Bellingham's Noble Street Kids: Playing trains

Northumberland Farming History - a village childhood remembered.

By Clive Dalton

The trains were a major part of our lives so “playing trains” was another serious game. I was never the greatest sportsman, but by heck I knew about trains with my father being at guard at that time on the Wanny line which ran from Redesmouth to Scotsgap and exotic place beyond like Morpeth!

Trains were very much part of everyone’s life and for example we always knew the time of day by the train that had just gone up the Tyne or gone doon. There was plenty of choice from the “forst” trains up and doon from Newcastle to Riccarton in the morning at 7.30am, to the midday trains down at 11am and up at 1pm, the 4pm Wannie from Bellingham to Scotsgap, and the 6 oclock up and doon trains again.

When I arrived on this planet upstairs in No 6 Noble Street, Mother told me the 1pm train went up, so that must have had some effect on me. She must have had other things on her mind not to notice which engine was pulling it!

The fell was no good for playing trains but the back lane was ideal. Our trains were long bits of rope which we laid out and pulled along the back lane which was our track. The length of rope depended on which train you were, and which engine was pulling it. You could join bits of rope as you shunted carriages or wagons on or off from the siding.

But before all this you had a major decision to make. You had to decide which engine you were going to be and there was a range of choices because the engines on the Newcastle-Riccarton route were the “Scott class” which apart from their engineering and wheel configuration of 4:6:2, were named after the works and characters of Sir Walter Scott.

So you could be driving Wandering Willie, Quentin Durward, Meg Merrillees, Dougald Dalgetty, The Rufford, The Percy, Caleb Balderstone – all of which passed through Bellingham station. I never studied Scott’s works but the names of those engines have stuck for 65 years.

Another technical feature we had to deal with was the “tablets”. On a single-track line the way to avoid two trains on the one single line at the same time was by using a “tablet”. It was a circular metal disk which acted like a key, and until it was put into what looked like a slot machine in the signal box at the station where the train had just arrived at, and a new one issued, then the train could not proceed to the next “block”.

The business of putting in and taking out had to be accompanied by hitting a plunger on the unit which rang bells – in a sort of morse code which sent messages to the next signal box to let them know what was going on.

The tablet was carried on the engine in a leather pouch held on a wire loop covered in leather. As the train came into the station, the fireman leaned out of the cab holding his tablet, and the signalman stood on the platform with the exchange one to go to the next signal box.

The exchange was tricky. The fireman held his tablet low with his left hand, and held his right had above it to go through the loop of the signalman’s tablet. The signalman did the opposite – left hand high and right arm low. If the train was coming in at a fair speed, this was a very fast changeover, and the signalman could expect a whack on his back with the momentum unless he rotated to the right to lessen the impact.

Now we kids knew all about this tablet technology and the changing routine, so we had to make our tablets. This was easy as on the side of the road near the Blue Heaps was a pussy willow tree with nice long shoots that we cut strip and bent into loops to make tablets. We tied them with a bit of string, and each of us engine drivers had one. We were dab hands at exchanging tablets as we passed each other at speed.

As my father had been a guard at Redesmouth before being signalman at Bellingham station, I was well equipped. I had an old Guard’s lamp lit by paraffin which could show plain light, red or green. I also had a red and green flag, a genuine “Acme Thunderer” whistle (with a pea inside it), and of course an old railwayman’s hat. One of the Benson kids had a railway hat too as their Uncle Eddie Laing worked at Redesmouth station as a guard on the Wannie line too. What more could you want?

We had the choice of being an L.N.E.R (London and North Eastern Railway) train which was our local line, or L.M.S. (London Midland & Scottish). If Carlisle was one of your destinations, it was always good to say you were an LMS train.

The beauty about playing trains was that we could play in the dark of winter, and darkness was important for my lamp to show. After the signal, our trains took off with a whistle or hoot, and we’d pull our long lengths of rope along the street and down the bank to the Woodburn road. Here we had to shunt, walking backwards of course, to hook on to the other end of the rope to pull the train back up the hill and along the street to Cowan’s end, where there was a small turning circle which acted as our turntable before hooking up again for another journey to some exotic place like Hexham, Newcastle or Rothbury – or even Carlisle.

