Both exhibit(ed) a haughty disdain for the shallower, slicker elements and personalities of their chosen worlds. Peel routinely made sport of people like Tony Blackburn, a genuine soul fan who did more to promote black music on BBC radio than anyone else in his era, and the admittedly sickly/sinister Bates/ Edmonds axis at ‘wonderful Radio One’. In Corbyn’s case, he has billed himself as polar opposite and antidote to the stage-managed spin machinery of New Labour, Blair and Alastair Campbell. By hiding their not inconsiderable egos behind a gentle wooliness, Corbyn and Peel are ‘National Treasures’ for the kind of liberal who bridles at the idea of national treasures, considering them painfully ‘little Englander’ and celebrated by the likes of the Daily Express. My grumbling discontent (occasionally flaring into incandescent rage) with Corbyn is that it is not his beard, allotment or even politics that make him the polar opposite of Blairism but his electability. (As I write this, his poll ratings are miserable, though admittedly the last year has taught us to be wary of the pollster.)
JC’s speech was cogent and thoughtful if short on emotional fireworks. He gave a genuinely fine tribute to ‘Red Ellen’ whilst brandishing a well-thumbed first edition of The Town That Was Murdered from the Left Book Club. He went down well of course; this is Labour’s heartland and these people are loyal. In private, a few I spoke to were downbeat about his electoral clout and competence but others said that they found him fresh and inspirational. I acquired a coffee and a bag of donuts and decided to listen to the other speeches before going back to the hotel to pack.
Next up was an executive of public service union Unison who’d come straight from central casting circa 1984 with a strident, staccato delivery and a range of ‘off the peg’ agitprop (‘and let us be clear that we say as a movement to THIS Tory government’). There followed a smooth LibDem, then a pleasant lady from the Greens whose lengthy factual re-telling of the march read from a piece of paper was lovely whilst smacking of an earnest school project (‘This term we have been studying the Jarrow Crusade which took place in October 1936 …’). Funniest by far was the nonagenarian Conservative candidate who sat on a folding chair beaming and said, ‘I am from Jarrow and I live in Jarrow and naturally I haven’t agreed with a thing I’ve heard here today …’
I watched as Jeremy was hustled very gently into the changing rooms and I assume out to a waiting car, since I didn’t think even a cyclist of his commitment could have come on his folding Brompton. The week before, his share of the Labour members, vote grew to 68 per cent. A huge influx of new members have made Labour the biggest political party in Western Europe. All this proves to some that he is destined to be our next Prime Minister. As many have pointed out, however, this is rather akin to saying that Liverpool will win the Premier League because the Kop want them to. As I set off for my three-hundred-mile trek to London, Downing Street seemed a long way off for me and JC.
STAGE ONE
JARROW TO CHESTER-LE-STREET
5 October, 12 miles
We are a nation besotted with statuary. Latterly, our near immediate response to the passing of a beloved celebrity is to demand a disturbing, generally unrecognisable facsimile of them somewhere of local significance; Eric Morecambe leaping like a salmon on that town’s seafront, Harold Wilson pipeless outside Huddersfield station, the John Lennon with the tiny body and alarmingly large head outside the Cavern, Liverpool. At the time of writing there are campaigns to erect statues of Victoria Wood in Bury, various suffragettes outside Parliament and David Bowie in Brixton, Bromley and seemingly everywhere he ever booked into a Travelodge for the night. There was briefly a campaign to commission a 300-feet-high golden statue of former Dr Feelgood singer Lee Brilleaux in Southend which sadly failed.
For every ‘controversial’ abstract bronze on the windswept piazza of a new town, or geometric fibreglass scalene triangle in front of a Midlands police station that creates local kerfuffle, there are thousands of silent sentinels that we bypass every day without a thought. And, ignoring the occasional celebrated Peter Pan or Sherlock Holmes, most of these stolid figures are the sons of empire; straight-backed, moustachioed, mercantile, magisterial, military and nearly always men (only 2.7 per cent of British figurative statues are women and they are mostly either allegorical, royal or nude).
