Jam jar citizens gather

The county council's post-war Category D policy - D for devastating, perhaps, or dehumanising just as likely - inexorably accelerated the emigration.

Last Saturday, however, Jam Jar Citizens from all over the world returned to their roots for a joyful reunion called The Gathering.

"There was a film called The Gathering," said the taxi driver from Bishop Auckland, "the one where they all got their heads chopped off."

It wasn't like that at all.

Witton Park's in south-west Durham, a mid-19th Century village built, two up two down, around Bolckow Vaughan's iron works. Five thousand people lived there when the furnaces closed in 1884, left on the bones of their backsides as surely as colliers hewing thin seams for survival.

"We didn't see it as poverty when we were kids," said Christine Brady, now in Syracuse, New York, though she'd been so greatly surprised at first seeing an electric light bulb she called it liquorice light instead.

"The other surprise," said Christine, Evans-as-was, "was first coming back and finding almost everything gone."

They'd buy their candles, and much else, from Quadrini's, comforted when it grew dark that at least the toilet across the back street was a two holer, and they could find their way there in pairs.

They'd stamp their feet at the Cosy Kinema, have rival bonfire gangs, save their sixpences for the Hop in the Hut, the inevitable name for the War Memorial Institute, graced in 1921 by Princess Marie Louise of Belgium.

(The Hut should not apparently be confused with the Eureka Cree, known sometimes simply as the Eureka, another community building on land given by the good Sir William Chaytor for a single shilling a year.)

The Gathering had been principally organised by Dale Daniel, worldwide exiles found via the Internet, which mustn't be confused with the internetty. The internetties were the two holers.

"I just lit the blue touch paper and ran," he said, so great was the returning fervour.

"I'd bought a new computer and put in the words Witton Park just on the off-chance," said Christine. "It was quite incredible when all this came up. They couldn't get me off the computer for two days."

The new village hall had been re-named The Hut for the occasion. They sold cups of tea from Quadrini's, showed the television film The Village That Wouldn't Die - over and over - in the re-enacted Cosy Kinema, had a "Hurdy-Gurdy corner" as well.

There were the McKimms and the Beltons, the Hewitsons and the Kit Cassons, the Greatheads, the Singlewoods and Linda Gittins - Brown these long-wed days - flown home from Australia and wouldn't have missed it for half way round the world.

The hall physically overflowed. "You'd not have got so many people down there if you'd been giving away Cup Final tickets," said a chap in the Royal, as nostalgic as a newt.

Linda remembered Fridays, when the smell coming home from school was of baking and of freshly scoured steps and if the Tote had come in there might be cream soda from Quadrini's.

"It might have been a little bit rough, but there was an awful lot more good than bad" said Linda. "No locks on the door in those days," said Wes Brown, her brother. "No bolts, no burglar alarms, no bells."

It was a day, unashamedly, for getting carried away, for whooping with delight at another half-forgotten face, for embracing the inglorious past. They talked of cold tap and carnival, of Nurse Whitfield and Dr Shuttleworth, of silver band and prize pigeons, of community spirit and of authority which let it all die of neglect.

Now there's smart new housing, flush toilets, young trees, back gardens, open spaces - lots of open spaces. Though passing years lend enchantment, of course, it could never be the same.

Christine had moved to Whitby, spent 19 years in Canada, lived another ten in Syracuse, knew it was the one she had to come back for.

"There was just a special bond, a special belonging, about this village," she said. "If anyone had ever doubted it, they should just look at them now."

l Memories of Witton Park, a new book of old photographs researched by Robert McManners and Gillian Wales, is available now (priced £2.99) from Durham County library branches and from Bishop Auckland

Town Hall.

MISS Elizabeth McKenna, head teacher of St Chad's school in Witton Park from 1946-72 and a governor thereafter, has died. She was 88.

"Her devotion to the school and to the village was profound," says Sunderland University lecturer Peter Rowell, to whom she was simply Aunt Betty.

Thomas McKenna, her father, arrived from Ireland, worked in Tow Law, married Elizabeth Burns of Coundon and died "with shocking suddenness" during the 1918 flu epidemic, leaving two small daughters.

The happiest phase of his aunt's childhood, says Peter, was when her mother gained a post and accommodation at the Eden Theatre, Bishop Auckland as housekeeper/companion to the "elegant and rather raffish" Mrs Muriel Draycott.

Educated at St Augustine's, Darlington and at college in Manchester, Miss McKenna taught briefly at Seaham Harbour and St Wilfrid's, Bishop Auckland, but spent almost all her career at St Chad's - "celebrated its survival and present buoyancy" says Peter, "particularly after the pernicious Category D decision."

She lived until recently in Bishop Auckland, occasionally went back to the school, was hugely welcomed and will be greatly missed - "private but no recluse, fiercely independent but loved company.

"They were hard years in Witton Park. She must have been an inspirational teacher."

DEDICATED doctor, committed campaigner and accomplished artist, Bob McManners has his latest exhibition - Flights of Fantasy, birds and things - at Bishop Auckland Town Hall.

The Newcastle gallery where his first exhibition was held closed two weeks later; after his second, the Darlington venue lasted barely three months. The town hall's made of stouter stuff.

The preview also marked his 52nd birthday, past and present Bishops of Durham among the guests. David Jenkins wore episcopal purple, Michael Turnbull was in Marks&Spencer cream. "It's good to see one of us is properly dressed," said Bishop Michael.

Dr McManners - Ferryhill born, 25 years a Bishop Auckland GP - has fought successfully for the salvation of Newton Cap viaduct, the restoration of the town hall and to help Witton Park.

His latest good cause, however, is the Campaign for Real Authentic Puddings - "people are fed up with pavlovas and that sort of thing," says the good doctor. "A real authentic pudding is anything that's hot and with custard."

He and a colleague with Denis Healey eyebrows (whose name we omitted to ascertain) have had badges specially made to warn restaurateurs of the proof of their intentions.

Campaign for Real Authentic Puddings being rather a mouthful on a lapel badge, however, they have had to rely upon an acronym. Readers will doubtless stir it for themselves.

SIR Peter Ustinov, now 79, continues to earn his keep as Chancellor of Durham University. After presiding at 23 congregations in three days the great man faced a more difficult problem, however.

Decamping from the Royal County Hotel, Sir Peter found his route blocked by thousands of people heading towards him.

It was the day of Durham Big Meeting.

Plan B, it was agreed that the hotel mini-bus take him up Elvet to Durham jail, where his car would meet him. When the car failed to arrive, the mini-bus driver suggested that Sir Peter take his luggage and wait outside.

"Don't be silly," intoned the actor, "they'll think I've just got out."

AND finally, in the Victoria Arms at Worton - run by Ralph Daykin for the past 40 years and one of only two non-food pubs in Wensleydale - we bump into former D&S Times man Mike Cresswell, now retired to Redmire.

Mike's just completed a biography of the delightful Bill Foggitt, now 87, and described in a 1998 John North column as "the inkling, twinkling, tiggywinkling sage of Thirsk."

Mike's borrowed that bit - duly acknowledged and very welcome - but wasn't it the tiggywinkling sage who forecast that this July and August we'd be having a heatwave?

Surely the old lad isn't losing his tweedy, beady bit of seaweedy touch?