Photo 1: Harry Dalton, signalman (and gardener) at Bellingham station which won the prize for best station gardens.
Photo 2: Geoff Dalton with younger brother Clive (c1936)

Bellingham's Noble Street Kids: Wagon drivin

Northumberland Farming History - a village childhood remembered.


By Clive Dalton

Photo shows Clive holding Bobby Hutton outside No 5 Noble Street, where the Davidson's lived (Bobby's grandparents). The Daltons lived at No 6 in about 1940.


One game we played was very serious work. Over the fell were sheep tracks that we imagined were our main roads to places like Newcastle (the frog ponds), Hexham (the Blakelaw gate) and other spots such as gates or trees which became destinations like Wark, Otterburn or even Wooler.

The first job was to dig clay from a hole on the fell, and cart it in my small wheelbarrow (I was the sole owner of one my father got made at Redesmouth) to lay on the sheep tracks to make roads. Then all you needed was a tin lid, from the pantry to act as steering wheel, and the decision as to “where wor ye gana gan”.

But before that, you had to choose “we yi wor ganna be”. The most popular choices were the two Bellingham wagon drivers who drove for Hugh Thompson, of Tommy Smith (who lived at Number 4), or Jake Cowan (who lived at No 10). Their wagons were permanently parked at Noble Street,

You could also choose Hugh Thompson, or maybe Tucker Jamieson with his red wagon from Wark. We never chose names of wagon firms that came from the Scotch side to the marts – they never gave us rides and never even asked us to crawl into the bottom sheep deck to spread new sawdust. Anyway, they taalked funny and neebody cud understand them.

These journeys had to be accompanied by full sound effects of whether your wagon was full or empty, the size of the load and how steep the gradient. It was a fair pull up the fell to Newcastle with a full load of sucklers I can tell you! Many a time we were still on the road at dark and never heard the shoot – “Will ye git yorsel inte the hoose. Whaat hev ye been dein covered in muck - get yorsels inte the hoose and make sure ye wesh behind your lugs. And where’s the cake tin lid?”

The water for our street came off the fell and into a concrete tank (beside our No 6 netty and ash pit) with a cast iron lid on it. The outlet to the tank was the single tap in the middle of the street from which everyone filled their pails which they then took back to stand in the cool of their pantries.

It was great fun prising this lid off the water tank and looking into its dark depths. We smaller kids were banned from this exercise and constantly reminded of how my brother Geoff and Billy Davidson were at this forbidden lark when Bill fell in! From that historic event he got the name of “Tanky” for years afterwards.

Bellingham's Noble Street Kids: Rabbitin

Northumberland Farming History - a village childhood remembered.

By Clive Dalton

The two oak trees on the boundary between the Breckons’s and the Demesne fells were an important part of our play. Some of the older lads had put big nails in the trunk of one tree so we could climb into the branches, again to watch for “the enemy”.

The biggest hazard was rippin the arse oot of your breeks on a branch or nail when making your rapid exit or overbalancing. Then you were in deep trouble.

The sod cast along the boundary between both farms was always alive with rabbits which we used to try and snare, hoping that Jack or Bob Beattie didn’t catch us at it.

You could buy snares at the Northern Farmers next to the Police station (a place to be wary of with Sergeant Geordie Fell who viewed us all as potential trouble).

The trouble was that Sgt Fell had his private residence in the bungalow at the end of Percy Terrace, so was just a bit too near our operations. And were could never be sure whether he was aware of poem somebody in the village must have composed about him.

The funny thing was that although poetry we learned at school was always at struggle to remember, we all seemed to have instant recall of this bit of doggerel after first hearing it.

