The North East of England

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Day 2 - Saturday -

Part 1 - Reflections : York Station

The hotel was comfortable and clean but my sleep was interrupted at 2am and again at 3am by the sounds of drunks shouting. After breakfast, I spent some time sitting in front of the station. This enabled me to get my bearings on the significant social change that is the Far Easting of York. It transpired that the numbers of Chinese people I had seen on my arrival were not coincidental. In the streets of York on Friday afternoon there was an extraordinary number. Of the few people I saw later on the main campus, perhaps one in three were Chinese. The same ratio applied to the people I saw back at the station on this the Saturday morning. And Rougier Street/George Hudson Street is effectively now York's Chinatown.

This is a difficult topic to address without causing offence.

I have to admit to having some problems with it. Mostly, those are about the manner in which it has happened, not least because all one is permitted to do is make an educated guess. My guess is that Chinese money has gone directly into the expanding of the university infrastructure and that a part of the arrangement is to admit that country's youth in very large numbers. While I recognise that I left university in 1985 and that this is a long, long time ago now, the number of Chinese people then would have represented about 0.1% of the population. The change does not feel organic to me as it has been with people from other ethnic groups in most other places but rather heavily business driven. One can, of course, tell simply by appearances that most of these people are decent types and they are fortunately a world away from the chavs who arrive to boost the local economy by destroying the nights.

They sit comfortably alongside the average British student who increasingly looks and sounds like a junior doctor, lawyer, financier or computer scientist but the lower middle class has probably dropped out into lesser places. As for verbal style, which as with almost everywhere is often disappointingly crass, few students of any background I heard had the words to go with their very clipped accents and old-before-their-time professional demeanours. Consequently, there is a case for saying that most of them have English as their second language. I write this with sadness and not from a sense of superiority. I know my English isn't especially good but in most others today English is poor. I also question how modern money making is allowed to drive social change rapidly and insidiously. Populations are not made to stay the same but natural growth is as obvious as its capitalist opposite, a forced assimilation.

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Part 2 - York to Durham and onto Newcastle

My train left York around 9.30am and I was in Durham shortly before 10.30am. This was always going to be a wildly ambitious itinerary and there were frequent anxieties about not being able to complete it. A part of me had considered leaving out Durham. But I didn't and on arriving descended the very steep hill and seeing that I would need to complete another before doing the walk in reverse under severe time pressures. My first thought was that in this way it could be a Colchester all over again. Past the signs around the building works of Milburngate.com which in its name brought to mind both the history of Newcastle United and the fact that this was very much the territory of New Labour, it wasn't wholly clear to me where the centre started. It wasn't as if there was immediately anything especially significant. But I was helped to an extent by the memory of a younger man, James, who had worked to me briefly - and with whom I was on one year in the 1990s at Womad in a group of his friends - before he moved on to much higher things. He had said to me that he had wished that he had been at York rather than at Durham because being so much smaller there wasn't a lot to or in the town other than its history and its academic reputation. Educated at a comprehensive school, although his accent was almost upper class, he had also found his university to be too much like a public school, often with a stand-offishness that went with it.

Well, the town part of the city, that is, on the station side, did seem small to me when I found it. I also felt that it was not a little dilapidated. It seemed functional at best. Again, there were large numbers of people of far eastern appearance which implied that perhaps that the Chinese had investments in Durham University too. I would have been persuaded that it was regional if it were not for the fact that in Newcastle the same phenomenon is not in evidence. Beyond that area, one reaches the far more attractive Silver Street and other streets of cobblestones before arriving at a green that is set up high. I did like this side. I liked it a lot. He was right, though. There was an atmospheric aloofness around the castle and the cathedral areas which one could sense was an extension of the university's standing. At the door of the cathedral were so many members of clergy and church officialdom that it felt a bit off-putting and I didn't feel that I wanted to spend a lot of time in there. The castle was actually closed to the public although a few student types could be seen lounging on the ground inside. Immediately beyond this area, there are a couple of lovely quiet quaint streets and on climbing just a little further up, I could hear the sounds of rugby being played.

I assumed I had reached the university but, in fact, they were on the playing fields of an independent school. A major roundabout nearby looked like it would lead on to the university buildings although tellingly there were no signs. Now I look at the maps, my instinct was right and they are precisely beyond that roundabout but very clearly it likes to keep itself to itself and above the rest. But given my time limitations, I chose to drop down to a bridge under which flows the Wear. With its colourful rowers the scenery is magnificent with the promise of more as it opens up to countryside. I suppose it is effectively a gorge. It would have been great to have explored it but what I settled for was a different walk back to the station along the river until climbing back up the hill and getting a late train going northwards at around ten minutes past midday. Fortunately the journey by rail from Durham to Newcastle is quite short as the train was so packed it could have been on the London Underground. The driver apologised for "slight overcrowding - this might be due to a certain football match". Perhaps but I only saw one person on it in a football shirt and there weren't very many wearing them at the main Newcastle station. Nevertheless, that there were any unnerved me as it told me symbolically that time was moving on. It would be a minor miracle if I managed to achieve what I wanted to achieve in the two and a half hours before 3pm.

