Twelve Months On

A year has gone by since I left rural Norfolk for the North-East.   It has been a year of discovery – I’ve learnt much about South Shields, and a little about myself.  it would be wrong to say that I had a clear idea of how it would be to live in an urban environment after the relative calm of country living.  I was also reluctant to move so far from the friends and “family” I had acquired in Norfolk.

I’d spent a large part of my working life in the ” south” of England, and while there had been good years, there had also been some difficult times.The last twenty years had been among the happiest of my life, but with the death of my dear companion, there was a void which oppressed me.  My work in Norfolk was done and to assuage the sense of loss I needed to move on.  I needed to start a new chapter elsewhere and it seemed fitting to return to my roots – perhaps subconsciously to return to the years of innocence.

So here I am – has it been worthwhile?  I will resist the temptation to give an unqualified “yes”, although I most certainly could not say “no”.

I now need to look forward to the new life I’ve chosen in surroundings which were once familiar and which, although greatly changed, are  the source of great reassurance. To turn a corner and see Cleadon “chimney”emerging on the skyline immediately calls forward memories of my short-trousered self running around the nearby hills in pursuit of Indians or some black-stetsonned villain on a black horse. The Palladium cinema where such images were acquired is now a frozen-food store, but the memories of Tom Mix, Buck Rogers, and Ken Maynard live on.  I spend happy hours wandering about the streets of Harton and Westoe, passsing the church where, as a boy pressed into the choir by a devoted mother, I unwittingly absorbed a love of sacred music, if not of the faith that usually attends it. And close by, the house where I enjoyed my own bedroom from whose window I sometimes peered out at passers-by after dark when I should have been asleep. Houses which now sport extensions and conservatories were in the course of construction when I roamed in and out of the shells that became the modern smart, up-dated, semis. And I recall the scaffolding rooted in large barrels and tied together with hessian rope, and the large limepits with their evil-looking green liquid with which we were careful to avoid direct contact. There can have been few safety regulations, and no attempt by the builders to secure the sites against children. The truth is that children were unlikely to vandalise anything, and the only danger was a risk to themselves of injury.  

Other positive things include:

- living close to my sister and getting to know each other again after many years of irregular contact.

- delight in the house I chose in such haste and which has turned out to be perfectly suited to my way of life.

- excellent public services – “free at the point of need” – for someone of my age. I now seriously consider getting rid of the car and, at a stroke, making a contribution to road safety. I walk everywhere, have shed almost a stone in weight, and feel fitter as a result .

-the warm welcome I receive  from the people I meet. this is not a surprise to me and was an important factor in my decision to move.

-  the accessibility of hospital and medical services. The recollection of the many times I drove to the Norfolk and Norwich hospital – a return journey of over 50 miles involving a “rat run” to avoid the city centre- is not soon forgotten.

- renewing an acquaintance with an old engineering colleague from the 1940s who recently lost his wife and now lives alone just a short distance away. We have a weekly date for lunch and are in regular contact.

- membership of the Local History Group at the excellent public library where similar minded people get together for research and socialising.

- membership of the so-called University of the Third Age – the U3A- which is hardly a university but provides a wide range of activities including a monthly meeting with a visiting speaker, and is another means of meeting people.

And the negative aspects?

They stem mostly from things which are common to all urban areas today;

-the litter which abounds, especially at the weekends when empty bottles and plastic drinks containers are thrown carelessly aside together with takeaway food dishes and their half-eaten contents. The local authority does its best to clean up the streets and there are more waste bins scattered about the town than I’ve seen anywhere, but the problem persists. The Council, which was recently voted the best municipal authority in the UK, devotes much energy to beautifying the public parks and streets with colourful flower arrangements.

It is also disappointing to find the lack of character in the town’s main shopping area.  The market Place suffered a direct hit by a huge bomb which caused many casualties and demolished some notable buildings. The replacements are undistinguished and boring, and King Street, the main shopping thoroughfare, lacks a real department store, having only the usual assortment of Woolworths, Boots, Currys, W H SMiths,etc together with sellers of mobile phones, coffee shops, and some rather garish clothing shops.

There are also signs which remind me that this is an area of high unemployment – the many betting shops, pawn shops and “amusement” shops bear witness to a need to escape from lives blighted by lack of cash and hope.

But there are also people who succeed, who do not throw litter about, and cherish and look after their children. There are bright-eyed children who will give up their seat on a bus, and there are adults who are generous in their concern for others and practice neighbourliness with a warmth that is typical pf the north-east.