Geordie Fell went to hell
And shit amang the dockins
The wind blew, the skitta flew
And dortied aall his stockins

We would either put the snares around the entrance to the rabbit hole or just out from the entrance on an obvious track. You had to identify the spot where the rabbit had paused on this run, and then made a hop to its next resting stop. The theory was that if you put the snare at that precise spot, the rabbit would hop through and Bingo he was yours to gut then skin. Too often you’d catch an old “milky doe” which was not attractive eating.

Photo: The Bellingham Police Sergeant in 1954 - NOT Geordie Fell!
Contact me if you can remember his name!

Bellingham's Noble Street Kids: Addressin the berl

Northumberland Farming History - a village childhood remembered.

By Clive Dalton

Photo: courtesy of Google Maps, the village of Bellingham. The marker is on Noble Street. To the West you can see the modern Golf Course, just to the North of Noble Street is the Blue Heaps, and in the bottom left the North Tyne river.

Golf was a great option for us Noble Street kids as we set up a small course on the fell with a couple of holes behind the houses, and then two more away on another flat green area towards the back of the fell with a dogleg to get there. On this other green area there had been another row of houses for the iron workers in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Only the foundations could be seen covered in grass which the sheep clearly loved as it must have been sweetened from the lime from the ancient plaster that held the stones together.

What helped our golf greatly was our neighbour George Milburn who after being demobbed, he and Jenny came to live in Number 7, (next to us Daltons at No 6). George had played a lot of golf as a member of the Bellingham golf club. We kids were not allowed on the Bellingham course (founded in 1893!) and in any case our parents had no money to pay for membership or a round – even if we had been socially acceptable.

Obtaining golf clubs was not a problem thanks to Jack Fawkes. Jack was an old bachelor who used to live in a small corner cottage in the square down by the blacksmith’s shop and he was a regular fixture at all the May sales buying up anything he fancied. He was a man of wide choice! He had an enormous collection of clubs, which he’d part with for around two shillings apiece. Our meagre saving could manage this after a few weeks.

Fully equipped with our clubs, George Milburn then spent time “demonstrratin huw to addrrress the berl”. He was very thorough! We never had money to buy golf balls, but a quick sneak around the golf course could provide a supply.

A great spot for “baall spottin” was on the top of the blue shale ridge looking down on the second hole at the golf course beside the Low Dam on the Hareshaw Burn. You just sat there till some over zealous player whacked one into the burn and waited till he gave up the search, to plodge in and pick it up. When asked by the golfer if we’d seen where his ball went – well what could you say but “noah Mister, Aa saa nowt – Aa divn’t think it went in the wattor”.

Bellingham's Noble Street Kids: The Blue Heaps

Northumberland Farming History - a village childhood remembered.

By Clive Dalton

The Blue Heaps from the Woodburn road, the blue shale now covered in grass

Over the Woodburn road were the Blue Heaps which had a special significance in our imaginary world and a mystery all of their own. We imagined them as all sorts of things – mountains to climb, forts to defend, slopes to slide down on a bit of cardboard, and a place to fill a match box with tiny circular fossils sea creatures brought up with the blue shale to extract the iron ore.

This shale was moved up on a wagonway, still visible, on trolleys and tipped to make massive heaps. It must have been a mammoth task using horse power to pull the wagons. It’s amazing how men were able to pile the heaps so high.

I am walking up the old wagonway towards the Blue Heaps

They were also had the wartime lookout of Royal Observer Corps. When we went there we never knew if any of the Corps like George Batey or Percy Bolam were on daytime duty, watching for enemy planes or the German paratroopers to come and disturb “wor play”.

During the week, the Observers were mainly on duty at night and we used to watch see walking up the Woodburn road to the Blue Heaps after they had finished their day’s work, with their gasmasks and bait bags. It was at the weekends that they were a hazard to us kids as they did day duty then.

We used the fell to fight many battles with the Germans. The main problem we had was that nobody wanted to be “the Germans”, we all wanted to be the English. We had a wonderful range of toy weapons made from assorted bits of wood. And we were adept at all the drill moves – and bayonet practice.

