Saint Cuthbert: A great Northumbrian

By Dr Clive Dalton

St Cuthbert's church in Bellingham, Northumberland.
I was christened here, tolled the bell and pumped the organ.
Photo: The Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle-upon-Tyne

St Cuthbert on the Net
It's staggering how much information there is about ' Saint Cuthbert' on the Internet - he would be gay pleased aboot that if he has access to it from his tomb in Durham cathedral. It makes you wonder who wrote it all doon for the sake of posterity. It would have been a gay slow process at the time with quill and knife. Nee delete, undo or cut and paste buttons back then.

These are my favourite bits of his story - having been christened by Rev W.J. (Daddy) Flower in St Cuthbert's church in Bellingham, Northumberland. He used water from 'Cuddy's well' below the church to wet me heed, using a large tropical sea shell he brought back from Ceylon.

The church was first built in the mid 1100s and then after many burnings by the thieving Scots, it was rebuilt in 1609 with a stone fireproof roof and stone vaulted nave needing buttresses to support the weight, and a bell tower which the first model didn't have.

It's worth Googling 'St Cuthbert's churches' for a fascinating history of them all.

As Church of England kids we were regularly told St Cuthbert's story, and we all felt a special relationship with 'wor Saint' though, as we were oft reminded, we were far from being 'little saints' worsels!

A 'Daft Laddie"
Now Cuthbert was not the son of an Irish king - and Aa bet he was pleased aboot that, as it could have caused him a serious lot of problems. He was in fact a shepherding 'Daft Laddie' on 'the Scotch side', heordin sheep aroond Melrose Abbey. Nuw I feel great empathy with him in this, as I started as a Daft Laddie chasin sheep 12 miles on the English side - but a bit later in time mind you.

While heordin, you can imagine him having a few canny cracks with the monks aboot the state of his yowes, his gimmers and hoggs, and where he was gana git a decent tup for the season, as the tup sales at Hawick, Lanark and St Boswells wouldn't be ganin in them days.

And Aa bet he pulled the monks' legs about the antics of the tups in their human flocks around the district, if they were allowed ootside the monastery te keep an eye on things.

St Aiden and the angels
Then whaat seemed to trigger an interest in the chorch for a job, was the image he saa of St Aiden being carried up to heaven by angels. Nuw that must hev given him a canny gliff and got him thinkin. It wad anybody eh!

But before he decided whaat te dee, he did his national service in the army to help the local lads protect Northumbria from King Penda from Mercia - that other kingdom doon sooth below Northumbria. You would have thowt that seein the angels would have made him fancy joinin the airforce, but AD 660 was mebe orly days for that.

Anyway, after demob, back to Melrose he went and then to Ripon as the heed man - the 'Master'. I wonder how on earth he got there? He probably waalked a canny bit of the way in his sandals, as he wouldn't have had a decent pair of Rogerson's 'heather louper' shepherd's boots with hob nails and turned up toes (that we lads used to wear), to help him through the potholes and sporlins on the road. Hopefully somebody lent him a powny te save his legs.

There is now a walkway called 'St Cuthbert's Walkway' from Melrose to Lindisfarne commemorating his historic journey - but fortunately for today's walkers, it doesn't include the diversions he had before he finally got to "Holy Island".

Backin a loser
But the poor lad backed a loser - big time. At Ripon, he went with the 'Roman Rite' in the Catholic Church, rather than wi the 'Celtic' rite. He seemed to have tean the huff ower this and went tappy lappy back to Melrose where in AD 664 he became Prior to get away from them Romans. Ye can sartainly understand this, because there'd be plenty of reminders of Roman rule left aroond the coonty when they'd cleared off, leavin the local lads wi that muckle useless waall and aall their netties te clean oot.

But in AD 664, the old gadgees in the Synod of Whitby voted te gan for the Roman Rite, so Cuthbert had to swally his pride and just keep tewin on supporin the team he didn't like. It's happened a lot in history - Aa remember folk that even changed from Newcassel to support Sunderland! Can ye imagine owt warse than that?

Now on Lindisfarne there was a fair row ganin on between the Catholics and Celts, so Cuthbert was picked to be the lad te gan and sort them oot - him having been a Celtic supporter afore that so he knew the score. The story says that he had a 'lot of tact and patience' - soonds that if Newcastle United had him on the board, they'd still be in the Premiers man.

Hermit on Farne - 'Cuddy's ducks'
But Cuthbert clearly wasn't happy in the job, so in AD 676, he must have had a meein with his boss the Abbott who granted him leave te gan te the Inner Farne islands, not far from Lindisfarne, to be a hermit. He clearly wanted te git away from it aall and commune wi God.

Nowt rang wi that mind ye. The poor sowl obviously had things to sort oot in his heed, and there are plenty of folk aboot the nuw who will understand this. Aa knaa plenty of parents who would'nt mind a bit time away as a hermit when the bairns are teethin!

Mind Cuthbert would be aall right on Farne, as there were plenty of sea bords and fresh free-range eggs to live on. The Farne Eider ducks are called 'Cuddy's ducks' after him. Google 'Eider duck' for fascinating details about the birds and St Cuthbert.

And there'd be plenty of fresh fish if he'd tekin some gear alang. Nee reason he cudn't have netted and smoked a few herring and made them inte kippers and bloaters. He wadn't have needed the Eyemouth fish man te caall each week like we later locals did.

Consecrated at York
Then the bosses were at him again to gan back to Lindisfarne and tek the Bishop's job, but it meant he had te gan te York to be consecrated. If it had been me, Aad hev torned the job doon. It would have been another hell of a lang waalk in sandals, but hopefully somebody would have had the goodness of heart to lend the lad a powny te save his feet and legs.

Why cudn't he git dun at Newcassel as they had a canny chorch there? Aa doot it wud have made any difference to God. Hopefully he negotiated gud pay and conditions in his new job, alang with a hefty bonus and a regular supply of tetties and swedes te gan with his ducks and fish!

Anyway, summat must have gaen seriously rang wi the lad, and he must hev felt bad enough te realise that his time on this orth was ganna end. So off he went back ower to his beloved Inner Farne where he passed away on March 20, 687.

Poor lad - he really must have been feelin bad. Nee chance of a rescue helicopter ride to the RVI in Newcassel in them days. As a former shephord, I bet he mused on the fact that he was ganna dee just as the inbye lambin was cumin in. Somebody must hev fund him and took his body back to Lindisfarne for buriel.

Cartin Cuthbert aboot
But now his story takes another loup. Things were ganin canny with aall sorts of folk ganin ower te the island te worship at his grave - a real magnet for 'pilgrims' apparently. (See my blog aboot me chorch days and ganin as a pilgrim to Lindisfarne). Some folk even reported miracles when they visited the grave - sadly there wor nen on my trip.

Then his lads (the monks) got the wheeze that the Danes were cumin ower again for more rape and pillage (wor they any gud at owt else), so the lads fled from Lindisfarne with their prized possessions, including St Cuthbert of course, and humped them aboot the North East for seven lang years.

Imagine that for a job! I bet they didn't get time and a half at weekends, or wet days off. You wad hev thowt theyd' have gitten a barrow te cart him aboot, and save thor showlders and backs. No, them grand lads did it the hard way - six of them at a time in aall weathers.

Chester-le-Street
Anyway, eftor thor lang waalk, they ended up in a chorch at Chester-le-Street, varry handy for Durham. But then the damned Danes came ower again in the late 900s, so they moved the lad to Ripon for safe keepin.