CONCLUSION

Although I miss the feeling of being part of the natural world which was to be found in Cley-next-the-Sea – the flights of geese in the autumn, cackling as they passed close overhead; the wren raising its family in the ivy, and frequently flying into the garage and being frightened to escape when the doors were flung open; the munkjack deer that wandered into the garden whikle I was breakfasting out-of-doors;the sparrowhawk feeding on its kill on the front lawn, and on another occasion being mobbed by some infuriated blackbirds when it got too close to their young; the charm of a group of long-tailed tits visiting the sunflower seeds and moving on as suddenly as they arrived; the huge  owl which settled on the bird table after dark, and stayed just long enough to stare unblinking at me before departing;the barn owl who we regularly observed almost by appointment, as it flew low over its territory searching for prey; and the blackbird who visited every year to raise its young and sing such wonderful arias to two elderly folk sitting in the summerhouse; and so much more….

 

And although, in contrast, I now have several bus routes passing within feet of my tiny back garden, with their attendant noise – and birds seem disinterested in my attempts to feed them – I can answer the question “did I make the right decision?” with a positive YES.

 It is, I think, something to do with roots and the pleasure of completing the circle. I’m back where I belong and, although much has changed – in me as well as my surroundings – it feels like HOME.

Going on

There have been significant developments in Newcastle and its opposite number, Gateshead, with new concert halls  and art galleries as well as huge shopping precincts and riverside restaurants and clubs. The new bridge for pedestrians, known locally as the “winking eye” because of its unique way of allowing for the passage of tall ships up-river, brings together the two cities in an environment now known as Newcastle-Gateshead. And the Metro railway system binds the whole of Tyneside on both sides of the river and links it with its near neighbour, and long time rival, the city of Sunderland.

A greater contrast with the prosperous and beautiful county of Norfolk would be hard to find, although the counties of Durham and Northumberland have fine countryside of their own. But the north coastal part of Norfolk has a distinctive quality with industry limited to agriculture and leisure, with a rich scattering of picturesque villages each with its own medieval church. The seaside villages attract birdwatchers and sailing enthusiasts as well as families with children skilled in the art of catching crabs.

But the beautiful county of Norfolk is now bedevilled with an ever-increasing number of wealthy “incomers” who have bought up properties at very high prices and occupy them only at holiday times and weekends. As a consequence the villages are thinly populated in winter, have lost their village school, their Post Office, their local store, and at holiday times are invaded so that the roads are barely passable, the pubs have turned into fancy eating places, and BMWs, Porsches and a variety of 4×4s disgorge families and dogs which seem to have come from another planet. 

I have to confess that I myself was an incomer some 23 years previously – and couldn’t hope to be regarded as a “local” for at least another 23 years – but the pace has quickened considerably in recent years and I am now dismayed at the changes. The locals now describe the area as “Chelsea-on-Sea”. My sympathies lie with the genteel and rather elderly people among whom I had spent twenty years in the lane behind the church in the village of Cley-next-the-Sea. The long term residents kept themselves to themselves, though ready to offer support when called upon. We were all of advanced age and the years had seen the passing of familiar faces at fairly regular intervals. Finding myself alone after 20 happy years with a dear partner, I felt the urge to move on rather than wait for what could only be a lonely run-down to the inevitable.

I therefore opted for South Shields, encouraged by the knowledge that my sister lived in the part of the town which was where I wanted to be. A quick visit, and in a space of a few days I had arranged to buy a house in exactly the right spot. Then came three months of confusion as I disengaged from Norfolk and arrived, exhausted at my new home.

Have I made the right decision? Only time will tell – watch this space.

Infrequent visits

Although my visits to the north-east had been very infrequent, I knew that great changes had taken place on Tyneside and it was no longer an industrial area with a heavy concentration on coal-mining and shipbuilding

Even the magnificent Marsden Rock which I had known intimately as a small boy exploring the caves at its base, had been reduced by erosion and consequential explosives designed to make it safe.

Marsden Rock as it was…

As it is now…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Such an event seemed highly significant – clearly there is no such thing as permanency.

And the disappearance of the familiar collieries with their slag heaps and winding gear; the clearing away of riverside warehouses and cranes; the absence of pollutants in the River Tyne, and the emergence of modern riverside flats and yacht marinas is further evidence of the extent of change.

There have also been major changes in social terms. There is no longer the same evidence of poverty and hardship. Huge housing developments, and redevelopments of existing housing stock, have brought great improvements to living conditions. South Shields has largely resisted the trend for high-rise blocks of flats in favour of the more conventional semi-detached houses with small gardens. The National Health Service has brought improvements in the health of the people – scarlet fever and diptheria and other such diseases are no longer a threat

The old clinic at “the Chi” which housed the school dentist who struck terror in the hearts of its patients, has given way to modern dental surgeries – now in private hands but, unlike many other parts of the country, mostly operating under the National Health banner. There is little evidence of starvation, rather the reverse judging by the extended waistlines of people of all ages.

And cars of all shapes and sizes are everywhere.

Despite these obvious changes, the people still retain their characteristic openness and warmth, and neighbourliness is often measured in concrete acts of kindness. They can be blunt and caustic in their prejudices.  Distanced from London and “the south”, they often feel marginalized. National reports on everything from the weather to cultural events and exhibitions, tend to pass direct from “the north”, that is Yorkshire, to Scotland with little acknowledgement of the counties of Durham and Northumberland.

