The North-East...

The land that everyone forgets. Or so it seems.

There are very few travel brochures, articles and the likes that rave about the Northeast of England and in truth we didn't spend too much time there. A brief visit to Durham and a day in York were all that we managed but at least we got a glimpse into this area and a brief encounter with the Geordie and Yorkshire cultures.

One thing that probably deters visitors is the paucity of fast roads in these areas. Whereas most other parts of England have fast and efficient motorways, these stop some way short of Newcastle and don't really start again until you are nearing Leeds or York about 50 miles south.

Our first stop in England, after crossing the border from Scotland, might have been Hardy's Fishing Museum in Alnwick (pronounced Anik). Hardy's is the most famous name in fly-fishing equipment and so for me was a moment of intense excitement, (well slightly interesting at least).
I saw the sign advertising the museum on the town by-pass and suggested, (as enthusiastically as I dared), that we pay a visit. Iris however, in her usual dulcet tone, (that I interpreted as meaning "take this exit and you die horribly and painfully"), suggested that we keep going south - so we did!

In this part of the world many of the town and village place names end in "wick". We went through or past Berwick, Alnwick, Cheswick, Goswick, Lowick, Fenwick, Howick and Aberwick plus several others in pretty short order. In old saxon, "wick" simply means a "dwelling place" and derives originally from the Latin "vicus".

After circumnavigating Newcastle-upon-Tyne, we came upon the Angel of the North, near Gateshead. The figure looms above the hillside next to the Newcastle ring-road and to be honest, doesn't look too impressive from this perspective.

However, a short detour from the main road brings you to the viewing area. Don't expect toilets or any other tourist traps or you'll be disappointed. A woman in a caravan, selling coffee and snacks, is your lot. When we asked her if there were any toilets nearby, she enlightened us with the news that she had a bucket in her nearby van, that was her emergency toilet when nature called. She did also add that she washed her hands, (not in the same bucket), before returning to the caravan.

The Angel, from the viewing area, makes an impressive sight and was well worth the stop. The locals in the Northeast have really taken this figure to their hearts, to the extent that it is part of the Geordie "identity"  now. It's kind of ugly and threatening in some respects but it really works as a sculpture. We were both impressed.

Two angels for the price of one, although Iris looks somewhat like Nanook of the North!

As you can guess from the clothing, the weather was somewhat iffy. But although it rained for about 8 hours on and off, every time we got out of the motorhome, it miraculously stopped, (thank you Saint Cuthbert).

Our next port of call was Durham. This small city and university town has a long history and traditions, based initially on Christianity and later on coal mining and associated heavy industries.
The town has strong connections with Lindisfarne and the cathedral was built as a shrine to Saint Cuthbert. (Yes, you Aucklanders, the same one as the posh girls' school).

Saint Cuthbert was buried at Lindisfarne, (where he had risen to fame as an ascetic hermit who suffered from hallucinations, (i.e. what religious people call visions)). His fame increased post-mortem, when the usual round of miracles occurred in his name, and beatification kicked into action.

He was admired by such worthies as Alfred the Great and Aethelstan, (whose last will and testament, we had been lucky enough to see in the British Library, (but that's another story)).

After the religious authorities of the time shuffled his body around various sites, (for 400 years), he was eventually dug up again and buried in the Durham cathedral, about 10 years after it was consecrated in 1095. Even this enshrinement didn't prevent the occasional exhumation to check that all his bits were still there, or to rob the grave of a few belongings, (such as an old prayer book and assorted garments etc.).

 

The cathedral in all of its glory. As usual with these buildings, it is the length and breadth of a football pitch and has 301 steps to the top of the tower.

 

 

The doorknocker on the main door of the cathedral. I was all set to give it a good rapping but some spoilsport had welded the knocker shut!

 

One unusual feature of Durham cathedral is the display of the Durham Miner's Association banners. Trade unionism was of course very strong in the mines and was vital to the miners' living standards and safety.

We have completely forgotten what working men sacrificed and fought for in order raise living standards and working conditions across all parts of society. The miners associations survived everything that the pit owners and politicians had to throw at them but couldn't survive Thatcher. If she was alive today, she'd no doubt claim that shutting the mines was to prevent global warming.

 

However, the union is remembered in Durham and the banners adorn a small side chapel of this huge building. Long may they remain.

 

Another unusual feature, was nine separate altars lined up across the rearmost (Eastern) end of the building. Each of these was dedicated to a local saint. Boy, there must have been some miracles going on in this town.

 

 

 One of the 9 altars.

 



The town of Durham was also a pleasant place and you can walk around it in 15 minutes and see most things of interest. It was worth stopping to see.

 

After we returned to our motorhome we set off for a nearby campsite and found it full. Apparently, the "Great North Run", which is a half marathon run near Gateshead, had swamped the local sites with demand for weekend stays so we headed for an alternative just across the border in North Yorkshire. Then, woe of woes, our satnav started playing up and in the end blobbed out completely.

 

Our alternative was, (can you believe this), to look at Maps!!!! Ye Gods and Little Fishes, how did people travel, when all they had was a map? The answer is, "in great confusion"!

 

We missed our first intended destination, (at Scotch Corner), completely and then drove in circles near Thirsk, (with no sign of a camp), before heading towards Ripon, where the map indicated a possible site. Ripon is another small cathedral town, very close to Fountains Abbey, but when you are looking for a campsite, is not the ideal place to navigate, with its very narrow, winding and un-signposted streets. After about 4 days in the centre of town, (actually around 20 minutes ) we saw a road sign upon which the said campsite was supposed to reside, and lo and behold, about 2 miles out of town there it was - FULL!

 

Fortunately, the camp owner gave us directions to another site about 4 miles away, down almost impossibly narrow country lanes, (which were well signposted though). We arrived at our destination to check in and a very "unusual" woman, with a propensity to talk to herself, took charge and announced that because there was a Mini (the car) rally on, it could be difficult to find us a pitch.

 

However, she invited me to follow her onto the site to see what might be available and promptly led me to a field that you could have held a football match on without inconveniencing any of the few temporary residents there!

 

She then held a serious debate, (with herself), as to which would be the best place for me to park. And having selected a space that was about 45 metres square, asked me if I thought I could fit the motorhome onto it? I restrained the urge to point out that I could fit approximately half of the existing campsite clientele into this space, and agreed, that although it could be a bit tight, with suitable care it could be done.

 

And so ended our visit to Geordieland. Despite being crammed into an impossibly small campsite for the night we survived to carry on with York as our next port of call.

 

Look out for our next thrilling episode!