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375 Years Too Late.

27 May

It was the weekend of the Royal Wedding and I was travelling down to London. No, I wasn’t planning to travel on to Windsor, drape the Union Jack around me and cheer on the happy couple. Far from it, in fact. I am an ardent Republican and would like nothing better than to see the end of the expensive and anachronistic institution of the monarchy. I was actually going to see my son and his family who live on the western edge of the capital. My train journey south did however have a Royal connection and one that I was quite excited about. I planned to break my journey at Peterborough and go to see Queen Catherine of Aragon’s tomb in the cathedral there. One would expect that all  Royal tombs in England would be found in Westminster Abbey, London. However, this particular queen was laid to rest 75 miles north in a small Cambridgeshire city on the edge of the Fens. I only found this out relatively recently while watching the TV dramatisation of Hilary Mantell’s excellent historical novel “Wolf Hall.” It follows the machiavellian role of Thomas Cromwell in Henry VIII’s difficult, drawn out divorce from his first wife, the aforesaid Catherine. When Catherine died in 1536 after 3 years of enforced, unhappy post-divorce isolation, Henry refused to grant her a place of honour at Westminster and said words to the effect of “stick her in Peterborough.”

Peterborough Cathedral is one of the most intact, large Norman buildings in England. Its official name is the Cathedral Church of St Peter, St Paul and St Andrew. It stands on the site of a monastery, Medehamstede, founded in Anglo-Saxon times in AD 655 and was largely rebuilt between 1118 and 1238. Today its imposing West Front is an outstanding example of  the Early English Gothic style. Following his Dissolution of the Monasteries King Henry VIII kept Peterborough Abbey intact as one of a small group of more secular Cathedrals. This was in 1541. The reason for this was probably that the Abbey/cathedral was very prosperous and would bring in good amounts of money for the Crown. Some romantics have suggested that Peterborough Abbey was made a cathedral as a memorial to Catherine. Who knows what might have been going through the mind of that unpredictable Tudor monarch?

I have travelled through Peterborough many times on my way to and from London on the east coast main line. I always remember to glance out of the window to spot the towers of the medieval cathedral peeping out from behind a modern shopping mall. I have been to the city for 2 unsuccessful job interviews and a couple of exam markers’ conferences. In the 1960s it was designated as Britain’ latest New Town which prompted a big expansion of its population up to about 180,000.  I remember it for its anonymous housing estates, carefully demarcated industrial estates, retail parks and dozens and dozens of identical roundabouts. I got lost there quite a few times as this was before the age of the sat-nav. I used to live just a little to the south in Stevenage New Town, Hertfordshire. Yet in all that time I never visited the cathedral and wasn’t even aware of the Royal tomb’s existance. I had seen grand, ornamental Tudor tombs before, in Westminster Abbey and other ancient churches up and down the land. Now I knew it was there, I was really looking forward to seeing the tomb of this famous Tudor Queen.

Although a republican today, I have always retained a soft spot for Catherine of Aragon. It’s the history teacher part of me that is to blame. Queen Catherine is one of the 2 reasons why my second daughter shares her name. The other reason is my favourite Hollywood actress: Katherine Hepburn. I always thought that Catherine of Aragon got a very raw deal at the hands of her chauvenistic, cruel husband, but conducted herself with grace and dignity at all times.

The daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, she was brought up to be a queen. In her late teens, in 1501, she was married off to Prince Arthur, the eldest son of King Henry VII and heir to the throne of England. Her title at that point was the Princess of Wales, but she was destined to become the next Queen. Sadly though, just a year later, Arthur died before gaining the throne. Catherine, just a pawn in the power politics of England and Spain, had to quickly shelve her grieving and get married to her deceased husband’s younger brother Henry. She was 19 and he was 17 at the time. Henry and Catherine became King and Queen upon the death of Henry VII in June 1509 and a long, seemingly successful marriage ensued. They had a daughter, Mary, and then they had a son, Henry, Duke of Cornwall. Tragically, baby Henry died after living less than 2 months. Catherine was distraught and worried her family and courtiers by spending many hours kneeling on cold stone floors, praying. She was a very devout Catholic christian. In subsequent years she never gave birth to another son so Mary remained her only child. From Henry’s point of view, this was a disastrous situation. He was convinced that if a daughter succeeded him there would be a civil war, as many powerful people in those sexist times, considered that a woman would be too weak to rule. Perhaps Henry was thinking of what happened when King Henry I was succeeded by his daughter Mathilda. She was challenged by her cousin Stephen and the result was a nasty civil war which led to Mathilda losing her crown. (although she got the last laugh when her son Henry II succeeded the usurper, Stephen.) Therefore, Henry now planned to divorce Catherine and marry a younger, more fertile wife.

As you probably know, Henry VIII was refused permission to divorce Catherine, by the head of the Catholic Church, the Pope. Henry’s eventual solution, helped by Thomas Cromwell, was to take England out of the Roman Catholic Church and make himself the head of a newly created Church of England. Thus he was, in effect, able to grant himself a divorce and go on to marry the new “love” of his life Ann Boleyn. Poor Catherine never agreed to the divorce and always considered herself the rightful Queen. She was stripped of her Royal titles and was now referred to as the Dowager Duchess of Wales. She was given a house and servants but was regarded as an embarrasment as she refused to accept the divorce and continued to regard herself as the Queen. She regarded the new queen, Ann Boleyn, as an imposter. In 1535 she was moved to Kimbolton Castle where she virtually lived in one room. She only left it to go to Mass. She dressed herself in a hair-shirt of the Order of St Francis. On January 7th, 1536, Catherine of Aragon died. As we now know, she was buried in Peterborough Cathedral. Henry spitefully refused to go to the funeral and forbade their daughter, Mary, to attend. However, the funeral was a lavish affair, attended by 4 bishops and 6 abbots as well as large crowds. Ironically, on the very day of Catherine’s funeral, Ann Boleyn sadly miscarried.