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Part 3 - Newcastle to Tynemouth via Monkseaton and Whitley Bay

It felt really great to be back on the roads of Newcastle since my one and only time on 27 December 1982. However, there are "just" eleven stops from central Newcastle to Tynemouth via Wallsend so this was not the moment to simply stand there and take it all in. The first bit of bad news from the woman at the top of the escalator on the metro was that it would be better to go via Whitley Bay because of engineering works - perhaps some 14 or 15 stops. I am not sure. The second was that in doing so I would not actually get even as far as Whitley Bay on the train as the same set of works required getting off at Monkseaton and getting on a replacement bus service. Here panic was setting in but I held my nerve and travelled by train to Monkseaton. At Monkseaton, there were no replacement buses. The locals were asking me which side of the road they should be on and when would the buses arrive? One woman had been waiting half an hour and was very confused. I had to tell her and the others that I was equally confused. I suppose I stood with them there for at least ten minutes but it felt very much longer with a sinking feeling developing in my stomach. A normal bus, single decker, arrived and one for which anyone boarding it would need to buy a ticket.

The driver was not going to Tynemouth. He was only going as far as Whitley Bay. I have to confess that I didn't really know the distances between Monkseaton and Whitley Bay and between Whitley Bay and Monkseaton but I was one of just three people who got onto it. I knew that I was winging it and expected it all to end in disaster. Not long afterwards, and through fairly heavy traffic, I was at least in Whitley Bay. I asked someone how long it would take to walk to Tynemouth. I can't remember her answer but it really wasn't the day for it. There were no taxis outside the station. I wasn't sure what to do. Just up from the station, I thought my luck was in. There was a building with a taxi firm. But because of all the engineering works, they could provide no service until 2.15pm which was hopeless for me and they said the only thing I could do was go to the bus stop opposite and wait for another bus. This I did and within seconds six replacement buses, double decker, came round the corner towards Whitley Bay station. I had to run like the clappers and just about managed to jump on one where I was told I needed the one in front of it. So then it was another mad dash and somehow I got on, not knowing that Tynemouth was actually very close. The coast looked tremendous in the sunshine as we came into the town, not least because things had fallen more into place. It was about ten past one when I started my search for Middle Street.

The moment I set foot in Tynemouth, I loved it, and not only because I had finally managed to get there. Of itself, this is to me an interesting juxtaposition with the very mixed and understandably frightened emotions of my father who would have been there at the age of 10 and 11 perhaps or 11 and 12, just before my uncle was born in North Shields. Having had to be sent away on a train to Bournemouth alone when aged six to convalesce following rheumatic fever, he was sent away again on a train at 9 or 10 to Chichester as an evacuee. There he had somewhat landed on his feet, living with a vicar and his wife who had not been able to have children. They had welcomed him with open arms. The vicar was not very vicarly. He was principally a small time market gardener who had a small greengrocery shop. There was a lot of produce and he even had enough money to buy a car. The downside was parental separation. 18 months later, he was very settled, only to get the call from his mother than he would have to leave and get by train from Chichester to Tynemouth.

His father had been sent there for the war effort and she wasn't prepared to support him being so distant. To the tears of his surrogate parents who didn't want him to go, he said goodbye and somehow made it up to there just as the heavy artillery being used was at its loudest. The beaches were, of course, cordoned off. Shortly afterwards, the bombs were dropped with part of the emergency response based around the church.Slightly teased for his accent, he acquired the local one, although that was soon to go and my uncle has never had it, nor has my uncle any feelings for the place as he was too young to have any recall. I do not get the impression that my father was bullied, though. He doesn't mention friends but nor does he mention enemies. I think it was all such a blur. The teachers had rulers and more which they would use for poor discipline but he was compliant and well liked by them which means that he liked them in turn. He was more of an achiever there than he was anywhere else. I still have the book he was given by them as a prize for his ability and efforts.

On this Saturday, such a very different day, the scene was one of relaxation and calm. Almost genteel, in fact. People sitting in the sunshine in the middle of town, drinking coffee and enjoying ice creams alongside well kept flowerbeds. The town looks very tidy. It is of a manageable size and it appears to be well managed. The church is attractive. The traffic isn't horrendous. The beaches can be accessed. Several people were on them while others were enjoying the dramatic sweep of the coast and strolling around the remains of the castle and the priory. There were no loud drunks, hence there was little need for enforcing any rules. I was lucky. Knowing that I needed to find a street with the remains of terraced housing, I got myself onto one such street just off the High Street and asked a very nice woman if she had heard of Middle Street. She had. It was two minutes away. A right and a left. This was a very exciting moment for me. I took a lot of photos there so that with his dementia he could see it again and with the lovely town so peaceful now around it. The street pretty much links the sea road and the high street. One can see the sea at one end. But I had no idea what the time was and it was all so strange. I didn't feel I was rushing, yet I was in overdrive.

