January7th. The day dedicated to my arrival, by all accounts it was cold and snowing (not unusual in those days)

I was delivered as was my brother and sister before me in the front bedroom of my parents upstairs flat, my grandmother was in attendance along with “auntie jean” no relation, but considered as one by all families around, something akin to communities established in the late sixties where everyone looked after each others kids for the common good.

As I say home was a three bed roomed flat with a typical layout for the time it was built around 1875/6.

Stairs from the street climbing steeply towards a landing from which ran the small (back bedroom) followed by the living area next door. The master bedroom and the small front bedroom. Taking up space at the front.

The kitchen area was offset behind the living area leading also to the back stairs into the communal yard which we shared with my Nan who lived below us.

In the yard by the back gate into the alley was the coal bunker and toilet.

We were the middle of a block of 14 houses within the terrace at no8 my Nan being no7 Auntie Jean was no12.

Beyond the alley was a further terrace of 8 houses only which were houses rather than flats.

To the side was a common patch of land acting as a buffer between us and the farmyard.

The main street was a metalled road by the time I was born though when first built would have been cobbled in keeping with the rest of the village.

Opposite the front of the house was the cemetery enclosed by what seemed to be a gigantic brick wall about which I wondered if it was to keep us out or the inmates in?

We lived to the south of the village and as I grew obviously my travels were expanding year on year, the cemetery was the southern boundary while to the north and down the hill was the colliery which my father took great pride in telling me was at I square mile the same size as the city of Westminster.

Looking downwards from the vantage point near the church I could see row upon row of terraced housing with the occasional crescent thrown in for the elder citizens.

The top of the hill was where the church stood (still to this day) having been built around 1225ish.

The school I was first to attend was built within the quarry from where the stones for the church were taken, a dividing main road running from Sunderland to Newcastle meandered at that time through the centre of the village with council house adorning the side of the road along with houses further towards the east of the lords and ladies of out time.

To the east of our humble terrace also lay the trappings of wealth and glamour being the area where the golf course lay and just beyond that some very large detached houses occupied by doctors and lawyers, teachers and industrialists.

They were built(so I assume) because of their proximity to the railway lines affording ease of access to the city, sadly today it is used as part of the metro infrastructure allowing all manner of thieves and vagabonds access to the rich and stately homes while the owners are away.

Along the main highway there also ran our version of the Berlin wall only this one was red.

It was the dividing line keeping us from our hopes and aspirations of the day……..

Semi detached council houses.

They had gardens, inside toilets, plumbed in bathrooms, running hot and cold water and central heating there was even among the estate dedicated areas for children to play …

LUXURY.

These houses were a continuation of the development of social housing started in the late 1940s early 1950s.

Quite a few terraces were destroyed during the war being a heavily industrialised area due to the coal production and the shipyards on the Tyne and wear.

(Do you know there is a half submerged concrete built boat in the wear estuary?)

Targeted by the Luftwaffe always reminds me of ice cream that word one of my first memories is of the ice cream van coming down on a Friday ringing his bell until we got to school it was the only indication that the weekend was upon us as the ice man was there.

The big time came of course in 1958. 5 years old and time for school, I knew of it of course because of my sister and brother they used to disappear almost every day for what seemed like an eternity only to reappear with satchels full to the brim of wondrous things like crayons and paper to amuse me though if I used the joined up paper to draw efalumps and dragons on my sister would hit me.

Really I was lucky as both my brother and sister were in the same school (the only one in fact).

Built as I said within the quarry it consisted of two main buildings.

First was the gym/dancehall/activities class and theatre next to the entrance gate,

The central main standing on raised bricks a wooden construction had within it four main rooms and a couple of offices, of the four large rooms three were dedicated classes the fourth being central and the largest was communal, it was also used as a dining room, all meals for the school were cooked centrally and bussed in from the catering firm based in an unknown (to me) school.

They were transported within hay boxes acquired after the war but served up piping hot meals of a wholesome variety on pristine gleaming white plates.

Stews with dumplings various meat pies and cobblers, always fish and chips on a Friday being an Anglican church school it always puzzled me why we non Catholics had to sustain the tradition, perhaps it was the first simmering of the P.C. culture we have today. Semolina with jam sauce for pudding along with my personal favourite, spotted dick and custard.