Catherine’s tomb was one befitting a Queen. I was really looking forward to finally seeing it. I walked from the railway station through a largely nondescript modern town centre. The best bit was the cathedral square which had an attractive old parish church and a mid 17th century Guildhall or Butter Cross. This is where the market is held. Next I passed through an old stone archway into the Cathedral close. I expected it to be a peaceful, spiritual oasis, a world away from the noisy, bustling town next door. However I was greeted with loud pop music and the sight of yellow helmeted people abseiling down the left hand tower of the cathedral’s magnificent west front. The only valid excuse I could think of was that they were probably doing it for charity. I tried to block this raucous intrusion out of my mind and concentrate on the west front itself. As stated before it’s a rare example of Early English Gothic architecture. Three enormous archways are surmounted by statues of Saints Paul, Peter and Andrew.( looking from left to right). Peter crowns the middle and highest archway. At his feet is a fishing net reminding us of his previous occupation before he was called to be one of Jesus’s chief disciples. He and his fellow followers were now to become “fishers of men.” ( All those Methodist Sunday School lessons have stood me in good stead!) In fact the nickname for the cathedral’s west front is Galilee, after the sea where Peter fished. The city takes its name from Saint Peter.

Blocking out the pop music and the shouting abseilers, I entered what I expected to be the hush of the Cathedral’s interior. Unfortunately it was full of chattering school children. The interior is impressive however with tall stone archways and lovely stained glass windows. At the far end, an impressive “new” bit, built in 1500, has sensational fan vaulting. I stared at it for ages and gave myself neck ache! There is a very old font and interesting information boards giving a history of the Anglo-Saxon abbey that became a  Norman cathedral. However, it was the Tudor Queen’s tomb that I was most interested in. The helpful steward told me it was at the far end , on the left hand side. I approached the area with mounting excitement. Soon I spotted information boards about Catherine of Aragon. This was it, after all these years!

Then came the anti-climax — the tomb which my mind had imagined would be so magnificent, simply wasn’t there! All I saw was an engraved marble slab lying flat on the ground . Alongside it was a fancy wrought iron screen decorated with the inscription: “Catherine Queen of England, 1485-1536.” That was it! I desperately searched for something more ornate and substantial. In my haste and excitement, had I missed it? It was then I spotted another information  board. Catherine of Aragon’s tomb had been destroyed by Cromwellian troops in 1643! After they captured the town from The Royalists in the early struggles of the English Civil War, the Parliamentary soldiers went on the rampage and sacked the cathedral. They destroyed the Lady Chapel, the Chapter House, the cloisters, the High altar and the choir stalls. They wanted to wipe out any signs of Catholicism. Medieval records were ransacked and lost to history. Family tombs were attacked and desecrated. It seems strange and hypocritical that so called christian ( Puritan) soldiers wanted to do this. Of course, catholic Catherine’s tomb was a prime target. It was demolished and the gilt lettering stolen. The only blessing was that her body was left to lie undisturbed. So, if I wanted to see Catherine of Aragon’s tomb, I was 375 years too late!

I consoled myself by staring at the New Chapel’s wonderful fan-vaulting again, and swallowing my disappointment I walked on to the other side of the cathedral. To my amazement I now came across a shrine to Mary, Queen of Scots. She had been buried here as well after her execution at the hands of Elizabeth I. Was I going to see my Royal Tudor tomb afterall? Once again a frisson of excitement surge up inside me. But where was the tomb? Then I read that King James I had had his mother’s body removed from Peterborough and reburied in Westminster Abbey when he ascended the throne in 1603. Foiled again! I was 415 years late for that one! Two Tudor queens had been buried there but neither of their Peterborough tombs had survived.

The last resting place of Catherine of Aragon may not be an ornamental Tudor edifice today but it is still very smart, well kept and dignified. In the late 19th century, the wife of one of the cathedral’s canons, Katherine Clayton, started a public appeal, asking all the Katherines ( Catherines) of England to donate towards a replacement black marble slab that can be seen today. Apparently, after the Roundhead soldiers had smashed up the tomb and stolen the gilt lettering, a dean of the cathedral used the marble for the floor of his summerhouse sometime in the early 1700’s. The appeal was successful and the replacement slab was inscribed with gilt lettering and installed. On her new tomb, Catherine is now referred to as Queen of England. A wooden plaque remembers her as “A Queen cherished by the English people, for her loyalty, piety, courage and compassion.” Her notorious second husband may be more famous but I would argue that Catherine of Aragon deserves much more of our admiration and respect.