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Part 4 - Tynemouth to Newcastle via the Coastal Road

It would not have been right on any sort of level just to see Middle Street and glance at the rest. Consequently, I took a risk and got myself across to the English Heritage buildings and into them, declaring to the man behind the counter that he wouldn't have seen a more fleeting visit. Very pleasant. Somewhat like the Reverend Richard Coles if he was more in his own domain and moved at a snail's pace, his reaction was a bit other worldly, a bit bemused, and if anything to move even slower than before in explaining to the people in front of me the benefits of becoming a full member. His colleague alongside him was, if anything, more extreme. I am sure he was talking with two others for a good half an hour. Anyhow, I got the ticket and I whizzed round it to find him startled as I walked back in. He was in full agreement that my tour of it was one of the shortest. He hoped that I could come back in the future to spend some more time on it. My decision to buy a postcard? Big mistake. It felt like I had really put the rest of my afternoon in jeopardy. And yet on leaving there, I still didn't leave. I lingered on the lawns looking at the coast line. I just wanted to feel that I had done it justice within my limited capabilities. I did do that - and, yes, I would very much like to return to it one day. It is now fully my part of Newcastle. I also like it simply for what it is which, among other things, is good walking territory. A proper holiday could be done from there.

Oh but how to get back when both rail routes into Newcastle are down so that one has to have a replacement bus, if one turns up, to either Monkseaton or Wallsend and then get onto the metro anyway? And to do it all by 3pm when it is now - well, was it? I threw myself into the Turk's Head. This is a pub. It's at the end of Middle Street oddly and behind the bar is a big clock. It was five to two. Was it right? "Yes", they said. I had arrived there only 45 minutes previously then. Did they know that the trains were all down, the replacement buses were irregular and it is impossible to get a taxi? "Yes" they said. Did they know that I was hoping to attend a football match at St James's Park? "Oh yes?", they said. "We can get you a taxi. Guaranteed. Would 15-20 minutes time be ok? You should just about make it." Would I? Lovely, lovely people. Newcastle United supporters obviously. 22 minutes later I was standing outside talking some older people with London accents who were sitting in the sun enjoying a quiet pint. The conversation was to take my mind off what was a knife edge. Yes, I had chosen right on the Gallowgate end which they had chosen themselves when they had been although Newcastle wasn't their first team. "I'm an Arsenal supporter really", I said. "We could tell you were a great bloke", they replied. Yep. They were Arsenal supporters mainly too. Three minutes later, the taxi arrived. A woman driver. A really, really, nice person. A great conversationalist. On the Coastal Road, we discussed football, the economic crash and redundancy as it had affected each of us and dementia in people we have known.

Serious subjects - and it was all accompanied with humour. "My god, I suppose you call all this a holiday - it sounds like hard work? "Yes, I suppose I do". Then we hit heavy traffic. She was getting upset for me. I told her not to. I was feeling more upset for me. But she held her nerve and got me there at seven minutes before three. What a woman. If I wished to further suppose about anything, the really audacious move having flown across the road was to decide on sinking a pint at one of the Toon Army's favourite pubs, the Strawberry, just below the steps to the ground. That is, on its balcony before receiving apologies from a man who was on crutches for being in the way on the steps back down from the balcony, not that I was complaining, and standing back so as he could take his time. If he could get in early enough with his condition, I could get in early enough. I think I missed the first three minutes of the match but that was all. They, of course, lost to Leicester 0-2 while York were sort of hammering Guiseley 4-2 but there is no doubt in my mind that the journey had been worth it. Mike Ashley might have felt differently in terms of himself. It was the first time he had attended in two years. His spending on players has hardly been bewildering.

Most singing revolved around wanting the cockney to get out of "our home". I didn't feel that I should keep my mouth shut but there was no real need to open it. I was so, so, pleased to have got there, especially having got to Tynemouth and Durham. I was pleased to have got there having wanted to experience the ground and its supporters for so many years. Everyone was fine with me - or more than fine. I love the accents and their passionate commitment. I didn't necessarily expect them to win but it would have been good if they had done. If I have one regret, it is that I never went there in a golden era when the stadium was yet to be modernised. But what can only ever do what seems possible at any given time.