Nuw if ye work this oot, it's 300 years after he went there to work as Master. Pity that he was deed or he cud have had a great time catchin up on things.

But after only a few months at Ripon, which after aall was in what was to become Yorkshire, (where they aall talked funny), they heeded off back to Chester-le-Street, stopping off at Durham.

Nuw summat vary queer happened here as the lads got a 'sign' to say Cuthbert would like to bide there. It's not mentioned whaat the sign was - nowadays they'd git a text or a tweet! Maybe they hord some morse from his coffin! Anyway, it was serious stuff and they took heed.

So at Durham, a series of chorches (not just one) were built to house aall the treasures from Lindisfarne, the first chorch being built on the site of the present cathedral and consecrated in AD 999 which soonds like a memorable year to finish a job. You would have thowt they'd have kept the job ganin for one more year, to roond off the numbers and leave 999 for emergency phone caalls later on.

The 'Harrying of the North'
Yill remember 1066 and aall that. Well in 1069, that uninvited Froggy guest 'William the Lionheart' from ower the watta in Normandy who knackered wor Harold at Hastings, must have got sare worrked up and decided te gan and sort oot the Northern lads that had been playin up a bit.

It was probably nowt much - just a few ower many of what in later history would become Newcassel broons. The northern lads didn't like whaat this daft Frenchman was dein doon sooth - and which wor also affectin them up north, and especially wi wor language. So Froggie Willie thowt a good harrying wad de the trick. Hard luck bonny lad - in the end he had a lang waalk for nowt!

But it's worth rememberin, the one great thing Harold started for us aall, and carried on by wor 'Ethelread the Unready' was to protect wor English language. Can ye imagine readin this tale in Frog speak? Nee body wud understand a woord. Yiv got te admit that any language that dictates the sex a bike, a wheel barra and a pair of kippers, has got to be totally barmy!

Howay lads - back te Lindisfarne
Then to avoid the harryin, Cuthbert's lads took him back to Lindisfarne again for safety. Cuthbert must have put sum miles in by nuw - both deed and alive. Fortunately the hu-ha was soon ower and they took his bones back to Durham where in 1104, they laid his remains doon in the new Cathedral intiv a proper shrine. Even though he was deed, his owld bones must have been gay pleased to rest at last.

Then summat queer happened - again! During the shift, some of the lads must have have a bit keek inte the coffin, and loo and behold they fund that his body was porfectly preserved - not quite as good as new, but sartainly a lang way better than mowldy dust. He was declared to be 'incorrupt' - Grade A, top shelf, double top! A state very rare in today's politicians aroond the world.

St Oswald's heed
Now here's another the bit of the story I like. When they opened Cuthbert's coffin - lyin there was the heed of St Oswald, King of Northumbria from 605-642. Whaat a gliff that wud hev given them Aa bet. St Ossie is weell worth a Google anall te see what an amazin lad he was. He did a grand job for us Northumbrians.

Then, somebody had the idea of using St Oswald's heed as the symbol of St Cuthbert. I suppose that seemed a gud idea at the time, but why cudn't they just have used St Cuthbert's own heed? It wud hev been a bettor fit you would hev thowt and more like him.

Now imagine the scene when the lads were packing up on Lindisfarne, with the Danes just ower the horizon sniffing more rape, pillage and Newcassel broon. The monk that fund St Owald's heed must have said something like.

"Hi lads, whaat are we gana dee wi this?
The reply must have been - ' whaat is it Brother'?

There had to be some smart Alec who would reply - 'Why whaat the hell de ye think it is man- a Swede tornup wi hair on'?

You can imagine suggestions like - 'Oh just put it in a Co-op broon paper carrier bag' or, 'find an owld tettie sack man' (nee plastic bags which would have done the job) or, 'Just wrap it an owld fisherman's gansey', as there wud be plenty lyin aboot on Lindisfarne at the time!

Then somebody must have said in haste:
'Hey lads, get yor skates on and just hoy it in with Cuddy'.

'Champion idea' would be the reply -'Nuw lets' git gannin afore them big hairy buggas wi cuws' horns on thor heeds git heor from ower the watta'. 'Aa can see thor sails just off the Farnes'.

The English Reformation- and plunder
Remember the Reformation in the Middle Ages? You can imagine what a draw-card St Cuthbert's tomb must have been to the plunderers of the time, as there would be no charge for entry to Cathedrals in those days.

The story goes that during the Reformation, St Cuthbert's tomb was plundered, but then another version says that the monks knew it was cumin so hid his body in the Cathedral beforehand - which was a canny idea you wud have thowt.

Only one problem though - and it happens today despite sophisticated computer systems and data backups - some daft goniel forgot to record where the hidey hole was.

It's all right lads - we've fund him
Then in 1827 - what took them so long, a secret tomb was found in the Cathedral - complete with a body. But, whees was the body inside - was it that of St Cuthbert? Huw would anybody knaa?

Even today, DNA would be no good without a relative's DNA for comparison or some guaranteed proof of some sort from his clothing. And monks weren't supposed to leave progeny and it would be hard to find any of his owld claes or his hairbrush or toothbrush on the Farnes.

Maybe the answer would be to clone him from his remains ( a future possibility for sure), and then we could compare his facial features with the old ones in the engravings and paintings. But hing on a bit, did you ever knaa anybody who looked like their passport photo nivor mind an engraving?

So for better or for worse, the bones on display in Durham Cathedral are declared to be the authentic bones of St Cuthbert of Lindisfarne and the Farnes - Wor Cuddy!

The Lindisfarne Gospels
St Cuthbert's name is always associated with this great literary and artistic treasure. It is considered by scholars to be the best surviving example of Celtic calligraphy and illustration. It is now safe in the British Museum in London. (Google its history which tells how lucky it was to survive).

What I like to ponder is the prospect of there being no deadlines for the journalistic monks who did the great works, no concern about whether there was enough advertising to cover the cost, and no fear that the information could be pirated for distribution on the Internet!

St Cuthbert must have been an aaful a canny lad and we Northumbrians are very proud of him. It would have been nicer te hev had his bones in Northumberland, but if he's happy in Durham - we'll just let him lie. One things for sure though, if he ever does need another shift, his bones will sartainly knaa their way heme.

St Cuthbert's Day is March 20th.


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Every month I create a newsletter of all the stories that have been added or updated with Northumberland in the keywords - lots of history, humour, photos, poetry and prose with contributions from a wide variety of canny lads from all over the world.

Here's your chance to download them to keep handy for a rainy day.

They're not always fettled within an inch of their lives, but that's because a computer at Hewlett-Packard in California lays them out and does all the publishing work while the rest of us folk are asleep. Forgive an occasional photo sitting on its own on a page.

Ideal for a quiet moment's reading on the Nettie.

Mind you, there's plenty of material on the blog before this magic of paper came along - be sure to click on the Daft Laddies or Northumberland links here or on the main menu in the right hand column if you're looking for more.

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0.2 - The Dalton Multipurpose Statistic

0.2 – The 'Dalton Multipurpose statistic'

By Dr Clive Dalton

Cranking handles in the 1950s

As a student in the 1950s, we did statistics labs on small Brunsviga hand-cranked calculators with tiny levers pulled down to select the numbers wanted. You cranked the handle clockwise until a bell rang (I think when dividing), and then cranked it anticlockwise for a reason I’ve forgotten.

