Just out of site is a bloke brewing up on a stove. He’d walked down the disused line from the lay-by on the A689. We had a natter. Him in his cagoule and me in my tie and Barbour. It’s called Wynyard something or other now. Funny how planners and councillors rename stuff with the name of a posh nearby village thereby glibly writing over history. I bought a brew in the little cafe which is where the hives used to be. The station house stove is still in there. The visitor centre and wardens base are closed and shuttered up nowadays. They’ve bullt an observatory and a planetarium in the car park. It’s on National Cycle Route 1 now. Roseworth to the left. Sunderland to the right. Just up there on the left in Grindon is a 12th century church dedicated to St Thomas a Becket. Just up there on the right is Thorpe Wood where, aged 14, i sat in a bush one night with me Dad silent and petrified as some men dug a badger sett out. Any noise would doubtless have got us spaded. Aged 16 i got my maroon ‘countryside warden’ sweatshirt and was given responsibility for looking after the Great Crested Newts. I’m certain that nobody ran the lap from off the old railway line down to Thorpe Wood Pond over the inflow bridge then left then right near the charcoal burners then back up to rejoin the line as many times as me in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Keep going as fast as you can until you puke then rest for 5 minutes and start again. The fields and woods between here and my school to the south were a truants playground. Turnips dug up and peeled with a penknife for a snack. I learnt far more in them woods and fields than in any classroom.
I went to the crematorium that stands on the site of my comprehensive school today. Whatever memories the authors of the sermon therein tried to rob from me, the short wander along the line afterwards brought them back.
Mind how you go.