Readers of the Lost Art

The Readers of the Lost Art

Ronan — Tue, 06 Feb 2007 07:21:28 -0600

The Readers of the Lost Art are a group of oddballs and misfits who are drawn to Newcastle's Literary and Philosophical Society every fortnight by a common love of comic books (or 'graphic novels', for those with delusions of maturity). When asked whether we would be interested in Mapping the Necklace, our thoughts turned for inspiration to those comic books with a strong sense of location. Most notable among these was Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell's From Hell, ostensibly a story about Whitechapel's 1888 Jack the Ripper murders, but also a study of the city of London itself. Moore uses principles of 'psychogeography', developed by writers such as Iain Sinclair, to weave together associations of placenames, historical evidence and stories, fiction and legends, into a work which gives a sense of the city's spirit. Our aim for Mapping the Necklace is to perform a similar exercise with Durham City and the Necklace Park. We are therefore going to 'map' the stories associated with Durham, teasing out tales and associations to form the basis of a comic book which gives a feel for the spirit of the place.

Our researches have already begun, and we have already homed in on one or two stories which have captured our imaginations, and I hope to write about some of these in a future blog post. For now, our team is looking for people who could help us with our project. We are looking for artists and writers who would like to unleash their imaginations upon Durham's rich history, as well as anyone with specialist knowledge of Durham's history, legends or folk tales. We are also seeking people interested in joining in with research.

More information to follow, but I hope that whets the appetite for now.

Readers of the Lost Art

Site visit

Jean — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 15:43:49 -0500

Readers of the Lost Art

The Big Meeting

Jean — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 15:40:46 -0500

Durham is not only the city of the aristocratic Prince Bishops and the learned gentlefolk of the University. It is - or rather, it was, until the coal ran out - also the focal point for the miners who worked the Durham coalfield, and their families. The work was hard and dangerous, but there was an annual day out to look forward to, organised by the Miners' Union: the Miners' Gala or Big Meeting.

The first Gala was held in Wharton Park, but it soon moved to the riverside setting of the Racecourse. People travelled in to the outskirts of the city from the surrounding pit villages, and each pit gathered around its own banner and marched through the streets behind its brass (or silver) band. It took hours for everyone to reach the Racecourse, with each band stopping to play for the guests and invited speakers on the balcony of the Royal County Hotel. The streets were packed, and shop windows were boarded up - not for fear of violence, but because the glass was at risk from the sheer crush of bodies. Then there would be speeches from trades union leaders, and Labour politicians, after which some of the banners process back across the river to the cathedral. Or, if you preferred other entertainments, there was a funfair. And the pubs would stay open all day - back when this was something exceptional, which required a special licence.

It's still worth visiting Durham on the second Saturday in July, to see the banners and hear the bands, to go to the funfair and generally join in the party, but the pits have closed, the heart has gone out of the Labour movement and the Gala is a mere shadow of its former self.

Readers of the Lost Art

Escape route

Jean — Fri, 16 Mar 2007 16:10:58 -0500

These days, Durham Prison is a category B local prison, and John McVicar is a journalist; but back in the 1960s, John McVicar was an armed robber who acquired the title of Public Enemy Number 1 (it was a slow year, he says now) and Durham was the high security jail where he was imprisoned.

His book, McVicar by Himself, recounts how he escaped from Durham prison. It's an exciting story, and fascinating if you know Durham, because he describes his route in some detail, out over the roof of the prison and down the road, across a humped-backed bridge (which doesn't exist) and down to the river. So here's another day in the life of the Necklace Park:

I went straight ahead towards the sanctuary of the trees; the sheer physical power of my running conquered my fears. This is what fitness is all about; when what is at stake is not medals or prizes but your life. I felt unbeatable.

I reached the trees and their protection closed around me, a guarantee of safety, but suddenly I was treading on air and I fell; I had overrun a steep fall in the ground. You mug! I thought, as I dropped and hit the ground and started to roll over. I knew I'd injured my wrist. There was no pain, but I just felt certain of it as I slithered to a halt among some bushes and saplings. I cursed myself. I still felt no pain, but sometimes that's delayed when you injure yourself and break something in this kind of situation. I moved my body; nothing seemed to be wrong.

Then I realized that I'd lost a shoe. I could only see for a radius of about four inches, but I swept the ground above and to the side of me; no luck. I heard the river lapping softly below me, so I kicked off the other shoe, gingerly made my way down the bank, and swam across with a gentle breast stroke. The river was about twenty yards wide, and in the middle I felt very open and exposed, but I made it to the other side without attracting attention. I crawled about ten yards up the bank, then froze into immobility and listened. Everything was deceptively quiet. But my wet clothes and shoeless feet had changed the whole balance of the situation to my disadvantage; I couldn't pass unnoticed any more.

After a few minutes I heard shouts and the voices of a
search party and the occasional bark of a dog. I waited, and then I heard them wading up the river, and saw the odd flash of a torch. A duck whirred up in protest, and I thought that if the dogs weren't already distracted by all the blundering rozzers they would be by that. I went up the rest of the bank by kind permission of the duck.

