Okay, that’s enough memorials… but how about another mosaic?

This triptych at Whitley Bay station was installed in 1983, only three years after the Metro replaced British Rail services to the station. They cover up the old ticket windows.

A plaque records that:

This mosaic was made by the following young people of the Projex Agency under the supervision of Ian Patience

A J Murphy, L Spoor, J Blyth, A Thompson, C Rafferty

Assisted by

D Munro, T Emery, C Higgins

The work was jointly sponsored by Gateshead MBC, Northern Arts, Tyne and Wear Passenger Transport Executive and carried through the Youth Opportunities Programme of the Manpower Services Commission

Hilariously, these days, ‘Projex Agency’ appears to most commonly refer to a modelling agency ‘that transforms average ladies into top-tier global influencers’ by helping them to grow the popularity of their 18+ OnlyFans accounts. I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing Gateshead MBC and Manpower had in mind forty years ago.

After a couple of days on the trot of mildly depressing posts about memorials, here’s another. Don’t worry, I’m fine.

This is Redcar’s memorial to their remarkable and much-loved MP, the late Mo Mowlam. She famously didn’t want the job as Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, which she became following Labour’s 1997 election victory. Yet, despite her reservations, she threw herself into the role, overseeing the negotiations which led to the signing of the Good Friday Agreement.

This remarkable legacy was achieved despite having been diagnosed with a metastatic brain tumour in late 1996, which sadly finally ended her life in 2005.

This memorial was unveiled in 2009: an intricate mosaic designed by local artist John Todd. It was installed alongside the new-refurbished Coatham Boating lake, a stone’s throw from her former home. (The boating lake has since sprung a leak, hence it looking a little under-filled in the background of that picture.)

This fountain in Cullercoats commemorates a lieutenant lost at sea, many thousands of miles away:

Erected by a few friends in memory of Bryan John Huthwaite Adamson, Lieut RN, Commanding HMS Wasp which sailed from Singa Pore Sep.10 1887 and was never heard of after. The site was given for this memorial by His Grace the Duke of Northumberland 1888

Bryan Adamson was born in Cullercoats in 1851, joined the navy at the age of 14, and became a Lieutenant at the age of 22.

HMS Wasp, which Adamson commanded on its final fateful voyage, was also a local, built at the Armstrong Marshall shipyard in the mid-1880s. The ship made it safely to Singapore, but was lost on a subsequent voyage from there to Hong Kong. In all, 80 people perished when the shipped disappeared without a trace.

HMS Wasp’s location remains a mystery to this day: it is supposed that it sank following a particularly violent typhoon, which is known to have damaged and sunk a number of other vessels.

This anchor, on Redcar seafront, belongs to the Finnish sailing vessel ‘Birger’, which sank in the area in 1898. The sinking not only cost 13 lives, but the vessel’s wheelhouse tore through Coatham Pier, severing it—and, indeed, the whole pier collapsed into the sea the following year.

Over the following days, Christmas presents which those aboard were carrying back to their families washed ashore. Redcar residents thoughtfully collected these, and forwarded them on with letters of condolence.

The Birger’s anchor was recovered by the Cleveland Divers’ Club 100 years later, and now stands ‘in memory of all seamen who have no known grave but the sea’.

There’s a much fuller story of the Birger’s sinking on Kerry Shaw’s Notes from Redcar blog.

Born in 1837, Thomas Burt began working as a trapper boy, opening and closing trapdoors to let mining cars through, at the Haswell Pit at the age of 10. Just eighteen years later, he was elected the General Secretary of the Northumberland Miners’ Association—a post he held for the following fifty years.

In 1874, he was elected to Parliament, partly on a platform of truly universal suffrage—radical for a time when even campaigning for all men to have the vote was seen as bold. He lived until he was 84, but even that wasn’t long enough to see the franchise equalised across the adult population.

When the Northumberland Miners’ Association built its new headquarters in 1895, they named it ‘Burt Hall’ in his honour—which must have seemed a bit weird given that he was still the boss, and would be for another couple of decades. Naming a building after you and sticking a plaque on it thanking you for 27 years of service feels like a bit of a hint.

