Masochistic Away Day.

23 Feb

It was another insane idea. I think I must be going a bit dopey in my old age. The choice was as follows: have a relaxing day at home or undergo 8 hours of train travel and hanging around draughty stations to almost inevitably experience disappointment. I chose the latter of course. I would travel from deepest Cleveland on the north east coast, to the far north west of England to support my team, a team that was next to bottom of the whole football league and had just lost 4 matches in a row. Many people would regard this as mad but I went because it was an adventure and I wanted to show support and loyalty to the team. I think support in times of adversity is real support. If you’ve read my previous blog you might understand this a bit.

I love travel as much as I love sport. Every journey is potentially an exciting adventure. In this case I was travelling to Carlisle but I was also journeying into the unknown. What would happen on the way? Would all my connections work out? What would I find when I got there? This is what happened.

It was an early start. The alarm clock rudely interrupted my sleep at 6-45am. This was like being back at work, a feeling I have largely forgotten since I retired. By 7.55 I was at Saltburn station, joining a small band of sleepy commuters going to work in the shops of Redcar and Middlesbrough. I huddled into my seat as our little, old diesel -railcar ground its way over the points, heading slowly west. I live at the end of a long branchline, and the first stage of any rail journey usually involves painstakingly trundling our way to the main line at Darlington, about 28 miles away. I settled into my book, hoping the miles would disappear more quickly that way. On this journey though, I didn’t have to go all the way to Darlington. I was routed via Hartlepool and Sunderland so had to change at Middlesbrough, and then have a slow but scenic train journey up the Durham coast. The changeover was only 10 minutes and soon I was on my way again. In 1 hour 20 minutes I would be meeting my fellow football masochist, Ian, at Newcastle Central station. Together we would catch the Carlisle connection.

However, you know what they say about the best laid plans. My second train went only one stop to Thornaby ( south Stockton) and then just stood in the platform. I found myself getting restless and started to wriggle around in my seat.After this had been going on for 10 minutes, the guard told us there had been a power failure in the main signal box and until it was fixed, no trains in the area were allowed to move. An electrician had been sent for ( there were none on site) and he had got stuck in traffic. I could see my Carlisle connection going up the swanee and even the one after that. Maybe I would miss the match altogether? Then, an idea started to form in my head. Out of the window I had noticed a regular stream of taxis coming down a drive into the station and dropping passengers off. As worry and frustration bubbled up inside me, I hit upon an escape plan. Seeing another taxi arrive, I leapt off the train, ran across the platform and knocked on the taxi man’s window as he was checking his money. The worst case scenario was that he wouldn’t accept me as a customer because I hadn’t made a proper booking, and then the train would suddenly depart with me stranded on the platform!  That really would have been “sod’s law!”As he wound down the window I asked the driver if he could take me to Darlington station and, thank God, he said “yes.” So in a few seconds, I was on my again, weaving through the rainy, grey streets of Thornaby, heading for Darlington and the main- line.

It was one of those chance encounters one sometimes experiences on journeys. I told the taxi driver where I was going and why, and he replied with stories of the travails of Darlington football club which had gone bust and dropped out of the league. His son had had trials there as a teenager and also at Hartlepool United, another struggling north- east football club. He hadn’t been accepted. The taxi man concluded cynically that success in football is about who you know not about what you can do. He said the whole system is corrupt and very harsh. I think I agree with him.

Within 20 minutes we were at Darlington station on the East Coast mainline. With a bit of luck, I would soon catch a fast train north to Newcastle. As I was paying the fare and saying my goodbye, another taxi man ran up and told my driver that he had a near flat tyre at the back. We looked and the rear passenger- side tyre was doing a good imitation of a pancake! It was only luck that had prevented us from having the flat on the A66 dual- carriageway a few minutes earlier and having to stop to change the wheel in the pouring rain! I caught an Edinburgh express within 10 minutes and as it glided out of the station I saw my taxi man still struggling with his jack and his wrench. I hope he got it sorted alright.

The express sped smoothly northwards only affording a brief glimpse of Durham’s magnificent cathedral and castle as we raced by. Soon we were crossing the Tyne on one of the 6 famous bridges. We swept round a corner and came to a smooth halt in Newcastle Central station. Ian was waiting for me with a welcome cup of coffee. ( I had texted him of my progress.) Meanwhile ( I heard later) my original train was still stuck at Thornaby. It was delayed for at least an hour. I would have been going spare by then!

The next stage of the journey took us along the beautiful Tyne valley and into Hadrian’s Wall country. A long gentle escarpment led up to the remains of the Roman wall and then dropped steeply away. It’s lovely empty countryside. Northumberland merged into Cumbria as we headed forever westwards. We caught glimpses of hill farms surrounded by grazing sheep. As we neared our destination we passed the shell of an old castle. Quite suddenly, the scenary switched from rural to urban as we were sucked into the suburbs of the City of Carlisle.

Carlisle is a border city. Scotland is not very far away. It has seen much conflict over the centuries. Coming out of the Citadel Station we immediately saw the 16th century round, stone towers ordered by Henry VIII to strengthen the city’s defences. Further in we came across the sturdy, red stoned castle that has witnessed much bloody conflict. Edward 1st had stayed there before going on to “Hammer the Scots.” In an earlier age Carlisle had actually been part of Scotland. It’s the only large English town not to have been recorded in the Domesday Book, ordered by William the Conqueror in the 1080s. It was left to his son, William Rufus to reconquer Carlisle for the English. One might expect that, given this troubled and violent history, its citizens would be tough, hard-bitten and wary of strangers. Of course, we found them to be just the opposite as the border battles and struggles  have now faded into the mists of time. Ian and I entered a nice little cafe near the station to have lunch. No staff were available to greet us but several customers encouraged us to sit down and told us the routine. When I thanked them, a lady commented :” No problem, we’re friendly in Carlisle.”

After our teas and toasties we had a bit of time to explore. Beyond the chain stores and coffees shops there was a very atmospheric and interesting historical quarter. Some streets were cobbled and we passed many old Georgian and early Victorian buildings in striking red sandstone. We strolled along narrow lanes and along a section of old town walls. The medieval cathedral and its close are magnificent. One feature is a spectacular barrel shaped ceiling painted in sky blue with golden stars. We made a note to return for a longer visit when football was not dominating the agenda.

After more helpful directions, we started to walk towards Brunton Park, Carlisle United’s football stadium. This took us up the busy Warwick Road and the leafy avenues that run off it. This is quite unusual as many of the original football grounds are found in more run down areas surrounded by humble terraces. One of the graceful Georgian town houses we passed had a blue plaque. It turned out it was the former home of the mother and grandfather of the American President Woodrow Wilson. He was one of the main architects of the Treaty of Versailles at the end of the First World War. His mother, Jessie Janet Woodrow Wilson had been born in Carlisle and her father, the Reverend Doctor Thomas Woodrow, originally from Paisley in Scotland, used to preach in a nearby church. Carlisle was only a temporary staging post however, as the family subsequently emigrated to the United States where the future president was born.

Arriving at the football ground we looked at the fields and streets that had been severely flooded by Storm Desmond in December 2015 and January 2016. The nearby river had burst its banks. The pitch went underwater too and for a while, Carlisle Untied had to play their “home” matches in Preston, Blackburn or Blackpool. When the water eventually receded, all the community turned out to clear up the muddy mess in the ground. Even the players mucked in to help. The disaster had brought the team and the fans together in a united effort.

There now ensued a tense 20 minutes or so while we waited for Lesley. I had met Lesley at the Chesterfield box office a fortnight before when I was there for a home match. To my frustration she told me that the tickets for the match at Carlisle had not arrived yet, so could I pop in the following week? Not living in Chesterfield anymore, I said I couldn’t. So Lesley said she would bring my tickets on the team coach on the day and give them to me outside the ground before kick off. This seemed a neat arrangement but inevitably, when we arrived at the away supporters end of Brunton Park, Lesley was nowhere to be seen. We weren’t the only ones waiting and worrying. A small group of Chesterfield supporters who did not actually live in Chesterfield now gathered together. I met one guy who had travelled down from Glasgow. This was the closest he got to a “home” match. Thankfully Lesley at last appeared and we collected our tickets and entered the stadium.

Being in Brunton Park was like going back in time. We showed our tickets to a real person instead of introducing a bar code to a scanner. Inside I was surprised to see that both ends behind the goals didn’t have seating. People stood behind crash barriers just like in the old days. The opposite stand to us only had seats in the top half and the rest was for standing. I thought that since the Hillsborough disaster, all grounds had to be all seaters, but apparently, this rule only applies to clubs in the top two divisions.