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Part 5 - Newcastle to York, A Battlefield

I don't recall much of the journey back to York. It seemed fairly easy although I was very tired. This is what can happen when achievement is experienced. It is almost like being on autopilot. Certainly the walk from the football ground to the station was a good way of seeing a bit of Newcastle actual but I can't claim that I really have a grasp of its geography. It would have also been nice to have walked around the entire stadium but I knew that this would for me have been a step too far. The train departed on time and it arrived on time. I was at York station at around 6.30pm. What I walked into was frankly as incomprehensible as it was diabolical. Not that it affected me directly but I am still finding it difficult to come to terms with. I have never been to Ibiza or to Blackpool or to Newquay as it is now. For fair balance, I suppose I should add that I have never been in Newcastle either on a Saturday night. But at 6.30pm, that is, 6.30pm, the scene would most diplomatically be described as vibrant and more accurately one of utter pandemonium with "carnage" everywhere. I have never seen so many drunken groups - men, women, men and women - in a dozen streets in all of my life. The stylishly clothed and the crassly clothed all half-clothed, many people bellowing out for no apparent reason, and at least two individuals being pinned to the ground. One by pub people and the police; the other by police while being thrown into a police van. People in the entire area were close to being deranged. It wasn't even fully dark and yet the atmosphere was intimidating in the extreme. It could be seen in almost every building.

This was a sad and even a depressing state of affairs. At that sort of time especially, people should not have to worry about their own personal safety in a ten minute walk back to a hotel. Equally, it should not be the case that when the plan was to have a meal at 7pm and then an early-ish night to find on that route that there is nowhere for such a meal to be had because every restaurant and bar serving food has been overtaken by people whose more natural home would be midnight. There were not many Chinese people around or if there were I couldn't see them. Whether there were many people from York around is debatable. Most, I think, had come from somewhere or other earlier by train. Tentative enquiries about how regular it all was brought some rather selective language from the people I asked but then they know the amount of money that is coming in because of it. "I know" said the pretty young woman in the Travelodge "it's totally mad" but she stopped short of criticising it while another in the service sector, an older woman, said "oh, they just want to work hard and to live hard - good luck to them". I am not sure that many of these people were enjoying life but then that is not I suppose for me to assess and my assessment would be worthless.

Phrases come to the middle aged mind along the lines of "something has seriously gone wrong". I would have relaxed for a while in the reception area but a group of six males who were significantly older than me were there and not very far from being in the same state. Not hotel people. People off the streets. It is noticeable that among the throngs, there are as everywhere people who are genuinely homeless around whom the groups step blinkered. By 8pm, I was in a dilemma in my room. I wanted food. I didn't want to risk life and limb out there but at the same time I wasn't so sure that I was prepared to simply cower and not eat. Ultimately I decided that I would do fifteen minutes worth and get myself alone to the marquee I had been to on the previous day. It was for a completely different "clientele" including "trainspotters". So that is what I did. I got my food, I got a beer and I got some ok music* through to 9pm before returning quickly across the bridge and battlefield to my room. One of the most popular places - the ones where people of five feet one with one stiletto on and tight leather trousers over large bottoms are having stand up rows with 16 stone heavies and achieving at least a score draw - appeared to be "Popworld". Thanks Simon Cowell.

*Marquee for Mind, York, Saturday 29 September 2018:

Ramble Gamble - The Drunken Story Teller - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QknnwSphtc

[Jonathan]

Interesting...having lived in central York (on Southbank) for 6 years, I can recommend a nice pub, "The Ackhorne" which is off Micklegate but seems to be off the beaten track for stag/hen parties. It used to be nice in there, we had a very pleasant new year in there about 3 years ago with friends and it was great.

There are far too many drunken groups in York too these days, one of the (many) reasons we moved out to the East Riding was to avoid the craziness (and the frequent piles of vomit on Micklegate every morning).

[Serial_Apologist]

Interesting...having lived in central York (on Southbank) for 6 years, I can recommend a nice pub, "The Ackhorne" which is off Micklegate but seems to be off the beaten track for stag/hen parties. It used to be nice in there, we had a very pleasant new year in there about 3 years ago with friends and it was great.

There are far too many drunken groups in York too these days, one of the (many) reasons we moved out to the East Riding was to avoid the craziness (and the frequent piles of vomit on Micklegate every morning).

The mass media often pain very derogatory pictures of the urban centres in this part of London. As long ago as the early 1990s Bristol's city centre was virtually uncrossable sober on Friday or Saturday nights; I always kept well clear. Then about fifteen years ago I attended a gig in the Crypt of St Mary's in Camberwell one Saturday night, having on the basis of reputation parked in Dulwich Village beforehand, meaning a two-mile walk in each direction. Past midnight the main Peckham Road part of Camberwell was a-buzzing with activity: barber shops where black kids were having patterns shaved into their skinhead cuts; clubs with queues outside waiting to go in alongside queues at bus stops rendering passage between difficult. There were one or two drunks, but no trouble to be seen, as compared to the Essex town where I was living at the time, where police car attendance was regular outside the two main clubbling venues frequented by white chavvery from Harold Hill, the first suburb to sell off its council housing, courtesy Havering Council and PM Thatcher, who had visited one of the prospectives in a recorded historic bit of future you tubery. I felt no fear as I made my way up Denmark Hill and down Sunray Avenue and Red Post Hill, through the quiet after-hours village and back to the car, en route having only been passed by one speeding police car with siren going and heard no other. And I would say this rectificatory impression remains in place to the present. This was but one consideration in my choice of this area as my place of retirement, and I haven't yet become collateral in any black-on-black violence, either.

