The GardenDespatches from The Satyrs’ Forest

Page 14

First frost

Humph — the first frost of the year has arrived, at least in my back garden. Looks like it’s time to make the choice every Geordie faces each year: do i brave the cold in nothing but a jacket, or do i surrender to my inner southern pansy and get out The Big Coat? (Hopefully this early frost is a good sign for a white Christmas/Yule/whatever-you-celebrate ahead.)

Walking the Blyth and Tyne, part three: B L Y T H.

The industry town of Blyth is bordered on four sides by sights iconic of the North­um­brian experience. To the north lies the eponymous River Blyth, carving out a respectable third to the Tyne and Tweed in how it has shaped the course of the county’s history. To the east, the awesome North Sea ebbs and flows, enticing herds of families out to the beach. Southwards, farms and fields stretch on until they meet the city streets. And, to the west, the dismal grey A189 motorway cuts its way through impoverished streets and empty grassland.

So guess which path the railway sent me down? That’s right, it was hugging the fucking tarmac for me. There’s a reason the God of travellers is a trickster.


Two empty, shuttered storefronts. One's text is too faded to read, but the other reads 'Newsham Motorcycles'.

Newsham is perhaps the prototypical post-industrial suburb. The streets are lined with drab row-houses and shuttered shops whose walls sit darkened by cigarette smoke. But even here, there are signs of history, and signs of life. Walking along a small council estate, even in this decidedly hard-to-do area, people's personalities shine through. One car, judging by the bumper stickers, belongs to a proud gay naturist. Another house has a carved relief of an Indian chief (although i doubt the inhabitants have a drop of Native American blood in them). And at the end of the road lies the holy grail: the old station master's house, whose nearby decaying platforms just about peek over the fence.

A plaque marking the site of the Station Master's house.

After this, our path splits in two: the main line continues up to Bebside, but a spur branches off and swings to the town centre. The first one is mostly a boring romp through farmland and reclaimed forests, so, for now, we'll be following the second line.


There are a lot of things about Blyth that i’m sure the town council would love for me to tell you about. It has an historic beach (though it’s all the way on the south end of town, and there’s no reason for you to make the trek when Newbiggin and Whitley Bay are closer and just as nice). There's a weekly market on Thursdays (though on the Thursday i went in, they’d all packed up already), by the plaza next to the shopping centre (whose selection of options is laughable when compared to Manor Walks in the next town over). And they’re dead proud of their local football team, the Spartans, who famously performed somewhat above average in the 1978 FA Cup (never mind that Ashington spawned two World Cup winners).

By now you may have noticed that everything in Blyth seems to be a slightly crappier version of something from elsewhere in Northumberland. This goes too for the ignoble fate of its former station. While some have been turned into houses, shops, pubs, or just returned to the land whence they arose, Blyth’s once-proud central station is now… a Morrisons car park.

Cars parked in front of a Morrisons store.
You cannot make this up.
A sticker of Top Cat smoking weed labelled 'Pot Cat' (no, really)
This was the only useable photo i got.

The branch line itself is now a straight-on footpath, cutting its way through town with a hospital and shopping centre on one side and impoverished estates on the other — until about halfway through, that is, when it suddenly becomes much more suburban in character; charming parks take the place of pools and appendectomies, while a long allotment fills the other side. (It was also — and i cannot stress this enough — absolutely pissing it down by the time i got to this end, and as such, i failed to get any usable footage. Just trust that it eventually meets back up with the main line.)


Back on the main line, the motorway leads to a depressing interchange at Bebside. Just across from the former site of the station sits the grimiest petrol station corner shop i think i’ve ever been to (no photos, alas, again); the site of the station itself has long been bulldozed and turned into a horse riding centre.

I’d love to stay and show you more, but the next phase in our adventure is a big one — because we’ll be taking a brief diversion to County Durham. It’ll all make sense when we get there. Ciao!

Het Internetassortiment, № 2

Ze zijn allemaal Engelstalig vandaag, sorry. Er zijn 1,35 miljard van hun en 23 miljoen van ons - wat kan je er over doen? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Mx van Hoorn’s link roundup, Volume II

Lords of Misrule

This is a copy of the main page for this event.

