Iâve done some fairly interesting things this month, and had planned to write posts for each of them
â but, for whatever reason, none of them provided that particular spark to me. Maybe they just
didnât seem that interesting to explain to you, the reader, or maybe i didnât know what to say about
them except the obvious.
Nonetheless, it would be a shame for these events to pass into the annals of my journal without
telling you about them. So! Hereâs a brief summary of my unblogged July thus far.
I toddled off to Shildon to visit Locomotion, the local
branch of the national railway museum. Itâs the birthday of the railways, and thus boasts a
disproportionate selection of anorak arcana â alas, you canât go in the trains, but you get
a pretty good look at the inside of Queen Alexandraâs royal train car, the erstwhile Birmingham
maglev, and, most proudly, Stephensonâs Rocket.
Locomotion also provides a lot to geek out about for any heraldry nerds.
Beamish1
has been newly crowned
Museum of the Year, so there was no better time to check it out. I hadnât properly explored their new fifties town
yet â the chippie and the old houses are wonderful, but the record store, crammed up the stairs,
across an anachronistically modern mezzanine, and down a grey corridor, leaves much to be desired.
Nitpicks about balcony design aside, itâs as great as ever, and, somehow, well worth the ÂŁ33(!!!!!)
asking price.
Finally, just yesterday, i went off to an Elbow concert hosted in a ruined mediĂŚval priory by the
sea. Belting out âOne Day Like Thisâ in the fading dusk light with five thousand other people
standing on the same hallowed ground where monks tried to figure out where baby eels came from is a
top-ten human experience.
The industry town of Blyth is bordered on four sides by sights iconic of the NorthÂumÂbrian
experience. To the north lies the eponymous River Blyth, carving out a respectable third to the Tyne
and Tweed in how it has shaped the course of the countyâs history. To the east, the awesome North
Sea ebbs and flows, enticing herds of families out to the beach. Southwards, farms and fields
stretch on until they meet the city streets. And, to the west, the dismal grey
A189 motorway cuts its way through impoverished streets and empty
grassland.
So guess which path the railway sent me down? Thatâs right, it was hugging the fucking tarmac for
me. Thereâs a reason the God of travellers is a trickster.
Newsham is perhaps the prototypical post-industrial suburb. The streets are lined
with drab row-houses and shuttered shops whose walls sit darkened by cigarette smoke. But even here,
there are signs of history, and signs of life. Walking along a small council estate, even in this
decidedly hard-to-do area, people's personalities shine through. One car, judging by the bumper
stickers, belongs to a proud gay naturist. Another house has a carved relief of an Indian chief
(although i doubt the inhabitants have a drop of Native American blood in them). And at the end of
the road lies the holy grail: the old station master's house, whose nearby decaying platforms just
about peek over the fence.
After this, our path splits in two: the main line continues up to Bebside, but a spur branches off
and swings to the town centre. The first one is mostly a boring romp through farmland and reclaimed
forests, so, for now, we'll be following the second line.
There are a lot of things about Blyth that iâm sure the town council would
love for me to tell you about. It has an historic beach (though itâs all the way on the
south end of town, and thereâs no reason for you to make the trek when Newbiggin and Whitley Bay are
closer and just as nice). There's a weekly market on Thursdays (though on the Thursday i went in,
theyâd all packed up already), by the plaza next to the
shopping centre (whose selection of options is laughable when
compared to Manor Walks in the next town over). And
theyâre dead proud of their local football team, the Spartans, who famously performed somewhat above
average in the 1978 FA Cup (never mind that Ashington spawned
two WorldCup winners).
By now you may have noticed that everything in Blyth seems to be a slightly crappier version of
something from elsewhere in Northumberland. This goes too for the ignoble fate of its former
station. While some have been turned into houses, shops, pubs, or just returned to the land whence
they arose, Blythâs once-proud central station is now⌠a Morrisons car park.
You cannot make this up.
This was the only useable photo i got.
The branch line itself is now a straight-on footpath, cutting its way through town with a hospital
and shopping centre on one side and impoverished estates on the other â until about halfway through,
that is, when it suddenly becomes much more suburban in character; charming parks take the place of
pools and appendectomies, while a long allotment fills the other side. (It was also â and i cannot
stress this enough â absolutely pissing it down by the time i got to this end, and as such,
i failed to get any usable footage. Just trust that it eventually meets back up with the main line.)
Back on the main line, the motorway leads to a depressing interchange at Bebside.
Just across from the former site of the station sits the grimiest petrol station corner shop i think
iâve ever been to (no photos, alas, again); the site of the station itself has long been bulldozed
and turned into a horse riding centre.
Iâd love to stay and show you more, but the next phase in our adventure is a big one â because weâll
be taking a brief diversion to County Durham. Itâll all make sense when we get there. Ciao!