[Lat-Literal]

Interesting...having lived in central York (on Southbank) for 6 years, I can recommend a nice pub, "The Ackhorne" which is off Micklegate but seems to be off the beaten track for stag/hen parties. It used to be nice in there, we had a very pleasant new year in there about 3 years ago with friends and it was great.

There are far too many drunken groups in York too these days, one of the (many) reasons we moved out to the East Riding was to avoid the craziness (and the frequent piles of vomit on Micklegate every morning).

Thank you Jonathan. The name "The Ackhorne" goes back a long way - certainly to my time in York ('82-'85) when it may have been a Tetleys pub. Not sure if I ever went in there. I do know the location but I'm a bit vague on it. Was there another nearby - the Golden Ball or the Golden Slipper? We felt that they were for the locals which today in my mind could be an invitation to enter. My favourite went years go. The legendary, cosy and slightly unkempt John Bull which was leftist, perhaps surprisingly in view of its name, and a haven for folk and jazz types and all manner of other individuals, some a bit odd. It wasn't for everyone and it was way up beyond Foss Islands Road. Not a clubber, if there was such a thing then, in sight. It is worth saying that when I am alone I rarely have more than a pint in any one place unless music is involved. Pubs are places I like to see for the architecture and gardens. Seriously. I wouldn't stay in Micklegate again if there is ever an again. I needed to be central for the station this time but I am minded towards Clifton; if not towards the University side.

Great news for everyone.

The Sunday/Monday account is likely to be shorter than the one for Friday and Saturday.

[Lat-Literal]

The mass media often pain very derogatory pictures of the urban centres in this part of London. As long ago as the early 1990s Bristol's city centre was virtually uncrossable sober on Friday or Saturday nights; I always kept well clear. Then about fifteen years ago I attended a gig in the Crypt of St Mary's in Camberwell one Saturday night, having on the basis of reputation parked in Dulwich Village beforehand, meaning a two-mile walk in each direction. Past midnight the main Peckham Road part of Camberwell was a-buzzing with activity: barber shops where black kids were having patterns shaved into their skinhead cuts; clubs with queues outside waiting to go in alongside queues at bus stops rendering passage between difficult. There were one or two drunks, but no trouble to be seen, as compared to the Essex town where I was living at the time, where police car attendance was regular outside the two main clubbling venues frequented by white chavvery from Harold Hill, the first suburb to sell off its council housing, courtesy Havering Council and PM Thatcher, who had visited one of the prospectives in a recorded historic bit of future you tubery. I felt no fear as I made my way up Denmark Hill and down Sunray Avenue and Red Post Hill, through the quiet after-hours village and back to the car, en route having only been passed by one speeding police car with siren going and heard no other. And I would say this rectificatory impression remains in place to the present. This was but one consideration in my choice of this area as my place of retirement, and I haven't yet become collateral in any black-on-black violence, either.

And, of course, I know the South London places you mention well. I just find London too large for me and too full of traffic. I can't handle it very easily and I wouldn't be living here now by choice. Much of this yob stuff, though, is not entirely new. One could go back to the teddy boys and the mods and rockers who at least had the temerity to be sporadic in their escapades and go beyond high street so-called fashion. The first wave of what I would call imbalance certainly came in 1989 via rave culture about which I had a very clear dotted line, that is, so far as the indie dance scene went towards it. But I've spoken to a lot of people in service industries who are saying that there have been dramatic changes for the worse since the late 1990s. I believe it. I am not wholly sure why other than the rave generation have offspring who are now of the age. Similarly, I'm not sure that the black culture with which I could at times also feel (sometimes more) at ease with is quite what it was because commercial rap has taken it very much along the American line plus it fuses with ragga which can be more than edgy. Maybe that is why people from the Far East are wanted. Many are seriously business like but I am not sure most will be accentuating music or much of other culture.

Oh - here - I hadn't realised:

More Chinese students at UK universities than from the whole of the EU

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2913109/Huge-influx-Chinese-students-UK-universities-arrive-EU.html

(Postgraduates - 26% British; 23% Chinese)

[Serial_Apologist]

The legendary, cosy and slightly unkempt John Bull which was leftist, perhaps surprisingly in view of its name, and a haven for folk and jazz types and all manner of other individuals, some a bit odd.

