Grey towers of Durham
Yet well I love thy mixed and massive piles
Half church of God, half castle ‘gainst the Scot
And long to roam these venerable aisles
With records stored of deeds long since forgot
Sir Walter Scott
I did my first 'courting' in Durham over fifty years ago. Does anyone call it courting anymore? I guess the word ‘dating’ is today's equivalent, but to me, courting is a word that conveys more romance. A gentler world that better reflected what I sought as a young teen. I suspect the writings of F Scott Fitzgerald overly influenced me.
My first girlfriend was Diane. I will not share her surname to protect the innocent. And we were both innocents. I was two months short of my fourteenth birthday, and Diane was four months younger than me. So young that our age entitled us to a half-fare return ride on the bus to Durham. Sixpence as I recall (that's two and a half pence for those who never knew the pre-decimalisation days)
After arriving in a sunny and warm Durham. Well, that’s my memory of the weather on the day. I write that with Julian Barnes’ wonderfully compelling and thought-provoking novel, 'The Sense of an Ending', in mind. A novel in which Barnes delves into the complexities of memory, time, and the human experience. The protagonist, like me, is a retired man with a perception of what happened in his past. However, throughout the story, Barnes explores the unreliability of our memories and that our view of our past is often subjective and elusive. One of the lines from the book is, "What you end up remembering isn't always the same as what you have witnessed". I'll touch again on the book in a moment. But, for now, I'll return to Diane and me, and as I remember it, a sunny day in Durham, even though what I may have witnessed was chilly, damp and overcast.
Having nothing more than our bus fare, Diane and I decided to stroll along the path by the River Wear that almost surrounds Durham Cathedral and Castle. As it was, even if we'd had money, Durham did not then offer the likes of Costa, Starbucks etc., that populate today's high streets. This was 1970, and the most on offer for light refreshment were a few sedate 'tea rooms' catering for people distinctly older in years.
Most people will recognise Durham Cathedral from my photograph (taken last month on what, and no need for tricks of memory here, can be seen as a bright sunny day). The Cathedral is a magnificently stunning example of Norman architecture. However, such magnificence was of slight interest to Diane and me that day. We had young eyes only for each other.
Touching back on Barne's novel (I told you I would), I won't pretend I have an in-depth memory of that walk with Diane. (Alas, these were the days before I kept a daily journal). We must have held hands and no doubt kissed. Enjoying that innocence of early kissing. Kisses that offer a 'tingle' just for what they are, without being a precursor of more 'advanced' amorous activity. For me, that lay a couple of years hence. I also fail to remember what we may have spoken about on our stroll under the leafy tree-lined river path. At that age, the limit of our life experience was school, pop music, and, in my case, Newcastle United Football Club (yes, I'd already found one form of love - and to quote another writer, Nick Hornby,
"I fell in love with football as I was later to fall in love with women: suddenly, inexplicably, uncritically, giving no thought to the pain or disruption it would bring with it."
From my experience, never has a writer written truer words.
You'll have guessed by now that the young teenage affection that Diane and I felt for each other did not last the summer of that year, and we had moved on to other beaux by the autumn term. My recollection was of an amicable ending to that first romance for us both - but then again, to quote Barnes,
How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but—mainly—to ourselves."
And what I can tell myself is that Diane remains the only girlfriend with whom I shared a stroll around the riverside path of Durham.
But it wasn't just affairs of the heart that had me visiting Durham. Two firm favourites of my family were the Durham Regatta and the Durham Miners Gala (that everyone in the northeast of England calls the Durham Big Meeting).
Durham Regatta is like that of Henley's Royal Regatta but not so posh. It’s more flat caps than rowing caps and brown ale rather than champagne. It is, however, an older event than Henley. Durham predates it by some six years. I don't know why Durham Regatta was an event my family regularly attended. None of them rowed nor were devoted to, or even had a passing interest in, the sport. I assume my parents saw it simply as a pleasant day out near the leafy banks of the River Wear.
While at Durham Regatta one year, my parents and I made it into the local paper. I was around five years old, and the photograph printed in the said newspaper did not flatter me. I have a decidedly grumpy look sitting beside my mother and father. The reason for my unhappiness was my parents making me wear a long sleeve woollen jumper over a short sleeve shirt. I disliked then, and still do today, the feel of wool against my bare skin. The photographer has forever captured my grumpiness.
In my piece 'I have a Photograph' of late last year, I include a photograph Chris Killip took of the aftermath of a day at the Durham Big Meeting. It features a weary-looking mature couple and a young man lying face down prostrate between them. It captures perfectly that end-of-long-day feeling that a visit to the Big Meeting or Regatta could bring. While not identical to the photograph of my family from the Regatta, Chris Killip's composition does strike a parallel.
Durham Big meeting was much nearer my family's heart, especially on my mother's side, as many were miners. You might recall from other pieces of mine that my father's side was in shipbuilding. The Big Meeting dates to 1871 and is now a celebration of northeast England’s mining heritage. Although initially, it was a demonstration of the strength and unity of the mining community against what they perceived as exploitation (accurately, in my opinion) by the then private mine-owners.
The highlight of the Big Meeting remains the traditional 'banner parade' in which those once associated with mining carry large, colourful, beautifully crafted banners representing their respective mining communities. The aim of the banners, adorned with intricate designs and symbols, is to tell the story of the mining community's struggles and triumphs. Now, as well as the parade, various activities, events, and musical performances are also part of the day.
The Big Meeting was something I would usually attend with my grandfather, to whom I was close and who went 'doon the pit' as we say in the northeast of England, aged fourteen in 1907 and, apart from a ‘sabbatical’ to fight in the Great War, spent 50 years working at the coal face.
I won't be going along to the Regatta this year but come July 8th, I will be at the Big Meeting and will no doubt raise a glass to my grandfather and all his compatriots. And the bus fare won't even cost me sixpence.
Thank you Harry for your weekly highlight. You’ve also nudged me to reread 'The Sense of an Ending'.