A Bimble to Durham

A weary traveller's rest in Old Durham Town.  The cathedral puts Roger Whittaker in his his place straight away.  What a magnificent sight, a city on a hill surrounded by the bend of river that we learned about in school.  The ideal position for a fortified settlement, impregnable to Northern Rievers, Scots and Vikings; seat of the all powerful Bishops, dominating the North until King Henry the 8th brought them down a peg or two.  

I took a room in the Castle as suited my magisterial wont.  Once past the porter and ensconced in my turret I surveyed my good fortune.  In term time the castle is filled with the brightest and best young people that our fine nation can muster. Durham University is as tough to get into as Oxbridge and it matches both as a city of learning. In August, though, it must put up with me ! (BA Hons American Studies)

It was eerily quiet as I shared my Castle with a wedding party and a handful of awed Europeans, stupefied by their luck in booking a bargain, off season, dorm room.  Compact and bijou with a wonderful view, my single room could have served me through a first academic year, and the breakfast in the Great Hall would have kept me fortified for high jinks in town and dirty tricks on the rugger pitch. 

After a quick pint with Ron Weasley in the undercroft I tipped my hat to the friendly porter who had stowed my steed safely in his office and sought sanctuary.  

The Cathedral is a wonder to behold and the end of my pilgrimage. Some times one has to take a seat or stand and stare at the marvels of our ecclesiastical forefathers.  Standing proud against a blue Northern sky this monument to the Godhead must have cowed rebels and serfs alike.  A beacon of holy rectitude it served as a seat of power for the Bishops of Durham for centuries until the Kings became jealous of their wealth and rivalry. They effectively ruled the North exacting tithes and taxes emitting emissaries to invoke the word of the Lord which was law in this land.

They managed this through the exaltation of my old friend from Lindisfarne. Here lieth Cuthbert, in his saintly sepulchre. Once he had made his bone shaking hundred year journey through the wilds of Northumberland, with a stop off in Chester le Street, he came to rest here and the church quickly became a site of pilgrimage.  Behold the legend of St Cuthbert and be blessed to serve the goodly Bishopric. The Normans were quick to reinforce the legend and erect a mighty Cathedral to awe the populace and venerate our humble hermit.

 Defying the heathens was a privilege even the nobles bought into and in the dark ages the one eyed man became King.  Martyrdom brought salvation and the highest honour of lying with Cuthbert as Durham became a seat of power. The shrine served the purposes of the nobility and the church as folk  flocked to worship, fortified by the magic of the saintly tomb.

 I sat with Cuthbert a while in peaceful reminiscence of a pilgrimage completed.  150 miles of saddle rash and burning limbs, pushing my body to the limit in my summer quest for wisdom and salvation.  The latter eluded me but at least I had burned some calories and could now get up stairs without breathing hard. A bit of solitude is always good for the soul and I headed back to my covey to sleep and dream regally.

There is a martial air about the cathedral and legacies of the legendary Durham Light Infantry abound.  The town is dotted with memorials to this band of brothers and the name is invested with pride in place, a symbol of the loyalty and honour of Durham men, especially when under duress.  Tales of heroic stands and valiant ventures chime with the stoicism of men toughened by their environment.  They fought on foot ahead of enemy lines in far off lands; New Zealand, South Africa and Crimea, distinguishing themselves in the desert of North Africa under Montgomery. The 'Durhams' last venture was in Borneo and the 'canny lads' entered military folklore as liberators and legendary warriors of a colonial age.  Not sure the Maoris or Zulus would agree but Durham holds these brave souls closely to its bosom.  

From my idyllic eyrie I descended upon the town, still in slumber on this Sunday morning with nary a sign that all hell was about to break loose.  Hidden gardens, verdant in their summer splendour; charming Georgian villas and streets straight out of period drama. I wandered aimlessly lulled by the beatific sun warming the cobbled streets.  I had always wanted to visit Durham, an iconic city like Salisbury and York that needs to be on every patriots bucket list and it was not to disappoint.  

I followed the river and chatted to dog walkers about my impending Dachshund.  Use  a whistle, don't let it upstairs, use a crate, they will defend you to the death.  One bearded gent, there are a lot of beard in Durham, grappled with a lively Tekel, which is the experts Dachshund, hard to tame and wilful.  He confirmed the responsibility of caring for a hound was a major life altering decision that could not be entered into half heartedly. I pondered this possible bimble inhibitor as I strolled blissfully past punts and rowers slowly bringing the river to life.  I wanted to get onto the water and suddenly wished I was sharing this with my daughter.  The next city break I would educate and fascinate her with rich topographical nuggets and regale her with historical factoids, burnishing her with a lifelong love of learning.👧

One last tour about the cathedral in my state of high mindedness and I was ready for a siesta with Boycott and Aggers.  I had already sensed that sport was afoot as a husband was admonished in the cafe as I savoured my latte in the sun.  Earphones embedded, he was glued to a transistor radio. His good lady looked to the heavens and swore 'bloody cricket...he's been all round the cathedral with that on.'  He was too embroiled to care what wrath he was incurring.  I could only mutter, a defensive, 'well it is quite important...' as I shuffled off to find my own Roberts radio safely stowed in panniers for this very need.  