The south Londoner and comedian Mark Steel would appreciate the irony though, I'm sure.

[Serial_Apologist]

And, of course, I know the South London places you mention well. I just find London too large for me and too full of traffic. I can't handle it very easily and I wouldn't be living here now by choice. Much of this yob stuff, though, is not entirely new. One could go back to the teddy boys and the mods and rockers who at least had the temerity to be sporadic in their escapades and go beyond high street so-called fashion. The first wave of what I would call imbalance certainly came in 1989 via rave culture about which I had a very clear dotted line, that is, so far as the indie dance scene went towards it. But I've spoken to a lot of people in service industries who are saying that there have been dramatic changes for the worse since the late 1990s. I believe it. I am not wholly sure why other than the rave generation have offspring who are now of the age. Similarly, I'm not sure that the black culture with which I could at times also feel (sometimes more) at ease with is quite what it was because commercial rap has taken it very much along the American line plus it fuses with ragga which can be more than edgy. Maybe that is why people from the Far East are wanted. Many are seriously business like but I am not sure most will be accentuating music or much of other culture.

Oh - here - I hadn't realised:

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/art...arrive-EU.html

Well you may not agree with this, but to my mind, military-styled music (eg Rave) breeds military-styled behaviours.

[Lat-Literal]

The south Londoner and comedian Mark Steel would appreciate the irony though, I'm sure.

He would have had a field day:

https://www.yorkpress.co.uk/news/11219064.a-lost-pub-remembered-20-years-on/

Chris Titley: "The John Bull pub (Reopened, 1981- Closed, 1994) was a place apart. Unremarkable from the outside, idiosyncratic on the inside, going through its front door was like climbing through the wardrobe and finding a licensed Narnia, with fewer fauns and a lot more laughs. It felt like an alternative universe. At its worst, York can feel a little narrow minded, but the best thing about it was how accepting it was of all comers. Men, women, old, young, black, white, it was a place where you were always welcomed, and never judged".

Well you may not agree with this, but to my mind, military-styled music (eg Rave) breeds military-styled behaviours.

Very possibly.

[Lat-Literal]

Day 3 - Sunday -

Part 1 - York to Holy Island via Berwick on Tweed

Given the potential for depth of content and the way in which this one mattered more than anything else. it feels as though it should be the longest section rather than the shortest one. However, sometimes words are not enough for the less than shallow. I am also aware that if I really try to do "history" here, I will because of my limitations get myself into a horrible mess. It was always going to be an emotional experience rather than an educational one. I got a train out of York at around 9am and was in Berwick on Tweed at 11.10am. This did feel like a long journey given that I had travelled half of it twice the previous day. Plus pressure is draining. I knew that I was placing a lot of pressure on myself to do it. Luckily the train was largely empty and so comfortable and unusually I took some things to read. The weather forecast was not at all good. The morning started with more sun than I had anticipated. But shortly before Berwick, there were some very dark clouds and I feared the worst. Extraordinarily, they passed over quickly. Sunday weather wise was, against the odds, glorious.

I am not sure that anyone else got off the train at Berwick. There may have been one other. I was very surprised at just how small the station was to the extent that on that morning it felt almost rural. That of itself was a pleasant surprise. But the first moment of truth, as it were, was always going to be the one where I emerged out of the station and discovered whether there was or wasn't any obvious means of getting to the island. There was no extensive taxi rank but it wasn't as if there was nothing because two taxi vehicles were there and amazingly with no queue whatsoever which was not what I had anticipated at all. The first driver said that the second driver would certainly take me. He did - and covered 14 or so miles in not much more than 20 minutes. An ex army man who had been in the first gulf war but who had had to leave the army because of a rugby injury, that combination of rugby and the military seemed to be spot on as a symbol of being in this particular region. Yes, of course, I was in Northumberland and arguably it was the real Northumberland rather than, say, Tyne and Wear but everything from the person he was to the appearance of Berwick on my arrival said to me we were in the Borders with what I knew would be its distinctive air.

On the station there is a sign which marks the moment when Berwick was declared unequivocally England. It does, of course, have a Scottish football team. It might be easy for me to say as an Englander but I don't actually mind too much in theory if in the future it is in England or Scotland. I just don't want it to be spoilt by some unholy dogfight. My approach is that if it is very blurry around the edges that is not merely tolerable but it is wonderful for it means that its cultural atmosphere is unique. That by default means keeping it as and where it - Englandish and Scotlandish and for daft post code nonsenses England - unless anyone can prove to me that changing what it appears to be won't be lost to unhappiness and vitriol.