In a class of 20, you could not tell when your bell had rung!

Then for my PhD at Bangor University, the Agriculture Department had one electric Facit machine shared among students and staff. Inside it was a mass of robust little German cogs that whizzed around when you pressed the keys. We thought it was magic, and I pounded it for three years without problems. When I finished, there were rumours that the University was about to get a ‘computer’ to take up the entire space of an old chapel.

The computer age -1960s

In my early lecturing days at Leeds University, the Facit and American Marchant machines (see the interior of a Marchant XL at left) with a massive bank of keys ruled supreme, and were hammered by students for their projects and higher degrees.

A computer had arrived at Leeds and filled a retired church hall, and some of us started to learn to program in a mystery language called Algol, and then punch tape to get simple exercises done that took as long (if you added our errors) as using a calculator.

But our kids loved the reels of error-ridden punched tape that I took home after my failed forays into computing.

What did the end value mean?

The point was, that by the time you got to the end of a calculation, and you hadn’t botched things up a few times on the way, so had to start all over again, you were far too exhausted to think much about what the final values meant. Did they make any sense? Were they of any practical use?

Statistical magicians

When I went into full time research in New Zealand, I started to have suspicions about statistics because we had very bright professional statisticians to give advice at all stages of projects – in my case animal breeding trials. This was both interesting and frustrating.

When the statistician had ‘run your data’, and the miles of ‘line flow’ paper spewed out of the research station computer (that filled a whole room), you needed to go into a scientific trance to work out how to get ‘the results you wanted’ – so the imagined published paper would blow the scientific community away and you would be for ever famous! It was here the statisticians came into their own.

What you wanted?

It was wonderful if the results (explained by the statistician) confirmed your preconceived expectations (which you were not supposed to have), or if you were positively surprised with them. In other words you didn’t expect those results but you would have not trouble getting them published.

What was really bad news was when you were negatively surprised, as when the results went the opposite way to what you wanted and you couldn’t explain why – and would be lucky if any journal would publish the results.

The real pits were when after years of work, you got no result at all, and there was no way you could claim this as a ‘positive surprise’ that was publishable.

Hazards of long-term trials

In long-term trials, we could easily have the services of two or three statisticians as they came and went to further their careers. This could be really nasty as a newly-qualified statistician fresh from University with all A++ papers, would look at the analysis and ask why his predecessor hadn’t used the new XYZ package? It was inevitable that the new chum recommended the whole years of data be reanalyzed –his way.

The other statistician’s comment to bring on a sweat was ‘oh that’s interesting, I wonder what would happen if we put the data through the new ZYX package? I’ll give it a go’.

As the years went on, I found it hard not to scream – ‘for hell’s sake, just leave things alone’, as what came out of these packages became more and more unintelligible, and harder for us oldies to work out what it meant in practical terms. Statistical significance at different levels of probability to prove the null hypothesis was one thing, but making farming sense was very much another.

The trick was to feign knowledge of what all the statistical analysis meant. At times the blank pages in the line-flow printout were the most useful part of the output - for the kids to draw on!

Delays, delays

You knew that extra analysis meant delays in publication of a paper by at least another 12 months and sometimes more. They also meant more questions from editorial committees, whose job you very soon realised were a pack of nitpickers and/or jealous colleagues hell bent on stopping you publishing and having more published papers than they had. In a world of ‘publish or perish’, these antics didn’t help your next application for advancement with the research director.

0.2

So it was in this environment that I realised the value of 0.2 and claimed it as my own ‘Dalton Multipurpose Statistic’. This simple little value has four massive advantages, that I strongly recommend to you:

1. It is extremely versatile.
2. It is non-confrontational.
3. It can be grossly misinterpreted without causing serious harm.
4. It can bring relief and satisfaction to the needy.
   

Correlation coefficients

These are values that tell you how much one thing is related to another, and their interpretation is more abused that anything else on the planet.

• If you need a low correlation coefficient, then 0.2 can be called “low” and will support your case.
• If you need a “low and non significant” correlation to suit a case, then all you need are the numbers of observations (n) below about 60.
• Getting rid of observations is not difficult as there are plenty of reasons to classify values as ‘aberrant’. Animals die, they get pregnant before they should, they give birth before they should, they change sex half way through trials, and so on.
• If on the other hand you have a desperate need for things to be statistically significance at say r = 0.2, then increase the number of observations to over 100, and significance will be easily reached at 5% probability (P<0.05) which is respectable.
• The fact that it is “statistically significant” carries the day, rather than its probability, and not the fact that its practical implications may be total nonsense.
• Squaring a correlation coefficient (r²) should be avoided, as this can so often show how meaningless a correlation coefficient can be.
  

Repeatability and heritability estimates

Repeatability measures how things keep appearing and heritability is how strongly traits are inherited.

• If you need a ‘low’ estimate of either estimate, then 0.2 can be called low.
• This would be, for example, to show breeders that they were wasting their time in selecting for what they thought were important traits. In this case 0.2 could also be called ‘very low’.
• If however you needed it to support your own research, or a new trait that you wanted to claim a reputation from such as:
  

(Muzzle width/teat length) x √heart girth

then a repeatability and heritability of 0.2 could be squeezed from a ‘low’ into the ‘medium’ classification.

• Once it is into the “medium” group – then it can be squeezed into the “medium-high” group.
• Thus ‘low’ could be 0-0.19; ‘medium’ would be 0.20-0.40.
  
• Now 0.4 is really getting ‘high’, so 0.20-0.40 must be in a ‘medium-high’ group. You have created a winner - if that’s what you wanted.
  

Genetic and phenotypic correlations between traits

Again, these are values that tell you how much one thing is related to another. The genetic ones are about what’s inside the animal and the phenotypic ones are things you can see on the outside of the animal.

• Again 0.2 is very valuable.
• If you need a value to support a case, especially if you don’t know or can’t remember the actual value, or if you don't have one and need one, adopt the following rule:
• If you feel unsure or your job or reputation could be under threat, then use 0.19-0.20.
• If you feel confident, then really go for it and use 0.20-0.21
  

General percentages

• Whenever you need a percentage, 20% can be used with enormous confidence.
• If for example you need to show that a major fact is of minor importance, (e.g. the number of geneticists who have not written up their lifetime work), then 20% can be interpreted as small. This will take the heat out of the discussion.
  
• However, if you need to generate some heat, (e.g. to highlight the percentage of geneticists who are homosexuals or atheists, or both), then you can make 20% sound deliciously high!
• The 20% statistic is of course, the core of the 80:20 rule, which has certainly stood the test of time. You can use this rule for anything that comes to mind where you need to prove that 80% of something is caused by 20% of something else.
• Some visionary must have carefully researched this rule, who could see that the 20% part of the ratio was the clincher and would never be questioned, Have you ever met anyone who questioned it?
• If you do meet anyone doubters, simply drop it to 18-20%. If you feel cocky, raise it to 20-25%. But don’t every push it up to 20-30% as the ice gets too thin.
  

General Correction Factors

These are things that are used to get people to believe that mountainous playing fields can been made level by a bit of mathematical manipulation. A better name for them would be ‘Fudge Factors’. Geneticists need them all the time - described below.