Every year, in the weekend closest to 29th January ( the date of Catherine’s passing) a special, Catherine of Aragon festival is held at Peterborough Cathedral. A civic service is held on the Friday, attended by a representative of the Spanish Embassy. Then on the Saturday, a rare Catholic mass is held in this Anglican Cathedral. Hundreds of school children attend in mock Tudor costumes. Flowers and Catherine’s heraldic symbol, the pomegranite, are laid upon the tomb. Ironically, considering her subsequent childbirth travails, the pomegranite is regarded as a symbol of fertility.

Although I was 375 years too late it was still a fascinating visit to Queen Catherine’s last resting place at Peterborough. In my opinion this historical experience was eminantly more interesting than the orgy of swooning, genuflecting and sycophancy that ensued in Windsor the next day. Surely attitudes towards a privileged, immensely wealthy and unelected monarchy should have changed in the 500 years since Tudor times?

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Out Of The Ashes.

6 May

Dresden, a city I’ve just visited, is famous for two main things. The first is that it was widely regarded as one of the most exquisite Baroque cities in Europe. It was dubbed “The Florence of the North”, because of its captivating array of delicate spires, soaring towers and magnificent domes. The huge stone dome of its premier church, the Frauenkirche, inspired by the domes of Italian churches, made it into the most significant Protestant place of worship, north of the Alps. The Bruhlsche Terrasse, an impressive riverside promenade along one bank of the Elbe, was known as the “Balcony of Europe.” It would be great if this Saxon city was famous just for being beautiful. Unfortunately, its other claim to fame is that in February, 1945, its historic centre was completely destroyed by three, devastating Allied bombing raids, towards the end of the Second World War. Its heart was ripped out by the British and American bombs, reducing it to a smouldering heap of rubble. Say “Dresden” to a random collection of people in a word- association exercise, and nine out of ten would  respond with “bombs” not ” Baroque” or “buildings.” As in many cases in life, it’s the negative association that usually wins out. This city now unfortunately stands along Hiroshima as the scene of one of the most infamous atrocities of the entire war.

The greatest catastrophe in the history of Dresden occured on the night of February 13th, 1945. Up to that point it looked as if one of Germany’s most picturesque and culturally important cities would survive the conflict largely unscathed. However, that devastating night changed everything. The sirens began to wail at 9-39pm and the first bombs rained down at 10-13pm. More than 750 British Lancaster bombers dropped their deadly cargo in 2 waves of attack, 3 hours apart. The next day, American bombers came in at midday to finish the job. It was grimly appropriate that the raids came between Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, because at the end of it all, Dresden’s historic Alstadt ( old town) was literally reduced to ashes. Incendiary bombs had caused a massive firestorm. The ashes fell on surrounding villages up to 35 kms away. Over 35,000 people perished. Many of them were refugees who had fled the advancing Red Army and were taking shelter in the city. The Soviets who later entered the city, claimed that 50,000 people had died. The RAF and USAF double attack on Dresden was the climax of a deliberately destructive bombing policy in which civilian populations and historic buildings were regarded as fair game. It was total war. The sheer extent of the devastation and the fact that thousands of innocent victims of Nazism were slaughtered, put this raid in a different class to all previous attacks. An area 20 kilometres square was virtually obliterated.

Many regard the bombing of Dresden as a war crime. Dresden had no great military or industrial importance. Others point out that the German bombing raids on British cities such as London, Bristol and Coventry were similarly shocking. The Luftwaffe also attacked equally beautiful British cities such as Canterbury and Norwich, in the so called Beiderbecke raids, although even the Nazis agreed to leave Oxford and Cambridge alone. If Dresden, along with Hiroshima and Nagasaki were  war crimes , no one was subsequently put on trial. This is because these particular deadly and devastating attacks were carried out by the eventual winners of the war. Only the losers are ever tried, as at the Nuremberg war crime trials. So “Bomber” Arthur Harris, the leader of RAF Bomber Command, never got to stand in the dock alongside Hermet Goering, leader of the Luftwaffe, at the Nuremberg war crimes trials, even though both of them pursued similar policies and both were responsible for mass destruction and tens of thousands of  deaths. The idea behind both side’s bombing campaigns was to break the morale and fighting spirit of the enemy’s civilian population . According to a recent BBC ducumentary, the British did psychological studies of victims of bombing raids in Kingston upon Hull. The findings were that the bombing raids had actually strengthened not weakened  civilian resolve. However, these unwelcome results were kept secret because they would have taken away the main justification for Churchill and Harris’s bombing campaign against German cities and their non-military populations. Some argue that the bombing raids on German cities such as Hamburg, Berlin and Dresden were justified as acts of retaliation and revenge following the  Blitz on London and other British cities. However, as my grandmother used to argue: “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” All we can say in the end, is that the net result was that both populations suffered massively. A minute ago, I was talking about “winners” and “losers”. But, in a war there are no real winners. Everyone suffers.

My friend, Ian, and I visited Dresden as part of our Germany project. We have agreed to visit different parts of Germany, every year, for the forseeable future. I suppose you could call it our personal reconciliation mission. We are doing our small part to bring the 2 countries a little closer together. Two years ago we visited Lubeck, a beautiful Hanseatic city in the north, near Hamburg. It too suffered a terrible bombing raid in 1942. Apparently this was a practice run to see how effective such an attack on a mostly civilian population could be. Ian and I have noticed that many British holiday-makers seem to ignore Germany when it comes to choosing their destinations. Spain is easily the British tourist’s favourite overseas destination, followed, in no particular order by France, Greece, Cyprus, Malta, Portugal, Italy and the United States. Although Germany is a big, important country containing many interesting and attractive places of interest and it is one of our closest neighbours, it does not figure in these top destinations. Many are seduced by the combination of : sand, sea and sun offered by the Meditarranean countries. Germany has excellent beaches but they are all in the cooler north alongside the Baltic and North Seas. It gets plenty of sun, but its warmest climate is in the south, far away from the coast. So it cannot offer that magical combination all in one place.