There was a path running along the top but I wanted a hidey hole. I crossed the path and came into some gardens, crisscrossed by all kinds of paths leading in and out; later on I realized they were communal collegiate gardens. I walked along the backs of the houses that adjoined them, but they were terraced, with no gaps between them, so I found a friendly bush to crawl under. It began to rain, and I heard groups of students returning to their houses; I stayed there for about an hour, when I heard the sounds of a search party combing the gardens. I got out of the hedge and went round to the backyard door of what I now realized was a university house. I went into the yard and shut the door. The yard was very small, perhaps fifteen feet long by twenty feet wide, and was illuminated by the light from a number of upstairs windows. Young men were moving about up there, preparing to go to bed.

I found a corner to hide in and shelter from the rain; I wasn't worred because I had dark clothes on and couldn't easily be seen. After about an hour an old man came out and emptied something into a dustbin. He was only a few yards away from me, but I didn't move and he didn't notice me. Then some kids came in and I decided it was time I found another hiding place.

I went back into the gardens and turned to the left and continued until I found another sheltered place. I lay on the ground, and could hear the murmur of young people talking in one of the rooms of a big semicircular building near by. It had stopped raining; I felt very lonely. I waited until about one o'clock and came out into the quietness and emptiness of the graveyard hours. But once you're on the move your mind picks up a charge of energy; you feel you're making progress; in a way you're trying to create some kind of freedom. I went
back to the path along the river and walked rapidly along it in the direction I'd taken before I'd swum the river.

The river banks were beautifully landscaped on both sides with grass and trees, and for about half a mile I was able to go forward freely and easily, but then the river entered a factory area. Rather than run the risk of taking to the streets, I decided to swim out of the town; Durham isn't a large place and the current of the river was running my way. I got into the water and the cold hit me like a hammer blow, but I told myself I would get used to it. I swam past a half-submerged pipe on which stood a big long-tailed rat, its fur spiked by the water. It watched me with interest, turning its head as I swam past; I smiled at its acknowledgement that I represented no threat to its environment.

But I didn't get used to the cold, which pierced me to the marrow, and I felt my strength waning. At the most I could have swum only a few hundred yards. I got out of the water by a stretch of derelict ground which looked as if it couldn't be reached except from the river. I don't know why I made things hard for myself by swimming; the only explanation I've ever thought of is that the swimming in the recent Olympic Games had gone to my head.

Quite apart from the cold, no-one who'd seen a map of Durham would think that taking to the river was the easy way out of town!

Readers of the Lost Art

Alice in Sunderland

Jean — Mon, 05 Mar 2007 12:17:10 -0600

Bryan Talbot is one of Britain's comics stars, with an international reputation both for the comics he writes and draws solo (such as the groundbreaking The Adventures of Luther Arkwright and The Tale of One Bad Rat which won an Eisner award - the comics equivalent of an Oscar). (Read more about Bryan, and see some of his work, on his web site).

When he moved from the northwest to Sunderland, he was bowled over by his new home town, and started thinking about a book which would bring together a history of Sunderland, with material from his own life, a history of British comics and Alice in Wonderland. Although Lewis Carroll is usually described as an Oxford man, he had close connections with the northeast, and so did Alice.

The book is called Alice in Sunderland, and it will be published in April. Bryan is doing a sequence of local events for the launch, and will be in Waterstones in Durham on Sunday April 22nd, between 2.00 pm and 3.00 pm. Which will be an opportunity to go and see the pages in which the Pilgrim, the author's representative, travels from Finchale, where he sees Saint Godric tormented by devils and goblins, to Durham itself, where he tells various colourful tales about the City's history.

Readers of the Lost Art

Bits and pieces of Durham history

Ronan — Sun, 04 Mar 2007 12:54:58 -0600

On Saturday, Pauline, Andrew, Becky and myself met up at the Lit and Phil to check out their local history section for tales from Durham. I discovered an Ecclesiastical History of the area in volume II of William Page's A History of the County Durham, and jotted down some notes on the interesting bits.

There were a couple of battles in which the Scots unsuccessfully attacked Durham. The first was led by King Malcolm in 1006, in which "the heads of many of the defeated host were fastened upon the fortifications." The next, in 1040, was led by Duncan of Shakespearean fame. On that occasion, heads were stuck on poles on Palace Green.

The next subject which interested me concerns the removal of Cuthbert's Community from Durham. Bishop Carileph, one of the Norman bishops installed following the conquest of 1066, "gave the congregation the choice of turning monk or withdrawing." I read elsewhere, in a book Jean brought to the last comics meeting, that only one person took Carileph up on his offer. This source mentioned that staying and joining the benedictines would, of course, mean celebacy!

I also came across an interesting passage when reading about Bishop Fox, who "strove to curb the wild and unruly borderers of Tynedale and Redesdale by spiritual process. They contantly made inroads into the bishopric for the sake of plunder, and among them were certain hedge-priests as lawless as any. The presence of these men is a curious side-light on the character of some of the Northumberland clergy at the time, and it is probable that the bishopric clergy proper were of a higher type than their rougher brethren further north." There was an accompanying reference to an article in the Surtees Society, but when i looked it up it was in Latin.