Some things one plans for and researches. Other things one doesn't plan for or research and there is a certain method to it. To have booked a taxi and then not to have turned up would have been to have let people and their livelihoods down so that was why, at risk to myself, a prior taxi booking wasn't made. The tides on the other hand can not be let down but they can seriously bugger things up so I knew long before I left my home that on 30 September 2018 a crossing was possible between 10.10am and 5pm. The moment of the crossing was wonderful but not quite as exhilarating as I had imagined. For one thing, the dark clouds had not yet gone away. Secondly, it was beginning to dawn on me what with him saying that there were no buses today that I could easily get stuck and it was a good five miles back to Beal on the mainland. To alleviate apprehension, the conversation was continued so that I knew he found taxi driving bearable but only as the countryside was so great and he couldn't cope with city life in large urban areas like Newcastle other than on occasional nights out.

Only on our arrival did I raise my concerns at the Oasis café and gift shop. Getting there was the priority. He had a job at Melrose in Scotland at 1.45pm but his friend in the other taxi would be able to collect me as confirmed in a quick telephone conversation with that man. It was just after 11.30am so how much time there would I need - about three hours? There was, apparently, not a lot there unless I liked walking and I do like walking so that to the less than informed was a big dilemma and I had to decide. I agreed with me on three hours. Not only did this seem probably about right but it also kept open, god forbid, the chance of walking back to Beal should our arrangements go pear shaped rather than having to swim.

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Part 2 - Early On Lindisfarne

It is not true that there is not a lot there. Everything is there beyond the sum of its components. I was told that "it might be busy today". I can comprehend the sentiment but there is busy and there is busy and it was the sort of busy that made busy almost laughable. Not liking busy much, had I been on Facebook I would have seized my quill pen and registered an immediate "like". With Flatford, though, still in my mind, my early thoughts were about wondering if it was going to all be a bit orchestrated and contrived. Also, there was a question about which sort of spirituality I would be encountering, if any, and if some of the people there would be at the slightly weird, extreme and to my mind phony end. I know what I mean by this as with it always comes a certain atmosphere which while difficult to put into words is easily felt. But, no, there was none of this, once I had got my bearings. If there is a brand, it is very understated so that it might as well not exist at all. And the large group of people upon who I first set my eyes, such as my eyes work now, and who were there to make their presence felt were all dressed in red not so as to light any kind of fire but to walk against blood cancer as the white words on their t-shirts revealed. This is, of course, another of those modern topics which it is very difficult to comment on honestly without causing offence. First and foremost, I would want to say that they are all doing a wonderful thing and thank you. On the other hand, whenever my serious appraisal comes along - and it can't be long now - I will why welcoming any kind support that is on offer question whether the ostrich in me is best served by the high profile medicalisation of 21st century culture. In many ways, I will prefer people in everyday clothes to pray for me at a lovely coastal spot enjoyed by us all.

Not that I should have been surprised but Lindisfarne is no lovely coastal spot. It is a magnificent, spellbinding, life enhancing coastal spot and my instinct as it has always been but it is now redoubled is that this is symptomatic of the Northumberland coast as a whole. I don't want to say "you can keep your Hadrian's Wall thingamy" as that would be both unfair and frankly awful but I am a man who leans towards the sea. Here I was in my element. There were possibly a few small religious groups. That comment is telling in itself. I rather like Santiago de Compostela but it isn't that in any sense. There may well have been a few small spiritual groups. However, the overriding sense is that the small village is a genuine working village and there were plenty of pleasant dog walkers. Scottish accents were not infrequently heard but what really stood out was the number of Scandinavian voices which illustrated well precisely where we all were and a key angle of the island's coastal significance. I told myself I had loads of time. I sauntered and I sat and I gazed across the water at its beauty, knowing I was still where those in cars would walk. It was busyish - twenty or so people always in view. I strolled down to the tiny museum on the rescuers, with the expectation that it would, as the television, does slightly overdo Grace Darling. But, no. It was modest and yet full of range. Informative and moving. I haven't entirely ruled out RNLI as one of the few charities to whom I think I could happily leave money. It seemed all wrong but an indie rock group came to my mind. Unexpectedly, it was me with British Sea Power and that remarkable film by Penny Woolcock. If you have to have a slightly above average band that can't "do" its potential, get in a great film director so that she can change all our lives.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9fDQxt9A70

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Vr-zoGTeQE

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Part 3 - Still Lindisfarne : and Learning