• The effects on an animal of both Genetics (G) and the Environment (E) is the big worry.
• E can make a real fool of all your pontifications about G, as there are so many variables involved in the environment.
• But we love these variables, as it can so often save our bacon, especially in arguments with farmers where we use the trick of telling them what they know already, and that the problem is complex. By using the word ‘multifactorial’ – you can sound as if you know what you are talking about!
• You always need to find a plausible reason (excuse) why your years of work and money spent have resulted in a lemon.
• We also have to deal with what is called the ‘G x E interaction’ which is great fun where some animals do well in one environment but not in others. It adds delicious complexity to the situation – which only a host of fudge factors can help disguise.
• So here again, good old 0.2 is comes to the rescue and is perfect for the job.
  

Standard errors and standard deviations

These are tricky things to explain. You use a standard error (SE) to describe how accurate a mean is because of variation around it, and a standard deviation (SD) to describe the variation in a range of data. This is what they used to be anyway!

• 0.2 suits most needs and can be used freely if you do not have one of these statistics, or you forget to work one out, or especially if you don’t really understand what they are.
• Such is the case of a “residual standard error” which few ever knew that they were - 0.2 is ideal.
  
• The ± symbol which appears before these values fools most folk, as they are not sure what it is so move on searching for a heading that says ‘summary’ or ‘conclusions’ or both.
• Have no fear that 0.2 will get you through most editorial committees, that because of their age will ignore statistics because they won’t understand them.
• And the real coup is that they won’t dare to admit it, and stoop to ask some young smart whipper-snapper what it all means. The young always had learned from the old, and never vice versa.
• These old codgers could concentrate on checking if the author had written “data is” instead of “data are”, and if their name was in the list of references.
  

Missing values in a matrix

A matrix is a mass of little squares (cells) with figures in them all joined together in a big table with headings along the top and down the side.

• You need a matrix to show the relationships (correlations) between a host of things, and in all their possible combinations.
• You can’t have empty cells as it looks bad.
  
• It also risks putting a stop to your entire work, as some greater being will declare that things will have to wait, ‘until more data become available’. This is the kiss of death.
• All the meetings you have been attending for the last 18 months or more (expenses paid plus fudge factors) to finish the project will end.
• Never fear though as here again 0.2 can come to the rescue, simply because it can be used with confidence and without causing serious problems – at least problems where you could be blamed for.
• The reason why you don’t need to worry is that there are so many errors and generalities in a matrix that a dusting of 0.2s in empty cells won’t cause any serious damage to the outcome.
• But don’t put 0.2 in every empty cell. Break it up a bit by putting 0.19 in some and 0.21 in others. It’s not prudent go outside this range.
  

Acknowledgements

I have to thank many colleagues over the years, some of whom were distinguished geneticists and statisticians, for stimulating my thoughts in smoke-filled rooms, confirming my fears and excitement about 0.2.

The punched tape the kids loved.

They could throw the role and it would unwind for miles.

The boxes were very useful too.

I owe special thanks to Chris Dyson, Biometrician at the Ruakura Agricultural Research Centre when I worked there in 1980. Chris bristled with Yorkshire wisdom and common sense, and drew my attention to the fact that if you ever needed ‘a number’ - for anything , then 153 was the one to go for.

Chris pointed out that if you take the reciprocal of the natural logarithm of 153, this comes out as 0.199, which rounds up to 0.2. So there’s the magic 0.2 coming to the surface again for air and respect. It’s magic. QED!

Thanks also for comments by Dr Harold Henderson, veteran statistician at Ruakura whose statistical skills were only eclipsed by his patience with non-mathematical scientists like me.

I must also credit a wonderful website where images and information about old calculators abounds - http://www.oldcomputers.arcula.co.uk/calc1.htm#marchant_xl

Moor burning: A Redesdale Daft Laddie’s burning desire

Northumberland, Redesdale, agriculture, farming, history, moor burning, moorland management, dialect, humour

Moor burning: A Redesdale Daft Laddie’s burning desire

By Donald Clegg

The smell of reek
For hundreds of years man has used fire as a means to clear scrub and invasive plants off land so that he could farm it in one way or another. In the uplands of Britain, generation of farmers and landowners have used fire to control the spread of heather, bracken and rushes over the moors as well as to remove the thick accumulated layers of dead bent grasses.

Sheep farmers were interested in encouraging new grass to grow where once was heather, and those with an eye to creating a grouse moor to be shot over by rich clients, required the heather to be short. In each case, controlled burning produced the desired result.

Old, neglected heather moors were seriously unproductive. The tall, woody shrubs tore the wool off the sheep’s backs as they struggled through it and provided very little to eat for sheep or grouse.

Young heather plants, on the other hand, allowed room for grasses to grow between them, didn’t hinder the sheep’s progress and provided tasty shoots in spring to be enjoyed by sheep and grouse alike.

Indeed, the Red Grouse of the heather moor lands lives almost entirely on these young parts of the plant and nests among the tussocks. This being the case, moor burning is still a springtime tradition and, for upland dwellers, the acrid scent of heather burning is as much a precursor of spring as the first snowdrop or the first curlew. “Spring must ha’ cum, Aa can smell the reek”, as the owld men would say.

As children growing up in upper Redesdale, we looked forward to the first whiff of spring because, in our small way, this was an annual tradition we could be part of, even though it was usually unofficially. From January onwards, weather permitting, farmers up and down the valley were burning on the higher tops, the blue-grey smoke filling the air with its pungent perfume and turning the evening sun orange.

Foolin' the Germans
After nightfall the glowing crescents of fire could be seen all around. During World War II of course, farmers were required to douse all fires after dark so as not to give German bombers any navigational assistance. On the few occasions that a fire reignited from a chance gust of wind, the bombers had been known to drop their bombs on what they thought was a fire resulting from the first wave of their attack.

Perhaps, if farmers had been allowed to keep the fires burning through the hours of darkness, many more German bombs might have been dumped in the peat bogs of Redesdale and Tynedale instead of landing on the factories, shipyards and houses of Newcastle, Wallsend and Jarrow.

Now was the time that we youngsters came into our own as we made our small contribution towards the regeneration of grass to feed the sheep by setting fire to the dry beds of rushes surrounding Rochester village. An evening’s moor burning, of course, inevitably resulted in soot-blackened hands, singed eyebrows and hair and clothes that smelled worse than the ash pit in the middle of the village.

'And wesh ahint yor lugs'!
“Where hev ye been to get in that state,” mums would yell. “Get them claes off now, get yoursell a good wesh – ahint the lugs anaal – an’ away up them stairs to bed!” But it was always worth it!
The one that got away!

Our amateur attempts to emulate the grown ups didn’t always go to plan, however. On one occasion Jimmy, Margaret, Ann and me’sell came across a bed of rushes simply begging to be set alight. Tall and dry they would make a spectacular blaze.

We collected fistfuls of dry grass to act as torches as we had seen the farm workers do and, when they were lit, we trailed them across the entire width of the rushy bed. Soon small flames were licking through the dry undergrowth, gobbling their way greedily onwards and upwards into the heart of the rushes, to burst skywards with a tremendous WHOOSH! and an outpouring of masses of dense, grey, choking smoke.

'Man - whaat a sight'!
We stood back from the searing heat and marvelled at the towering orange inferno we had created. Soon, however, delight and congratulations were forgotten as the blaze took hold and rampaged across the hillside faster than we could keep up.