The statue of Sir Charles Mark Palmer on the main street in Jarrow leaves you in little doubt as to who once bossed this town like a personal fiefdom. He stands above the main street puffed and proprietorial, gazing out over the hard little town. Below his feet is a lengthy, boastful CV graven into the stone: ‘Sir C Mark Palmer, baronet, born South Shields, November 3rd 1822. Founder of the Palmer works and of the town of Jarrow of which he was the first mayor in 1875 … originator of the first steam screw … Member of Parliament for North Durham … this statue erected in 1903 by the workmen of Palmer’s company and a few friends commemorates a life devoted to the social advancement of the working classes, the prosperity of Jarrow and the industrial progress of Tyneside …’ Whether the working classes of Jarrow would still have coughed up for a statue to Sir Charles 30 years later is very much open to debate.
The Jarrow marchers have their own memorials of course, scattered around their home town; a crude and often vandalised mosaic in a grim underpass, a bronze of Red Ellen at the head of a group of men in Morrison’s car park. (At its unveiling, surviving marcher Con Whalen was persuaded to wear a Morrison’s badge for the pictures.) There’s a stark metal silhouette of marching men at Jarrow Metro station too. But while these form part of the everyday street furniture of the area, none is as grandly prominent in Jarrow as Sir Charles surveying what once was very definitely his domain. Everywhere in the town are shades and echoes of his marshalling of the long defunct yards; Palmer Street, the Palmer Hospital, the Palmer Nursing Home, even the Palmer’s Tavern pub.
I was last in Jarrow a decade ago, researching an earlier book called Pies and Prejudice. I was, I hope, honest and fair but what I wrote was no puff piece or tourist blurb and I’ve always thought that the least I could do was come back and explore again. A passing Jarrovian in the street reminds me of my earlier visit. He passes by with a wry, not unfriendly smile, a handshake and a swift nod. ‘I hope you like it a bit more than last time, Stuart’. And I do. There is still the faint echo of neglect and decline, of hard times being resisted and there is none of the easy, comfortable atmosphere of content that I’ll increasingly find as I travel south. But there’s life here and people going about their business on a glorious October morning and no sense of a town cowed or beaten. There are, however, signs of Britain’s remorseless and bizarre ‘hipsterfication’, something else I’ll see much of on my journey. Jarrow now boasts retro emporiums where a fellow about town can get his tache waxed and his beard mascara’d. You can buy cupcakes and smoothies. Most noticeable of all for me is the transformation (from the exterior at least) of the pub that so unnerved me last time. The Jarrow Crusaders then was a dark, forbidding cave of gassy, pissy lagers, giant booming TVs and clanking fruit machines where everyone stopped talking, Slaughtered Lamb style, when I entered. Now it’s McConnell’s Gin And Ale House and has wood panelling, posh spirits and microbrews. Who knows? It may still be a place a chap could get a thick ear but at least he could enjoy a chilled Masons Dry Gin (distilled from a small copper alembic still) whilst acquiring it.
It was the early hour rather than nervousness that stopped me popping in. And I was distracted by the appearance on the street corner of a man in a blue serge boiler suit carrying a large tray of sandwiches augmented by what may well have been volau-vents and bound for the side entrance of the town hall. This I took as a cue that the Jarrow eightieth anniversary civic reception was about to begin. A local and well-connected contact of mine (who shall be nameless) had tried to wangle me an invite to this event but had encountered stubborn resistance among the local council to ‘journalist types’. I wasn’t slighted by this at all but I did find it a little strange. From the embedded journalists of 1936
through BBC documentaries through various anniversary pieces, the press treatment of Jarrow’s march has never been less than positive. In fact, one might even say, sentimentalised and gushing. So exactly what scandalous and profligate fillings were in those sandwiches. Caviar? Songbirds? Cruel and exorbitant pâtés from endangered species? Just what had they got to hide at that buffet?
