed
âwaggonwaysâ once used
to transport coal, i found myself on the site of the second station on the list.
The leafy suburb of Backworth has a habit of burying its history.
A hoard of offerings from Roman times
was found underground in the 1810s, the last vestiges of the colliery that once was are long gone,
and the tale of this sorry ex-station is rather similar. Opened in 1864 to replace a nearby station
closing the same day, BackÂworth station served its community for over 100 years, surviving the
Beeching cuts. But when the Tyne and Wear Metro was announced to come to town, the old station
finally closed⊠for good. It wasnât until the opening of NorthÂumÂberÂland Park that there would be
a replacement.
As i wandered through the village's verdant streets, i couldnât help but think of its resemblance to
the straight, cycle-friendly streets of my old hometown. A little greenery can go a long way.
Network Rail were hard at work at the site of the aforementioned original BackÂworth station, whose
plot of land now sits vacant, marking the cityâs last hurrah; the further i walked along the dirt
back roads, the further the sounds of bustling cars receded, until, ducking under a shady underpass,
i found myself utterly alone amongst pastoral fields (and the overwhelming scent of manure).
That peace and quiet was swiftly interrupted by a troupe of boy racers on motorcycles and
quad-bikes, but you canât win them all, you know?
The (post-1974) border town of Seghill occupies only the tiniest fragment of the
collective English consciousness, popping up briefly in an anti-scab minersâ folk song called
âBlackleg Minerâ:
Itâs in the evening after dark, when the blackleg miner creeps to work With his
moleskin pants and dirty shirt there gans the blackleg miner!
[...]
So, divvint gan near the Seghill mine Across the way they stretch a line, to catch the
throat and break the spine of the dirty blackleg miner
[...]
So join the union while you may Divvint wait till your dying day, for that may not be
far away, you dirty blackleg miner!
For our purposes, itâs chiefly notable for the fact that itâs the first disused station on the list
whose buildings are still intact and in use, this time as a corner shop, from which i of course
bought a copy of the local rag â prominently including a
Q&A about the restoration of service on the line, which i
thought a fitting reminder of why i set out on this silly old journey in the first place.
After getting some well deserved rest, i headed on off towards the next town over, awaiting what
fresh stories i would find...
Next time on âWalking the Blyth and Tyneâ: your author is reminded of her own mortality, finds
himself in the company of a noble family, and shudders at the thought of having to go to Blyth,
of all places on Godsâ green Earth
Itâs March of 1963. The island of Great Britain is in the throes of its coldest winter in two
decades, senior frontbench MP Harold Wilson was recently handed the
reins of the Labour party, the Beatles have just released their debut album, and, somewhere in the
bowels of Whitehall, Dr Richard Beeching is writing a report that will change the countryâs
connecting tissue forever.
Dr Beeching, you see, is the chairman of British Railways, the state-owned company in charge of rail
transport, and theyâre in a spot of financial trouble. British Railways are in charge of running
fifteen thousand miles of track shuttling between about four and a half thousand stations, and the
only way they can do that is via generous subsidies from Her Majestyâs Government â something which
the governing Conservatives, as a rule, are never too happy about.
So, pen in hand, he takes a metaphorical axe to the network, marking about half of the islandâs
stations for closure. Itâs not pleasant, but it has to be done â and, after all, people can just
take the car to their nearest station if their townâs is shut.i Iâm sure it
wonât be too bad.
That's how, a year later, the last passenger trains ran along 5,000 miles of railway across England,
Scotland, and Wales, including those connecting the mining heartland of industrial Northumberland.
The Tyne and Wear Metro, opened in 1980, allowed some of these lines to reopen in Newcastleâs
suburbs and (relatively) affluent coastal communities. But just a few miles north, the former Blyth
and Tyne Railway has lain dormant ever since the axe fell⊠until now.
In recent years, the stars have aligned, and both the county council and Westminster have agreed to
reopen the line, finally bringing these proud towns back together. The Blyth and Tyne Railway, now
rechristened by the more attractive name of the
Northumberland Line, is set to reopen by 2024. To celebrate this historic moment, i thought iâd see what has become of
the stations and towns that were. Iâve identified fourteen stations, past, present, and future,
along the line, and iâll be walking between each of them in turn, seeing what stories they tell. The
list includes:
Northumberland Park, the metro station ready and waiting to become the new
lineâs interchange
Backworth (the second)
Backworth (the first), already long closed by the time the axe fell
Seghill
Seaton Delaval, planned for reopening
Hartley Pit / Hartley, two old stations just metres apart
Newsham, planned for reopening
Blyth, on an old branch line
Blyth Bebside, planned for reopening
Bedlington, planned for reopening
North Seaton, now subsumed within Ashingtonâs town area
Ashington, planned for reopening
Woodhorn, listed on early plans for reopening but mysteriously disappeared since
Newbiggin-by-the-Sea, no longer in existence but with the route there safeguarded just in case
The Victoria Tunnel runs beneath the streets of Newcastle, from the Tyne up to the Town Moor. It
traverses not only space, but time, through nearly every corner of Englandâs history: built to
transport coal in the Industrial Revolution, on the site of an old Roman spring, it was used during
the second world war to house those fleeing German bombs. It was even considered for use in the cold
war, before the government realised that some musty old coal tunnels would probably not provide the
greatest protection against a nuclear blast.
And now you can go down it. In 2007, Newcastle City Council decided to refurbish the tunnel and open
a small stretchâof it â the rest is either unsafe for sending humans down or currently in use as a
sewerâââup for public tours. Entry is via a side street along the Ouseburn, where the guides will
cheerfully show you a map and some old photographs of the entrance. Once you get inside the tunnel
itself, hard hats and torches are compulsory, and covid restrictions are still in full force. This
was both a benefit and a malefit: yes, the tour was shorter than it would otherwise be, and masks
get quite uncomfortable when youâre wearing them for an hour in a dank, dark tunnel, but on the
other hand, our small group of family and friends got the place practically all to ourselves,
without having to be shepherded alongside other members of the public.