Panic set in as, grabbing sticks and fence rails – anything to attack the fire with – we beat furiously and increasingly desperately as we realised the inferno was racing towards the Storey’s bungalow, only fifty yards away! Ann actually tore off her coat and flapped harder and harder at the flames until, an age later it seemed, the fire slowed as it reached a stretch of shorter grass which allowed us finally, to get the upper hand and stamp out the last flickering embers.

As we sank exhausted to the ground and the last wisps of smoke drifted skywards, a stern voice from the direction of the bungalow bellowed, “What the h—l’s gannin’ on?” We though the blackened ground and our blackened faces were self explanatory, so we didn’t wait to give our considered opinion, but sped off to our respective homes and kept a very low profile for the next couple of weeks.

Fires and Fir trees

'Bent' grass like this pictured was burned off to get new growth, but there was always
a risk of the fire getting into adjacent forest.

Even the moorburning that took place under the grownups’ watchful eye sometimes went wrong. All it needed was for the wind to get stronger or to change direction unexpectedly for a fairly routine, controlled afternoon’s work to turn into a serious situation.

On many occasions a quiet bit of moorburning has been known, suddenly, to race away from its minders, out of sheer mischief, and trespass onto a neighbour’s land, devouring as it went, the fence, sheep hecks, a stretch of hawthorn hedge and anything else inflammable in its path, to be stopped only when it reached the drystone dyke at the top of the inbye fields.

Things became much more risky for the ootbye men when they found themselves, bit by bit, surrounded by hundreds of acres of newly planted conifer forest. Now, not only did they have to make sure that the Forestry Commission were aware of any moorburning plans, but that the wind would not be blowing any sparks or flames towards any potential flash points.

Harbottle and Fourlaws
Over the years, despite their best efforts, many acres of forest have fallen victim to runaway moorburns and been reduced to ashes. One such fairly recent outbreak happened in the Northumberland National Park near Harbottle in Coquetdale when a large tract of moorland and several acres of trees were destroyed. The situation was made the more difficult because of the problem of access to the scene and the lack of a nearby water supply.

More trees were incinerated by a rogue fire at Fourlaws Forest in the Wannies which took days to get under control due to a fickle wind that kept changing direction, or dying away only to get up again after the firemen had left.

Many years earlier in the North Tyne valley, during an unusually dry spring, a moorburn penetrated below the surface and into a thick layer of peat. The resulting underground fire smouldered for weeks afterwards, bursting out sporadically and necessitating the almost constant attention of the fire brigade to damp down the hot spots as they appeared.

The Stobbs moss
Coming back to our fire raising escapades as children, one of our favourite moorburning sites was an area of only an acre or two of rushes. This patch was part of a much larger boggy piece of fell called the Stobbs Moss, which stretched along the A68 road between Rochester village and Stobbs Farm, about a mile to the East.

“Our” corner was directly in front of the village itself, bounded by the road to the North and the river Rede to the South. Its special attraction for us was the extent and size of the clumps of dead rushes (rashees) rising tall, straight and very dry in every direction and the “bull snoots” of dry grass in between and, of course, its proximity to home (in case we had to make a strategic retreat).

One night in early March our small gang set off with a good supply of matches (sneaked from the kitchen) and soon got a number of very satisfying fires going. The rushes burned fiercely with a great roar and a Whoosh of sparks, sooty embers and columns of thick, choking smoke, before dying down as the flames crept through the intervening space to the next clump. There the exciting process repeated itself over and over as the fire, and we, advanced steadily across the Moss.

After several hours of exhilarating pyrotechnics, and not a few singed eyebrows and burned fingers, the Moss resembled the aftermath of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow (minus the snow) with blackened, smoking and occasional still-glowing acres all around us.

How then - where’s me rain coat?
As we turned to go home weary, sooty but immensely satisfied with our night’s work, I suddenly remembered my school rain coat. I had put it on because of a slight threat of rain but soon discarded it as the temperature around me rose. But where? It took a further half an hour before we found it – or at least its remains – still gently smoldering and only recognisable by the few bone buttons clinging to a charred shred of once navy blue material and the belt buckle, minus the belt, alongside.

In my naiveté, my first instinct was to deny all knowledge of its whereabouts, or even that I’d had it with me at all, then decided instead to hide the evidence in the house where it would be discovered weeks later, to the eternal mystification of my parents. Of course it didn’t work out like that at all.

My mother, following her nose no doubt, sniffed it out the following morning behind the wardrobe in my bedroom. It soon became obvious that how it got there was no mystery at all, or who the culprit was! I got me lugs chowed from Mam and a het backside from Dad, weeks of taunting from my goody-goody sisters and my pocket money stopped for weeks and weeks to pay for a new coat – but it was worth it!

Always a worry. What you thought was a small harmless fire left to burn itself out, could blow up into a raging inferno if the wind changed over night, and take off in an unpredicted direction.

Comment by Dr Clive Dalton
The definitive work on the nutritive value of heather was done in the 1950s by Prof Brynmor Thomas at King’s College, University or Durham, at Newcastle-upon-Tyne in the Agricultural Chemistry Department, aided by Senior Lecturer Alan Thompson. See the paper below which is the first in a series.

Brynmor involved many of his students with his work leading to distinguished careers as leading UK animal nutritionists. Those who come to mind in my time at Kings were the brilliant twin brothers David and Robin Armstrong, Keith Martin, Charles Fairbairn, Arthur Jones and John Clapperton.

This work showed that young heather leaves in the spring were highly nutritious and contained a wide range of minerals, which were of great benefit to pregnant and lactating ewes.

Brynmor Thomas & D.G. Armstrong (1952)
Journal of Agricultural Science (Cambs) Vol 42: No 4. 461-464.
The nutritive value of common heather (Calluna vulgaris). I. The preparation of samples of Calluna vulgaris for analytical purposes and for digestibility studies.

Comment by Dr Tom Batey
Muirburning (the name used north of the Border)
One morning my father set off from the farm house at Broomhill to burn some old heather on our land on the Wannees, taking his bait and a can of cold tea. The fire soon got hold, the wind got up and she raced away - jumped the dyke onto his neighbours, and the poor man battled all day not stopping to eat or drink.

Nearing nightfall, Ma realised that something must have gone wrong so we went down to tell Ivy and Willie Bell on the next farm (Townfoot) as there was no phone in those days. They informed the local bobby and we all assembled at the farm - and then Father staggered in at nightfall in a right state. He drank gallons of water and slept for 24 hours. Our neighbours on the fell said they had the best growth that spring that they had ever seen after Father's great work!

On the scientific side, I did a bit of work many years ago showing that if you heated soil up a bit, but not high enough to burn off the Organic Matter (OM), there was a release of ammonium from the Nitrogen in the OM. This could partly account for the flush of growth often seen after burning off old grass (and reshees - as in Don's account).

One of the reasons why the burning is done in quite narrow strips 20-30 m wide, is that grouse like the proximity, security and shelter of tall heather for protection from predators, then to feed out on the new growth on burnt areas.

Bill Charlton: Bellingham memories: Smoking experiments

Northumberland, history, humour, childhood memories, wartime 1939-45

By Bill Charlton

Smoking experiments
In our junior years in 1940/41 Cliff and I experimented in smoking by collecting dog ends off the road, looking in empty cigarette packets for a cigarette or cards which we used to save for a collection and swap with other lads in the village. The cards were printed in sets or different subjects such as famous footballers, famous cricketers, famous trains and so on.