If “the Garmans” had ever arrived, we kids would have rushed heme te get wor toy guns oot and fix wor wooden bayonets to defend Noble Street. The chances are that we could have put up as good a show as the Home Guard – though you didn’t hear me say that. At least you wouldn’t have had to marshal us and call a meeting in the snug at the Fox & Hounds to dole out the ammunition!

My father was a sergeant in the Home Guard and his .303 rifle (which I could hardly lift) with no ammunition was upstairs in the corner of the bedroom next to the bag of Spillers flour mother kept all during the war incase we were besieged. Dad had survived the four years of 1914-18 war, so a .303 with fixed bayonet was as familiar as his garden push hoe.

We never did eat any of that flour; by the end of the war the weevils and meal moths had taken over to such an extent that it was unusable. Hitler’s paratroopers were lucky they didn’t come – as they could have been bombarded with Spillers flour bombs.

Photo: Harry Dalton in his Noble Street garden (c1948). Noble street in the background.

Bellingham's Noble Street Kids: Cricket's Original Ashes

Northumberland Farming History - a village childhood remembered.

By Clive Dalton

The Noble Street nettie shared by Davidsons( No 5) & Daltons (No 6). When visited in 200o it had been made into a feature with cat entrance! On the left of the nettie was the ash pit with its solid walls & rounded coping stones. There were two ventilation slits high up on each side wall.

In summer, the green area behind the Noble Street houses was our cricket pitch but it had two problems. One was the slope, which forced you to pitch the ball at the batsman on the high side of the hill, to allow for an inswing doon the hill.

The other problem was the ash pit, which was attached to the 'nettie' (Geordie word for toilet). It was not the most savoury of places to have to climb in and out of, as when the toilet was full, and a little door over the hole removed, it was emptied into the ash pit, into which over the period of a month or so, was home for the ashes from the fires and any other rubbish we had.


We dealt with this problem by making a simple rule that if you hit the ball into the ash pit, not only were ye oot, but ye had te gan in and get the baall oot!

If Joe or Kit Maughan had not been to empty it for a while, and cart it away to the frog ponds, then this could be a bit unsavoury to say the least, but it helped shape your future directional play.

We Daltons had cricket bats of sorts (one large and one small), which my father who worked on the railway at Redesmouth had made by the railway joiner (Phillip Wood). They were made of some tropical hard wood and you could hardly lift them.

We were lucky enough to have some old hairless tennis balls from cousins who before the war used to play tennis; otherwise you couldn’t get anything made of rubber at that time. In our collection of balls there was one which seemed to be made of stone and if you hit it with the bat, the shock pushed your eyeballs oot. We always elected to “play wi the soft ball”.

Wickets were no problem. If we got keen we’d take off up Hareshaw Lynn to cut some hazel sticks for stumps, but usually an upturned ash bucket served the purpose.

The sporting participants were we Daltons (Geoff and Clive), the Bensons (Dennis, Morris and Micky), The Masons (Frankie as Archie and Jimmy were as young lads in the navy), Billy Little and Billy Davidson.

We younger kids didn’t like the older ones who used to cheat and argue they were NOT OOT, or that the goal went in between the two jerseys laid on the ground for goal posts when it didn’t. The lasses (the Welton kids and Jenny Cowan) were not allowed by us lads to play cricket, so they specialised in “settin thor gobs up” and inventing rude nicknames.

Rounders was a game the lasses were allowed to join in, but only for short periods as they were always disputing the rules set by us lads and taking the huff when their weaknesses were pointed out! It was better not to have them in and just put up with thor gobs and hearing wor nick names. Again the ash pit rules applied. The clothes posts were ideal bases for this game.

Football had to be played with old tennis balls as nobody had a real football during and after the war. Somebody found an old football case but there was no hope of buying a new rubber bladder to inflate it. Kicking a tennis ball around was preferable to booting an old leather case. You couldn’t pretend you were Jackie Milburn or Stubbs scoring with an empty ball case.

There was a thriving football group with a proper ball who played on the Fairstead near the Council School but us Noble Street kids were never very welcome among the village kids, at least not until we got older as the grownups who were serious Bellingham football team members played there – and they kicked the ball hard!