Barefoot children

But there were also children running barefoot in the streets, the boys often wearing cut-down cast-off trousers crudely patched, or not. It was not uncommon to see children with metal braces on their legs to combat the effect of rickets, and diseases such as diptheria, scarlet fever, and consumption carried people off to the Isolation Hospital, and sometimes beyond….

As a choirboy at St Peter’s Church I knew how well attended were the churches and chapels of all denominations represented in the town. And these included make-shift mosques which catered for the significant numbers of arab seamen who settled in the town. Although there were racial incidents from time to time, often when there was competition for sea-going berths, such events were infrequent and the town could be described as multi-racial with successful Arab business men taking up responsible positions in the town.

People were outspoken, not given to sophistry or pretence, but warm and approachable. Being the son of a Post Office engineer who enjoyed the guarantee of a job with a pension at the end, I was spared the problems that came with unemployment, although even at an early age I was aware of the effects of poverty and the need for parents to keep strict control over their limited finances.

Dad’s motorbike

My father, astride his motorbike, in unconvincing costume, with his 4-year old son looking on bemused (me), was accosted by a “speedcop” in the back lane before joining the parade.

My beginnings

I was born into a working class family in a shabby town in the north-east corner of the country.  Situated at the mouth of the River Tyne,South Shields was concerned chiefly with the mining of coal and its transportation by sea to London and elsewhere. It had strong maritime connections and, as well as training merchant seamen, it built and repaired ships. It had known periods of prosperity but there had also been times of desperate poverty with high unemployment. Its people were resilient and shared the good times and the bad. They were, as they say, “all together like the folks of Shields”.

My earliest memories include parades with colliery bands leading the processions with banners born aloft depicting clasped hands or the face of some politician or trade union leader. These were exciting occasions to a 4-year old boy, unaware of the significance of marching men who were probably protesting or striking for some worthy cause. Perched high on my father’s shoulders I simply responded to the banners and the bandsmen with their trumpets and trombones -or “hadawaycumbacks” as we called them.

Another parade took place on Easter Sunday when the children of all the Sunday Schools, along with Boy Scouts, Wolf Cubs, Brownies, Girl Guides, Boys Brigade, Sea Scouts, Salvation Army etc etc assembled in the market Place and after a short service, marched along King Street and up Fowler Street to the Town Hall where they each received an orange from the Mayor. It could be very cold on Easter Day and I remember the girls in their summer dresses with white ankle socks and black shoes with a strap over the instep. I usually shivered in sympathy.

I also remember a parade in a carnival atmosphere with “Smashem and Bashem” furniture removals “by  land, sea or dynamite” with lorries carrying a mangle, washing tub with posser, a piano, and bedsteads etc.

 

 

 

 

These pictures show something of the lifestyle of the folks of Shields in the 1920/30s. The crowded pavements for the parade, the soot-blackened buildings, innocent of white paint; the piano, precious at a time when entertainment was largely homemade. The BBC radio was in its infancy and not everyone had access to the  wireless.

Return to the north-east

“Going Home”, a phrase that conjures up feelings of relief, of peaceful release from the stresses of life away from home. Going back to a private domain where the world with all its imperfections gives way to a refuge where harmony reigns.The negro spiritual “Going Home” has a melody of haunting nostalgia. This is more than the turning homeward at the end of a working day when footsteps turn towards the familiar, the fireside chair, a favourite book, a glass of wine, and a loving companion.

For me the prospect of going home presented a huge problem. To begin with, where was “home”?   After more than half a century of life spent in different parts of East Anglia, with lengthy stays in Cambridge, Peterborough, Chelmsford, and Norfolk, “home” could have been in any one of those localities.  I was also attracted to several country towns with which I had become familiar, such as Reepham, Fakenham, Dereham and Stamford.  But now, alone for the first time in nearly 50 years, I knew that “home” was somewhere else – I was still a north-countryman and I felt the need to be surrounded by north-country accents and north-country attitudes.

They warned me against such a move – to suffer bereavement was tough enough in itself, but to add to that the removal to a “new” location with all the problems of househunting, and the physical demands of packing etc at the age of 82, was asking for trouble.  But, although I felt a deep attraction to the rural delights of north Norfolk, I was all too conscious of the drawbacks of living in the countryside where public transport was almost non-existent, and I wanted to be less dependant on the motor car.

I needed a firmer footing for my journey into what would inevitably be a limited future, and that could not be found in the relative isolation of rural Norfolk.

GOING HOME

There are times in everyone’s life when an important decision has to be made. So it was with me. At the age of 82, having just lost a much-loved partner of 20 years, I found myself alone in a house in the country which was larger than I needed, and no longer felt like home. Neighbours were friendly but remote. What to do? Lie back and enjoy the wine?  Or get up and go – to where? HOME?