Local dishes such as panacallty and corned beef and onion pie though copied at various times by myriads of bakers could not be bettered as the cooks of yesteryear used to make things literally as they would do at home for their own families.

Any way disaster struck on my first day at school as I was taken and introduced by my mother and sister to just about all and sundry, such a daunting task to remember everything at so young an age even now I forget things like the third building within the school grounds.

The toilet block with doors either end, one for girls, one for boys.

At the end of play time after my very first session of my new world of school I decided I needed to go to the toilet and ran off to do it in the right place as manners dictated.

Not hearing the bell to go back in to class I was astounded amazed and very, very frightened when I came out of the toilet block to find the place deserted.

Undaunted I was not and proceeded to crawl into a ball within a small a space as possible lest the wicked dragons and lizards that had taken my new found friends along with my brother and sister to eat them came back looking for me.

It may have been three or four days before anyone realised I was missing, o.k. it was only minutes but I was little and lost and alone so it was still a bloody long time.

They came out screaming and shouting my name but I wasn’t going to be fooled by a fire breathing dragon who had quite possibly tortured my siblings to find out my name so I stayed extra quiet and calm (ha) until a face appeared over the wall and my sister shouted

“Here he is Miss”.

I can say here and now this was the first and definitely not to be the last, time a female was to save my life…

BOGEYS AND BONTYS.

As you may have gathered I survived my first traumatic day at school and went on to learn a great deal.

My first teacher was Mr’s Golightly, not a very apt Monika as in stature she was reminiscent of Hattie Jacques from the carry on films, come to think on retrospect her manner was like her too.

She was always laughing and smiling yet was a great comfort to us little people, knowing instantly when we were upset or confused which happened a lot within the first few weeks.

So much to learn for one so young its no wonder we never got through a day without pining for mummy or wishing it was time for a nap.

However it was an eye-opener going to school because it revealed there was more to life than coloured crayons and dragons or even our street.

The first and subsequent summer holidays during infant/junior school were spent exploring outside the normal boundary’s to which we had become accustomed.

You may remember that I said we lived at the top of the hill?

Well at the time that was accurate for the perception I had, after being released from the strangulation of mummy’s pinny we discovered a whole lot of new truths.

My mate Brian lived at no2. he is most remembered within our family for his then catchphrase” is a kebab cumma out” which he would below up the stairs on a frequent basis.

In those days there was no need for door bells as the door not only was never locked but except in the coldest times it was never shut.

One other thing Brian is remembered for is his uncanny resemblance to the milky bar kid.

Along with my brother he (Brian not the milky bar kid) was to lead me into adventure wonder and danger.

The cemetery gates, carved and moulded out of black wrought iron were a huge barrier to most let alone small intrepid explorers, which is why we used the hole in the hedge to gain entry.

It (the cemetery) was set out almost on military lines with neat rows and ranks of headstones along five or six corridors divided by pathways which did not run true.

This was due to the copious amounts of trees of all descriptions larch spruce and sycamore standing tall and resplendent amid the dappled summer light diffused by the mighty oak trees still standing, remnants of a once mighty forest harvested for building materials during the dark ages.

The most interesting stones were those built like coffee table/ hidey holes.

Consisting of twin marble plinths on which was laid an inscribed marble table top, very fashionable among the landed gentry of the 19th. Century.

I often wondered as a youth whether the families came round on a Sunday with their picnic baskets.

By the time wee grew up though they were no more than hidey holes.

Of course having so many trees the nearest source of conkers was the graveyard but even more important than that it was the main source of fuel for our Bonty.

I feel I must explain that the word Bonty is used to describe what most know as a bonfire, it was a great community affair during the late fifties early sixties with all local families donating their time and effort (not to mention their old furniture) into making it a memorable experience for the young ones.

At the top of and beyond the cemetery lay the killing fields, this was one place we needed to see for ourselves, older kids such as my brother had told us that life extended beyond the graveyard but to see it you had to go through the “killings”.

Undaunted the wall was scaled in manly fashion.

Dropping to the ground amid the undergrowth as quietly as possible for fear of waking the dead ignoring the stings of the nettles as we always wore shorts we headed upwards.

