Dream Tyne – Travels Around the North East Coast (Part Three)

David Bowie 2

I own most of Bowie’s work in one format or another (often multiple formats) and was delighted that on reaching the Whitby, the Tesco superstore had a David Bowie offer on in their audio department. Two CDs for £10. Bargain! The gaps in my CD collection were filled and the rest of the holiday was fuelled, and soundtracked by Low, Earthling, Stage, The Buddha of Suburbia and Blackstar.

Whitby 3

On the Khyber Pass in Whitby, there is a seat that commemorates Bram Stoker. It is reputed that he first saw Whitby Abbey from the site of the bench and mused on how it would make a terrific setting for a novel he was composing.

I have long adored Bram Stoker’s epistolary novel ‘Dracula,’ so much so that two of the novels I have written have taken a similar form – letters, police reports, lost property receipts, newspaper articles – all in lieu of a standard three act narrative and presenting a story you need to piece together from the evidence. It is an approach that HP Lovecraft also took with his novella ‘The Call of Cthulhu,’ although I doubt it’s an homage to Stoker. Lovecraft described Stoker’s works as either ‘fair’ or ‘absolutely the most amorphous & infantile mess I’ve ever seen between cloth covers;’ adding, with reference to Stoker’s ‘The Lair of the White Worm’ that ‘in spite of a magnificent idea which one would ordinarily deem well-nigh fool-proof, Stoker was absolutely devoid of a sense of form, and could not write a coherent tale to save his life.’ (H. P. Lovecraft to Donald Wandrei, 29 Jan 1927, Mysteries of Time & Spirit 20)

As much as I am in thrall to Lovecraft’s work, I’m not certain he should be levelling accusations of incoherence without taking a long hard look at himself.

I sat in Stoker’s seat, hoping to gain some inspiration. For what, I wasn’t sure as I was taking a long, possibly terminal, break from writing novels. I stared into the blurred air as fog rendered the abbey invisible. Staring from Stoker’s seat gave me nothing approaching even a vague idea for writing a new novel or finishing the last. My muse, it seemed, was dead. I gave a sly smile to the abbey and waited for her return.

The Abbess Hild

Whitby is on the northern Jurassic Coast. By virtue of its geology, the beach beneath the cliffs is strewn with fossils. As with the Jurassic Coast in the south, fossil hunting is embarrassingly easy. You can quite literally trip over them. One of the most common fossils in the Whitby area is the ammonite ‘hildocerus.’ It is named after the Abbess Hild who oversaw the building of the original Whitby Abbey – in Celtic design – in 657 CE ten years after taking holy orders.

Hild came from a privileged family, related to northern royalty. Bede the Venerable states, in his Ecclesiastical History of England that “She was nobly born, being the daughter of Hereric, nephew to King Edwin, and with that King she also received the faith and mysteries of Christ, at the preaching of Paulinus, of blessed memory, the first Bishop of the Northumbria’s.”

Moving in court circles for thirty-three years was more than enough for her and she decided to devote herself to God and the church. Her plan was to take holy orders and then flee to France where she could live in relative obscurity, away from court intrigue. She trained in the ‘Province of the East Angles,’ where her sister Heresuid was married to Ethelhere, brother of Anna of East Anglia. When Hilda took the veil in 647, Anna was still King, and Ethelhere succeeded him on death. Before she was able to escape to France, she was recalled to Durham Cathedral by Bishop Aiden where she gave her land to the extent of one family on the north side of the River Wear.’ This ensured that she would never manage to make her desired retreat into modesty.

After a year of living a monastic life, Hild was called upon to become an Abbess in ‘Heretu,’ a monastery founded by Heiu, the first woman of Northumbria to become a nun. Being elderly at the time of its foundation, Heiu retired to Calcaria (Caelcacaestir, reputed, but not proven to be Tadcaster), leaving the way open for Hild.

From her position of Abbess of Heretu (Hartlepool) she was able to found another monastery where she could expound the virtues of justice, piety, and chastity with particular emphasis on peace and charity. Streacnaeshalch, or what would become Whitby, would be the ideal place for her to achieve her aims.

When the site of the Abbey was decided upon, building was delayed by an infestation of snakes. The Abbess Hild set about ridding the space of the troublesome reptiles by grabbing the by the tail end and either throwing them over the cliff or using them as a whip to beat others from the soon-to-be consecrated ground. On death, those thrown over the edge coiled neatly and petrified, an explanation for the colossal numbers of ammonites found at the base of the cliff. Such was the success of the Monastery, and Hild’s passionate teaching, that five bishops from her alumni were ordained, Bosa, Aelta, Oftfor, John and Wilfred.