I tried to nap in my garret as the wickets fell and almost gave up on the Ashes for  bit of shut eye..but there was always hope...a faint whiff of victory and long odds against England survival, batting out the day against the mighty Aussie onslaught. I thought I might as well try a couple of those historic pubs just to see the inevitable and read the paper.  What harm could it do? It'll be over in an hour as another wicket fell.  By the time I had my pint it was nearly all over.  Ben Stokes was making a good fist of survival but he only had a couple of tail enders to go and 100 runs to get or a long sunny day to see out.  

Second pint brought on the last stand.. the end was nigh and oddly the pub had gone from bearded locals to younger, more thirsty groups of men in tight jeans and muscle shirts.  I seem to remember Robs' raised eyebrow at going to Durham on bank holiday Sunday... I thought little of it until the third pint and the growing throng at the bar.. a little too chipper for a late Sunday lunch. The bespectacled tail ender, Jack Leach, was noodling away as Stokes started batting like he had little to lose..If he was going out he was going to go out in glory as a six raised a cheer...I wondered if Uncle Cam in Noosa was feeling the heat, nervously cracking a craft ale wondering when his boys were going to put us out of our misery...and it went on, another pint.

 The pub started to heave as gangs of raucous youths piled in looking more like rival stag parties in Magaluf... something wasn't right here. With ten runs to get the temperature was rising...an excited Geordie with a tattooed face gripped me hard as another six flew out of the ground..A muscle bound giant hugged me and gibbered incoherently as Leach defied the Aussies with another noodle to mid off.. When the last runs came it was like a valve was released and the festivities could begin..I was spat out into the blinding light of the streets amongst jubilant Geordies and Mackems and realised half the Tyne and the Tees were in town, all high heels and tit tape.  It was like kicking out time at a nightclub with glamour the order of the day.  Alcohol fuelled the excess as wobbles turned into face plants and ambitious white jump suits wore the badges of tumbles on the cobbles. 

It was getting edgy as a minor riot broke out in the last shop open,  selling a packet of cigs for £16!  This was a focal point for the righteous anger of the mob. Justice for the exploited workers on their jolly. The one thing you don't mess with is a man's beer and tabs. 

 This particular brand of pagan revelry was becoming too much for this midlander confused by the bacchanalian excess erupting on the hallowed streets. I left them to jump off bridges into shallow water, gangs tottering amongst hilarity and noise..peacocks and hens living for this last burst if summer before the train back to the grind.  A rite of passage and a holy Geordie ritual. Durham had turned into Gomorra and I retired to the heights to find solace and to regain my wits. I settled amongst a wedding party at the Cathedral more Downton Abbey than Geordie Shore and wondered

at the divided nature of Britain and the rich tapestry of gilded humanity we weave.

A Bimble from Tyne to Wear

Bimbling on from South Shields took me past Roman remains and reminders of this fine river's industrial prime. A vast breakwater protects sandy beaches, alive with activity. A foodie festival stopped me in my tracks and I fuelled up listening to a honky tonk band rocking out on the roof of a bus serving low and slow brisket. Maybe not an ideal repast but there were miles ahead and the gradient looked challenging.  The road was red and the vistas endless as I pushed on stopping to take in the happy vibes as South Tyneside revelled in the last of summer.

I had to stop at the iconic Souter Lighthouse, a monument to the dangers of the coast and the many ships that had past under its beam and heard its siren call through the mists, guiding them to safe haven. Immaculately maintained by the National Trust and its merry band of volunteers I marvelled at their dedication and passion. The sheer power of the light and the ambitious engineering of the whole venture was explained by the father of the lighthouse family, proud in his crow's nest to a captive audience enraptured by the view.  Decades ago the visible panorama was blighted by mines and industrial murk but now the clifftops were green and pleasant and today the sea was pure blue.  I was having trouble imagining the heavy industry and belching fires and even signs of urban decay seemed far from here. The candy coloured column was replicated in Roker and the battery looked majestic as I cycled along yet another sweep of bay packed with amusements and bank holiday merriment.

The mighty Wear where they used to Mackem reared into view. The largest city on this coast and the home of shipbuilding, depending on who you listen to.  A Geordie suggested that they built ships in Newcastle whereas in Sunderland they knocked them out at a huge rate at any price. Meant as a back handed compliment to the industry and initiative of Mackems it was an argument I didn't have time to test. Once in the centre of the city my bike seemed to speed up past a centre blighted by the crisis on our high streets, its grand parks suggesting better times lay behind.  As I whipped past arguing drunks I felt like I had probably made a quick and unfair assessment but it felt like a monument to Ozymandias;

 'Two vast and lifeless trunkless legs of stone standing in the desert. ' 

It could have been my bonking state but this Shelley tip continued as I ground uphill toward County Durham through pit towns with statues hinting at former glories. The incline was slight but constant up Stephenson's old mineral routes which once carried the endless supplies of coal to the Wear from countless collieries with famous names...  Easington, Ryhope Peterlee, Shotton...Each village had its own memorial to the proud miners.. 