Before the match, as we watched the players going through their warm-up routines, a strange thing happened. The Carlisle mascot came out sporting a fox’s head. Now I had always thought that it was Leicester City who were nicknamed “The Foxes”. But now it seems that Carlisle claim that name too. They used to feature a fox on their logo because of the local connection with the legendary huntsman John Peel. In 1976 for instance, the club badge featured a golden fox jumpimg over the abbrieviation CUFC. Later, a fox was shown jumping through a ring of stars. Not any longer is a fox featured though. Now the club badge shows the castle, a shield with the cross of St George and 2 red dragons. Maybe Leicester had threatened to sue them!

I was just digesting all this when the foxy mascot brought out a real stuffed fox mounted on a base and placed it in the centre circle. It stayed there until just before kick off, presumably to bring the team good luck. Football is full of these peculiar traditions and superstitions. I later found that the stuffed fox is called OLGA, which is an anagram of GOAL.

Finally at 3pm, the match kicked off. Chesterfield put in a miserable performance and were lucky only to lose 2-0, although we were very unlucky to have what looked like a good goal, ruled out for a marginal offside. Because this was real life and not on a telly screen, we were unable to watch slow-motion replays to check if the referee’s controversial decision was correct. For a moment we had all gone berserk, in a sudden surge of emotion, but now we returned to stoical acceptance of the inevitable. There was little atmosphere in the rest of the ground. Half of the Carlisle supporters seemed to be asleep. They only woke up when they scored or when there was a disputed throw-in near where they were sitting. There were just under 4000 of them and we numbered 248. We call ourselves the “Spireites” after Chesterfield’s famous and bizarre crooked spire. Even though we lost, I was pleased to be there, enjoying a couple of noisy, raucous hours amongst the Spireite faithful. The away fans nearly always make more noise than the home fans even though heavily outnumbered. Rather than acting like separate individuals they close ranks, feel the warmth of camaraderie and lose many of their inhibitions. A funny moment came when a Carlisle player finally got back on his feet after laying on the turf injured. Some of our number thought he was feigning the injury to waste time and break up the play. One Spireite fan lept up and sarcastically bellowed ” Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! He is healed!” So we lost and we trudged despondently out of the ground and into the darkened streets. I was disappointed with the result but had half expected it. I was still glad that I had made the effort to be one of the valient 248!

Ian and I walked back into the city centre and ate a tasty happy-hour pasta at a jolly Italian ristorante. Then we were back at the station ready for the long journey home. This time we were joined by gangs of Saturday night revellers — young people on their way for a night out in Newcastle. It was noisy but good humoured. At Newcastle, Ian and I parted company and I went on to catch 2 more trains, travelling south and then east. Some young lads I talked to had been drinking in Newcastle and then in Durham city. They were now on their way to Darlington for yet more drinking before getting taxis home to Bishop Auckland. They couldn’t believe it when I told them I had gone all the way from Saltburn to Carlisle and back to see a football match and had  not touched a drop of drink! I think they thought I was mad. It was the last interesting encounter on my long away day. Some may think of it as masochistic, others may think I was insane. Maybe they have a point, but there’s no getting away from the fact that I really enjoyed  it! It would have been even better if the Spireites had won but one cannot have everything!

 

 

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It’s Only a Game — Or Is It?

15 Feb

I’ve been feeling slightly sick inside for a couple of days now. No-one close to me has died. The house has not collapsed. I have not had my income cut-off. I am not really ill with a sickness bug.( I had that over Christmas)  So what is the problem? I know you will laugh when I tell you. You will probably advise me to “get a grip” and “grow up.” The cause of my malaise is a football match played about 130 miles away from my home, in the lowest tier of the English professional leagues. I wasn’t even at the match. Yet when I saw the result flash up on the screen, it hit me like a punch in the stomach! Even 2 days later, now that I have had time to pull myself together, I am still wandering around in a semi-daze.

 

You see, I am not ill in the conventional sense, but I do suffer from a terrible, life-long debilitating disease. I am Stuart Bates and I am a Chesterfield FC supporter! It’s an affliction which I know I will never get rid of. It all started when I was born. Yes, you’ve guessed it — I was born in Chesterfield. It’s a little known Derbyshire industrial town in the East Midlands. It has seen better days and it’s traditional industries such as coal mining, engineering and steel making, have all declined. It now lives in constant fear of being swallowed up by its giant neighbour to the north, the city of Sheffield. Chesterfield’s most famous claim to fame is that it’s parish church has an alarmingly crooked and twisted spire. Unseasoned timbers caused the spire to warp and twist back in the 13th century. Ironically, that big mistake by those medieval builders has given an other-wise non-descript town, a unique and special identity. It is the Pisa of north-east Derbyshire, although lacking the Tuscan sunshine, it doesn’t attract quite so many tourists.

So I was born in Chesterfield, spent my childhood there and as I became a teenager, I started to support the town’s  football team. Chesterfield FC are the 4th oldest club in the whole English football league. They have never risen out of the lower divisions. I think they nearly got promoted to the old Division 1 sometime in the 1930’s, but lost out on goal difference. So near, yet so far! They have never reached those dizzying heights since. Commemorating the town’s most famous landmark, the team is nicknamed “The Spireites.”

Supporting the Spireites has always given me a sense of belonging. I left the town of the crooked spire to go to college in Manchester when I was nearly 19, and have lived in various different towns and cities since. But I have always had that strong feeling that my roots are in Chesterfield. When I visit the town I always feel that I have come home. The feeling begins as soon as I spy the crooked spire on the horizon or as soon as a bus driver or shop assistant calls me “duck”, the local Derbyshire term of endearment. I have lived much of my adult life in the land of “Bonnie Lad” and “Pet” but, silly as this sounds, I always experience a strong surge of pleasure when I hear the word “Duck.” The Derbyshire/ Nottinghamshire/ South Yorkshire accent is not the most beautiful in the land, but because I was immersed in it as a child, it is music to my ears.

Just as I identify with the town, I identify, but in a more concentrated and powerful form, with its football team. In the ground on a Saturday afternoon, anything from 4000 to 8000 Spireites are gathered together, united by a common love and a common cause. The numbers are no- where near those who go to watch the top Premier Division teams, but it is still a potent feeling to be amongst so many like- minded people. Spireites come in all ages from young children to so called senior citizens. They include men and women, though the former still predominate. At matches I have seen babes in arms, parents and children, young, raucous men, people in wheel chairs, blind and partially sighted, genteel couples and moaning old “codgers” giving the linesman some stick. In other words one can see a large cross section of the humanity at a Chesterfield match. I have encountered Spireites from Belgium, Spain and even Japan as well as from all over UK. I even met one at British passport control in Calais, who when he had studied my documents, exclaimed “Up the Spireites!” What unites us all is support for the team and identification with the town in some shape or form. I described it as an illness above, but a more accurate word is “addiction.”

“Addiction” sounds quite alarming, as it can be of course. I have already admitted that it has made me feel a bit ill. But don’t worry, I have it under control. ( I think!) For me, being a footballer supporter is like having an alternative, vicarious life. This is particularly so when one identifies strongly with one particular team. The situation will only get serious, in my opinion, if this alternative existance starts spilling over and swamping real life. The bad result last Tuesday made me ill- at- ease and out of sorts. I had to deal with disappointment, shock, and anxiety. Chesterfield are having a terrible season and are in grave danger of being relegated out of the football league altogether. Some of my fellow Spireites use exaggerated language such as : “disastrous”, “gut-wrenching”, and feeling “gutted.” I have said such things too, while in the grip of strong, negative emotions. One of my friends described the threat of relegation as staring into “the abyss.” That’s how many people would view death — the end of existance. Even for a big football fan like myself and ardent Spireite, I admit that that is a bit over the top. The despair of a defeat or the elation of victory are the causes of such colourful language. But, hopefully, these heightened emotions are only temporary and after a calming down period, lives, even Spireite lives, inevitably return to normal.