At odd times we’d buy a clay pipe for a halfpenny each, and fill them up with ‘baccy’ we’d saved for a few puffs with the pipe each, Alas, one day we were caught by the local bobby Dick Oliver who was a Special Constable. He lodged at the croft and was on his way to start his duty shift in the village. He told us not to smoke that rubbish as it would make us sick,

He told us he’d show us how to fill a pipe properly with real tobacco when he finished his shift that afternoon, as he lodged with the Wright family two doors from us at the Croft. Well true to his word, we met him at the seat at the Show field entrance where he then showed us how to cut the ‘Warhorse’ tobacco with a knife, how to rub it in the palms of our hands to break it up before filling the clay pipes which he’d also brought with him.

The ‘Warhorse’ tobacco was strong black stuff ; he didn’t tell us this but we learned it later! Never mind, he got us all lit up and going full steam, and off we went up the Dunterly road puffing away like old hands. When we reached the farm, the Muscovy Ducks which were often out the front eating the grass did’nt look the same to us.

Instead of white, they looked green and by this time we were starting to feel a bit dizzy and sickly. That brought us down to earth a bit about smoking for a while. But a week or so later he caught us out again smoking fags, so he just took us into his digs (Mrs Wright’s house), put his hand up the chimney and blackened our faces with soot. Then he kicked our backsides out the door.

We didn’t dare go home so we set off down to the Tyne to wash it off but that just made it worse. Unknown to us he had told Mother what he’d done, so we got in trouble again. Dad was away in the war and perhaps Dick was trying to keep us in line - which he did.

Bill Charlton: Bellingham memories. 1940s cars

Northumberland, history, humour, wartime, 1939-45, cars

By Bill Charlton

Dad’s car
Dad’s fist car was an Austin 7, which he bought just before the war. Dad was called up for war service and one weekend when he came on leave, he put the car up on wooden blocks to keep the tyres off the ground in the garage,

Cliff and I would spend quite a bit of time in the garage with this new fangled machine pretending to be driving it using all the gears and double de clutching and steering as the wheels were off the ground.

After a year or two, when Dad was on leave he registered the car for a three months to give it a run around, and he asked me if I’d like to learn to drive. ‘Yes’ I blurted out, so he took me for a spin around the Bridges. Settling into the driving seat off we went up the Hesleyside road all the way around the Bridges and back home. Before we got out of the car Dad said to me ‘You haven’t driven before’? ‘No” I said.

Well Dad said to me there’s not much else that he could teach me, so when I was old enough I got my ‘Provisional Licence’ on the 3rd April 1945. I still have it today in my archives.

After the war was over Dad sold the Austin 7 and updated to an Austin 10 for a few years before getting a Hillman. He then changed it once again to a Cortina as he was building a Caravan. The framework was of aluminium and ash, the same wood as used to build the famous wartime Mosquito aircraft. When it was all finished, Mam and Dad toured Scotland a couple of times before it was sold.

Bill Charlton: Bellingham memories. Wartime diet

Northumberland, history, humour, wartime 1939-45

By Bill Charlton

The bridge over the North Tyne at Bellingham
The tiny cottage at the end of the bridge, (which at one time must have been a toll house) was nicknamed 'the rabbit hutch' and the nice lady who occupied it (who nobody knew much about) was inevitably called 'The Rabbit' (but not to her face!)

Rabbit pie
Often in the war years things were a bit tight in the food and money department, and Mother would at times ask us lads what we’d like for our dinner tomorrow night. Without hesitation Cliff and I would both blurt out ‘Rabbit Pie please’.

Mother’s response was then you’d better get out and catch some! So off down the byre we’d go to collect some snares, and take off around the wood side of the show field fence looking for runs to set our snares.

After a while and half a dozen snares later we would wander out into the open field and off the rabbits would go for cover where the snares were set. Then we’d retrace our tracks to collect our next dinner, but first we would have to gut and skin them. This along with the offal went down an old rabbit hole and stomped in with our hob nail boots.

Mother would then prepare the meat by putting it in a white vitreous enamel dish of salt and water to soak over night. What we didn’t need the dog would get. The next night at dinner Cliff and I would scuffle over the kidneys so mother had to share them out between us to keep us both happy.

Trout & ducks
Brother Cliff would often go fishing in the Tyne for trout, and on his way down to the Riding stone area where he would fish, his Aylesbury & Khaki Campbell Ducks would follow him to the river for a swim around while he fished. After he’d caught a couple of trout, he’d make his way back home with the ducks following him.

Bees
Cliff and I used to keep bees and we had a couple of hives. We’d collect the honey when required and keep a check on the Queens to see how many new Queen cells were developing.

During the war years we used to be allowed 10 lb of sugar per hive to make candy to keep them alive during a hard winter, When the bees swarmed we would go out and collect them in a cardboard box to start a new hive. It was great fun keeping bees and interesting.

Bill Charlton. Bellingham memories. Cairnglastenhope

Norhumberland, history, childhood memories, 1940s

By Bill Charlton

Cairnglastenhope Lake

Cairnglastenhope – a great kids' adventure
Going back a couple of years before the 1939-1945 war started, my Dad (Bob Charlton) planned a great adventure for us kids (me and brother Cliff and our cousin Tom Thompson). It was to cross over the fells and visit Cairnglastenhope Lake being 5 to 6 miles distant from the Croft.

So one Sunday spring morning we all set off over Dunterley Fell with our packed lunches heading west towards the Mesling Crags, crossing over the moors covered in Bent grass. We all chatted away to each other enjoying our hike toward the Lake,

Then coming across lots of depressions in the ground, Dad explained that years ago people dug these holes to extract coal from quite shallow seams, and worked them out to a radius of about 6 to 8 feet. They then moved on another 20 ft or so and started another new shaft. Over the years all these shafts eventually caved in to form a crater-like depression, all covered in Bent grass good cover for foxes to hide.

After a while we needed a bit of a rest, so sitting down on a bit of a ridge to have a drink, Tom asked Dad what the bones were he saw. Dad very coyly said that someone had stopped for a rest once, and that was all that was left of him (or her).

Needless to say we kept plodding on over the fells past Watson’s Walls and on towards the Lake called ‘Cairnglastenhope’ where we had lunch and a good rest, feeding the hundreds of seagulls which were nesting on the very tufted boggy ground at one end of the lake covered in rushes,

We managed to collect a couple of eggs and blew them to add to my collection, which my Uncle had given me to treasure. We got great delight in feeding the gulls with bread crusts by throwing them in the air for them to catch in flight.

The older lads from the Chirdon side used to collect the eggs by having a long cane rod with a spoon tied on the end as the area was very spongy and soft. I believe the eggs were used to keep the fox hounds in good fettle for hunting. Our return journey was a great sense of achievement and lots to tell our Mother once we were home again. We often went for long walks over the fells on Sunday mornings with Dad while our Mother baked scones, cakes, and Gooseberry and Rhubarb tarts in the oven before preparing Sunday dinner for all of us. We were a much loved and well fed lot of kids.

Bill Charlton: Bellingham memories. 1940s

Northumberland, history, humour, childhood memories, 1940s
By Bill Charlton

Swimming & skating on the Tyne
During the school summer holidays we'd go swimming in the river Tyne which is where I learned to swim. On our way down from The Croft we used to pop the tar bubbles on the road with our sandals, which we wore a lot in the summer months. We used to get long Indian summers in those days.