I wonder too, if there is still a strong residue of anti-German prejudice left over from the World Wars of last century? The last one finished over 60 years ago and 3 new generations have been born since. However, a lot of national events and commemorations to do with the World Wars are still held in the United Kingdom. Someone commented that these days, the only time that the British are truly united is when they are reliving their victories in the two World Wars. It is important to remember those who sacrificed their lives for their country, but is it healthy to constantly stir up bad memories and ill feeling towards one of closest allies and nearest neighbours? When one of the home nations plays Germany at football, the tabloid press often refer to the German players in derogatory terms, such as the “krauts” or the “huns.” A constant stream of 2nd World War films and TV programmes similarly revive old animosities. Just last year, “Dunkirk” and “Churchill. Darkest Hour” were two of Britain’s biggest box office successes. The so-called History Channel is dominated by documentaries about the war, Hitler and the Nazis. A friend of mine was recently persuaded to go on a city break to Berlin. Afterwards he expressed surprise that the people he met were so friendly and helpful. I asked him why wouldn’t they be and he answered “Well, they’re Germans aren’t they?” Did he really expect to see goose-stepping Nazis on the streets of the German capital? I have always found the German people to be friendly and obliging and  many of them speak perfect English. It’s a mystery to me why more British tourists don’t visit.

It’s a great pity if Dresden and Germany are still being defined by the war. Both have rich and rewarding histories before that tragic conflict and both have undergone remarkable transformations since it finished. Dresden’s old centre is no longer a heap of rubble. It’s major baroque buildings have all been meticilously reconstructed such that, once again, one could be walking around in the 18th century. Out of the ashes, the spectacular palaces, churches and civic buildings of Augustus the Strong and his son have been miraculously reserrected. The “before and after” photos have to be seen to be believed. Today, the Alstadt looks much as it was in the days when Canaletto was painting it. At first the East German Communist regime deliberately left the most important buildings such as the Frauenkirche, in ruins to serve as war memorials. For many years the Frauenkirche was the focus of an annual pilgrimage on February 13th. The ruins also acted as a powerful propaganda tool against the western powers. However, since the fall of the Iron Curtain and the reunification of the two Germanys in the early 1990s, reconstruction has gone on at a pace.  Much work is still going on as we saw on our visit. It took great “skill” to take a selection of photos that all omitted the cranes, the dumper trucks and the scores of hard-hatted workmen. A large section of picturesque Theaterplatz for instance is still cordoned off as the reconstruction crews do their stuff, oblivious to the camera-toting tourists circling all around them.

The Frauenkirche, a “Baroque gem”, has now reappeared in the cityscape after an absence of half a century.  The original dome initially survived the raid, but then collapsed 2 days later. The reborn church was consecrated in the autumn of 2015 and represents the crowning achievement of the reconstruction efforts. People from all over the world, including the UK and the USA, made donations towards its rebuilding. These included contributions from Coventry, Dresden’s partner city. Alan Smith, the son of one of the bomber pilots, created the tower cross that sits on top of the dome. His work was funded by the British Dresden Trust. 80% of the new altar consists of 2000 original pieces rescued from the rubble. On the altar table stands a cross of nails which is a symbol of reconciliation. The church is beautiful and flooded with light. A central nave is surrounded by 5 symmetrical galleries. The magnificent dome and galleries are decorated with murals in light, pastel colours. The only problem today seems to be too many tourists, ruining any hope of a spiritual atmosphere.

Peace and reconciliation are prominant themes in Dresden. We saw another cross of nails donated by the churches of Coventry, in the impressive Hofkirche, Dresden’s Catholic Cathedral. The mistakes and tragedies of the past are properly recalled in memorials but the emphasis seems to be to move forward into a more peaceful and harmonious future. I saw very little stress on the terrible bombing raid, although this could well have been covered in the city museum which I didn’t have time to see. I felt no animosity when people found out I was British. To me, it all seemed very positive. Germany of course is a leading light in the European Union which it created with France after the war by enmeshing their two economies. The idea was to make large scale European war impossible in the future because the 2 countries and their neighbours would become inter-dependent. So far the plan has succeeded.