Being part of something is a powerful feeling. It’s great not to feel alone. I remember feeling wonderful when I marched in a massive torchlight procession for CND in the 1980’s. We were all united in our wish for World peace and for the banning of weapons of mass destruction. That same feeling of togetherness is evoked by headteachers when they tell pupils to be proud of their uniforms and of their role as representatives of the school. Belonging to a team, an institution, a movement or a political party can stir up great pride and satisfaction. It’s just the same with football. I’m not talking about the fake “glory hunters” who pretend to support whichever team is top of the league. Look how many Leicester City “supporters” suddenly and miraculously emerged a couple of years go when the Foxes were Premier League champions. Where are they all now? I’m talking about a deep-rooted and long-lasting support of a club and team. My support for Chesterfield was somehow born inside me. My dad passed it on to me and he got it from my granddad. I have been to many matches with my cousin  and my uncle.( sadly now passed away.) It’s both a joy and an affliction. It’s part of our lives.

Life itself is all about ups and downs. For every high there seems to be a low. Sport, including football, copies life. At the moment I am worried and depressed because my team is not doing very well. Two weeks ago I was worried and depressed because we had a burst pipe under the kitchen floor. Both situations made me feel stressed and temporarily out of control. One was much more trivial tha the other of course. That is the important point I think. My football supporting life must not be allowed to dominate and ruin my real life. Following Chesterfield FC is, or should be, like living in a parallel universe. It’s am alternative world to escape to every now and then. So, since the defeat I’ve lectured myself with phrases such as: “it’s only a game”, “it’s not the end of the world”, and “get a sense of perspective.” Also in the world of football there is the old adage: “there’s always the next game” Thus I have grounded myself in reality and then returned to my Spireite fantasies with a renewed feeling of hope. At the moment, hope is concentrated on an away match at Carlisle on Saturday.

For some insane reason I will endure about 8 hours of train travel to get there and back. Many would see that as a waste of a day — all to watch a poor, struggling football team in a far away corner of England. But I will travel in hope, revel in the gathering of hundreds of Spireites and will enter upon an emotional, 90 minute roller coaster. Whether I (we) emerge happy and elated, or crest-fallen and in despair, depends entirely on whether our 11 men beat their 11 men in a “silly” game of kicking a ball round a field. Hopefully my vicarious sickness will not have taken a turn for the worse by Saturday evening!

How Long Is Forever?

1 Jan

Christmas cards are a nice tradition I think. I always enjoy sending them and receiving them. I especially like writing and receiving personal letters, enclosed within the cards. In this age of instant, cursory communication — texts, tweets, whatsapps and emails— it is a privilege to be able to read a proper letter which shows that the other person has been thinking of you and has taken the trouble to keep your mutual connection going. I hope he/she feels the same when they get my letter. Even a hastily written card, scribbled in the midst of a busy life, has the powerful, subliminal message: ” I care for you.” I’m not including the dreaded “round-robin” letters in this by the way. They seem to me to be all about showing off, trying to impress. However, a genuine Christmas card and/or letter is a joy to receive at this special time of the year. They are one of the things that make the festive season so special.

So how does it feel to realize that you have been crossed off someone’s Christmas card list? That person, once a friend, family member or  formerly close colleague has now decided that you are not worth keeping in touch with anymore. It’s a decision that has been made without discussion and announced without warning. It can come as a bit of a shock. It’s maybe that you are now separated geographically and can no longer develop the relationship through regular contact any more. It may be that retirement has cut-off the regular work connection that once bound you together. It may be because of a broken relationship and the failure to make that transition into being “just good friends.” I am quite happy with my life and am always willing to “move on” when a relationship has obviously run its course. It’s just the arbitrary, sudden termination of a long term connection that still leaves me feeling slightly shocked and numb.

 

Being dropped off the bottom of someone’s Christmas card list is like falling into oblivion. Presumably, as far as they are concerned, you are no longer worth thinking about. In their eyes, you no longer exist. I know this sounds melodramatic, but, in one way, this is a kind of death. The shock is increased when the silent but brutal coup- de- grace is delivered by someone who once said they loved you. Films, novels and songs like to imply that once we fall in love with the “special one” it will be forever. Once two people have met and fallen in love, they will live happily ever after. But that’s the danger of romantic fiction. In real life, “Love” does not always last forever. In my experience, it either changes and deepens, or after an intoxicating and intense spell of passion, it gradually fizzles out like a firework.

I have been lucky enough to fall in love several times in my life. I don’t believe that there is only one “Special One”. At different stages in my life I have had intense, loving relationships with several women. They loved me in return (or so they led me to believe), and even now, after many happy years in my second marriage, some of their words still echo vividly in my memory. Once I was told by a lover that she was in such a blissful state, that she could happily die in my arms. I felt as if I was in my own personal heaven and I remember distinctly going into a kind of swoon. Another person at another time declared that she “would always love me” and there would “always be a place for me in her heart.” This too was heady stuff. Passions were obviously overflowing.  The normal, precautionary safeguards that we put up to avoid being hurt, had been temporarily swept aside. At the time I believed these words. But then the relationships changed. They faded out and died. In the next stages of our lives, such words and emotions were potentially embarrassing and a serious impediment to “moving on”. I have always found it difficult to let go. Even if a relationship/friendship has clearly run its course, I am still hurt when it finally ends. This is as equally true when I am responsible for the break up as when its done to me.

Thus I cling on, and where possible, try to turn a relationship into a friendship. Thus I send Christmas cards and receive them in return. It’s trying to prove to myself that that period in my life was not a total waste of time. I don’t like waste. Even if something has gone up in flames, I still try to salvage something from the ashes. But now that I’ve been thrown off the Christmas card list, it means I have been consigned to the void. Once, that person loved me and would love me “forever”. Now she doesn’t know whether I’m alive or dead and presumably, does not care. Although I am happily married and live a fruitful and fulfilling life, this abrupt severing of a long term connection, is still hard to bear.

So how long is “forever”? We use such words when gripped by intense emotions, but, in real-life as opposed to fiction, they only apply for a relatively short period of time. Falling in love romantically and sexually, is very exciting but cannot be sustained in its intense form for more than a few months or, at the most, a couple of years. Then reality starts to bite. The loved one turns out to be not “perfect” afterall. You start to see their faults. Why do they always leave the top off the toothpaste? He/she stops being an object of worship and just becomes another, ordinary human being. This is when the rose-coloured glasses drop off. To survive, the relationship has to change. It has to feed off other things other than sexual chemistry. Love has to deepen or it will fade away.

In the case I am thinking about this Christmas, “forever” has turned out to be about 22 years, and at least 15 of them have been in the distant, polite Christmas note stage. It’s still a little wrench though. I know I will happily get on with my life but , in a small way, the lack of a card has yet again shaken my faith in human nature. I know the omission was deliberate and was not just a simple error, because this is the second year running it has happened. How can I believe anything that anyone says to me? It is quite disconcerting. How do I know that they might change their minds in the future and walk away from me? Luckily I have strong family ties and some good, long- term friends. Real friends are the ones who stick by you through thick and thin. They are not necessarily the same people who reserve a place for you in their heart or say that they will love you “forever.”

I know it sounds silly but I still don’t like being cast into oblivion. I cannot imagine anybody admitting that they enjoy not existing. Maybe I will occasionally hang around in this person’s memory even though I am no longer worth the price of a stamp. I know I sound bitter and am being totally unrealistic. But, despite all my sensible rationalisations, it is still difficult to accept that a person who once loved me has now consigned me to the bin.

Alone — in Sunderland.

11 Nov

My friend, Ian and I like visiting places that are not on the normal tourist radar. We have invariably enjoyed our explorations of towns and cities that are deemed dull, unattractive or not worth bothering with. We like to test our theory that every place is interesting if only one is willing to be interested in it. Thus we have found ourselves wandering round unpromising northern towns like Darlington, Doncaster, Stockton and Hartlepool and have always, so far, had  interesting and enjoyable days. It was in this spirit that we decided to visit Sunderland.

Sunderland is Britain’s newest city but apart from that accolade, it doesn’t seem, at first glance, to have much going for it. In the north east of England it is eclipsed in most departments by its close neighbour, Newcastle upon Tyne, at least from a tourist’s viewpoint. Its centre is a large, non-descript pedestrian precinct. I suppose the city got badly bombed in the war and lost many of its more distinguished buildings. Only a sprinkling of older civic buildings still survive, such as the Museum and Winter Gardens and the Empire Theatre. Since the war, the area has suffered from bad economic depression following the collapse of the coal-mining and ship-building industries. It used to be a proud boast of Sunderland that whatever ships were required, the Wearside ship-yards could “Makem” ( make them.) This has now become the nickname, often used derogatively, for people from the Sunderland area. (” Makems” or “mackems.”)  The current employment saviour of Sunderland is ironically Japan. Nissan has set up a big car- manufacturing plant in nearby Washington New Town. This is now the biggest source of employment in the area. I say this is ironic because it was foreign competition, including from the Japanese, that put paid to Wearside’s once prolific shipyards. Between 1939 and 1945, the Second  World War years, the Wear yards launched 245 ships, totalling 1.5 million tons. This represented a quarter of all merchant ships built in that period in the entire UK. Now all the shipyards on the River Wear have gone. The last one closed in 1988.