During her tenure at the abbey, she gained a reputation for her wisdom, often sought by Kings and nobles. Because of her respected wisdom, the Synod of Whitby convened at her Abbey to discuss the placement of Easter within the church Calendar. It was decided to use the Roman calculation that led to the Roman Catholic church to be established within England. The monks of Lindisfarne refused to convert and moved to Iona.

Hild led two lives. With the average life expectancy of the time being thirty-five years, Hild’s first life ended at age thirty-three, when she took holy orders. Her second life as novice, nun and abbess also lasted for thirty-three years.

Having been faithful, true, kind, wise, industrious, and loving while servicing the word of the Lord, Hild was to suffer with recurrent fevers and burning sensations. For the last seven years of her life, as Bede describes: “it pleased Him Who has made such merciful provision for our salvation, to give her holy soul the trial of a long infirmity of the flesh, to the end that, according to the Apostle’s example, her virtue might be made perfect in weakness.” Even through her final pain-stricken years, her zest and zeal for teaching the word of God never diminished.

The story of Hild ousting the snakes led to a small but lucrative industry where ammonites were collected from the cliffs and snake’s head motifs were carved into the open ends of the ammonite. These then became ‘proof’ of the miracle of the snakes, and therefore ‘relics,’ ensuring Hild’s canonisation. As if to underline her piety and enhance her chances at sainthood, the novice Begu, from the dormitory of ‘another monastery, at a distance from hers,’ claimed to see Hild ascend to heaven, escorted by a flight of angels.

Ravenscar – A Brief History 2

In 1895, after a huge programme of rebuilding work, Peak Hall was reopened as a luxury hotel. Two years later, Peak village was renamed Ravenscar. The ‘raven’ part from Raven Hall and the scar from the Danish word scaur, meaning exposed cliff. This was the first move in creating a seaside resort to rival Whitby to the North and Scarborough to the South.

The Peak Estate company set about selling a dream opportunity to the wealthy people of England – to build a brand-new town with all the amenities to make for a successful holiday destination.

The take-up of plots in the first wave of sales was successful, bought by wealthy Londoners who had never seen the original village and had rarely ventured out of the capital city. Once the plots had been bought, they would eventually either visit themselves or send employees to survey the purchase. The artists impressions and maps provided in the sales portfolio did not match up to expectations as they found themselves on a desolate, wind pummelled cliff with only one hotel and no amenities. Worse yet, the seashore that looked to be mere yards from the town, was only accessible by a treacherous path that zig-zagged down a terrifying 600-foot drop. The howling gales, even on a sunny day, could cause appalling, life threatening falls.

The second wave of sales took longer to complete. By this time, the first purchasers were so unhappy at the lack of forward momentum on the project that they sold their portfolios. The second wave of sales allowed the Peak Estate to start building the infrastructure and lay down the roads. Those who had already bought plots were asked to contribute further but there came an impasse. The investors didn’t want to pour money into something that hadn’t been built, as the portfolio had promised, and new plots couldn’t be built until the infrastructure was in place. Tales of financial wrongdoing abounded, making sure that further sales were few and far between.

By the time a fourth wave of sales had been announced, and despite a few guest houses and teashops being built along with a town square that welcomed visitors from the train station, sales ground to a halt and the project had to be abandoned. Landowners, fed up with waiting for the infrastructure to be completed and for any sign of an end date for completion simply gave up and refused to pour any more money into the project.

The main bulk of Ravenscar town was still unsold, and as the Peak Estate Company declared itself bankrupt, it’s unlikely that the owners of the houses that were never built ever got their money back. There was not enough of Ravenscar built to call the remains a ‘ghost town.’ This implies that the town once had life, but it remained on paper and merely sketched into the land.

The hotel went on to become a military billet during the world wars, echoing the Roman occupation on the same site, and was eventually reopened as a hotel in the post-war years.

There is now a modern village that is built around the site of the unbuilt Ravenscar, but the main part of this stillborn town is now pastureland. Remnants of the roads and kerbs can be seen, shyly poking from the grass and the hotel still functions as a holiday destination, providing many indoor and sheltered amenities to counter the gales. But the grand plan of a happy, bustling seaside resort has been cast aside leaving a memory of something that never quite happened.