 ' its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things '

 Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare...

I was entering that state of mild exhaustion and blood sugar depletion that better cyclists plan for. I required an instant fix...  a Mars bar or a flapjack for me and my iron horse. I remember a fight I had at school with a diabetic kid who submitted early,  crying for a Mars bar to save him, or perhaps he was just hungry. Net curtains twitched and gangs of men fiddled with Ford Sierras. I looked in vain for a shop but all I could find were chip shops.  I had a battered sausage in Hetton, a chicken pie in Haswell and a saveloy in Shotton which was the wrong way.  

In my growing delirium I felt the spirit of the land in recovery from exploitation, mined for its ore and pillaged for its black gold, polluted and despoiled and left to fade into a desert socially and ecologically... people left behind to tinker and rust, ghosts of an industrial past. What do you do when all reason is taken away.?..all you ever knew leaving a scar and open wounds upon the landscape and the populace...these are the badlands of Britain, broken and discarded..barren but beautiful...waiting for rain and new growth...

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

...I was lost in a land I didn't understand in a state of weary discombobulation..the fragments were too shattered to piece together..the landscape broken and the people tired and beaten, or was it me... they looked bewildered by this apparition from another land..whats he doing here? was the gaze I got in the chip shop which seemed the heart of the village now the pubs were boarded up..quad bikes roamed the streets, the obese ran with the undernourished and tattooed youths skulked on pitheads long deceased... the rail lines petered out in fields or turned into bridleways ending up in junkyards with snarling dogs warning of illicit deeds beyond...I hit the main road, dispirited, and up it went to the wind farms and vast quarries still eating away at the earth which seemed to cry out and revel in my exhaustion....was I being unkind? ...was my fractured state impinging on my consciousness unable to see truths as I callously passed through these proud and defiant communities...You have to say what you see and I knew I was beaten, I wanted out, journey's end...

The descent into Durham changed everything and it was like I had passed across a border. One which seems to exist across Britain, hiding that which dwells on the edgelands, unseen and unbidden. The Britain we seek lies in hotspots not the land that lies between forgotten and unloved.  I felt a wave of sadness, not pity, for that which I could not comprehend, as I had not the time or the map to it.  I chided myself as I could not do the land justice. It would take patience to understand the living history of Durham County and I could only guess at the rawness of its recent memory. I determined to dwell a while in old Durham town.

A Bimble through North Tyneside

 South Beach, Blyth, marks the start of a cyclist's  dream run down the golden miles to the River Tyne. Distant memories of these beaches covered in tar and coal may be overplayed and on a day like this its hard to imagine these wide expanses of sand being anything but spectacular.  We used to picnic in the dunes and hide from the winds then brave the chilly shallows of the North Sea.  Childhood fun and seaside frolics all the way to Tiddly Bay.

 Each turn of the pedals manipulated cogitations of the mind as I hit the asphalt down memory lane.

 

Seaton Sluice, where the Kings Arms sits proudly atop the headland and the smell of chips never fails to seduce.

 Green parks guide me into Whitley Bay on a warm, late summer evening and there was only one thing to do.  It took a while but the effort was worth it.  Like a cryogenic ice bath the salt eased my weary limbs and signalled day's rest.  I didn't want to get out once the hard work and been done and healthy virtue sprung from every pore as Robert found my sodden, walrus hide beached upon his sandy turf.

 Welcome to Whitley Bay. Much regenerated and shifting in character from a stag venue and Spanish City to a genteel and respectable town. The whole stretch to the ferry defied any popular misconceptions of a rough and ready coastline, besmirched by grime, coke and  shipyards, hard labour of dockworker, miner and fisherman. Dirty British coaster with a salt caked smoke stack.

Carter had been got and vestiges of hardened times were hard to spot in my whistle stop tour of the highlights of North Tyneside's many jewels.

 

Winslow Homer understood the magic light of Cullercoats would offer inspiration and today it would  run St Ives close for one of those TV specials 'Britain's most picturesque harbour '. It would win with the offer of plenty of space on the beach.  

 And the views just came on coming like some fortunate deal or no deal run. St Alfred's Bay crowned by Tynemouth Priory.

 North  Shields was journey' s end for Rob whose father lived by the docks in livelier times. The quay was full of life, buzzing with hipster start ups and community action groups keen to light the fire that will see Geordie pride in place rewarded as the area is regenerated. Some might say this new investment destroys the heart of places but Shields felt like it was on the cusp of something.  To the visitor it has every natural advantage to fascinate and beguile. Rich, maritime history and a working 'Fish Quay' protected by a huge breakwater on the edge of a city burning with regional pride and sure of its identity.  

 I was sad to leave, there was so much more to see as I caught the ferry over to South Shields, a less adventurous choice of carrier than Cuthbert's coracle or Shiel which gave the towns their name when they were lined up on either bank of the Tyne, the fisherfolk's choice of craft.