The tunnel is just barely wide enough to fit three people side-by-side, and if, like me, youâre of a
certain height, bumping your head on the roof is practically guaranteed. By every blast door,
thereâs a plaque about whatâs above you, and how it factors into the tunnel and the cityâs history,
stories with which the guides will gladly regale visitors (including some rather grim tragedies).
Coming back out the entrance, i felt more informed about this wonderful countyâs industrial history
â just in time to pop over to a gentrified vegan âsuperfood pubâ. The wonders of modern life.
Price: ÂŁ9â11 per adult depending on the length of the tour; ÂŁ4 per child
Address:
Victoria Tunnel Entrance, Ouse St., Valley, Newcastle upon Tyne
NE1 2PF
â just next to the CrossFit gym.
Accessibility: The tunnel was built in the 19th century and without
accessibility in mind, so is not wheelchair-accessible. The Ouseburn Trust do, due to the
pandemic, offer a virtual tour.
Getting there: The Q3 bus from the centre of town
stops nearby; otherwise, getting there poses a bit of a hike, due to its location.
Nestled amongst County Durhamâs moors and Pennine peaks lies Englandâs mightiest waterfall. The
waters of High Force tumble over 22
metres and 300 million years of stone, down into the plunge pool below. The falls were formed where
the river Tees meets the Great Whin Sill, a
tough slab of igneous rock covering much of the north of England.
When the water level is high enough, the force splits into two streams, one going the other way
around the rocksâââafter storms, it can even overflow the plateau entirely. Alas, despite recent
showers, my group were not so lucky.
The Raby family, owners of the estate, charge ÂŁ2 to see the view from the base of the falls. The
falls tower over any mere human who dares navigate down, demanding oneâs respect and attention⊠and
making it unmissable that, at the top of the falls, there are several people who walked their on
their own via the
Pennine Way, not having to
pay a single dime. Drat.
Information for visitors
Address:
High Force, Forest-in-Teesdale, Barnard Castle, County Durham,
DL12 0XH.
Getting there: Public transit connections are few and far between this far into
the countryside, so your best bet is to take a scenic drive via car through the Pennines and the
nineteenth-century village of Middleton-in-Teesdale.
Price: The Raby estate charges ÂŁ2 to access via the bottom, but the top can be
freely accessed by a hike along the Pennine Way.
Opening times: 10:00â16:00.
Accessibility and facilities: The trail is not, to my knowledge,
wheelchair-accessible. The site contains toilets and a hotel for anyone wanting to stay the
night.
The gorgeous gorge that is the Tyne valley has no shortage of winsome views, but the most beautiful,
in my opinion, is that which appears to one who goes down the Side.α In the
Monumentâs shadow, after passing the classical columns of the Theatre Royal and descending Grey
Street as it becomes Dean Street, finally taking a turn onto the Side at the bottom, the lucky
traveller will find themself towered over by the behemoth that is the Tyne Bridge:
Iâm not sure any photograph can ever match what itâs like to be there under that bridge. One of the
most remarkable things about this view, though, has nothing to do with the view itself, but rather
what happens if one walks down the Quayside for a little while, reaches an empty brownfield plot,
and clambers up a set of rotting wooden stairs to its right. Because, inexplicably, just a few
metres from the most beautiful view in town, one can find the second most beautiful view in
town, a glorious lookout on every bridge linking the two banks of the river.
We donât deserve this city.
I had initially neglected to bring a water bottle along with me; i had only intended a quick jaunt
to the centre of town and back, and the foolhardy idea of walking all the way to Wallsend came to me
spontaneously. This quickly proved a bad idea, and so i made a trek up to the corner shop, who
thankfully had all the bottled water anyone could ever want or need.
After leaving fully rehydrated and ready to walk back, i noticed the most wonderful little thing. A
parklet, this small opening of green space with some benches and inscriptions, tucked between a
housing area and a construction site. I took some picturesâââi would have loved to show them to you,
but alas, my phone got stolen in the intervening time between this trip and me writing this post,
taking the photographs with it.
Nevertheless, if youâd like to visit (or live vicariously through Google street view), itâs that
little park adjacent to 5 Belmont Street. (Google stubbornly refuses to give a proper address, but
you canât miss it!)
An account of my thought process upon seeing the above building complex:
That building looks exceedingly evil, but i canât quite place my finger on whyâŠ
Just a few yards ahead, crossing a foot-and-cycle bridge, i happened upon some strikingly relevant
graffiti, alongside some other pieces which really sum up the modern English psyche: an Extinction
Rebellion poster, a crossed out âEDLâ,ÎČ and a cock and
bollocks.
I carried a record from HMV (the Killersâ Hot Fuss, if you must
know) the whole way, and let me tell you, my arms were positively aching by the end of it! At least
i had a bagâŠÎł
To sign off, here are some photos whose stories werenât interesting enough to make the cut, as well
as a map of the journey. Thank you for reading this disjoint mess.
I don't know how
somepeople do it,
posting almost every day. I suppose my life just isnât interesting enough for this sort of thing!
Anyway. I was going to write up a full post about a recent jaunt to
Lady Waterford Hall, but my memory
is awful and iâm not sure that it would be very interesting. Instead, here are some photos
from the trip:
Pointing towards the gift shop.
âThe Studentâ. This photoâs a bit more potato-y than the rest, because it was behind a glossy
frameâŠ
(If youâd like to visit, admission is free with a suggested donation of ÂŁ3, and the place is
wheelchair-accessible.)