So, like a phoenix, Dresden had risen again out of the ashes. It stands alongside the similarly restored Polish cities of Warsaw and Gdansk, as one of the miracles of the post-1945 age. It is really 3 cities in one — there is the modern city, the Communist era GDR city and the 18th century baroque city of its golden age. Dresden began as an Slav fishing village in the shadow of its near neighbour, Meissen. Then, in 1485, the Saxon Royal family, the House of Wettin, turned it into its capital. Its glory period was in the early 18th century under Elector Augustus the Strong, who was also King of Poland and Grand Duke of Lithuania. Although not a very astute political leader, Augustus loved art and culture. He encouraged top artists, architects, craftsmen, writers and musicians to make Dresden their base. The result was a flourishing cultural scene and the creation of some magnificent buildings such as Residenzschloss ( Royal Palace), several outstanding churches and the Zwinger, a Royal pleasure palace. The Zwinger is one of the most ravishing baroque buildings in the whole of Germany. We were god-smacked when we walked into it through one of its elaborate gateways. Luckily it was a lovely sunny day, so we saw it at its best. A huge, fountain studded courtyard is framed by fancy buildings and walkways festooned with baroque scultures. On the ground, well-manicured lawns are cut into symmetrical patterns, mirroring each other. Two ornate, exhuberant pavilions face each other at opposite ends of the courtyard . One, the Glockenspiel Pavilion, has a carillon of 40 bells, crafted out of Meissen porcelain. Along one upper gallery there is a giant carving of the Crown of Poland, supported by Polish eagles. The whole complex is stupendous. One of its palaces is used to house a rich, art gallery full of old masters, one of the dozen best in the world. The Opera House opposite ( the Semperor) is equally stunning. We attended an orchestral concert there given by the Saxon Staatskapelle, one of the world’s oldest and most famous orchestras established in 1548.

This is the Dresden that most people come to see. It’s the beautiful baroque city that has miraculously risen from the ashes of its wartime destruction. For a time it was a World Heritage Site but UNESCO have now had to take that coveted title away because of the construction of an unattractive road bridge across the Elbe which is completely out of keeping with its architectural surroundings. Ian and I enjoyed our time there and need to go back to visit the galleries and museums we didn’t have time to explore. It’s always good to end a visit wanting to return. Thankfully, we found out that Dresden is much, much more than the site of a war atrocity. It has risen from the ashes.

 

A Confusing Part of the UK.

22 Apr

Being a pedantic, former geography and history teacher, I still get a bit hot under the collar about people who don’t even know the name of their own country. It seems the simplest thing in the world to know where one hails from. The country I am specifically referring to is my own. To be fair, it is a bit confusing, because the names for it have changed fairly regularly over the centuries.

The Romans called it Britannia, with the people on the other side of Hadrian’s Wall being known as Caledonians. Later the various Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms united to form Angland ( Angle-Land) which later morphed into England. After the Danes or Vikings invaded, a sizable chunk of the east and the north was named the “Danelaw.” I once stayed in a lovely old guest house in Stamford, Lincs and the lady who ran it told me that the Danelaw border used to run through her back garden! This was exciting stuff for a history buff like me! Much later the English attacked and subjugated the Welsh and the Scots and the name for the new country was Great Britain.( the island consisting of England, Scotland and Wales.) Confusingly, the Scots had originally come from Ireland and had conquered the Picts. Next, after Ireland had been similarly invaded and conquered, the newly expanded country was re-christened: The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Finally, after a large chunk of Ireland claimed its freedom in 1920-21, leaving only 6 counties of Ulster staying loyal to the Crown and the Government in London, the post Irish-partition country acquired its present name — The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. This is the grandiose name that still graces my passport. If someone abroad asks me where I come from, I say the U.K. for short. This usually works, except that one gentleman, who I met on a night train in Vietnam, concluded that I came from the Ukraine!

So I come from the U.K. It doesn’t sound very attractive does it? Get rid of the capital letters and see what you end up with — “uk” — an exclamation of distaste or disgust! No wonder the British Olympic Association decided to ignore the proper name of their team’s country. Instead they called it Team GB. Let’s face it — Team UK doesn’t have the same catchy ring to it. There is also the great temptation for some people to put a Y or even an F in front of it! Thus, Clare Balding, Gabby Logan and their BBC colleagues, working on the recent Commonwealth Games in Australia, constantly misrepresented their country as Great Britain ( GB), ignoring the fact that it is actually the United Kingdom ( UK.) I suppose this is because they work for the British, not the UK, Broadcasting Company. I wrote to our Olympic Committee about this big error when I first noticed it in 2012, but they ignored my letter, showing that they were as rude as they were ignorant.

I asked the perfectly reasonable and straightforward question — are Northern Irish athletes to be excluded from our country’s team because they don’t come from Great Britain ( England, Scotland or Wales)? I was also interested to know why the Manx cyclist, Mark Cavendish, was allowed to compete for Team GB when the Isle of Man is not a part of Great Britain. It’s a mystery — if Northern Ireland and the Isle of Man are officially part of our country, why are they not recognised as such in the name of our sports teams? It gets even more complicated when one comes to football and rugby, as each componant country of the United Kingdom competes as if it is a separate, independent entity. Thus we have England versus Scotland, Wales versus Northern Ireland and all the other permutations. These matches are actually all the UK versus the UK. It all sounds very incestuous, not to mention, very confusing. The truth is that the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is an artificial construct. Three countries and part of a fourth have been tied together by war and politics in the past. However, the populations of those countries still cling to their separate identities. The UK may technically be one country but it actually contains four nations. The Devolution movement of recent decades has recognised these differences, such that we now have parliaments in Cardiff, Edinburgh and Belfast  as well as in London.