Closing in on what we thought was a building, circling this way then that to make sure we were not followed; finally sure the coast was clear we approached the ruins of what used to be the local KILN.

Huge man made caverns many years in disrepair built to house the red hot coals which would roar as a jumbo jet sending vast heat upwards through the chimneys to fire the clay pots placed within.

Of course it would be years before I actually knew this (I’m not Einstein you know).

Leaving the Kiln’s behind us we realised we were still travelling upwards and just as one would imagine Everest when we reached the crest of the hill there stood another before us.

Intrepid explorers never give up but we did stop a few times once we wondered why the grass had been shaved and a hole drilled into it, there was a flag and a number of little white balls as well.

The old style golf balls of course were great you could peel the skin off them then unravel the elastic bands inside to reveal thicker elastic bands surrounding a little grey squidgy ball within which was a white liquid that tasted most foul.

The thicker bands were ideal for winding together and attaching to the sawn off branches of a tree (hand size “Y” shaped).

The resulting catapult could be used to fire stones and assorted items at the swallows and swifts which used to nest among the Kiln’s.

Onwards and upwards my friends.

After the golf course came every boys dream and every mothers nightmare.

The corporation tip/landfill sight.

Treasures unbound lay within, shoes, boots, handbags, white goods,

Televisions (if you kicked the screen out you could stick your head in and play presenters).But of course the most important item.

BOGEY WHEELS.

It didn’t matter where they came from originally, if there was a pair and they were

Roughly the same size and could fit on an axle then they were “Bogey wheels”

It was preferable to have two large and two small wheels if possible.

Three planks of wood one long two not so.

A seat was a bonus, loads and loads of six inch nails with some string.

In the right hands it was not long before these items could be turned into the must have transport of the day.

Two small wheels in the front with string mounted guidance larger wheels at the back for stability and if you could find it some form of braking system ( a piece of wood on the back tyres usually worked.)

Richard Hammond would have been proud of us, so too Jeremy Clarkson as the hill we used to go down opened up onto the main road between Sunderland and Newcastle and was the nearest thing to a motorway for the day.

Further on up the mountain (O.K. it’s only a hill but I was only small) lay the reservoir, cordoned off and impenetrable but around the side…

The other side of the hill.

Looking down it was awesome, great swathes of open fields of wheat and corn swaying in the breeze the odd dwelling here and there the road travelling for millions of miles before being broken up by the roaring screaming maelstrom that was the river Wear.

Wider than a mile in my eyes at least rushing on a relentless journey towards the sea taking everything in its path, nature’s way of saying

Go back,

Keep away,

It is unsafe,

On top of the hill were even more camps for us to play in, left over from the Second World War they were pill boxes now empty and decayed with a certain odour to them.

Mother would always know when I had been playing there as I would return home reeking of piss.

THE BONTY.

A quaint old custom of remembering when we as a nation used to take pride in hanging/drawing and quartering then beheading so called bad people.

What did we care/ we were kids It was an occasion to be enjoyed to the full

A time for all the family to be together, as the years passed it had become customary for the children to collect wood for the fire, we would travel many a mile (dragons ghosts and demons allowing) to gather up anything and everything combustible.

Generally speaking the collection would start in the last week of the summer holiday’s because we were bored by that time.

It dawns on me now that one of the reasons the whole community joined in was not because we were poor downtrodden folk, But because we were all from working class families (different in many ways to today’s working class) we could not afford the luxury of skips or motorised transport therefore this was the time of year when all the rubbish accumulated could be disposed of cheaply, hence the abundance of old mattresses and clothing.

Any way the rag and bone man was a skinflint and didn’t give you half what the clothes were worth.

As I got bigger so too naturally the bonfire, unlike most other things such as the cemetery wall which shrunk with age, one year the adults had to throw bundles of bangers into the fire as we had far to many.

They were all bought by that time honoured tradition of begging outside the three local pubs.

Another year was a near disaster for the family living in the gable end house of the rear terrace, we had built the Bonty too close to it, our intention was to move it shortly before November the fifth but unfortunately a spark from the chimney set it away a week early.

What a change from then to now as the fire brigade were eager to save as much of the firewood as we were.