Last time on The Garden: A strip mall turns out to be a place of immense historical curiosity, i am interrupted by a
rude troupe of boy racers, and find myself caught up in the lyrics of a pro-union folk song.
Leaving Seghill, going past a house with a conspicuous
Northumbrian flag, the
landscape once again slips swiftly back into ruralia â a common occurrence on this leg of the
journey. No sooner had i left behind the station house than i found myself on a dirt path which i
wasnât quiiiite sure i was meant to be on.
This was the small hamlet of Mare Close, essentially a farmhouse surrounded by a few cottages. I
have a sneaking suspicion that everyone living there has been friends since primary school, though
i'll never know for sure. Opposite the cottages, by the next leg of my route, lay a
small village church and
graveyard which i dared not enter. Onwards.
Seaton DelavalÎą sits at the heart of the valley. Turning
one way, there lies a charming local coĂśperative store, a
genuine lordly manor (owned by
the townâs namesake De la Val family, who came over after 1066), the
previously-blogged village of Holywell, and, eventually,
the seaside settlement of Seaton Sluice.β Unfortunately, weâll be turning
the other way, by where once stood a colliery.
The former site of Delavalâs station can hardly be considered a sight for sore eyes. Cars and
lorries pass by, horns blaring, trying to weave their way between those turning into the nearby
petrol station.Îł The location of the station itself is an uninspiring gravel
pit on one site with an overgrown nettle-filled path on the other; next door is a chain pub whose
car park will be getting embiggened to accommodate the extra traffic once the railway reopens.
It doesnât get much better. A few interesting-looking eateries (a grimy-looking cafĂŠ called âOnly
Fools and Saucesâ, a venue by the name of the
Secret Gardenδ with a wonderful
hand-painted sign) added some initial spice, but soon i was back to the same industrial wasteland:
Auto recycling! Furniture wholesalers! Caravan storage! Chemical producers! The works!
...I said something about a colliery, didnât i?
16 January, 1862. Itâs half past ten â or, at least, it might be. Youâve been labouring
away in the coal pit since two in the morning, and youâve not seen the sun since. The shift is
almost over, and itâs time to swap over with the next group.
One by one, your comrades file in line to get out. A huddle of people enter the rusting lift. The
familiar ketter-ketter-ketter shudders through the cave â but then, for a fraction of a
second, all falls silent.
Your heart races. A drop of water falls from the ceiling. Nobody makes a sound.
And then, all of a sudden, it is as though Thorâs hammer has crashed
into the ground. The earth around you shakes in terror, lets out what can only be described as an
otherworldly scream, as ten tonnes of blood-red steel smash into the floor.
This was the
Hartley Pit disaster, and its shockwaves can still be heard across town.
Just across from the telltale jackhammers and yellow tape of a housing estate so new Google Maps
hasnât caught up yetÎľ sits a lovely memorial garden, explaining the story of
the tragedy, with a poem to contemplate as you ramble along the path.
In terms of stations, the town has had two â Hartley and Hartley Pit â both right next to each
other, and neither seeming to have any chance of reopening.
I was a bit anxious about continuing on, because there were several serious-looking men in hard-hats
and high-vis jackets, but they didnât seem to mind. They really, really should have tried to stop me
from going to where i was going next.
Coming up on The Garden: your author tries not to disturb some horses, desperately tries to avoid going to fucking
Blyth, and accidentally sneaks in a brief trip to Durham. I promise, it makes sense in
context.
Last time on The Garden: the axe falls on the Blyth and Tyne line, and i foolhardily decide to walk its lengthâŚ
Our journey begins at NorthÂumÂberÂland Park, in North Tyneside. Though itâs the
first station weâll be visiting, it was the last to be constructed, having only opened in 2005 â and
itâs quite easy to tell, even after sixteen years of wear and tear; the place is outfitted with
modern amenities, lifts, ticket machines flush with the wall, and, more lately, pandemic-themed
graffiti opposite the platform. This unassuming metro station will, according to the county
councilâs plans, serve as the interchange between the old and new lines, heavy rail and metro
meeting one last time before splitting apart and going their separate ways.
Setting off from there, the first thing that caught my eye were twin giants: a frosted glass-covered
car park and a red-brick Sainsburyâs, unexpected icons of the modern British condition. It didnât
get much better from there; down the road lies an American-style strip mall lined with bookmakers
trying to get people to piss away all their money.
This sorry-looking trolley was, i presume, abandoned from the local Sainsburyâs.
This southernmost tip of NorthÂumÂberÂland is criss-crossed by innumerable public footpaths, cycle
paths, bridleways, and other routes for non-metal-box-related transport; ducking onto one of the
reclaimed
âwaggonwaysâ once used
to transport coal, i found myself on the site of the second station on the list.
The leafy suburb of Backworth has a habit of burying its history.