So we planned to visit what seems, on the surface, to be a very depressed area. Even Sunderland’s famous football team is now languishing at the bottom of the second tier of the English leagues, after suffering a humiliating relegation from the Premier League last season. It is only early November (2017) but they have already sacked their latest manager. The lights seem to have all been switched off at Sunderland’s so called “Stadium of Light.” Our proposed visit didn’t sound very promising, but at least it would be a good excuse for a get-together and a catch-up chat. Then, unfortunately, Ian informed me that he could no longer come because his mother was ill. I had already got my rail tickets so I was faced with either wasting my money and staying at home, or going to Sunderland, alone! My wife, who probably wanted to get rid of me, encouraged me to go.

So it was that a few days later, I found myself getting up on the 7am alarm clock in order to catch an early train out of Saltburn. I was reluctant to leave my warm, comfortable bed. But straight away, this potentially unpromising day threw up a lovely surprise. As I munched my cereal I glanced out of the window and witnessed a beautiful sunrise. Streaks of vivid orange, yellow and light blue lit up the sky above the rooftops. The next compensation came when I enjoyed an excellent toasted teacake and filter coffee ( breakfast, part 2) at Middlesbrough rail station as I waited for my connecting train. The day was looking up! The journey north, up the Durham coast was interesting and occasionally picturesque. Glimpses of cliffs, beaches, a pier, meadows, denes and ravines  reminded me of my sponsored walk down that very coast earlier in the year. The train passed through Stockton, Billingham, Hartlepool and Seaham before finally arriving at Sunderland.

Sunderland’s unprepossessing railway station is underground, in a dark, depressing tunnel. As well as mainline trains, it is also serves the Tyne and Wear Metro. I bought a ticket and travelled 2 stops north of the city centre to the seaside suburb of Seaburn. The train’s emergence from the dingy tunnel, out into the bright autumn sunshine, coincided with an eye-catching crossing of the Wear, the river that divides the city. The rail bridge runs parallel and in close proximity to a gracefully arched, iron road bridge.( Wearmouth Bridge)  It’s a wonderful array of green painted girders, running in all directions. It’s like a mini Sydney Harbour Bridge or Tyne Bridge. Soon, the Metro arrived at Seaburn station and my walk of discovery began.

A long, straight road ran down to the sea. Unsurprisingly it is called Sea Road! It was busy with traffic and banks of shops. These were mostly the usual suspects but I was surprised to find that Seaburn has a Swiss bakers. It’s called Mullers, if you’re ever in the area. Because I still had the Middlesbrough teacake in my tummy I didn’t go in and try its exotic wares, although I now think I should have done. After a 10 minutes brisk walk, passing row after row of terraced houses, I reached the seafront and the pleasant, leafy Seaburn Park. Beyond this was the promenade. At the end of the prom’s row of shops and restaurants is the large Marriot Hotel. This was my first port of call, because it was here, under its previous name of the Seaburn Hotel, that the famous artist, L S Lowry used to stay on his  visits to the north-east coast. Lowry regularly visited Sunderland in the 1960’s and always stayed in Room 104 at the Seaburn. ( Luckily, not Room 101!) Some of his seascapes and industrial scenes are exhibited at the Sunderland Museum and Winter Gardens.

Seaburn beach is long and attractive, sweeping round a shallow bay. On this bright, autumnal morning, it was largely empty, apart from a few dog walkers and the occasional jogger. At its northern extremity it merges with a cluster of rocks and pools. Two herring gulls perched on adjoining rocks and surveyed the scene. Nearby an unidentified wader poked its long, pointed beak into the soft mud, looking for a tasty, mid-morning morsel. I planned to follow Heritage Trail Number 7, produced by Sunderland Council — “Roker Seafront Circular.”  The Lowry hotel was my first stop. ( I wasn’t doing it in the right order.) Now I strode towards a gleaming white lighthouse, on a grassy stretch of the promenade above the beach.

It seemed to be a strange location for a light-house. They are usually found on headlands , on off-shore islands or at the ends of piers, in order to safeguard shipping.  But this particular lighthouse was set back, well away from any spot where it could have been any use to a ship. The answer to the mystery is that the lighthouse in question, designed by James Meick in 1856, had originally been placed on the end of Sunderland’s South Pier. When that pier eventually started to crumble, the Meick lighthouse was dismantled and re-erected here, on the promenade between Seaburn and Roker, in 1983. It’s an impressive edifice. Meick designed it in the form of a classical Tuscan column. As I looked up, I saw that the shining, white tower was topped by a round , wrought iron balcony and a large weather-vane. Inside, apparently, is an intricate, cast iron, spiral staircase. Its powerful lantern, that for so long safely guided ships into the mouth of the Wear, is now displayed in the Museum and Winter Gardens.

I walked back down to the sea and on to the beach.  The tide was out and I was able to walk round the headland that separates Seaburn from Roker. The flat, empty sands were backed by medium tall cliffs shored up by a stout seawall. On a slope leading down to the beach, I passed a little wooden shack – the Bankside Café. Clumps of people were gathered there, chatting and sipping from their mugs of tea and coffee. The smell of bacon drifted on the air. I was tempted to stop, but remembering, just in time, that I am a vegetarian, I wandered on. Roker beach and prom now stood before me, lined with cafes and amusement arcades. It being November, most of them were closed however, so I was faced with a row of shutters. 2 large back and white photos from the early 20th century showed how popular Roker beach used to be. The place had been packed. People strolled along the prom, others sat on their deck-chairs on the sands, while yet more holidaymakers paddled or swam in the sea. Ranks of tall, narrow changing- tents spread down the beach. Behind all this, the North Pier was also packed with people. Today the pier was empty, being fenced off by workmen carrying out repairs. That was a pity as I’d planned to stroll along it to get a closer look at its graceful, red and white striped lighthouse.

I left the lower promenade and climbed up to the upper level. Here was a rusty red Second World War naval mine ( 1940), now used to collect donations for “The Shipwrecked Mariners Society.” This had been founded in 1839 to help distressed sailors and their families. It claims to have helped over 1,000,000 people. On the side of the mine is the sad epitaph: ” There is sorrow on the sea.”

I was now in an area of the sea- front that used to be a military zone. In the world wars, big artillery guns were mounted there to help protect the entrance to the port. The beach would have been covered with barbed wire and the area patrolled by soldiers. Local people were moved back from the seafront and their houses turned into soldiers’ billets. This area, now known as Cliff park, had a series of defensive trenches dug across it during the time of the First World War. There had been guns at the ends of both piers. A badly faded map that I tried to decypher, referred mysteriously to a World War 1 U Boat and a torpedo battery, both just off the mouth of the Wear. Surveying the peaceful scene, I found it difficult to imagine all that menacing wartime activity. The gun posts have now been turned into seats.

Just across the green from the naval mine was what looked like an old Celtic  stone cross. It was on my heritage list. The cross was erected in 1904 in memory of one of the North-east’s most famous religious figures: The Venerable Bede. It had been paid for by public subscription, £300 having been raised in record time. Although fairly modern, the cross is decorated with Celtic and Anglo-Saxon style patterns and pictures. Birds, animals, leaves and berries are intertwined into swirling designs. The monk and scholar known as the Venerable Bede lived and worked at the nearby Church of St Peters 1300 years ago. This was one half of the famous Wearmouth-Jarrow Monastery, Jarrow being a little further north in South Tyneside. Bede was the greatest scholar of his day and wrote the first- ever history of  England, which is still in print.( “An Eccliessiastical History of the English People.”) On one side of the cross, scenes from Bede’s life have been carved, while on the other side are pictures of some of his important countrymen — Abbots and Kings. There is also an inscription honouring St Cuthbert of Lindisfarne. Bede’s Cross was dismantled and removed during both world wars to keep it safe. It was last re-erected in 1949.  I wander how many of today’s motorists or pedestrians notice it or give it a second thought as they hurry past. One good thing about being retired is having the time to stop and appreciate things.