In the winter, we'd go ice-skating on the Tyne and our mother used to skate too. I learned to skate around the diving board holding on to it for confidence. The two local stars were Jean Milburn and Jack Telford and they used to help us young folk improve our skills.

In the evenings and after dark we used to stack steel barrels which had been cut in half and placed one on top of each other with the open end upper filled with branches and logs, which gave a nice fireplace in the middle of the river on the ice for night skating. The fires would melt the surface ice a little which made for good smooth ice next night.

One year when the ice broke up, we found a salmon frozen into the ice with a piece bitten out of its neck probably by an otter. The local Catholic priest measured the ice thickness one year while we were there, and it was 18 inches thick. During that particular winter, Kit and Joe Maughan used to cart sand from the island in the river with horse and cart over the ice into the opening, and stockpile it for building work.

The Northern Farmers meal store
During the autumn we laddies would go down to the Northern Farmers into the meal Store and help load bags of feed for the local farms, and ride on the back of the wagon around these farms, sitting on the bags of feed and cake slabs. It was great fun eating a few of the smaller dog biscuits and locust beans etc. Approaching the farms, there were often apple trees around, so we'd collect one or two on our way in or out as the case may be. It was a fun day for us.

From gas to electricity
We used to have gas at the Croft in those days which came from the Bellingham gas works. But up at the Croft we had problems with water in the pipes as the gas would come through in surges as pressure built up to force its way along the pipes. Water lay in the low points along the pipe track down near the end of the Tyne bridge. So we always had to have candles at the ready just in case we were blacked out.

But in about 1935 progress arrived and we were fitted out with electricity all along the Croft. We even had a street light too. In the house we gradually changed over to all things electric with the kettle and the iron being some of the first things bought. The old Bellingham gas works was no longer needed and became redundant, later being cut up for scrap. You could smell the gas around the old place for years afterwards.

Honey, fruit and nuts
For more entertainment, we would dig up Bumblebee nests and eat the honey which was in marble-sized sacks by sucking them out. Then there were hazel nuts, beechnuts, buttercup bulbs, wild strawberries, wild rasps and bilberries to supplement our diets. Then in autumn we would collect the uneatable chestnuts to play “konkers” at school which could get very competitive.

We all used to have fun in those days gone by. No mobile phones, TV, computers, or ipods. We made our own entertainment and remember that we all left school at age 14 to start earning a living.

Daft Laddie tales of North Tyne & Rede: Donald Clegg

Donald Clegg
(Image at left from The Northumbrian Magazine)
Don organising his squirrel feeder

Donald Clegg was born at Rochester in Redesdale. After Grammar school he worked as a postman delivering mail on foot to farms around the area.

He worked on farms in Redesdale and after being called up for his military service and 'doing time' helping the King and the new Queen Elizabeth, he returned to farm work in the North Tyne valley.

He then decided on a career change, and went to St John’s College in York to do teacher training after which he taught at Bellingham and Wooler. It was at these schools that his interest in Outdoor Education developed and he went on to specialise in this area.

He continued to apply his expertise at the Wauchope Field Study and Expedition Centre near Bonchester Bridge, and then moved to Carrshield in West Allendale. His knowledge and experience of the many predicaments he faced in his Daft Laddie days was always at hand in his new profession of dealing with people.

After a very successful and rewarding teaching career, he is now retired at lives at Yarrow Corner near Falstone, where he indulges his passion for all things Northumbrian, playing the mouth organ and Northumbrian pipes, and being a noted defender and carer of one of the few remaining populations of red squirrels in the country.

Daft Laddies tales of North Tyne & Rede: My H Samuel's pocket watch

Northumberland, farming, humour, dialect, Daft Laddies, history, 1950s

By Donald Clegg

Don's watch by H Samuel's of Newcastle upon Tyne. It's now in gentle retirement with a new boot lace to keep it safe

Do you remember the H Samuel Ever-Right pocket watch? It cost all of 30/- (£1.50) in the 1950’s and was a must for any self respecting artisan. It had a big, clear face, a chunky knob to wind it up and luminous pointers. Mine sat proudly in the breast pocket of my heather-mixture Harris Tweed jacket that I wore to the Highland Show in Paisley, near Glasgow, one year.

As the jacket got shabbier with age and holes appeared in the elbows it became my regular garb for cold days on the farm, milkin’, muckin’ oot and lookin’ the hill. H Samuel came too. He was always attached to the jacket’s button hole by a length of stylish leather bootlace, alongside the deer’s horn dog whistle that I carried to give an air of professionalism to my woeful performances as a sheep dog handler.

On the North Tyne farm where I was working there was a fairly deep open drain running across the back field and, in a wet lambing time, it could present quite a danger to unsteady young lambs as they tried to follow their mothers across the swollen stream. To ease the problem the boss decided that I should build a couple of sheep bridges across the drain, using old railway sleepers.

With the Fergie and trailer loaded with pinch bar, spade, bushman saw and sleepers I duly set off for the bridge building site on a warmish, sunny April morning. In no time, of course, the Harris Tweed jacket was cast and hoyed on to the trailer along with my woolly jumper. Work progressed steadily until all was satisfactorily completed and I straightened my back to admire my handiwork. All that remained was to collect the pinch bar, bushman and spade and head home for dinner.

As the heavy tools thumped, one by one, on to the trailer bed I suddenly remembered my H Samuel Ever Right pocket watch, worth 30/-, with its stylish leather bootlace, was in my Harris Tweed jacket, right in the firing line! The spade had landed squarely on top of it! Carefully, I examined the flattened remains of my pride and joy.

Miraculously, in spite of having a neat hole punched right through the newly invented plastic glass and through the steel back cover by the watch’s main gear spindle, it was still ticking away merrily and my H Samuel pocket watch continued to be Ever-Right for a canny few years afterwards.

Daft Laddie tales of North Tyne & Rede: Warming up a Korean winter

Daft Laddies, humour, military service, history, 1950s

By Donald Clegg

Caad wintors in Korea
Korean winters can be severe, and even in September, the ground round our camp was frozen hard as iron. Our Field Telephone Exchange (FTE) was housed in a sandbagged bunker with a canvas roof. There was a set of steps cut in the bank leading to the entrance. Inside was a table with logbook, the Exchange with its multitude of jack plugs and leads, a bed and the duty operator’s kit and rifle.

Our Signal Troop was attached to the 14th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery and, though we had our own officers and routine, the RA regarded us as rather inferior hangers-on, especially by their Sergeant Major – a fiery Scot. He never missed an opportunity to find fault with us.

He used to refer to our 6-man luxury ‘basha’ (sand-bag and canvas home) as the Glass Mountain on account of the heaps of empty beer bottles surrounding it! One morning, while mounting the steps to the FTE, he slipped on the ice and landed on his backside and dented his dignity. His already short temper was not improved when he saw that his downfall had been witnessed by half the Signals Troop.

And get your blank blank hair cut!
For the next few minutes the air was blue and we all learned several hitherto unheard of expletives. The Telephone Operator (Tele Op) was told in no uncertain terms and in a voice like a Farne Islands fog horn to “Get rid of this b…… ice and snow, cut some new b……. steps, tidy your b…… self up, man and get your b….. hair cut!!”

Somewhat upset by this uncalled for outburst the Tele Op decided he would start by melting the snow and ice by the simple expedient of pouring petrol right down the steps. When, after five minutes, the ice seemed as hard and solid as ever, he decided, in his wisdom, to set fire to the petrol and help things along a bit.