“Iō Saturnalia!” So went the cry that marked the start of the eponymous classical holiday. For one glorious week, Roman society was turned on its head: slaves became masters; togas were out and ostentatious displays of colour were in; gag gifts were given; and one lucky person was elected the local King of Saturnalia. Whatever orders the King barked had to be followed, no matter how ridiculous. This tradition clung on even into the Christian middle ages as the English “lord of misrule” — a lone pagan vestige in a monotheistic world.

So, in the spirit of those winter holidays, to lighten up this frosty time of year, i thought it would be fun to let you play that rule for my website. Welcome, one and all, to the first annual satyrs.eu Lords of Misrule!

If you write or put together something — absolutely anything — and email it to misrule@satyrs.eu, come Saturnalia (that’s December 17 to 23, for those who understandably aren’t up to date with ancient festival customs) i’ll put it up on the site, both on the blog and on its own dedicated, permanent subpage, etched in stone for all to see.

I would ask that you don’t submit any political polemics (we’ve had quite enough of those) or anything that would get me in legal trouble, but apart from that, anything goes. Your gran’s chocolate cake recipe? An impassioned defence of Freddy Got Fingered as an ironic masterpiece? A rant about how keyboards aren’t what they used to be? Whatever you — my lords of misrule — want.

You can submit your entries from today until the 16th of December, 2021. Have fun, and don’t be afraid to get weird with it!

— Marijn

The mystery of Newcastle’s vampire rabbit

Down a narrow alleyway to the back end of St Nicholas’ Cathedral, in Newcastle, one can find a rather curious decoration garnishing a door on the opposing façade. The “vampire rabbit” has stood watch over the cathedral for at least half a century; while records are scarce (a quick search of Google Books doesn’t bring up anything until the twenty-first century), it could well date back to the building’s construction in 1901.

Spooky.
Here’s a noticeably brighter bun, as it looked in 1987.

Here’s the thing, though. Nobody knows how it got there. Indeed, even the name “vampire rabbit” is a misnomer; its jet-black fur and red claws were added on some time in the 1990s,i as were its distinctly batty ears. Some say it was put there to scare away wannabe graverobbers, but i have my doubts that twentieth-century crooks would be so dumb.

Yet others posit that it represents a mad March hare, arising at the time of Easter, or that it refers to Thomas Bewick, a nearby engraver who had a fondness of all things lagomorphic. Most fascinatingly, a theory advanced by one Mr Adam Curtis suggests a Masonic pun in reference to one George Hare Phillipson, a local doctor (hence vampires) and active Freemason, as was the lead architect, one William H. Wood. It being a secret society in-joke would also explain why it’s located around the back, rather than the front, which faces onto one of the busiest streets in town.

Perhaps we might never know for sure. In any case, it’s a fascinating little secret — what do you think is most likely?

Other people's posts

Nee heb je, ja kun je krijgen

We have a saying in the Netherlands: “Nee heb je, ja kun je krijgen.” It translates to something like you’ve already got a no; you might as well try for a yes — it’s always better to ask rather than stay silent.

There’s a few English phrases that are similar. Up north, shy bairns get nowt is a common instruction from parents; across the pond, hockey player Wayne Gretzky contributed the saying you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take to the local lexicon in a 1991 interview.

Are there any similar sayings in your neck of the woods, or your language? I’d love to hear.

Hallowe’en

It was in the evening, just before the sun fell and dusk set in, that i packed my bags and went. A short jaunt to the cemetery, to see some old friends.

I never knew my great-uncle and -aunt, but their name still holds some worth; their middle name and surnames i was bestowed at birth. I searched fruitlessly through the old graves, filled with fallen war-time knaves, but finally, by a bench and basket of waste, i found the couple’s resting place.

I didn’t think it would affect me so much, but just at the sight i felt the touch of a salty trickle running down my cheeks. I knelt and felt i could weep for weeks. As evening turned to dusk and dusk turned to night, i jotted down the words inscribed in white:

We often think of bygone days when we were all together
The family chain is broken now but memories live forever

Rest in peace, Tim and Annie. Happy Hallowe’en.

Letter of recommendation: Censor

A film poster split into two parts by a VHS ripple effect ; the top, a conservatively-dressed woman in 80s style, the bottom, a madwoman holding an axe. The film is called "Censor", starring Niamh Algar.