Across the busy road from the cross is one of the upper entrances to Roker Park. A lower entrance is down by the beach and plunges one into a deep, dramatic ravine, which dissects the northern end of the park. I descended to a bridge which spanned  this ravine and looked down into a place that used to be the notorious haunt of smugglers in the 17th and 18th centuries. The ravine has caves, one of which used to be the home of “Spottie”, an 18th century sailor whose ship was wrecked on the north-east coast.

The modern recreational park was opened in June, 1880 to cater for the many holidaymakers and residents of what had developed into the affluent suburb of Roker. It has all the usual amenities– a fine Victorian bandstand, a boating lake, floral displays, a miniature railway, a water fountain and a bowling green. As I pottered about, I spotted the surreal sight of Alice in Wonderland sitting on a low hedge in a bright, blue and white dress. Apparently Lewis Carrol had connections with Sunderland too. When I arrived at the lake there were no boats, it being out of season. A few strollers had stopped to feed the ducks or admire a couple of swans. However, it was what was happening in the middle of the lake that grabbed my attention. A workman was wading through the water, slowly gathering in a collection of large lamps that were sticking out of the water. His colleague stood on the shore trying to sort out a large tangle of electric cables. I was intrigued, so I asked the latter guy what was happening. It turned out that in late October and early November the boating lake had been the scene of a popular “sight and sound” show, which was part of Sunderland’s Illuminations. It seems that hordes of people had attended. The promenade had been lit up with sparkling displays and Bede’s Cross had shared its space on the sea-front with a lit-up big wheel, a traditional funfair and the inevitable food stalls. I wonder what the Venerable Monk would have made of it all?

Roker Park itself had been transformed into a Festival of Light with a Disney theme.( pass the sick bag please.) There were pirates, dinosaurs and fairies and other Disney characters. I know that a lot of people and especially children would have enjoyed it but I don’t see why all our entertainments have to be Americanised. The whole thing ended with a spectacular firework display on the seafront. It must have been great fun for some. Fantasy is our society’s great escape. I missed it all which is perhaps as well as I don’t like huge crowds. On the day I visited, all the excitement had evaporated and the crowds had disappeared. It was lovely and quiet. There was just me, a jogger, a couple of dog walkers and the council men clearing up. As a child I used to love our annual visits to Blackpool’s Illuminations but I have never been to Sunderland’s, even though I have lived in the North-east of England for nearly 40 years. Maybe next year…?

There were lots of big, nice houses in the area of the park. Roker is obviously one of Sunderland’s more prosperous areas. I walked on to St Andrews Church, which was next on my heritage list. Built in 1907, St Andrews is regarded as one of Britain’s finest early 20th century churches. It was also known as the “Cathedral of the Arts and Crafts movement” because of its beautiful, decorative interior. As I approached, my step quickened as I love buildings from that era. The church is very large and long, built of rather austere grey stone. It has a line of huge, arched windows and a crennalated tower that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a medieval castle. I looked forward to going in to see the famed interior. However, all that awaited me was a massive anti-climax. I couldn’t get in! The door was locked and when I rang the bell as a sign instructed me to do, no-one answered. The office was supposed to be open until 1pm and it was only 12-40. Obviously they had  knocked off early and done a runner, or whatever the term is. It was a big disappointment, but I’m already planning to return, after contacting St Andrews and making sure I’ll be able to get in next time. It’s always nice to have an excuse to go back.

The rest of my walk took me along the remaining  seafront to the mouth of the river. I then turned inland to walk the northern bank of the Wear back to Wearmouth Bridge and the city centre. I had done this walk before with my daughter on our long-distance trek down the coast of the old County of Durham. So it’s described  in my coastal walk blogs — the 2 piers, the sculpture trail, the marina, the National Glass Centre and Sunderland University. I enjoyed it all again, especially the series of shiny metal scultures showing a cormorant taking off from a small pier. I had lunch at the popular Snow Goose Cafe just by the marina. On the walls were old black and white photos and colourful tourist posters from Sunderland’s heyday. One of them, split down the middle, advertised the twin attractions of Seaburn and Roker Resorts with the slogan: “Gay and bright by day and night” It was obvously produced in a more innocent, less sexualised age! ( at least on the surface.)

So my day alone in Sunderland wasn’t so bad afterall. In fact it was very enjoyable. The weather was lovely and I saw lots of interesting things. Being on your own means you can go at your own pace and get lost in one’s own thoughts. And anyway, I wasn’t really alone. I got to talk to: the ticket inspector, the man at Middlesbrough station cafe, a dog walker on the prom, the councilworker in the park, the waitress at the Snow Goose Cafe and a lovely lady in the city centre who kindly directed me back to the station. I just stuck with that title because it sounded  dramatic, and I couldn’t resist playing the sympathy card! But rest assured, there’s no need to feel sorry for me —  I had a great day.

 

 

A Visit to Slovenia( or was it Slovakia?)

21 Oct

CONFUSION.

I think it was President George W Bush on a state visit to Slovenia, who famously said something like: “It’s great to be here in Slovakia.” I have witnessed the same confusion when I’ve told people about my holiday this year in the former Yugoslav republic of Slovenia. Almost inevitably, the response has been: “Do you mean Slovenia or Slovakia? I’ve always got the two mixed up!” I suppose they do sound very similar.

HISTORY.

They are both small countries in central Europe that generally don’t feature in the international news. Both are populated by Slavs. Both used to be part of the Austro-Hungarian Hapsburg Empire.  After the fall of that Empire in 1918, both Slovenes and Slovaks were pushed into uneasy partnerships with other national groups. The Slovaks were merged with the Czechs to form Czechoslovakia, while the Slovenes were combined with other south Slav peoples to create the new state of Yugoslavia. It seems that the international community at Versailles didn’t think these two small races were a viable proposition on their own. Both Slovenes and Slovaks fell under the sway of one-party Communist regimes at the end of the Second World War.

It was only in the early 1990’s, following the fall of the “Iron Curtain” and the collapse of communism in Europe that the Slovaks and the Slovenes at last tasted true independence. In Slovenia’s case, 1991 was the year when it finally controlled its own destiny.

As I was visiting it I have tried to make sense of Slovenia’s complex history by reading and by visiting the city museum of Ljubljana, its attractive capital. I have settled for just getting a rough outline. After the usual Neolithic stuff, the Romans arrived. Slovenia today is very proud of its Roman heritage. Next came the Magyars but they were pushed back by the German Emperor who had designs on the area himself. The Turks too were defeated so Slovenia never became part of the mighty Ottoman Empire like some of its neighbours. Thus today, Slovenia is a devoutly Christian country and it was on the Catholic side of the Orthodox/ Catholic schism. From the late 13th century, it became part of the Austrian Empire and therefore developed on largely Germanic lines. In the First World War the Slovenes fought fiercely on the Austrian-German side, especially when, in 1915, Italy was bribed to side with Britain, France and Russia after being promised Slovenian territory, including the important port of Trieste. It’s ironic that Britain, which joined the war to protect little Belgium, was now happy to cynically give away chunks of another small country in the interests of military expediency. Sadly many thousands of Slovenes and other Austro-Hungarian troops died fighting the Italians. The place where we stayed on Lake Bohinj was an important staging post for that campaign. The Italians also suffered heavy casualties in the mountain battles that ensued. One of the more sobering moments of our holiday was a visit to an Austro-Hungarian war cemetery containing over 300 graves from 1915 to 1917.

I now know enough to appreciate how proud the Slovenes must be to have gained their independence. It must be strange but exciting to be a citizen of a country that has existed for less than 3 decades.The guide who led our walking tour of Ljubljana said that everyone was pleased when the population hit 2 million. Out impression was that it is a very clean and environmentally-aware nation. We didn’t see a scrap of litter on the streets. I expected to see a poorer, still- developing Balkan -style country, maybe like Bosnia or Albania. However it is so sophisticated that at times it felt as if we were in Scandinavia. There were stylish designer goods, well maintained buildings and efficient transport systems. The buses ran on time, and in the city, people paid with an electronic card which they pressed on to a sensor.( like London’s Oyster card.) Only when we got out into the rural areas did we see cash being used. While in Slovenia, we had Euros in our wallet and purse. Slovenia joined the Eurozone in 2007, three years after it was admitted to the European Union. It had been the most liberal and progressive of the former Yugoslav republics and had largely escaped the horrors of the Civil War after a brief, 10 day skirmish. The transition to a democracy and to capitalism was achieved fairly smoothly. In 2008 it became the first of the former communist countries to assume the presidency of the EU. Coming from 2017 United Kingdom it seemed strange to us that here was a country that was embracing Europe rather than turning its back on its  neighbours.