I’ve just been to Northern Ireland for the first time in my life. I haven’t been before because of “The Troubles”, a 30 year period of bloody civil strife, that led to many atrocities, maimings and violent deaths. For much of my adult life, Northern Ireland has been a tourist, no-go area. When the British conquered Ireland in the 16th and 17th centuries, they pushed the local Catholic population on to poorer lands in the west and populated the better lands with staunch Protestant settlers shipped in from England and Scotland.  Thus were sown the seeds of trouble for centuries to come. When the Catholic King James II,  was expelled from Protestant Britain in 1688, he tried to make a come-back in Ireland where he was supported by the vast majority of the Catholic population.  However he met with fierce resistance from the Ulster protestants in the north-east of Ireland, inspired by the apprentice boys of Derry, who rushed to close the city gates against James’s Catholic army, uttering the famously defiant words: “No Surrender!” James’s army laid siege to the town but despite great suffering ( many died from starvation), it was never captured. King James’s forces were eventually defeated at the famous Battle of the Boyne by the army of the new British King, William of Orange ( William III). Orange was (is) an area of the Netherlands. William, the husband of James’s protestant daughter Mary, was invited over by the British establishment to defeat James II and re-establish Britain as a Protestant nation. Thus William, a Dutchman, became a hero of the Northern Irish protestant. I told you it was confusing! I have a friend Alex who came over to England to escape the “Troubles” in the 1970s. His brother stayed in Belfast and is now the head of his local “Orange Lodge”, leading his “Orange Men” with their bright orange sashes, on marches to commemorate the victory on the Boyne over 300 years ago. History still looms large in Northern Ireland. Irishmen celebrating the victory of a 17th century Dutchman. You couldn’t make it up!

I was recently in Dublin, the capital of the Irish Free State since its inception in 1920. The English or British found it impossible to subjugate all the countries of their huge Empire indefinitely. The Irish were one of the first in the 20th century to break free. After a long campaign for Irish Home Rule in the latter half of the 19th century, the situation erupted into open violence with the Easter Rising of 1916. The rebels commandeered the General Post Office in Dublin’s O’Connell Street as their HQ and it was largely destroyed in the subsequent fighting against the British and then in the Irish Civil War which followed. I saw the bullet pock- marks in the classical columns of the building which has now been restored. Although they ruthlessly and viciously put down the uprising, the British  reluctantly realised that holding on to a largely resentful Ireland was becoming more trouble than it was worth. So, once the small matter of the First World War was over, negotiations for Ireland to become an independent republic began. This was in line with the campaign, promoted by the American President, Woodrow Wilson, to grant peoples who had previously been trapped in Empires, their freedom. Wilson called it “self-determination.” Thus, many new countries were created, or recreated out of the defeated Austrian, German, Russian and Ottoman Empires. The victorious French and British however, were not quite so enthusiastic about giving freedom to their own colonies and ultimately paid the price by enduring a century of trouble. For the British, that trouble began in Ireland.

The sticking point in the negotiations for Irish independence was the predominantly protestant population of Northern Ireland, the area known as Ulster. These were the descendents of the English and Scottish protestant settlers of earlier centuries. They wanted to stay loyal to the British Crown and remain part of the United Kingdom. Therefore Ireland, one hundred years ago, was bitterly divided between “remainers” and “leavers” just like the UK today, following the controversial EU Referendum of 2016. Back then though, the Remainers ( i.e. the Ulster Protestants)  were rewarded by having their part of Ireland partitioned off and kept separate from the new country of Eire, the Irish Republic. So the island of Ireland was divided into two for political and religious reasons. The partition seemed to be a neat solution to an intractable problem. However, partitions often cause terrible problems as we witnessed when the British broke up India and created Pakistan. The British also partitioned Palestine causing decades of trouble between the Arabs and the Israelis in the Middle East, the consequences of which we are still suffering from. The Americans have tried it in Vietnam and Korea with equally troublesome and tragic results. The partition of Ireland was one of the first and there has been trouble ever since. Even today, though the horrific violence has gone away, the issue of the (artificial) Irish border has become a major sticking point in the complex Brexit negotiations between the UK and the European Union. This is because the Irish republic is a member of the EU whereas the people of the UK have narrowly voted to leave it.

The Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921 partitioned the island. The Protestant Loyalists in the north only wanted to keep the 6 counties of Ulster where they commanded a majority over the Cathlolics. Thus Northern Ireland is a political not a geographical concept. It is not really a genuine country in my opinion. It is officially linked to countries across the Irish sea which it doesn’t have a lot in common with, and at the same time,  is artificially divided from the people and places it is naturally closest to. Once the Northern Irish protestants had their own province, they systematically excluded the Roman Catholics from power. The Catholics represented about one third of the population of Northern Ireland but were now a minority in their own country. They were rigorously discriminated against. The protestants had the majority in all the organisations of local government in the province and used it largely to look after their own. It was only in the late 1960s after over 40 years of discrimination that the Northern Irish Catholics, inspired by Martin Luther King’s Civil Rights movement in the USA, started to take to the streets to protest against their unfair treatment. Catholic marches were attacked by protestant/loyalists. On one march from Derry to Belfast, even the police, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, attacked the protesters. The lines were drawn and so began the latest chapter of the “troubles”. Both sides formed paramilitary organisations to do their fighting, such as the IRA for the Catholics and the UDF for the Protestants. There were many murders from bombings and shootings. People were knee-capped and tarred and feathered. When British soldiers were drafted in from the mainland to keep the peace, they too became targets and came under constant stress. During a Catholic march in Londonderry ( Derry) in January, 1972, troops of the Parachute regiment opened fire on unarmed civilians after being provoked by stone throwing and insult hurling youths. 13 people were killed outright and one died later in hospital. Many people were injured, some from bullets and others from being run over by armoured personnel carriers. Some were shot in the back. A priest with a white handkerchief had to intervene to get some of the wounded out. This notorious incident is known as “Bloody Sunday.” It hardened attitudes immeasurably, such that the province descended into a state of virtual civil war. One of a British soldier’s most dreaded postings was to Northern Ireland.