I recently had some downtime and, since ’tis the season, watched Censor, a small British horror film about a film censor during the “video nasty” panic who investigates a strangely familiar scene.

It’s tense, stylish, and scary — all the more impressive coming from its first-time director, Prano Bailey-Bond — becoming more and more surreal the further it progresses. Give it a watch, why don’t you?

Some nice local businesses at Ponteland market

A table filled with alkin goods and crafts

The family and i went to a local food-and-craft market at Ponteland’s garden centre this morning. I thought i’d send letters of recommendation for some of the stalls.

Urban Bakery, from Gateshead, make the most decadent cinnamon buns i’ve ever had.

The Alnwick Soap Company produce wonderful soaps inspired by the scents of rural Northumberland. I plumped for the ginger-and-grapefruit and cedarwood-and-juniper myself.

Mrs B’s Kitchen, from Durham, sells jams, conserves, chutneys, honey, sauces — all the things you ever need in the top drawer of your fridge. (I got the rhubarb and raspberry.)

Hops and Dots, of Bishop Auckland, make “accessible craft beer” with Braille on the labels.

Wilde Farm, of Ponteland, are ostensibly running the whole thing, and sell... you know, farm things. Carrots, veg, burgers, sausages, turkey — you get the idea. They’re currently taking orders for the winter holidays.

Witte wanden, grijze banken, potplanten

Mijn oma was een enthousiaste maker van plakboeken en collage’s. Samen met de schilderijen, antieke kasten en kitscherige hondenstandbeeldjes droeg de muren van haar huis kleine collagetjes van grote momenten in haar leven en de mijne.

Met één kijkje rond het huis kon je meteen zien wie ze was, en waar ze om gaf. (Haar honden. Zij gaf veel om haar honden.) Het was ongeorganiseerd; het was chaotisch; het was misschien een beetje rommelig — maar het was echt van háár.

De huidige trends zijn nogal verschillend. Ergens na de grote recessie werd het een beetje tactloos om met je rijkdom te pronken. De stijl du jour heeft zich gewend aan blanke muren, kale tafels en misschien af en toe een bloempot. (Voor groene planten, natuurlijk — wat voor soort gek zou kléúr in zijn huis willen?)

Ik heb het gevoel dat we iets verloren hebben. De topresultaten voor „minimalist livingg room” op Google Afbeeldingen, bijvoorbeeld, vertellen je bijna niks over de persoon die daar woont:

Een selectie van spartaanse, wit ommuurde kamers, met af en toe een grijze bank en stoel.

Vergelijk die met deze meer rommelige zaken, gevuld met boeken, tapijten, foto's en dergelijke, en het verschil is als dag en nacht:

Verscheidene kamers in verschillende kleuren, boeken tot hoog aan het plafond, overal stoelen, tapijten...

Tja, misschien ben ik gewoon chagrijnig en nostalgisch. Wat denken jullie?

White walls, grey sofas, potted plants

When i was just a bairn, my oma was an avid scrapbooker and collage-maker. Dotted around the walls, alongside the paintings, antique cupboards, and kitschy statues of dogs, were little collaged images of every important moment in her life — and mine.

Just by looking around her house, you could instantly get a sense of who she was, and what she cared about. (Her dogs. She cares a lot about her dogs.) It was disorganised, it was a wee bit cluttered — but it was hers.

Today’s trends are rather different. Some time after the great recession (when it became, understandably, somewhat gauche to display how much Stuff you owned), the style du jour turned to blank, white walls, with spare tables and maybe (if you were lucky) the occasional potted plant. As this bareness took over, i can’t help but feel something was lost.i

The top results for “minimalist living room” on Google Images, for example, tell you almost nothing at all about the person who might be living there:

A selection of spare, white-walled rooms, with the occasional grey sofa and chair strewn in.

Compare with these more cluttered affairs, filled with alkin books, rugs, photos, and the like, and the difference in the amount of personality that shines through is like night and day:

Several clujttered rooms of various colours, books filed high to the ceiling, chairs everywhere, tapestry rugs...

I don’t know. Maybe i’m just grumpy and nostalgic. What do you think?