THE CAPITAL.

Ljubljana is a lovely city to visit. It is attractive, relaxed and cosmopolitan. It’s small enough to explore on foot. There is a variety of interesting architecture, pleasant riverside walks, a variety of cafes and restaurants to suit most tastes and just about everyone speaks excellent English. We asked an older lady for help at the bus stop. She not only told us which bus to catch and when it would come, but also explained how we should pay ( with the smart-card) and where to get off. All this was in decent English. Apparently, Slovenian is a very difficult language to learn. Ljubljana has a picturesque old town full of renaissance and baroque buildings from the 17th and 18th centuries. There are : statues, squares, fountains, interesting little alleyways, pavement cafes and stylish shops. Up above, on a steep hill, is a castle, accessed by a funicular. A river flows through the centre crossed by a series of interesting bridges. The most famous are the Triple Bridge and the Dragon Bridge. The former is 3 pedestrianised bridges in one, furnished with Venetian style balustrades built in the 1830’s. The latter, built in 1901, is a flamboyant, Secessionist structure with 4 dramatic green dragons and ornamental lamps guarded by tiny griffins.

The main square, Preservov trg is flanked by the Triple Bridge, a huge, pink Baroque church, a Parisian Art- Nouveau department stall with a fancy, wrought iron and glass entrance, and a 4-storey Viennese-style Secessionist building. The square is a gathering place for tourists, locals and street entertainers. We were “treated” to a loud display of break-dancing which rather drowned out the poor man in traditional costume trying to sing his folk songs. We settled for a routine of strolling around, popping in and out of little shops and the occasional church, watching the river flow below the avenues of trees, and visiting pavement cafes. At the last mentioned we drank tea or coffee and ate strudel ( me) and chocolate cake (Chris.) For me, it’s compulsory to eat apple strudel if I’m anywhere in the former Hapsburg Empire. Ljubljana has shades of Vienna, Prague and Paris, but on a more intimate scale.

METELKOVA .

One day we strolled out of the main tourist haunts, into an area east of Presernov Square, which had a completely different feel to it. It was more informal and featured more quirky, alternative sights. We saw old music shops, zany art galleries, junk shops and whole walls of colourful graffiti. Virtually the first thing we spotted was a display of old shoes, boots and trainers hanging from a telephone wire slung across the narrow street. There were vegetarian cafes and erotica shops, though I’m not suggesting that there’s necessarily a connection between the two. We were on our way to visit St Peter’s Church, another extravagant baroque concoction. We virtually had it to ourselves as it was off the beaten track. We lit candles for our loved ones, sat in silence for a while and then wandered on.

In fact we ended up wandering into one of the most incredible places I’ve ever seen — the Metelkova autonomous artist’s colony. ( That’s my version of its Slovenian name.) It’s a former Yugoslav army base that later became a squat. Today it’s like an alternative city within a city. In the words of one guidebook, it’s “the subversive heart of the city.”  It’s a rambling complex of bars, clubs, galleries, NGOs and a hostel. What is incredible is that the whole site is festooned with bizarre, vibrant graffiti, weird sculptures and strange installations. It is all anti-capitalist, anti-fascist, counter-culture stuff. As we walked in, our jaws dropping, the sounds of the Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” drifted towards us and the smell of weed pervaded the air. It was like going back to 1967/68. The vivid graffiti was the stuff of dreams ( and nightmares.) The whole scene was surreal. Metelkova has to be seen to be believed.

We enjoyed our week in Ljubljana very much. We made easy day trips to: a castle in a cave, halfway up a cliff ( Predjama), a huge, amazing complex of limestone caves, tunnels and caverns complete with a weird but wonderful array of stalactites and stalagmites (Postojna), and an attractive, medieval town surrounded by wooded hills ( Skofja Loka.) We enjoyed the trips but mostly just wandered the city, trying to scratch a little beneath its surface. We met a Chinese tourist later in the holiday and he couldn’t believe that we had spent a whole week in one place! In the same time-span he had visited 3 countries. He was only going to spend one quick day in Ljubljana seeing the “essential” sights. But, I have turned against this tick-list, rushing around sort of itinerary. I think our more relaxed schedule paid off, at least for us. If we’d visited for just a day, we would never have discovered the art market on the riverbank, the flea market with its Tito- era memorabilia or the wonderful Plecnik’s House. The latter was the home of Slovenia’s most eminent architect, Joze Plecnik. The guided tour was fascinating, revealing the great contrast between his grandiose projects and his modest life-style.

THE MOUNTAINS AND LAKES.

Our second week in Slovenia was a complete contrast. We travelled by public bus up into the north-west, an area of mountains and alpine lakes. It was very like Austria, the country just to the north. We stayed just 50 meters from the shore of Lake Bohinj, the country’s largest lake. It was created by glacial action. Mention “lake” and “Slovenia” to most travellers, and they’ll usually come up with the name “Bled.” Lake Bled is certainly the most famous of Slovenia’s lakes. ( some would say “iconic.”) But Bohinj is more beautiful, in my opinion. It’s an atmospheric, completely still stretch of water. Sensibly, no big buildings have been allowed on the lakeside, so the peace of Bohinj is maintained and its beauty unsullied. The peaceful lake is surrounded by wooded hills and massive, steep-faced mountains. It is a magical and magisterial sight. In winter it is so still that it freezes over. Last year people were able to skate on it for 2 to 3 weeks. That must have been quite a sight!

So we had a week of peace and tranquility. We walked the lake’s shores, sailed on a very quiet tourist boat, explored a dramatic limestone gorge and trecked for one and a half hours up through lovely autumn woods to the spectacular Savica Waterfall. This plunges from a cleft in the towering rock face, 78 metres down into a striking turquoise/green pool. The villages around were Alpine in character with little wooden houses and geranium decorated balconies. They were surrounded by bright green meadows and all had neat wood stores and old hay-drying racks. We half expected to see Heidi and Peter running down the slopes with their goat-herd or hear Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp family bursting into exultant song.

This used to be a big, alpine dairy- farming and cheese making area but this has almost died out as the younger generation has drifted off to the towns and cities. Local cheeses can still be bought however. We saw old, black and white photographs of villages communities in the past wearing their traditional costumes. Each village had its elegant church with a tall bell-tower or slender spire piercing the air. We also came across wayside shrines with little statues of Jesus or Mary and strings of rosary beads.

Bohinj is an area rich in nature. Every spring it has a wild-flower festival. We came across: heron, dippers, wagtails, nuthatches and robins. We also heard a couple of red squirrels squeaking excitedly as they scurried up and down a tree, and saw speckled trout lazily swimming in the river that fed the lake. On our last full day we got the most sensational views of all, when we ascended on a cable car to the Vogel ski centre. We were treated to panoramic views of the massed peaks of the Julian Alps. Bohinj is part of the Triglav National Park, the only one of such parks in Slovenia. It’s a place to preserve and treasure. We really enjoyed our week there. Yes we stayed for a relaxing 7 days. The Chinese tourist would have been shocked all over again!

BLED.

We met the nice guy from Beijing on a side trip to Bled, a 40 minutes, cheap bus ride away from our base. Bled is beautiful too, but sadly it has been partly ruined. The culprit is mass-tourism and the commercialization that follows in its wake. Lake Bled is world famous. I’d heard of it long before I knew anything else about Slovenia.The usual image shown is of a graceful, old church on an enchanting island in a lake, with a backcloth of hills and mountains. Also impressive, is an old, red-roofed castle on a cliff soaring above the water. That’s all true. But the chocolate boxes, jig-saws and calanders don’t show the built-up mess on the other end of the lake. There’s the huge, ugly Hotel Park, which advertises lakeside views but ruins everyone else’s view. There’s the large, modern casino, plus the usual motley assortment of bars, souvenir shops, hotels and cafes, not to mention a busy road, constantly choked with traffic. The place is heaving with tourists from all over the world. When our bus from Ljubljana to Bohinj arrived at Bled, just about everyone got off. Bled, from certain angles, is very picturesque but with its swarms of visitors, it is in danger of killing the goose that laid the golden egg.