During the following week they even called round a few times with extra wood and a few old doors for us,

The guys in the cemetery chipped in also by pruning the trees early and letting us collect the cuttings while they were not looking.

One abiding memory is the taste of baked potatoes thrown into the embers after the initial flames died down a bit, held in a towel while being spread with freshly churned butter from the farm.

Speaking of which I also used to enjoy the freshest of eggs still warm from the chickens bottom.

Camping out was done on the common ground/football pitch/cricket ground/battlefield situated along side the houses.

There was no need to worry about abductions (Except by aliens but they couldn’t be stopped unless it was between October 1st. and December 25th. When if you stayed in bed like a good boy they would leave you alone so says my mam anyway).

The things parents used to tell us to get us to behave especially in the time when we still believed in Father Christmas.

Other things from this period 5-10 years old.

The smell of tar during the summer:- was it hotter or was the tar of inferior quality laid by a gang of conmen on the cheap with a backhander to the local councillor in charge of highways and bye ways.

I know it used to hurt like hell when mother tried to scrape it off your knees as she wanted to take you shopping.

It was down to this that I had my next Traumatic episode.

Unable to clean my knees to her satisfaction (crystal white and sparkling) my mother left me playing with Brian (is a kebab cumma out ) in the newly constructed play area built at no expense by the council.

I say no expense because the roundabout was constructed in such a way that the running boards could easily be lifted by a nine year old.

Trailing hands to make patterns was one trick, dropping stones for others to pick up was another.

Being intelligent (NOT) I decided that if I put my foot down the hole it would act as a brake and slow it down.

The pain and agony of flesh being ripped open as a jagged shard of metal scrapes the tibula and fibula of your right leg is not something I wish on any mortal.

So there I was with a roundabout attached to my leg unable to walk as it was a bit heavy when the girl from the farmyard on hearing my screams came to the rescue like an angel of mercy.

Once more a female saved my life.

GETTING BETTER

Remember I told you about the new house?

LUXURY

The next really big event took place when I was ten going on eleven.

The family were awarded one of these lovely new homes, too late for my Nan though as she went to meet J.C. and his dad a few years earlier.

I didn’t know what death was except that people just stopped being around when you needed them. My dads father and mother where not part of our family as I knew it as they had died many years before I was aware, it was my mothers mam and dad who lived under us.

My Nan was a small woman 4ft.11” (and a quarter) she never let us forget that quarter. Grandad was nearer 6ft., being a merchant seaman he wasn’t around all that much but I found out later in life that was no bad thing.

When he was younger he used to be handy with his fists when he had been drinking which was often when he was not at sea.

Apparently though he stopped rather abruptly when he brought hom a present from Africa.

It was a female marmoset monkey, It took a shine to my Nan and wouldn’t leave her side (shoulder actually) The weekend after he came back from sea he did his usual trip to the pub and true to form he came home and started an argument with the intent of hitting my Nan.

The monkey was having none of this and attacked him ripping open his face and nearly taking out an eye.

He never hit my Nan again.

Nan was taken from this world by an affliction that no one knew about until recently when it claimed my mum.

Some kind of cancer/infection whatever that prevents the bone marrow from functioning normally, this causes a whole batch of complications any one of which can prove fatal.

I didn’t get to see the burial of my Nan as it was pissing down that Wednesday my brother and I cried as we watched the hearse pass under our bedroom window and enter the cemetery.

We did however go in the graveyard the following day to look.

Not a lot to see really, just a pile of dirt and bunches of flowers, but then she was and always will be still with me inside my head, if I close my eyes even to this day I can still picture her smile.

When we finally moved into the big house as it became known, it was sheer luxury.

Not having to brave the elements to go to the loo and even having a choice of upstairs and downstairs.

My first day in the new house was spent unceremoniously in the bath, as much to keep me out of the way as a reward for always being last in the tin bath,the tin bath did move with us however, it would come in handy years later when we were in need of a boat.

Our new “playground” was a joy, the house backed on to a field which was enclosed on three and a half sides by back garden fences.

I say three and a half sides as the gate was rather wide at one end with a lockable fence which was never locked.

It was to be a great place to explore the things teenagers usually like to explore.