Also according to this book, the banner of Saint Cuthbert was unfurled in battle for the final time when James IV invaded in 1512. The banner is mentioned in some of the other sources I've read, and is said to have sewn into it a square of linen Cuthbert used to polish his chalice, and is also known to have been flown during the famous Battle of Neville's Cross. The invasion by James IV sparked 'a clearing movement which was intended to sweep away the remains of the Scots in England." The Bishop of the time, Ruthall, was known to have attended burnings of Lutheran books in London.

Readers of the Lost Art

The Count's House

Jean — Mon, 26 Feb 2007 15:38:00 -0600

Huddled back into the river bank near Prebend's Bridge, there's a building that looks like a Greek temple. It's known as "The Count's House", but in fact it's just a summer house, all that remains of the home of Durham's Little Count.

Here's the Wikipedia article about Józef Boruw?aski, the Polish dwarf who lived in Durham in the early eighteen hundreds - eventually dying here in 1837, at the age of 98.

Readers of the Lost Art

Saint Godric at Finchale

Jean — Thu, 22 Feb 2007 10:26:26 -0600

There are stories all along the riverbanks, and one of the best is the story of Saint Godric, who ended his life near Finchale priory.

According to my Penguin Dictionary of Saints, Godric was born near Kings Lynn in Norfolk in 1065 (though that seems unlikely, since he lived until 1170), made a living as a pedlar and then went to sea where he became a wealthy trader. Reginald of Durham, who knew him, said that his early life was disorderly and his business methods dishonest - perhaps this is why he felt the need to go on several pilgrimages, and ultimately become a hermit.

Before he settled down, his pilgrimages took him to Jerusalem, Compostela and Saint Andrews. He walked, barefoot, to Rome, accompanied by his mother. In 1102, he just happened to be sailing down the coast of the Holy Land when the King of Jerusalem needed help to make his escape after his defeat at the battle of Ramleh, and was able to give him a lift.

Godric also wrote some of the earliest poetry in English: medieval biographies of him preserve four fragments of hymns, for which he apparently also composed the music: that makes him the first of the singer-songwriters (there's a tiny sample of his hymn to Saint Nicholas if you scroll far enough down this page).

Finchale is part of my personal story, too. My father spent his holidays there as a boy in the 1920s and 30s, in a wooden hut which his father had built. On one of his first visits after I had moved to Durham, he walked me along the river bank and showed me the location which they had known as the site of Godric's cell. You can't walk there now, as it's all blocked off by houses.

Readers of the Lost Art

The Legend of Sir John Duck

Ronan — Sun, 18 Feb 2007 15:08:13 -0600

I wanted to point people in the direction of David Simpson's North East England History Pages, which has a section devoted to County Durham History. This looks to be an excellent resource for developing our Story Map of Durham's Necklace Park.

In my last post, I promised I would go into some of the more interesting stories encountered during research, and for your reading pleasure I present to you...

The Legend of Sir John Duck

Sir John Duck is known as Durham's Dick Whittington, except where Whittington dreamed of streets paved with gold, the young John Duck pined for streets puddled with offal, where one could wade ankle deep in the guts of slaughtered animals. The tales of Fleshewergate, where the butchers slaughtered animals in the street, captured his imagination and inspired him to travel to Durham to become a butcher. The Butcher's Guild, however, would not accept him because they suspected he was a scot. (Bear in mind this was 1655, and only about 5 years previous to this the Durham Cathedral was used to camp scottish prisoners of war; those not starved to death were sold into slavery).

In spite of this, Duck found work, with a butcher named John Heslop. He soon married Heslop's daughter; one can only imagine the charms of the lady who snared the little boy who dreamt of open air abbotoirs.

The guild got heavy with Heslop, and Duck was persuaded to leave town. He was canny that Heslop, waiting till they were married before he caved to the Guild's pressure. From here on, it turns into a shaggy dog story as John Duck heads for Framwellgate Bridge on his way out of town, and a raven drops a gold coin at his feet. At the bridge, he met a farmer who was having difficulty driving a couple of cows to market. Duck bought the cows with the coin, drove them to market, and made a profit. Through his successful cattle dealership, he was eventually able to realise his dreams of trading as a butcher, and was slopping about in cattle guts in his wellies with the best of them.

By 1680, this cleaver-wielding, blood-bespattered tradesman was accepted as Mayor of the city, and was given the Freedom of the Butchers' Company. Apparently, though, there is more to this chap than his lust for hewing raw meat, as he did found a hospital and was also knighted by King Charles II.

Readers will probably note that I have taken liberties with my historical retelling.

Readers of the Lost Art

"Maps have potency..."

Becky — Mon, 12 Feb 2007 10:20:07 -0600

From Chapter 4 of the graphic novel 'From Hell' by Alan Moore