Further reading:
Graham, F. (1986). The Geordie Netty. A short history and guide
Butler & Butler.
ISBN 0-946928-08-8

Bellingham's Noble Street Kids: Weshin Day & the claes lines

Northumberland Farming History - a village childhood remembered.

By Clive Dalton

When I see my grandkids, constantly within sight of a carer, playing in protected areas approved by Health & Safety authorities, I often wonder how we Noble Street (Snoggy Gate) kids ever survived.

The “fell” (field/moorland) was our playground – and it provided a world ranging from childish fantasy and grownup reality. All you needed for action was the words – “hey, get the footbasll oot,” or “Aam ganin te the Blue Heaps – are ye cumin”?

The fell behind the 10 houses in the street was part of Breckons’s Foundry Farm and had endless possibilities for us kids. Its different types of herbage had a big influence on what we could do and where - and what we could find.

There was the green area next to the houses which was like a lawn, kept short by the grazing sheep. As a result we had to accept the “sheep dottles” as a normal part of this. Further out the herbage changed to bent grass with its “bull snoots” among which you could find the nests of skylarks and curlews. Then there was the heather at the back of the fell next to the Woodburn Road where you may find a red grouse.

If we fancied a bit of “moor burning” (without Breckons’s permission) this is where we would try to “git the fire ganin”, and then panic to try to put it oot! You could guarantee a good gollarin when we got heme that night as we stunk of smoke.

The slightly scary frog ponds were at the back of the fell as nobody dare plumb their depth and we were always scared we fell in to a bottomless pit which devoured all the “product” dumped from the street’s five ash pits and netties two or three times a year.

The grassy area next to the houses was used primarily as the drying green for the houses on weshin day, again with two houses sharing the one wire washing line and claethes prop. On Mondays you never failed to hear the possin (pounding) of the claes in the wooden tubs (barrels) that every house all had for the job. Where the barrels came from I never knew. The wooden poss sticks were turned on a lathe, probably from ash or sycamore that could take constant wetting and drying. The business end was cut into four sections to aid pounding the wet clothes, and the top end was nicely rounded with a stick handle inserted right though to give a good grip.

After possin the clothes were put through a large wooden roller mangle, with great big cogs protected by a cover from small fingers. It was a two person job where the feeder of the claes could easily get their fingers squeezed by an over zealous mangle handle turner.

Later on, progress was a galvanised tub, and a posser made of a copper with holes in it like a colander which let water in and out when you possed. Then, when you really got rich, you went fully mechanical with a Ewebank washer where you turned a handle to agitate the clothes in a square tub or tank. This had a small mangle with rubber rollers fitted to it which sat on the top. The handle folded in when not in use. What luxury it was just turning the handle in half circles with no thumping of the posser in the tub.

The clothes line was a permanent stranded wire stretched from a netty (through the ventilation hole) to a long post at the other end which always worked loose in the ground as Breckons’s horse (Tom) loved to scratch his hint end on it. Stapling bits of barbed wire around the post didn’t seem to stop him – in fact he seemed to enjoy the experience even more! In wet weather, water got doon the hole and eventually it would faaall ower or cum oot.

You prayed for a good drying day on the Monday or else you had to face a steamy Monday night as the clothes hung up in the house on the line infront of the fire. And you could guarantee that “fettles” would not be good either!

Photo:
The Noble Street kids - Weltons, Cowans, Smiths, and Masons sitting on the fell having probably their first photo taken on Clive's Box Brownie given to him by neighbour Margie Davidson. The exposed films had to be taken to George Cordiner the village pharmacist and you got them back in a few days after they'd been to Hexham for processing.

Northumberland history 1939-45 war “Hey man – thor’s real sowldjors at the bottom of wor gardens”! A Wartime Memory.

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It seemed to happen overnight. For us Bellingham Noble Street laddies it was the most exciting thing that we could have dreamed of. We had quietly been training with our home-made wooden guns and bayonets to annihilate the "Hun" when they landed, with the village Home Guard as role models. We quietly realised that they were not "real sowldjers" but this was a fact we kept to worsels, especially as our parents were in the ranks! My mouth was sewn shut as my Dad was a sergeant in the HG.