I suppose the notion was that on reaching a destination that has been with me for almost all of my adult life, it would all be a most deeply held moment but until the end it was simply wonderful. I moved on to the castle, slowly as if time were of no essence, and encountered my second Nicky Morgan type in two weeks. Posh. English. Self-assured but far more winning than the Flatford version. Warmer and not without a sense of humour. Would I do gift aid? Yes, I would. How kind of you. Do you think we will get rain or will the sun shine? That bit was me. Rain.....we never get rain here. How could you suggest such a thing? Well, let's have that conversation again when I've been round it. I might be gone. Lots of laughter. Shortly afterwards, the sun was so strong I was worried for my eyes and it was relentless. Utterly relentless and I forgave it totally while being so thankful for good luck. It's Lutyens. I'm a fan. I will defend Castle Drogo in Devon until the cows come home, even though it is close to Dartmoor rather than Exmoor, however much the rain goes in. The way they have set out his plans to read - it's a strong NT job. Here they renovated and discovered that it was empty while, I'll paraphrase the man who was like Uncle Pete on Campus West here, as they made it all shiny on view. Enter Anya Gallaccio to fill the spaces and it is a yes and a no. The concept of blurring the inside with the garden is right. The blankets, thrown together artistically somewhat hippy and/or witchy like, accompanied by dried flowers, do provoke thought but illustrate that the vision thing is not yet wholly complete. And she does admit that herself.

And then the slightly longer slow amble commenced, or so I thought, at least after the lime kilns. I now wanted to walk and experience everything. The island is much bigger than I expected. Following the coastline where to see more than an occasional couple with a dog quickly became unusual, I walked and I walked and I walked. Can I not see this bit or that? Probably no. Many a detour. Walking turned into a sprint and somewhere after the man of whom I enquired said that it was 1.20pm akin to training for a marathon. Villages are never as close as they appear, especially when there is the sight of a beautiful beach on which one would just love to be and one's life depends on making the right decisions. Sadly, I had to cut inland but there was thankfully a bonus. It meant that I walked beside the great great grandchildren of the sheep on "Back and Fourth" and I could fully understand why Alan et al had been so charmed that they identified with an area so many miles away from their Tyneside homes. I didn't get back until 2pm. Half an hour to go. I had completely mistimed it. How stupid of me not to have allowed up to five hours. It was my own fault but I wouldn't ever be guided by other people's comments again. Except that there was time enough to look briefly at the priory - ruins - and the church in which there was a very fine carving but alas no one surprisingly to show people around. That was it probably. I looked across to the mead centre - a bit commercial perhaps so no great loss - and peered into the priory museum. Well, perhaps it wouldn't have been all that interesting anyway. But in doing the latter, a question hit my mind completely out of the blue. It was so not planned that it was almost a bolt of lightning. "Cuthbert", I said to the man at the desk. The tone was peculiarly forlorn. "Where was his hermitage?" Where it came from I just don't know but it heralded the moment. The Scotsman smiled and - I reckon, unusually for the people I met there, religious - responded very strongly with a gentle meaningful enthusiasm that was to make the day as special I had hoped. Oddly, the right question at the right time and asked of the right person.

Well, hey, what better thing could there be when there is just 28 minutes between yourself and being stranded on an island than being told that there is yet another island which is not an island when the tide turns and you will be able to get to it and back, just, as the tide has enabled it. Just walk around the corner, climb over umpteen watery rocks and head towards the cross. He was there and then he went away for a long time, apparently, most memorably onto other islands, but he came back and there ultimately he died. Ain't that just terrific. Politely I explained that I would have to view the island and the cross from afar but I was so grateful to him for providing me with that opportunity. The difficulty, you see, is that it is a taxi and I can't let the man down by not being there on time. Yes, he quite understood but nevertheless was happy to leave any other people waiting by leaving his desk and walking me halfway down the track towards the view. I don't think, though, I had expressed the principal difficulty which was only just emerging in my own mind somewhat uneasily although I sensed he could see it. It runs along these lines. I could no more have ever entered a monastic life in a monastery than I could have ever entered into marriage. But the hermit life.

Oh dear. The identification is big and it was becoming so obvious to me at this time and in this place. He knew that I wouldn't be able to resist the challenge. I didn't until it came into view. So then there was the most ludicrous and fraught, as if on speed, scramble across slippery potentially foot breaking terrain. Half a dozen people were sauntering there, seemingly with all the time in the world, and watched obliquely as this gooner raced up towards them and past them before dramatically touching the cross. And then somewhat aghast as he scarpered back again onto the island which is more of a proper communal island, though not seeing that the feeling in him of a much wanted moment had truly arrived and now he desperately need a pint. I have to say that time in the Crown and Anchor is just downright weird. If that was really 2.17pm when I threw myself in there, time must have stood still. What I know is that I drank the pint, bumped straight into the Scotsman who was heading for the church with the words "I'm so pleased you made it", walked diagonally across the green, bought some chocolate mints for my parents in the gift shop along with postcards, for my camera had stopped working, and was on the appropriate bench in time so as to be alarmed about whether the taxi driver would turn up. One appeared but his was not mine and he just waved in a way that I couldn't fathom. The red t-shirted blood people were ambling back and forth and I was very close to hallucination. God knows how things can be done but they can be done. At what was nearly twenty to three the bloke did finally show up.