The “troubles” are hopefully over now. While we were visiting, it was the 20th anniversary of the Good Friday agreement of 1998 brokered by the Prime Ministers of the UK and of Ireland and representatives of the United States sent by President Clinton. This was one of PM Tony Blair’s most commendable achievements. ( before his reputation was forever stained by the illegal invasion of Iraq.) While in Northern Ireland, my wife Chris and I visited Derry/Londonderry. The double name is a reminder that the issues between the two sides are still not fully resolved. In the Bogside area, largely populated by Catholics, we saw spectacular murals on the gable ends of houses, depicting scenes from the troubles including “Bloody Sunday.” Other posters and murals praised the “martyrs” who had died fighting for Irish unity. One mural, commenting on the current argument over the Irish border when the UK leaves the EU in 2019, simply stated — ” Hard Border. Soft Border. No Border. Irish Unity now.” It was produced by a republican organisation called the 1916 society. On the other hand, while walking round Derry’s medieval walls, we at one point looked down into a protestant/loyalist area. It had red, white and blue stripes painted on the edge of its pavements. Later, we drove through an area of Cookstown festooned in Union Jacks and pro-British posters. I think, just below the surface, the province is still very much divided. Hatchets have been buried and compromises made for the sake of peace but there is still a long way to go before the bitterness and divisions can be overcome.

We found Northern Ireland to be very much like the rest of Ireland. The accent is slightly different, the currency is different and road journeys are measured in miles not kilometres. But, in most respects the 2 parts of Ireland, north and south, are very similar. The coastal scenary is often spectacular. We went to see the world famous Giant’s Causeway on the very picturesque Antrim coast. In many ways, it was like the magnificent west coast of Donegal in the Republic, which we later visited. It’s called the “Wild Atlantic Way” and very special it is too. Another thing the 2 Irelands have in common is the fantastic hospitality of their people. The breakfasts in the guest houses are something else! Also in the pubs, on both sides of the invisible border, there is often the sound of fiddles playing Irish dance tunes while the punters drink their pints of Guinness. Most of the time, it felt we were in Ireland and not in Britain. The banks notes, although pounds not Euros, were issued by the Bank of Ireland ( not England.) The girl on the Asda till back home gave me a quizzical look when I passed a Northern Irish fiver on to her. I felt I had to remind her that Northern Ireland is part of our country. The confusion cuts both ways though. While in Antrim I watched a local news programme on television in which Northern Irish people were referring to themselves as British. They are not, they are Irish!

I’m pleased I’ve been to Northern Ireland at last. I’ve now been to all 4 countries of the so-called United Kingdom. It’s a delightful place to visit. I would like to think I have cleared up some of the confusion but I doubt it. It seems bizarre that politicians in London, Brussels, Belfast and Dublin are arguing about a hard border or a soft border between the 2 parts of Ireland after the UK leaves the EU. When we were there, we crossed the border and didn’t even notice a thing. It will be a great shame if the United Kingdom pulls up the drawbridges and creates barriers between itself and its nearest neighbours following the Leave vote in the referendum. It wants to protect itself from foreign influence, even though it cannot protect itself from its own complicated history and even though many people don’t actually know the name of the country they are claiming to protect.

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?)

 

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?

Durham Coast Walk, Day 3 — Seaham to Horden, 2017.

28 Aug

Day 3 of our long-distance charity trek began at the Lamp Room Café on Seaham seafront. Our guest house, although clean and comfortable, did not provide breakfast as they had workmen busy downstairs. There were a few eating possibilities on the front but we were attracted into The Lamp Room by the enticing prospect of poached eggs on home-baked toast with rocket and crushed avocados! It was delicious and made a change from the boring, full English fry-up. A young Australian with his long braids coiled up on top of his head, served us to the accompaniment of laid-back music ( Fleetwood Mac, Lady Antebellum, Elbow.) I imagined a young British traveller doing the same job at a beach café in Sydney or on the Queensland coast. The lamp that gave its name to the café was the miner’s safety lamp that was used in the local collieries. As its use dramatically cut down on the number of underground gas explosions, Sir Humphrey Davy’s invention was nicknamed the “Miner’s Friend.” It was a nice recognition of Seaham’s mining history.

Replete, we now set off south on the Durham Coast Heritage Path, recently opened by the National Trust as part of the English Coastal Path. We looked down on Seaham harbour, a double set of piers protecting it from the sea. It is still a working port. A freighter was being loaded up by 2 cranes from a glittering mountain of scrap-metal. Soon we left the coast road and went on to the path proper. It is a very attractive walk with cliff- top meadows featuring a colourful display of wild flowers. Tangled clumps of blackberries provided us with tasty free fruit. Butterflies flitted and bees buzzed. A group of swallows swooped low over the meadows, looking for their insect breakfasts. These magnesium limestone grasslands have helped the coast become an area of Special Scientific Interest as they support a unique population of plants and animals.