Denied entry I may have been, but there was little chance of me starving to death in Jarrow. You would have to be extremely poor or painfully shy for this to occur. Little greasy spoons, prim cafés, pizza outlets, pie shops, chippies and cake shops abound. Rosie’s Café. Hetty’s Tea Room. Even butcher David C Hodgson (‘purveyor of quality meats’) will wipe his bloodied hands on his apron and seat you in the window by the hanging sides of beef for a ‘delicious Saveloy, pease pudding and stuffing – £1.40’ or a ‘Full House Bellybuster – £2.95’. Pavement and café society is alive and well in ‘Jarra’ on a Wednesday mid-morning.
I plumped for beans on toast in Rosie’s where, above the sizzle of bacon, the local radio news bulletin was reporting on yesterday’s speech by recently installed PM Theresa May, asserting that the Tories were now ‘the party of workers’, occupying the centre ground vacated by Corbyn’s Labour Party. Next was an item on Home Secretary Amber Rudd’s proposal to force companies to disclose how many foreign workers they employ, which some business leaders called ‘divisive and damaging’. Then it was back to the DJ who was trying to get a phone-in item going on what people thought was the most inspirational sandwich filling. I checked the website of the South Shields Gazette where a nice young journalist had written up an interview with me alongside a report on the Fun Day. Against all common sense, I broke an iron habit and dipped ‘below the line’ into the comments section where the dark things lurk. There was nothing nasty there – this is the north east after all – but one contributor, writing under the name ‘Old News’, reminded me that many are waiting at the keyboard to grind their personal axe.
There is no comparison between the desperate lives that our ancestors endured in the 1920s and 30s and today’s luxury. They had NOTHING – but now even sanctioned lazybones STILL get state and voluntary aid despite being undeserving. So much so that today’s Britain has been stupid enough to lavish money and houses even on to 3m workshy foreigners. The poor souls shown above got on with life after their march. Only the Labour Party seeks to profit from their poverty now.
On the way up the street I paused to look in Blackberry Estates’s window to check local house prices. A three-bed new build semi is on offer for £110,000 billed as a ‘must view’, ‘perfect for first time buyer, no chain’. Very different from the vertiginous London prices often in the news. But then, as I was going to find, I was a long way from London. I stopped off in Boots to buy some spare batteries and paracetamol and headed up to Christ Church for my 10.30 ceremonial start.
When you consider the loathing and contempt their local bishop held them in, starting the Jarrow march in an Anglican church with a service and a blessing, might seem odd, grovelling even. Though a man of the cloth, Hensley Henson, Bishop of Durham, is one of the undisputed villains of the Jarrow mythos. This pillar of the Establishment and virulently anti-socialist member of the Lords regarded the marchers as a revolutionary mob and condemned several fellow bishops and clergymen for their warmth towards Jarrow and its plight and their ‘foolish utterances’. In Jarrow, his condemnation of the march is well known and well remembered.
But then this was a ‘crusade’, and keen to be seen as such rather than a hunger march or anything similarly inflammatory. The mayor had wanted a minister with a crucifix to lead the march from the front but none willing could be found, which with the benefit of hindsight seems a good thing. Still the pews of the church were crammed with marchers and their wives plus various dignitaries resplendent in their chains of office, wigs and gowns and the clergy of all Jarrow’s denominations; C of E, Catholic, Baptist and Presbyterian. From the pulpit, the men were encouraged not to ‘drink the wine of violence’ en route. They were then blessed by one of the many clergymen present and sent on their historic way to the rousing strains of ‘Onward Goes the Pilgrim Band’.
Eighty years later the church is locked and barred so I can’t even get in to see the little plaque commemorating the march. There’s no signs of life, just a faded cardboard sign for the day nursery and toddler group in a grimy window of an outbuilding at the rear. An elderly lady passes with her dog which sniffs me listlessly, closely followed by a young Romanian mum with a buggy who tells me that the church doesn’t open today. Maybe they’ll do something special here for the hundredth anniversary, I hope. When I’d been planning my trip, I’d regularly been asked if I was having any kind of send-off or whether anyone would be walking with me. No, I’d answer, perhaps a little piously. This wasn’t a sponsored walk or high-publicity charity event. It was research, exploration, discovery with maybe a little adventure along the way. I didn’t want any hubristic palaver at the start. But as I stood alone in the deserted back street, the young mum, the old lady and the listless terrier all long gone, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe just a tiny bit of palaver would have been nice.
