I've travelled the land, made mistakes out of hand
Seen the faces in the places misunderstand
Yes, I've travelled the world, seen the pretty boys and girls
Heard the noise that destroys and commands
Run for home, run as fast as I can
Oh, running man, running for home
From Alan Hull’s ‘Run for Home’
I have meandered on a broader scale this past week. First, it was to Thirsk in Yorkshire to visit my brother Andy and his wife Alice. In January of next year, they will celebrate 57 years together as a married couple, a little longer than my 46 years and a far more noteworthy achievement, as mine spreads across three different marriages.
I'd not seen Andy since the funeral of Judith, our sister, around this time last year. It was lovely, therefore, to meet in happier circumstances. However, as I wrote in my piece 'Judith, my sister ', the funeral was not overly sad. It well reflected Judith or Jude as my 'big sister' preferred.
To be correct, I am half-brother to Andy and Jude. We share the same father, and I'm always aware that if it had not been for the tragically early death of their mother, Bette, I would not be here to write these words. Bette's (pronounced to rhyme with get) full name was Elizabeth Ross, and she tragically died by her own hand in one very dark night of her soul. The mental health issues from which she suffered finally overcame her. Andy and Jude were eight and four years old at the time.
I was always proud of my father. As a youngster, I was also a little scared of him as he had a fiery temper. But that fire quickly cooled, and he never held on too long to what had caused the flare-up. My pride in him came not just because he was a firefighter with all its intendant dangers but because he was someone of high integrity and generosity. And in the latter's case, not just in terms of money but also spirit. I inherited his quickness of temper, albeit a little less fiery, and I like to think I inherited both of those other traits of his, too. My pride swelled when I learned of my father’s choice to bring up his children and not commit them to social care, as was not unusual for single fathers in the early 1950s. My brother shared that the death of Bette and the burden of single fatherhood nearly broke our father, especially with the demands and working hours of being a firefighter. But he came through.
It was Andy, at eleven, who acted as a 'matchmaker' between my father and mother. At the time, my mother was a 'house mother' in a care home for boys. Her brother Dennis was good friends with Andy, and one day, Andy mentioned to Dennis that his father needed help around the house, along with looking after Andy and Judith. Dennis told this to my mother, who knew my father and offered to work for him as his housekeeper and to help with the children. My father accepted, and it wasn't long before romance blossomed between them. They were not bright young things, my father being forty-six and my mother thirty-two, and his proposal to her was along the lines of, "I've been thinking Jenny, why don't we get married? The children like you, and it would be cheaper for me" - what a romantic. I may hope I’ve inherited some of my father’s traits, but I'm so pleased I added a bit of romanticism to that mixture.
Andy and I have a twelve-year age gap, and as he left home to join the army at 18, I didn't get to see much of him as I grew up. However, one 'treat' I enjoyed before he left home and whenever he was home on leave was for him to carry me shoulder-high to bed. And on one wall of the bedroom that he and I shared for some years was a portrait of Bette — a way of letting Andy and Jude keep their mother with them. I always thought that a lovely thing for my parents to do.
After two great days of catch-up conversation and much laughter, it was back from Thirsk for a couple of hours at home before I repacked the overnight bag and was off again, and this time on the train to Sunderland to see Lindisfarne (the band, not the island).
Lindisfarne have been a favourite band of mine since the beginning of the 1970s and remained so ever since. Although it was not the original line-up I saw. The passing of time has also sadly seen the passing of some members. Alan Hull, who died in 1995, wrote many of Lindisfarne's original songs. For a brief period after the release of the band's first album, 'Nicely out of Tune', many hailed Alan's songs and Lindisfarne as the next 'big thing' (I've read that some called Alan the Geordie Bob Dylan). The excellent documentary Sam Fender made for the BBC was a touching tribute to an incredible songwriter.