A hoard of offerings from Roman times
was found underground in the 1810s, the last vestiges of the colliery that once was are long gone,
and the tale of this sorry ex-station is rather similar. Opened in 1864 to replace a nearby station
closing the same day, BackÂworth station served its community for over 100 years, surviving the
Beeching cuts. But when the Tyne and Wear Metro was announced to come to town, the old station
finally closed⌠for good. It wasnât until the opening of NorthÂumÂberÂland Park that there would be
a replacement.
As i wandered through the village's verdant streets, i couldnât help but think of its resemblance to
the straight, cycle-friendly streets of my old hometown. A little greenery can go a long way.
The graffiti reads âMonty Brown is a grassâ. I would never say such unkind things about Mr
Brown.
Network Rail were hard at work at the site of the aforementioned original BackÂworth station, whose
plot of land now sits vacant, marking the cityâs last hurrah; the further i walked along the dirt
back roads, the further the sounds of bustling cars receded, until, ducking under a shady underpass,
i found myself utterly alone amongst pastoral fields (and the overwhelming scent of manure).
That peace and quiet was swiftly interrupted by a troupe of boy racers on motorcycles and
quad-bikes, but you canât win them all, you know?
After the county borders were hacked up in 1974, this line became the divider between rural
Northumberland and ostensibly-urban Tyne and Wear.
The (post-1974) border town of Seghill occupies only the tiniest fragment of the
collective English consciousness, popping up briefly in an anti-scab minersâ folk song called
âBlackleg Minerâ:
Itâs in the evening after dark, when the blackleg miner creeps to work With his
moleskin pants and dirty shirt there gans the blackleg miner!
[...]
So, divvint gan near the Seghill mine Across the way they stretch a line, to catch the
throat and break the spine of the dirty blackleg miner
[...]
So join the union while you may Divvint wait till your dying day, for that may not be
far away, you dirty blackleg miner!
For our purposes, itâs chiefly notable for the fact that itâs the first disused station on the list
whose buildings are still intact and in use, this time as a corner shop, from which i of course
bought a copy of the local rag â prominently including a
Q&A about the restoration of service on the line, which i
thought a fitting reminder of why i set out on this silly old journey in the first place.
After getting some well deserved rest, i headed on off towards the next town over, awaiting what
fresh stories i would find...
Next time on âWalking the Blyth and Tyneâ: your author is reminded of her own mortality, finds
himself in the company of a noble family, and shudders at the thought of having to go to Blyth,
of all places on Godsâ green Earth
Itâs March of 1963. The island of Great Britain is in the throes of its coldest winter in two
decades, senior frontbench MP Harold Wilson was recently handed the
reins of the Labour party, the Beatles have just released their debut album, and, somewhere in the
bowels of Whitehall, Dr Richard Beeching is writing a report that will change the countryâs
connecting tissue forever.
Dr Beeching, you see, is the chairman of British Railways, the state-owned company in charge of rail
transport, and theyâre in a spot of financial trouble. British Railways are in charge of running
fifteen thousand miles of track shuttling between about four and a half thousand stations, and the
only way they can do that is via generous subsidies from Her Majestyâs Government â something which
the governing Conservatives, as a rule, are never too happy about.
So, pen in hand, he takes a metaphorical axe to the network, marking about half of the islandâs
stations for closure. Itâs not pleasant, but it has to be done â and, after all, people can just
take the car to their nearest station if their townâs is shut.i Iâm sure it
wonât be too bad.
That's how, a year later, the last passenger trains ran along 5,000 miles of railway across England,
Scotland, and Wales, including those connecting the mining heartland of industrial Northumberland.
The Tyne and Wear Metro, opened in 1980, allowed some of these lines to reopen in Newcastleâs
suburbs and (relatively) affluent coastal communities. But just a few miles north, the former Blyth
and Tyne Railway has lain dormant ever since the axe fell⌠until now.
In recent years, the stars have aligned, and both the county council and Westminster have agreed to
reopen the line, finally bringing these proud towns back together. The Blyth and Tyne Railway, now
rechristened by the more attractive name of the
Northumberland Line, is set to reopen by 2024. To celebrate this historic moment, i thought iâd see what has become of
the stations and towns that were. Iâve identified fourteen stations, past, present, and future,
along the line, and iâll be walking between each of them in turn, seeing what stories they tell. The
list includes:
Northumberland Park, the metro station ready and waiting to become the new
lineâs interchange
Backworth (the second)
Backworth (the first), already long closed by the time the axe fell
Seghill
Seaton Delaval, planned for reopening
Hartley Pit / Hartley, two old stations just metres apart
Newsham, planned for reopening
Blyth, on an old branch line
Blyth Bebside, planned for reopening
Bedlington, planned for reopening
North Seaton, now subsumed within Ashingtonâs town area
Ashington, planned for reopening
Woodhorn, listed on early plans for reopening but mysteriously disappeared since
Newbiggin-by-the-Sea, no longer in existence but with the route there safeguarded just in case