The start of the original march had palaver galore. Almost the whole town turned out to see them off, police forcing crowds back behind cordons on to the pavement. Those lucky few townsfolk who had jobs and watched from their office or factory windows were reprimanded and told to get back to work. For the first time in years, the public gallery of the local court, usually a popular source of warmth and diversion for the unemployed, was empty. A thousand men had applied to be marchers and the round number of 200 were chosen, as well as the Mayor of Jarrow, three councillors, two journalists to record the journey and two supportive medical students to check health and administer any first aid. A second-hand bus was purchased for £20 and converted for their needs. This would go ahead with supplies, cooking gear, sleeping kit and sundries. Every man was provided with waterproofs, 1s 6d. pocket-money and two 1d. stamps a week. Sam Rowan was detailed as ‘mail man’, collecting and sending post for and from the men in every town (this was an England of four cheap postal deliveries a day where an invite to lunch could be sent at breakfast).
Outside the church, after the service, Mayor Thompson inspected the men. Seven of the original cohort had dropped out, most because of ill health or family pressure, with one fortunate chap having found a job. Substitutes were found quickly though including two neighbours, Bob Burns and Billy Beattie of Morpeth Avenue. Billy’s wife was out so he left a note on the mantelpiece saying he’d set off for London and would see her in a month. Nowadays of course he’d text her, Facetime her or leave a post on her Facebook wall. Mine and Billy’s Englands are similar in many ways, but only if you discount the astounding advances in everyday technology. I’d be helped in my journey by strange new forces; Google maps, Spotify, YouTube, Dark Sky Weather apps, Uber and Twitter. I was keen to feel resonances of 1936 and so I donned the flat cap I’d bought in Fenwicks and, with a nod to the marchers’ mouth organ band, put Vaughan Williams’s ‘Romance for Harmonica and Orchestra’ on my headphones as I left the little houses and narrow streets of Jarrow behind me.
Unexpectedly, the first few miles are lovely. You might even call them leafy. Very soon out of Jarrow a green walkway leads me away from town through Campbell Park, a verdant tract reclaimed for the community from what was once called ‘the Crusher’, a huge slag heap resulting from smelting iron ore at the Palmer’s shipyard. An information board has an aerial shot from the time of the march which shows a vast, scarred muddied tract of prefabricated buildings and hulking machines. Now, in the caption’s words, it has ‘returned to field’ and on this sparkling morning, the sound is that of coal tits and blackbirds rather than grinding and crushing.
I’ve given myself a few rules for the trip. As said, I will begin and end every day/stage in the same towns they did. I’ll walk as much as I can but if a meeting or adventure suggests itsel
f I’ll buy time by hopping on a bus for a while as long as it covers the route of the march. I’ve decided that as I walk, if I can find a pleasanter path than the verges of a busy road I’ll take it, provided it runs at least alongside their route. So I walk along the Bowes Railway Path, following the track of the old Bowes line, built by George Stephenson in 1826 to shift coal from the Durham pits to the River Tyne. When the marchers passed by, it was a busy, noisy and viable line and they’d have seen and heard the comings and goings of smoking and laden engines. Now it is part of our post-industrial heritage culture, quietened and retired into a long gentle walking and cycling route.
Springwell Bank is the village and cutting where the marchers made their first stop for lunch on that first day. They arrived by one o’clock to the cheerful light tenor of Councillor Gordon, ‘the singing councillor’. They drank a couple of gallons of tea and ate corned beef sandwiches that involved forty pounds of corned beef and fifty loaves; this was a trip requiring military logistics. I stop, sit on a tree stump and try to catch the radio news on my phone, wondering about the social and political context of my trek compared to theirs. I catch the end of a radio magazine show and hear two items; one is about the current craze for spriralising vegetables, the other is about the protocols of group chat on WhatsApp.
Long Road from Jarrow Page 6