The statue of a miner on the top of Burt Hall is three-quarters life-sized, and was created by John Canavan, who doesn’t seem to be remembered for any other sculpture. The statue is based on one of the miners in the phenomenally popular painting ‘Going Home’ by Ralph Hedley. In 1889, the Newcastle Weekly Chronicle gave away a free print of the painting with their Christmas edition, which hung on the walls of many homes.

This colony of nine penguins sits on Redcar promenade. As I wandered past, I found myself contemplating the artistic intent. Two of the penguins are off to the side looking out to sea, and one—as can be seen in the background of both of these photos—appears to be inspecting another artwork.

The installation has, in fact, been moved three or four times since its 1994 installation, including once to make way for the bandstand. They were designed by the artist Tony Wiles, who was commissioned by the Council to create a ‘jolly’ addition to the esplanade.

The Council in question was Langbaurgh-on-Tees Borough Council—renamed in 1996 as Redcar & Cleveland. I’m surprised that I’ve never come across that historical nugget before—I don’t recall ever seeing a reference to Langbaurgh anywhere!

I’ve featured a lot of memorial fountains recently, and you may have thought that they’re looking a bit worse for wear. But over in Newcastle’s Exhibition Park, the clock erected in memory of Mr T H Nicholson in December 1927 is faring somewhat worse. The clock has been missing so long that even the Local Authority isn’t certain when and where it departed: ‘the clock was probably removed due to vandalism’ is as much as they’ve got.

I’ve struggled to find much record of T H Nicholson: even local history websites seem at a bit of a loss to who the clock was commemorating. The Newcastle Journal has a short entry about his funeral in December 1927, though restricts itself to listing the mourners rather than any facts about the man himself—though it does reveal his first name to be Thomas. His grave appears to be in St Andrew’s cemetery, just across the Great North Road from the site of this clock.

Given most of the connections in similarly aged Newcastle memorials, I strongly suspect he was in the shipping trade. There is a single sentence about TH Nicholson launching a ship on Tyneside in one contemporary press article. But—brace yourself for a handbrake turn—there is a much longer report on a Mr Thomas H Nicholson in the North Star in 1921:

“You are nothing more nor less than a contemptible hound; you shall go to prison for three months with hard labour!”

Ald C Stableforth, the chairman at Newcastle Police Court, made the above remark yesterday afternoon when he sentenced Thomas H. Nicholson, 104 Violet Street, Benwell, for inflicting cruelty on his three children.

Witness after witness said that the man not only thrashed his wife, but that he also severely punished his children and struck his infant.

Ald Stableforth said the magistrates had no doubt but that Nicholson had deliberately struck his infant and wife. It was the most disgraceful case he had ever encountered.

There are more, desperately grisly, details in the article which don’t bear repeating: suffice it to say that he’d be getting far more than three months in prison nowadays.

I’ve no way of checking whether the clock and the newspaper article refer to the same Thomas H. Nicholson. Surely they can’t be the same person, or the greater mystery would not be the missing clock, but the fact that the frame and plaque are still standing.

I often think of bandstands as morsels of Victoriana, relics of past forms of recreation in simpler times. Yet Redcar’s bandstand is so modern as to have solar panels on the roof.

It was installed in 2008. The story goes that during the filming of Atonement, the residents came to like the look of the bomb-damaged bandstand that formed part of the set. They liked it so much that local fundraising and an application for a lottery grant won them their very own permanent version.

I don’t think anyone can accuse it of being excessively ornate like some of it’s antique cousins—‘utilitarian’ might be the word—and I’m surprised it was constructed with steps rather than a ramp. But it’s great to see people invested in improving the public realm in their community.

I’m amused by the fact that a company would go to the effort of printing this notice on hoardings and also feel like this could make valuable feedback for an awful lot of written reports in my line of work these days.

The last editions of the Yellow Pages in the UK were printed in 2019, so no-one’s really ‘in the book’ any more.