I don't intend to offer some lengthy treatise on why a band, singer or piece of music resonates with someone. Take a meaningful lyric expressed poetically and then add music composed in sympathy with that lyric; to me, the result is magic, whether it is a soulful ballad or a mighty rock anthem. In my case, and as with any art form, my liking something comes from whether I can engage with it emotionally. Is the artwork, song or piece of music telling a 'story' I recognise, believe in and care about? Much of Alan Hull's writing was of an area, people, and social outlook that I readily recognised and identified with. His songs are about the human condition. Of working life. Of ordinary life. Of the place in which I grew up. And of family. I've lived in many towns and cities, but inside, I always saw 'home' as England's Northeast. A home to which I've now returned.
But before seeing Lindisfarne, my first challenge upon arriving in Sunderland was to find somewhere in the town where I could watch the Newcastle United vs Brentford match on TV. Given the intense local rivalry between Newcastle and Sunderland, it would be tricky. Fortunately, a welcoming pub a two-minute walk from my hotel already had the game tuned in as I passed through its doors.
After a less-than-inspiring 60 minutes, NUFC went 1:0 up from a penalty (aware of my whereabouts, I refrained from leaping to my feet in joy). And despite my allegiance, it looked to me a somewhat dubious one. Because of the concert's start time, I had to slip away just after the resultant goal and with some thirty minutes left in the game.
After the band's first number, Rod Clements, now their lead singer, announced that NUFC had won. It's the 75-year-young Rod that's in the photograph above that I took at the gig. Rod quickly followed up that Sunderland, too, were victorious in their game; thus, honours were even, and local rivalries were set aside.
For the next two hours, my heart, memories and emotions fell back some 50 years (my only regret was my knees didn't follow). The seventeen-year-old that lies within me burst from the sixty-seven-year-old I am, as arm waving, body swaying and foot tapping, I sang along to those songs familiar to me from my younger days.
Returning from Sunderland the next morning, I enjoyed a night in my own bed before it was time to pack the overnight bag again and, this time, head into Newcastle. It was for an evening with Northeastern comedians and history buffs Mike Milligan and Raul Kohli. I listen to and much enjoy their podcasts that offer a humorous insight into the history of the Northeast of England, so it was to the Stand Comedy Club to see and listen to them in the flesh. As with the Lindisfarne concert, it was a full house.
Raul and Mike packed in a quick-fire comedic offering on the past two thousand years of Northeast history in just two hours—no mean feat. The underlying theme was that the area's history shaped and defined much of the culture of the Northeast today. The intent of the podcast and the live show is to help audiences learn about that history and the Northeast's contributions to so much of the world today: in culture, invention and civil rights but with an undercurrent of humour, especially as Raul and Mike offer their own theories about why things worked out the way they did in the Northeast and why the people of the Northeast have a reputation as hard-working, tough, loyal and friendly (and with a dialect that others find a challenge to understand).
As I wrote above, Raul and Mike covered a lot of ground, but I'll share some facts that may not be known to a broader audience. They are both around civil rights, not in the UK but in the USA. The people of Newcastle raised the money (some $700) that allowed the great 19th-century civil rights leader Frederick Douglass to buy himself out of slavery. This was after Douglass, who had escaped slavery but did not have the money to 'buy' his freedom, gave a speech on slavery in Newcastle. A more recent civil rights leader, Dr Martin Luther King, also spoke in Newcastle on that subject. Many cities in the UK were wary of having Dr King speak for fear it might raise racial tension. Not Newcastle and the university even awarded him an honorary doctorate—the only UK university to do so in his lifetime.
So, overall, it was a fun week of family visits and enlightening entertainment. I'm taking the day off to do domestic duties today, but tomorrow it's to the theatre. 'The Customs House', a small arts centre in South Shields, to see 'The Bench'. The write-up of the play describes it as "a heart-warming tale of love, loss, and football." Pretty much sums up my life …
What a beautiful round-up, generously shared, Harry. Love how your memories are lived through contemporary happenings, a life still being very well-lived
Harry, what a wonderful piece. And my head spun when I learned that the photo is an original. I love your description of your younger self bursting out. I feel that when I talk with friends about times past, especially sports. Most important, you had quite a dad, which you make shine through the page. I really enjoyed it.