We managed to get rid of the boy this weekend, giving his loving grandparents the chance to fatten him up with Easter Eggs and unrestrained affection. Seizing the opportunity, Pam and I had a night away in a charming little hotel just outside Newcastle.
The Ravenscroft Arms is a huge pub with several bedrooms above a labyrinthine collection of dining rooms. Not quite in the middle of nowhere, it is planted just outside the A1 near Team Valley. This means that, if you face West, you see undulating countryside, villages and farmhouses, and the occasional car silently cresting a distant peak; but if you look East, you see an industrial wasteland; warehouses and railway sidings, over-passed by a motorway, and then, rising up behind it out of the valley, a residential area marked by tower blocks and terraces.
The Ravenscroft Arms is on the edge of nowhere, not in the middle.
When we arrived, we went for a short run, opting for the pretty route, and ran up into the hills, out of the valley on the green side, before doubling back and congratulating ourselves on having done a little physical labour before the gluttonous onslaught to come.
After a lovely evening that started early with a pint and one of those gastro-pub burgers bigger than Pam’s head, and finished with us both unconscious before half ten, we congratulated ourselves on having relaxed, shaking off the cares of work and the responsibilities of parenthood for at least one night.
In the morning, I woke up and decided to let Pam have a longer lie in by going out to buy a paper. I am not very good at lying quietly so the only way to avoid awakening the Kraken is to sail in the opposite direction. I had not seen any shops the previous day so decided to go the logical route and walk up into the residential area.
I crossed the railway, saying hello to a trainspotter who looked absolutely terrified of me. I know they are an odd bunch but I doubt that random strangers punch them in the street – why did he look so startled? It’s not like I was going to steal his trains.
Anyway, I then crossed the motorway and hiked up, out of the valley, into what I guess was part of Gateshead. I walked past a tower block and eventually found a row of three shops: a co-op, a newsagents, and a tanning shop. That is a Northern triumvirate, right there.
I went in the newsagents and took a copy of The Times to the counter. I should explain that I am usually a Guardian man but I am only human and have fallen for News International’s marketing ploy of giving away Pizza Express vouchers when you buy Saturday Times. I’m not proud of it, but I do like Pizza Express.
There was a lovely old chap behind the counter who, despite the fact there were four copies of The Times awaiting purchase on his bottom shelf, reacted as though he’d never seen the thing before in his life. “Eee, it’s a long time since we selt a Times, son. How much is that? One fifty? Bloody hell, that’s not cheap is it? Thanks, son. How, Joan, fella here buying the Times…”
There are some places where that reaction would make you feel awkward and apart, but in Newcastle, it was delivered with such warmth and affection that I felt part of the happy awe that greeted the purchase.
You wouldn’t get that in Peckham, Rio Ferdinand.
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As a resident of about 5 minutes walk from said triumvirate I am overjoyed at the courtesy you recieved. I myself sometimes occasion a purchase of The Times or one of its fellow broadsheets, however, as a local yocal the standard response from said reveered local shop keeper is as follows......"nae bog roll in the co-op son?"
ReplyDeleteFrom different worlds you and I, I fear.