We walked along the lake’s quieter, wooded shore and it was very pleasant. However, when we decided to sail across to the island and the church, it wasn’t as idyllic as I’d imagined. It’s good that there are no noisy launches ploughing up and down. One can hire a rowing boat, get a quiet but expensive electric boat or go on a pletna. This is a traditional, wooden stretched gondola propelled by a gondolier standing at the back. ( No, he doesn’t wear a stripy shirt or sing just one cornetto!) We chose the latter. 20 adults and 2 children all piled on, at the steep price of 14 Euros each. We had to squash tightly together on either side of the boat. What I thought would be a peaceful, serene experience, gliding across the water, never materialised because of my fellow tourists contorting themselves into all sorts of positions to take the best photos and then posing for numerous selfies with their friends and family. We had 40 minutes on the island which was crowded. Even though it was only a small island, containing a church and bell-tower, they have still found space to squash in a cafe, an ice-cream stall and a shop. We decided to visit the church which has lovely 18th century frescoes and other baroque adornments. However, we were shocked to find that we were expected to pay 6 Euros each to go in. This included the bell tower but we didn’t want to go up that as we are both nervous of heights. I cannot recall ever having to pay to go into a church before. The exquisitely frescoed medieval church of St John the Baptist near our hotel in Bohinj, is free. But we swallowed our indignation and “coffed up.” It was rather small but quite beautiful. Unfortunately, any hopes of enjoying a spiritual atmosphere were ruined by a constant procession of camera-wielding fellow tourists. They queued up to pull the bell-rope and make a wish. It has been dubbed the “wishing bell!” They posed in mid-pull for photos, with inane grins on their faces. Isn’t it funny how so many fall for such gimmicks? The bell-tower was entered through a modern turn-style activated by a bar-code on one’s ticket. The 18th century interior has been hollowed out and replaced with a modern zig-zag staircase. We didn’t bother going up. Any shred of historical authenticity had been sacrificed in the interests of making money( it seems.)

Our visit to Bled was rescued by a totally unexpected but brilliant Salvador Dali exhibition in the base of the casino. ( a private French collection.) We also enjoyed a small craft market and a display of vintage cars, incongruously parked along the lake-shore.

RADOVLJICA.

Our other trip from Bohinj was to Radovljica, a pretty, old town set in lovely countryside. It featured an exquisite old church, a beautiful, historic square and a grand, old mansion containing the delightful “Beekeeping Museum.” Keeping bees is a Slovenian tradition. The highlight was a wonderful collection of bee-hive panels from the 19th century. These were religious and satirical paintings to decorate the hives. They were another Slovenian speciality.

It was a great holiday — an interesting, attractive city followed by a week among the glorious mountains and lakes. Apart from the obvious tourist traps the costs ranged from cheap to reasonable. We found it to be a civilized and progressive country. Yes, it was an excellent visit to Slovenia ( or was it Slovakia?)

 

A Eulogy for my Mum: Jessie Bates (1926 to 2017.)

15 Oct

My sister Gl—- , my brother Gr—- and I would like to thank you all for coming today to remember and celebrate the life of our lovely mum, Jessie Bates. As I’m sure you will agree, she was a quiet, caring and gentle person. There wasn’t a bad bone in her body. To us, she was the ideal mother– an endless source of unconditional love. Mum supported us in everything we did as children and as adults. She always provided a shoulder to cry on, or a patient, attentive listening ear. No problem was too big or too small for her to help us with. She, along with our dear departed dad, was ever present in our lives. Jessie supported us in the bad times and celebrated with us in the good times.

I remember mum looking after my 3 year old daughter J—– when my other daughter C——– was born and my wife was in hospital. There was no such thing as paternity leave in 1976! Gr—- told me that his mum was there for him when he was having a rough time at college. He remembers her as being a very good listener, always sympathetic and understanding. Gl—- remembers mum and dad helping set up her hotel business in Skegness. Jessie even organised groups from chapel to stay at the hotel in the off season. The visits went so well that they went on for 10 years or more. Gl—- and I both remember mum being quietly supportive throughout our divorces.

Jessie’s own marriage to Maurice was very long and successful. They were inseparable for nearly 68 years. It led to a whole new family tree of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. For most of her adult life, mum was not Jessie, but half of a well-known local double-act known as Maurice and Jessie. Their two names were invariably uttered in the same breath. They were a team and a very successful, enduring partnership. Our family history is strewn with special events as Maurice and Jessie reached milestone after milestone. Invariably, there celebrations were held at the local Methodist Chapel.

The church provided structure for Jessie’s life. She was christened there, got married there and celebrated most special occasions there. Christianity gave Jessie the tools to lead a good, wholesome and fulfilling life. She supported numerous charities and always encouraged us to help others. I remember selling the “Sunny Smiles” picture booklets to raise money for young people in the National Children’s Homes. Mum encouraged us to pester friends, neighbours and family to sell as many as possible. Mum’s Christian faith was important to her. It gave her hope and a firm belief that she would pass on to a better world, once she had left this one. Jessie’s faith gave her life a strong foundation.

I don’t want to give the impression that my mum was always a serious person. She liked to laugh and had a quiet sense of humour. She often had a twinkle in her eye and there was always a little spark to her personality. Jessie could see the funny side of things. Whenever Jessie was given the Derbyshire Times ( the local paper), she would turn straight away to the obituaries. After perusing them for a few minutes, she would declare: “Well, I’m not in again this week, so I must still be here!” Even in the latter stages of her life, when she was suffering from dementia, mum would often indulge in gentle rounds of banter with the carers who came to visit her.

Jessie was not adventurous. She usually played safe and never travelled very far. Maurice said that a nasty bout of sea-sickness on a boat trip around Scarborough Bay put paid to any idea of sailing across to explore the continent beyond these shores. Jessie’s idea of an overseas journey was crossing the Solent to the Isle of Wight, a place she loved to visit. She never flew in an aeroplane or had any wish to. Buying her a parachute jump for her birthday would have been a complete waste of money! She was content to stay on terra- firma. She stayed in England with occasional, brief sorties into Scotland or Wales. Jessie was happy to grow deep roots in Chesterfield, a town she lived in for her entire life. Her last home in Staveley-Middlecroft was only 4 or 5 miles from her first home, in the New Whittington area of Chesterfield. On one sense, you could drive Jessie’s entire life in 15 minutes! Staying in one place meant that Jessie got to know lots of local people very well, and they got to know her.

My mum was a very accepting person. She accepted her lot in life. Like many of her generation, she was quite deferential. If the Queen had walked into the room, she would automatically have curtsied. She did not complain or get angry. She didn’t blame others.  Mum was not a rebel. She always tried to fit in and not make a fuss. She was quiet and unassuming. I think Jessie took life mostly in her stride despite its ups and downs. I think she had an inner calm.

Jessie’s last months were spent quietly in her house being looked after by family and carers. Maurice died two and a half years before also at the age of 91. So she was a widow. It must have been sad and difficult for her at times. I recently read a memorial  on a public seat which said: ” Your legacy is all the people you have touched in your life.” Jessie led a quiet, low-key life but touched many people. She was humble and didn’t think of herself as particularly important. But from another perspective, Jessie’s life was rich and fulfilling. It was rich in family relationships, rich in friendships, rich in kindness, charity and compassion. I will really miss her and I’m sure you will too. Thank you.

NB — Delivered at the funeral service at Inkersall Methodist Church, near Chesterfield on Friday, October 13th, 2017. Jessie Bates died peacefully in hospital on September 24th, 2017. She was 91 years and 2 months.

 

Durham Coast walk — Last 2 days — Horden to Hartlepool to the mouth of the Tees, 2017.

29 Aug

Following a night in the ex-mining village of Horden we retraced our footsteps back to the Durham coast path which we were following, north to south. It was another fine day, the 4th of our trek. After a mile and a half we made it back to the coast at Warren House Gill, the scene of yesterday’s lunch and cold shower. We headed south along the grassy cliff tops. We now walked through a series of nature reserves complete with wild flowers, swaying grasses, colourful butterflies and birds. Out at sea, the day before, we had seen birds dive-bombing into the sea to catch fish. They were probably terns. Above the cliff top meadows we now enjoyed the sweet songs of ascending sky-larks.