A good Daft Laddie idea
This was not a wise move, although it provided us with a glorious and spectacular display. With a tremendous WHOOSH! The orange flames roared up the steps like a lava flow in reverse. The fire melted the ice alright, and turned the steps into a mud slide. Unfortunately it continued on its merry way and burned down the entire FTE, lock stock and rifle barrel.

I should think the whole of the Commonwealth Forces in North Korea would hear what the RSM thought of the Tele Op’s brilliant solution. It certainly gave the rest of us a topic of conversation for weeks after. As far as I know, poor old Tele Op is still paying for the damage out of his 28/- (£1.50) per week Army pay.

Daft Laddie tales of North Tyne & Rede: The Tyne's oot

Northumberland, farming, humour, dialect, Daft Laddies, floods, camping , history, 1950s

By Donald Clegg






Picture shows the gate into the forest along from Dally Castle, on the way to Chirdon farm






Draining the peat for tree planting
After National Service I returned to work on a farm in the North Tyne and where I had my Daft Laddie wrestle with the bracken crusher.

In those pre-Kielder dam days the North Tyne River was prone to regular seasonal flooding. Forestry had taken over many thousands of acres of hill country which had, for generations, been grazed by sheep.

One of the first operations undertaken by the new industry prior to planting trees was the ploughing of hundreds of miles of drains. Parallel lines of deep channels, two feet deep and only a couple of yards apart scored the hillsides as far as the eye could see. Their function was to drain the peat moorland and provide a more secure footing for the millions of Sitka Spruce, Norway Spruce, Scots Pine and Japanese Larch which were to follow.

The drains were too successful
The drains proved to be very successful – too successful it would seem, because now when it rained, the water made its way within a few hours into the sykes and burns and thence to the main North Tyne river.

Picture shows a newly-cut drain in the peat soil. It was cut by a special single furrow plough (called the Cuthbertson plough) pulled by a powerful bulldozer tractor with a big winch on the back incase they got bogged. The drivers
were called 'the Circus', as they traveled around each forest in turn preparing for planting season
The trees were planted in a slit in the upturned furrow, cut with a spade. This prevented the roots of the young trees becoming waterlogged until they got established

This drain was photographed in the late 1950s immediately after cutting, and you can see that already the water is flowing from the wet peat, even before heavy rain.

This sudden influx of water meant that the river couldn’t cope and flooding of the flat haughs became a regular event, inundating not only crops but also endangering livestock. It also added great stress to local folk who lived near the river, and especially farmers who had to keep thor lugs cocked during the night for rain, to get up and move stock from the river haughs.

Flash floods
Many a cattle beast and sheep was washed to its death in these flash floods, which also took hay pikes and corn stooks off to foreign parts, never to be retrieved. One early morning , after very heavy rain had fallen during the night, I reached the farm road on my way to work to find that 'the Tyne was oot' and had already covered much of the haughs below me.

Tyne Bridge at Falstone

A marooned tent
It was just before Easter and I knew there were Scouts camping by the riverside. Sure enough, there was a tent perched forlornly on a slight rise, surrounded by the rising waters. I rushed up to the farm and started up the old Case tractor, yoked the flat trailer and hurried to the rescue. The water was almost 18 inches deep by now and getting deeper by the minute. When I reached the tent I found the four Scouts were still fast asleep inside, totally oblivious to the danger swirling round their tiny island.

Howay lads, git oot o' bed
I soon woke them to the reality of their situation and bundled them, their belongings, and their tent on to the trailer and started back for dry land. By now the water was up to the underside of the tractor’s engine and the trailer had actually begun to float in one or two deeper slacks.

Unfortunately for me, the Case had a fixed power take-off pulley wheel attached to the side of the engine – just on water level. By the time we reached dry land the spray sent up from the constantly revolving pulley wheel meant that I was wetter than any of the rescued Scouts. Thereafter the Scouts were dried out and fed in the farmhouse and sent home on the bus to Hexham later.

One big lake
Over the next two hours the river continued to rise so that, eventually, the whole of the flat land from the Riding Bank to Charlton and from the old railway embankment to Hesleyside hall was just one great lake of surging, brown water. Of the valley road which ran parallel to the river, only the top six inches of the fence posts on either side were visible.

The water receded almost as fast as it had risen but in the aftermath, we found fences flattened, our giant muck midden had disappeared down stream and that we had inherited all the turnips from our neighbour’s farm on the other side of the river. “ It’s an ill wind (or flood)”, as they say! I’m surprised they didn’t find out and arrive to collect them.

Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: The King wants a hand

Northumberland, farming, humour, dialect, military service, morse code, Korea, history, 1950s

By Donald Cleggg

The King wants a Daft Laddie
For two years I was a guest of His Majesty King George VI, followed by Her Gracious Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse and spent much of my National Service in Korea as a Wireless Operator in the Royal Corps of Signals – an “Operator Wireless and Line BII”, to be exact.

Dot Dot Dash
In this role I was required to read and send Morse Code at 18 words per minute where a ‘word’ in this context was a group of five characters. A BII operator must achieve 25 words per minute, or over two characters per second. Not that Morse code was used all that much – only for sending Secret or Restricted messages to HQ in Seoul or Tokyo. I was never expected to send messages back to friends and family to Rochester or Kielder!

We operators worked a 13 hour night shift, using old acid-battery operated radios called “19 sets”, chock-a-block with valves and covered in dials, knobs and switches – just like Captain Scarlet or Dan Dare would have had. We were housed, initially, in an army truck known affectionately, but obscurely, as a Gin Palace. Our Gin Palace was perched near the top of a hill above the main tented camp, on a broad ledge carved from the hillside.

Because we were on Active Service we had to be in constant readiness to move out in the event of a ‘push’ by the Chinese-backed forces. This readiness also applied to the vehicles, of course, and every morning the driver of the Gin Palace climbed the track to conduct his regular checks of oil, fuel, water and air pressures. The last wheel to be checked was always the spare which stood on its edge tucked into a narrow space between the truck’s cab and the body.

Kick her in the guts - Oops
Each morning the driver rolled the wheel out of its cubbyhole, bounced it on to the ground, then used his foot to kick it flat back to the floor. On this occasion the kick misfired and the wheel set off down the hill towards the camp, accelerating as it went according to the laws of physics.

We soon worked out that these things have both momentum and centrifugal force!

We all watched in fascination, then horror, as the heavy projectile hurtled onwards, heading for the Field Hospital, directly in its path. It seemed inevitable that the Hospital tent and its occupants would be flattened but, at the very last second, the wheel struck one of the metal stakes securing the tent’s guy ropes and sailed into the air, clearing the tent’s ridge by a mere twelve inches.

It then bounced mightily on the other side, jinked neatly to the right and disappeared into a deep gully by the roadside. Suddenly, everyone came back to life and rushed down to see where it had ended up. In fact, although it had miraculously avoided crashing into the Field Hospital, it had scored a direct hit on the campfire of a group of local Koreans who had been quietly cooking their breakfast and chatting amongst themselves.

Imagine their surprise when their “flied lice” was suddenly splattered across the countryside by a huge, black rotating missile! It took three men the rest of the morning to heave, haul and roll the recalcitrant wheel back to its cage on the Gin Palace and, in the end, it was found it didn’t need inflating after all.