Romaldkirk 16/07/20

It was a sunny day today and my dad and I had planned to spend it together. He has just begun his summer holidays and is I think feeling guilty for what he calls his “neglectful parenting” over the course of lockdown so far. Up until last week his days had been spent locked away in our garden shed “working from home”. For a minute there I almost started to buy into the idea that he could achieve renowned youtube stardom as he had to film some of his lessons for his students. Alas the brief glimpse of fame and recognition fizzled out as the end of term drew nearer. The truth is, Tony just works really hard and really long hours, and it’s nice to spend some quality time with him, whatever the motivation. 

Our original plan was to go to Durham, it being only a short 12 minute train ride from Newcastle. However, given that Durham is a relatively small city and that we are in the midsts of a pandemic showing no sensible signs of letting up any time soon, the majority of tourism options were closed. To make matters worse, surely the governments lax guidance coupled with the public’s impatient desperation to go out and get slaughtered invariably must lead to a second spike at some point. We opted instead for a 6 mile walk chosen hastily the night before from a website called ‘thisisdurham.com’. The majority of the online site’s content promises the best of what Durham has to offer by way of ‘fun family days out’ as well as some hidden gems of Durham’s countryside which we found ourselves pleasantly surprised by. Namely, the ‘Teesdale Way’. 

The entire six miles of our walk was littered with our own pleasant exclamations at the variation of terrain, hidden treasures such as ‘fairy cupboards’ (a series of mystical looking little coves above a babbling brook) and, although as a firm city dweller I hate to admit it, really lovely views across the sprawling fields of West Durham. About a third of the way into our walk, we came out of a woodland path into the quaint, picturesque little village of Romaldkirk. It is a place perhaps best described as something out of an episode of ‘Midsummer Murders’. Not that I’ve ever watched it myself but I can loosely conjure up the plot of a countryside murder mystery. My written portrayal of two main greens adorned with one sparsely time-tabled bus stop, the Church of St Romald, a collection of old-stone cottages and not one but two pubs doesn’t do this place justice. I’m not saying I would move there, but it definitely had a certain charm not dissimilar to that seen on the likes of ‘Countryfile’ (yet another countryside program I’ve not seen, but a field’s a field’s a field isn’t it). 

Were I to write an Agatha Christie-esque novel about Romaldkirk, I would imagine  a sort of rivalry between the two pubs: ’The Rose and Crown’, described as ‘ATTRACTIVE’ in capitals on the website where we found our walk, and the pub we actually ended up at, ‘The Black Bull’. Built literally in the shadow of the former. Almost unfairly I would say, it was understandable why out of the two, ‘The Rose and Crown’ would have been the chosen tourist hotspot. It boasted two glass conservatories at the front as well as the efflorescence of ivy crawling up its pale stone wall. The name of the pub itself emblazoned in gold lettering above the entrance. The sort of place you can imagine hosting a wedding reception. Contrastingly, ‘The Black Bull’, which, on the day of our visit was actually the only one open (thanks Covid), was host to a selection of mismatched garden furniture and several excitable hounds. More of a people’s pub, if you like. As we approached, the pub’s landlord urged us in to a dusty small room, in which half of the stools were still propped up on tables and the only customer was a woman half way through, what I can only suppose from her disposition, was not her first wine of the day, whom we later found out to be the landlord’s sister. 

After some light hearted cajoling that my currently blue hair looked like someone had “spilt ink” on my head (a bit forward but intended friendly enough I’m sure), my dad and me took our drinks outside to enjoy them in the sunshine. Before long we were joined by the landlord, his sister, and a couple who I assume were friends of theirs. Not to eavesdrop (but well one can hardly help it when the seating area is so intimate and the voices so loud) the conversation around us consisted mainly of how busy Barney (the nearest town) was, and how sick the sister was of “having to wash (my) hands and feet everywhere I go”. In my novel, I think I’d make her the baroness, the suspected culprit who was alleviated of blame only in the last chapter in which I revealed that the murder had all along in fact been a suicide, brought on by the oppressive and constant sense of being watched that comes with living in such a close-knit village community. She was, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, the sort of woman you would expect to find in the hair salon from mid morning until late afternoon, chattering away to the locals to hear the most recent village gossip without realising that she was only too often at the centre of it. Perhaps purposefully oblivious to the whispered comments about her day drinking. (Not that I’m judging her, being a big advocate myself of prosecco brunches, lunches and even breakfasts if the situation called for it).

Without waiting for any significant lull in the conversation around us, the sister once again drew attention to my hair colour, asking how many colours I’d been, while the woman on the table nearest to us noted “how lovely coloured hair looks on young people, not that we could pull it off, not at our age”. It really shouldn’t by now, but every so often I am a ever so slightly startled when my hair colours draw controversial attention, almost forgetting that its not such a common choice outside of my friends, and especially outside of the city. I have a friend who, when in Manchester, a place I consider to be relatively cosmopolitan, feels comfortable  painting his nails, confident that no one will say anything about it. Or that if they do it will be something affirming. Whereas in Newcastle, as a smaller city I think we probably do just look a bit weird to some people when we’re out together. Not long after this friendly discourse, my dad and I rose to continue our walk and were bid fond farewells by the surrounding party. The whole scene had a weird sort of dual sense, that we were welcomed to be a part of it whilst simultaneously being inspected from arm’s length. We were still, after all, the outsiders from the city. I think my dad was only half-joking when he mentioned that it was probably good that we’d left when we had as it was only a matter of time until someone accidentally said something racist. The wine only more likely to bring out more statements like “come on, you sound like an Indian with that “but but” that we’d overheard at the bar.