Then without warning in Breckons's hayfield at the bottom of our gardens, what seemed to us a whole army arrived overnight. These were "real sowldjers" and were the Lancashire Fusiliers with badges, buttons and arm flashes we drooled over for our collections.

What appeared to us as a city of bell tents went up– put next to the garden fence in a slight hollow which the first rains soon showed was not a good choice. Drains had to be dug around the tents. We kids sneaked in the tents to lie on their hard beds all feet facing inwards and were overawed at the real rifles stacked around the central solid tent pole.

Mind, we soon had to do a skidaddle when the NCOs and officers arrived. The soldiers paraded with roaring sergeants on the slight rise in the field and we never missed a detailed command for when our little Snoggy Gate patrol was next on parade.

No doubt there was no hay that year for farmer George Breckons which would be quite a sacrifice for the war effort. Then there were the soldiers' "netties" or latrines to be investigated making us realise that "wor own netties" were Rolls Royce compared to theirs. It was much safer "te gan heme to wor own netty" than risk the danger of dangling over a large hole on a wooden plank shielded from the world by bit of sacking!

It was interesting that if our parents knew why the little army had arrived, they said nothing to us kids – and we knew not to ask. "Careless talk costs lives" we could all recite.

We bairns soon latched on to "favourites" among the troops – and kept a close watch for when they came back from exercises or marches pouring sweat, tongues hanging out and with empty water bottles. It was our job to grab these, race up the gardens through the house (ignoring the yells of "clean yor dorty feet) if you wanted some time advantage, and fill them up at the tap in the back lane. There was one tap for the 10 houses so you dare not miss your turn. Then once full, we would race back again to watch the water go down in one long draft – cold, clear water straight off a spring on the fell behind the houses.

This adoption of a soldier went as far as each house having an extended family that our parents used to feed at supper time. I remember we had Len – a real comedian as Lancashire lads could be, and another serious, quiet, very kind lad called Martin. I can't remember the other one or maybe two. Despite the meager rations we had, our mothers fed them like fighting cocks with plenty of vegetables everyone grew in the big gardens that stretched for about 30 yards down the slope in front of the houses.

The Noble Street folk could not have befriended the whole lot and I can't remember if others went to houses in the village, maybe in Percy Street? It would be interesting to hear if anyone else can remember them.

They must have had a "refreshing" effect in the local pubs and at the dances – but we bairns were too young to know or understand the hushed whispers. As Lancashire lads speaking a "foreign tongue" they were certainly in alien territory in Bellingham. I had two girl cousins who always seemed keen to come from Lemington and stay at that time and go to the dances – with Mother waiting on the road near the Youth Hostel for their swift return two minutes after midnight.

I remember being told in hushed tones that one of our adopted soldiers was planning to desert – and he wanted to leave his rifle at our house. My father as an ex WWI veteran soon let him know what he thought of the idea and what to do with his rifle! I think the poor lad soon gave up on the idea.

Then one day they were all gone and a very squashed field remained for the Breckons family to clean up. I can't remember when the soldiers appeared it was the early part of the year and into summer. I realise now that they were probably training in the lead up to some big event. It was maybe too early for the D-day offensive.

Me (Clive Dalton), aged 7 with the Lancashire Fusiliers befriended and fed by Mother and Dad at No 6 Noble Street. The canvas on our old pre-war deck chairs didn't last long with these big lads acting the fool. The lad in front of me is Len, and on the right of the picture is Martin. I can't remember the other names - I wonder if they ever came home again?

I have often wondered how many of them ever got back to their homes and families – and if they did, whether they would ever remember the folks of Noble Street in Bellingham – and maybe the little laddies that filled their water bottles at the tap? This little laddie has always very thankful of their contribution- as "his little wooden gun and bayonet wadn't have saved us". But the Bellingham Home Guard would surely have done so, wouldn't you agree?