Soon we arrived at a headland called Nose’s Point. It provided spectacular views down “Blast Beach.” This is a long, empty beach, bordered by cliffs and punctuated by caves and stacks. A pointy stack like a jagged tooth stood at the near end, while at the far end was a very large, flat-topped rock covered with grass. The sea and the efforts of conservation organisations like the National Trust have turned “Nose’s Point” and “Blast beach” into a beautiful place, but it was, until quite recently, a scene of industrial devastation and desecration. Dawdon Pit extracted coal from beneath the sea here from 1901 to 1991. It was one of the most productive in the country. In 1925, 3862 men and boys mined over 1 million tons of coal. Even today, lumps of coal can be found amongst the rocks on the beach. Waste from the pit was dumped directly on to the beach. The scene was so hellish that it was chosen for the opening scenes of “Alien 3”, representing a devastated planet in outer space. On the cliffs above, in the 19th century, there had been blast furnaces for the iron and steel industry and these were succeeded in the late 1860’s by a chemical works. All this has now disappeared and nature has returned. One of the few clues left of this industrial past, apart from the name of the beach, is a mysterious layer of bare rock that stretches along the entire beach between the cliff base and the sand. This used to be the dumped spoil from the mine which has been flattened and hardened. A retired miner, walking his dog, told me about this. During the days when this coast was a metaphor for industrial dereliction, it was also used for a bleak scene in “Get Carter” the famous Michael Caine film.

After a while our path took us over the railway line that skirts the coast and into a deep, wooded ravine. This was/is Hawthorn Dene, one of several denes or little coastal valleys we had to negotiate. It is a steep sided gorge cut by glacial action. We descended through beautiful swathes of elm, ash and yew. It was like a secret wood, hidden from the world around. We crossed the stream and a huge chunk of magnesium limestone reared up before us. This rock is unique to this area. Then, as we climbed out of the ravine, we started catching glimpses through the trees of a large, impressive, red-bricked viaduct. Eventually we passed under one of its arches on our return to the coast. The Victorians had built it to take their railway north to Sunderland and Newcastle, and south to Hartlepool and Stockton. The current little “Pacer” trains, rattling along the rails, were a constant accompaniment to our walk.

We walked on along the coast, now chased by ominous dark clouds. But for the time being we were still treated to fine weather and sunny periods. Every now and then we were enlightened and entertained by information boards about the history and/or the nature of the area. We also came across lovely examples of sculptural art — which became a characteristic feature of the walk. One memorable example was a  large, metal representation of a seabird on the grassy cliff-top. Following a steep climb down and up the sides of another dene, 2 giant, iron butterfly wings announced Warren House Gill. The wings had shapes cut out of them showing miners going to work, and birds and butterflies, representing the mixture of industry and nature that form the rich heritage of this Durham Coast. A nearby seat was similarly carved with reliefs of leaves, flowers, miners’ helmets, shovels and hammers. The seat was a welcome sight as we were able to take the weight off our feet and enjoy a belated bite of lunch.

We were now near the village of Horden, our destination for the night. Today had been a shorter walk of about 7 miles, although we were still quite tired because of all those up and down denes. As we turned inland, the rain finally caught up with us. Waterproofs were hastily dragged on as the heaven’s opened. Luckily it was only a heavy shower. Ten minutes later we were skirting large puddles but getting rather warm as the sun returned. We walked under a railway bridge and up by a sewage treatment works and a waste recycling centre. On this walk we saw all the sights! We then turned up a long residential road, looking for our destination — the Bell Inn. Horden is supposed to be a village but we never found any actual village centre. There was no idyllic green or pond. It just seemed to be a long, linear development, eventually merging with the sprawling New Town of Peterlee. In the past, Horden had had one of the country’s biggest coal mines. In fact it still holds the world record for the largest amounts of coal extracted in a year. (4000 miners extracted 1.5 million tonnes of coal.) Hardly a trace of all this is discernible today, except, perhaps, the prominent presence of working men’s clubs.

The Bell, our guest house, was really a pub, that provided accommodation for largely contract workers. It was closed when we got there as it was only 2-30pm. However, a couple of men smoking and coughing outside a nearby club said it would open at 4. There was no convenient café to sit it out. Horden didn’t seem to be that type of place. So we sat on a handy wall outside the pub, took off out damp rain-proof togs, and waited. Luckily the barmaid arrived at 3 and kindly let us in early. It was a clean and comfortable room and so we were able to rest up and put the kettle on. We enjoyed the biscuits as well. From our window we enjoyed the unexpected view of a green field rising up behind the buildings that lined the road.

We had planned to eat at the pub, but unusually it did not serve food in the evenings. So we were snookered. The nearest eating place was a Weatherspoons about 25 minutes walk away up a busy road.We didn’t fancy that! The barmaid kindly suggested that we could order a take away and  said we could use the dining room to eat. So thanks to Catherine’s magical smartphone skills, we ended up having a Mexican meal in the pub’s breakfast room. We were intrigued to see who would deliver it. Would it be someone in a colourful poncho or sombrero, from a little-known Latin American enclave of Peterlee or Blackhall? We sipped our drinks and waiting in a state of high excitement. After only about 15 to 20 minutes, an older guy in tee-shirt and jeans entered the bar, asking if “anyone here has ordered some grub?” Without further ado, he shoved a carrier bag full of Mexican wraps in our direction and was gone (we had paid by card on the internet.) It was a bit of an anti-climax but the food was welcome and good. We ate it in the pub dining room watching the Channel 4 news. It was a satisfying end to Day 3 of our Durham coast trek.