We descended to an area of reeds and marshlands just inland from the sea. In the middle distance another impressive Victorian viaduct took the coastal railway across another dene. This was the locally famous Castle Eden Dene, originally scooped out by retreating ice-sheets. It is now an important, woodland nature reserve, a magnet for walkers, horse riders and bird-watchers. Information boards outlined its history and importance, but we couldn’t read them as they had faded badly with time. Also, it seemed as if locals had used them as target practice for they were pock-marked with pellet holes and scars. This reminded us with a jolt that we were not really in the midst of the countryside but were actually skirting the urban fringe, on the boundary where rural meets urban, sometimes with unfortunate consequences. We also saw tyre tracks of motor-bike scramblers. The birds, bees and butterflies did not have this area completely to themselves. Only a little inland, we were passing the ex-mining towns of Easington Colliery, Horden and Blackhall Colliery, as well as Peterlee, the post-war new town built to rehouse some of these  mining communities.

Eventually, after another steep sided dene we made it to Crimdon Holiday park. Row after row of neat caravans and chalets lined the cliff top. Many had little gardens, balconies and television aerials as well as the inevitable vehicles parked outside them. It was more like a housing estate by the sea. It never fails to amaze me that many people go on holiday to get away from it all, yet they then take it all with them! Signs featuring the naturalist David Bellamy, told of the precious and wonderful flora and fauna in this special area. However the presence of so many people, their mobile homes and their cars suggested to me that the wildlife would be under constant threat from human encroachment.

At the end of the holiday park was a convenient seat for our lunch. We read about the rare Little Tern population that bred there. A special project had been set up to protect them. We also read how Crimdon Dene had been even more popular in the past, before the age of cheap foreign travel. People flocked there to play on the beach, stroll in the picturesque dene and enjoy the sea air. They rode donkeys, ate ice-creams, listened to brass band recitals and held beauty contests. Apparently, according to an info. board we read, young ladies paraded up and down in their swim-suits right up to the 1970’s. The Miss Crimdon contests were very popular events. One regular judge was the famous Labour MP and peace campaigner: Manny Shinwell. He famously declared that he preferred ” legs to arms!” Somehow, I don’t think all this activity was helping the poor Little Terns. As we left the vicinity of the holiday camp, we saw plenty of people but no wild-life. The closest we came was a photograph of the endangered bird.

Surprisingly, the English Coast Path now led us right into the middle of a golf course! Hartlepool Golf Club is right on the coast. Notices warned walkers to be aware of the danger of flying balls. As it happens we stayed safe and the local golfers were quite friendly, exchanging “Good mornings” with us as we tramped past with our ruck-sacks. In fact we got a bit lost amidst the fairways and greens and were put back on the right track by 3 golfers who suggested we headed left at the end of the fairway, and thus back to the beach. As we crested a small ridge, a long, straight, lonely beach came into view. ( Hartlepool North Sands.) The official path actually led through an area of “development” so we were glad to make it on to the sands. Ahead of us was the headland of old Hartlepool and in the middle distance, an old wooden pier thrusting out into the sea. We marched slowly towards it but just then our progress was rudely disturbed by the coming of the rain.

This time it wasn’t just a passing shower. The rain truly set in. We sat on our rucksacks to drag our over-trousers over our boots. Hoods up , we gritted our teeth against the persistent downpour and trudged on. To be honest, this part of the walk was pretty miserable. We had already walked 10 miles or so that day with at least a couple still to go. The rain, combined with our aching feet, served to dampen our spirits and make us question our motives. In the sunshine the walk had seemed a great idea but now we weren’t quite so sure.

Eventually we reached the dark silhouette of Steetly Pier. It’s a large, impressive wooden structure with large pipes running down the length of it. According to my research it used to serve the magneside industry, whatever that is. Now it is abandoned and slowly rotting. A section on the beach had obviously collapsed in the past as there was now a big gap like a missing tooth. It is now largely used by fishermen who are brave enough to clamber up its disintegrating legs. It made for great pictures though, especially the shots from underneath it, looking out to sea. Increasingly damp and fed up, we tramped on towards old Hartlepool, which slowly got clearer as it emerged out of the rain haze.

Old Hartlepool is situated on a scenic headland. It is normally a charming place to visit with sea views, some old pastel painted houses, stretches of cobbles, the original sea wall and an impressive, very old church ( St Hilda’s.) However, because of our tiredness and the unrelenting rain, our exploration was very half-hearted. A travelling fair was just setting itself up on an area of open ground but there were no punters. Nearly everyone was being sensible and staying indoors and dry. The little Second World War Museum was similarly deserted. We did find a Catherine Street though which raised a smile as I took a picture of a rain-soaked Catherine standing in front of her own sign. We also took the obligatory photos of the little Andy Capp statue as his creator hailed from Hartlepool. Luckily the rain eventually eased and then stopped. However we were in no mood for lingering, so tramped on, leaving the headland in order to reach our accommodation in the main town. This unfortunately meant a dreary trudge down a long, busy dual carriageway. It took a good half hour. We looked forlornly at the buses that regularly passed by, but reminded ourselves that we were on a sponsored WALK! Finally we reached the main centre of Hartlepool, and, having been there before, I quickly navigated us to our accommodation — the Grand Hotel!  I had booked it to give us a treat on our last night. ( I also got a good deal!)

To be honest, it isn’t all that grand. There are some nice stained glass windows on the first floor stairway and the odd chandelier. Our room, although comfortable, was pretty plain. However it did have the luxury of a bath with plenty of hot water, which we both took advantage of. For a town of its size, Hartlepool does not have many decent restaurants — hardly any in fact. As we ‘d had enough of walking for the day, we took the easy option and ate at the hotel. There is a very good and very popular Indian restaurant in the basement. It was our 3rd Indian of the week. Our stomachs must have thought we were hiking through the hot sub-continent rather than merely through a stretch of North-East England.

The next morning we had an excellent breakfast at the Grand, including porridge and plenty of fresh fruit. Then we hauled on our rucksacks for the last time, checked out and stepped into the morning rain. Yes, it was raining again! As I’ve written before, modern Hartlepool does not have a proper town centre. Everything has been moved into an anonymous mall. After buying lunchtime provisions, we headed out, passing the depressing streets where  original town centre used to thrive. They had grand signs but no shops. One ex-department store had been converted into a hotel. Most of the other shops have been knocked down. It is a sad sight. We passed a Thai restaurant where we could have eaten the night before if the hotel receptionist had known about it. Then we headed out around the attractive new marina, passing some fine old port buildings ( including the Customs House I think). We looked over to the attractive and interesting historic harbour with the magnificent early 19th century sailing ship, the Trincomalee. It’s like a north-east version of the Cutty Sark. As we reached the prom and turned south, we could see the old headland where we had been the previous day. It was still veiled in a mist of  grey rain.

We walked on down a newly built promenade which we largely had to ourselves. Then, a small miracle — the rain relented, patches of blue sky appeared and the sun made a welcome return. A new spring came into our steps as we headed to the seaside resort of Seaton Carew. The sunshine now glittered on the water and we were once again happy to be out walking. Seaton Carew is another resort that had seen better times. Nostalgic information boards showed us how popular it used to be. Now, it has a fine long beach and a nice promenade but the main drag is filled with charity shops and fast food joints. Bizarrely, Seaton Carew has an art deco bus station. That description makes it sound more exotic than it really is however. It’s a curving off- white façade with a graceful clock tower at its centre. The buses stop in the semi-circular lay- by in front of it. It also has public toilets which proved to be very fortuitous.

The final stretch of our walk was down a long beach towards the mouth of the Tees. Strangely the views were now of Redcar and Saltburn in Cleveland where I live, but these were on the far side of the big river. In the far distance we could see the cliffs of North Yorkshire. The beach petered out as we neared our destination and we were forced to clamber up and down a small mountain range of sand dunes. The thick marran grass rustled in the breeze as we ploughed through the soft sand. This last little bit wasn’t the easy stroll we had imagined. We crested a final mound and, at last, the mouth of the River Tees was now spread out before us. It is a bizarre combination of: a wetlands nature reserve, a curving  beach and the ugly mess of an industrial port. Once again, man and nature were existing uncomfortably side by side. As we watched, a large freighter glided in from the North Sea on its way to nearby Teesport. To our left we saw the North Gare breakwater, the “official” end of our walk. We had trecked from the mouth of the Tyne to the mouth of the Tees, taking in the mouth of the Wear en- route. We had walked the entire coast of the original county of Durham, linking up the 3 great river mouths of north-east England. We hugged and took the now obligatory selfies. Finally we turned back to Seaton Carew where the walking would stop and the little train would take us on the first leg of our journey home and back to normal life. Including walking round all the headlands and the detours to and from guest houses, we had covered about 48.5 miles. Between us we raised around £470 for wild-life charities. It had been a satisfying and worthwhile project. Now the only question is — where to next?