I’m in Cumbria of all places, speeding across the gloriously
beautiful Pennines to Newcastle on one of the prettiest train journeys I’ve
ever taken. I keep hoping to see a bit of Hadrian’s Wall. One of my greatest
ambitions in life is to see one of the relatively intact sections of this mystical monument.
We tried to find it as children, but didn’t know where to look.
My next project for the BBC involves working right the way
across the top of England... True North, if you like; basically everything
between Scotland and Yorkshire and Lancashire. It’s one of those British
regions without a name, and I suspect people in Newcastle would question how
much they had in common with Cumbrians, Northumbrians, or Teesiders. It’ll be
really interesting to see what emerges.
What became immediately apparent in my meeting last week was
that I didn’t actually know anything about Cumbria. I must have passed through
it several times on my way up to Glasgow, and remember once stopping off for
lunch in, I think, Penrith, but I’ve never visited the Lake District, and when
people started mentioning places like Barrow-In-Furness, I couldn’t even bring
an image of a place to my mind.
Cumbria for me is that slightly terrifying place where
Windscale Nuclear Power Station was. I think the nuclear reactors got into
trouble at some point in my childhood and I thought the world was coming to an
end.
The Lovely Nell from BBC Cumbria offered to give me a
special tour of the county and I couldn’t wait to get up there. I am a great
fan of exploring new corners of Britain, and the opportunity to be shown around
by a local should never be passed up.
The tour started in Carlisle, which I found surprisingly
attractive, even in the pouring rain. The area around the Cathedral is
particularly pleasant, and I was very taken with a little row of Victorian
shops opposite the BBC building there including a hoover shop, which I’m
told has the friendliest staff you’re ever likely to find.
From Carlisle we travelled East to Wigton, a market town
which seems to have been engulfed by a giant plastics factory, and from Wigton
we went to the curiously-named, hugely-isolated seaside village of Silloth,
where we ate chips on the beach, and wandered around an arcade with enormous
shatter-proof windows which looked out onto the angry brown Irish sea. “Is the
sea round here always brown?” I asked. Apparently it is.
Silloth feels like a rather sad little place. It’s
absolutely charming. A wide cobbled street and a series of tree-lined parks
separate seafront houses from the sea itself. I don’t know if the tide was in,
but there didn’t seem to be any sign of a beach. A pathetic little funfair
shivered in front of a factory. Two children were spinning endlessly on a
waltzer, the fairground attendant no doubt thrilled to have a couple of quid’s
worth of custom. A married couple ate chips from the back of the only car parked
in the funfair’s car park. When we returned half an hour later, the place was
entirely empty. The strange fairground whooshes, bell-tings and heavy-bass
chart music continued, as did the enticing and inane flashing lights, but there
was absolutely no one there to play. A little piece of me died.
The Cumbrians seem very friendly, if not a little reticent.
There’s definitely a guardedness that isn’t present on the East coast. Across
the Solway Firth we could see the mountains of Scotland shrouded in mist,
hiding secrets which we’ll never be able to access.
We drove south along the coastal road, past mile after mile
of empty beach, past little houses with their hatches battened down, chips
shops with pink neon signs dancing in the grey sky and windswept sand dunes bedecked in
purple and yellow flowers.
Before long we were entering Whitehaven, diving through a
Victorian house-lined ravine into the town centre with its smashed church
windows, and deserted houses sliding down hillsides. This is where Derek Bird
went on his shooting spree and the town genuinely feels like it’s sinking
underneath the weight of the pain. Tainted by death, it feels, like a recently
bereaved widow.
Sad as these coastline towns may have seemed, there is
something filmic and intriguing about the area. It draws you in and fills your
head with questions.
350 years ago, and Pepys diary was full of intrigue.
Sir William Batten was losing his grip; and potentially his position at the Navy office. Lord Sandwich's spoilt son had taken to fighting duels, and losing them with no
honour (usually by running away). Pepys worked late into the night, and was paid a little visit; "writing in my study a mouse ran over my table, which I shut up
fast under my shelfs upon my table till tomorrow"
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