Whitby 4

We cheated. For the full tourist experience, we should have parked in the old town and walked up the ‘199 Steps’ to the Abbey, but with the weather being so filthy, we drove to the Abbey and battled the winds for a much more comfortable duration between car and grounds.

Coastal storms in January are a special kind of desolate. More so when you reach the highest point of the town and stand in full fury of the elements. Whitby Abbey, broken and straining under the yoke of history and expectation, added to the desolation, its deglazed windows framing the tempest.

Each time the wind changed direction, squalls of salt ice blasted at the stone relic, and we became adept at predicting when the next squall would hit, diving behind a solid piece of ruin for shelter, outwitting the wind. When we tired of the grounds, we entered the remains of the building.

When you consider the reason that most people are aware of Whitby Abbey, it came as something of a surprise that there is no sign of Dracula at the Abbey. Not a word. The closest it came to acknowledgement was in the gift shop where there was a sale on jars of chilli chutney called ‘Vampire’s Kiss.’ I was hoping to find a special edition of the novel or other revelatory document but got chutney.

I can’t help but feel that ignoring the impact of the novel seems a little disingenuous. Most people who visit, not least the participants of the twice yearly “Whitby Goth Weekend,” make the pilgrimage to the Abbey specifically because of the Stoker association.

David Bowie 3

David Bowie died last night.

After we heard the announcement on the car radio, the DJ played what seemed to be an odd choice from David Bowie’s canon as a tribute – ‘Young Americans,’ with John Lennon playing on the track and borrowing a line from The Beatles’ ‘A Day In The Life’ – I heard the news today, oh boy – it seemed curiously inappropriate, curiously jolly for such a solemn occasion.

The following morning, in my designated writing time, I reached for a novel I had been writing but had abandoned and wrote a long tract about the two main characters bonding over a love of ‘Ziggy Stardust,’ and finally meeting, face to face, at Heddon Street, W1, the site of albums cover photo.

It was almost cathartic.

My extreme reaction to his death surprised me. Fandom and the cult of celebrity are usually things that leave me cold. Perhaps the impact, here anyway, is because when I was growing up, Bowie the only gay/queer role model I had.

Bowie gave me a viable alternative and showed me that gay/queer wasn’t a question of double entendre catchphrases and how limp your wrist was. In a heteronormative family, I needed any sort of validation that what I was feeling was okay and would allow me entry into the wider world. I got that, and a sense of belonging, from his presence.

The visceral shock at his death that I experienced was amplified because it had never occurred to me that David Bowie could die!

Whitby 5

I suppose it would be unseemly, if not sacrilegious, for an Abbey, still on consecrated ground, to make money from a demonic entity. Even a literary one.

Whitby has its own supernatural heritage that has all but disappeared because of the quite understandable pull of vampire mythology. It is a far more primal, sexual story than most other stories centred on Whitby, but like Avebury/Milbury (in ‘A Psalm of Stone’) the overlaying of an artificial myth, obfuscates a rich, homegrown history.

Transylvania bleeds Whitby and reshapes it in its own mythical image.

Ravenscar 3/David Bowie 4

I’m staring at the sea from 600 ft above it, on Ravenscar. I’m leaning on a gate, clutching, hanging on for dear life in the eighty miles an hour wind. It eases momentarily and I take my tablet from my bag, raising it to take a picture of the wildness. The wind attacks and tries wrestling it from my hand. I’m being mugged by the weather but manage to fight it off.

I would have laughed, but David Bowie is dead.

I battle back down the dirt track that runs along the southern edge of the hotel grounds and stop at the most obvious remnant of ‘the town that never was.’ A kerbstone, covered in moss and dead grass stalks, whipping in the wind, is all that is visible. The entire infrastructure of streets, sewers, railways to service the town are gone. A tunnel, built to move the now abandoned Whitby to Scarborough railway line unobtrusively through Hammond’s land, gapes, the wind blows across it’s weed-choked mouth giving it a low moan.

I would have walked through the field to see more of the remains, perhaps investigate the tunnel, anything to feel a little more a part of what was going on, a part of Ravenscar’s story.

But it didn’t matter.

David Bowie is dead.

If you squint from the edge of the field, you can just see where the road leads, a barely visible bump, covered by a thin layer of earth and grass. I imagine the lives that might have been lived, the relationships that might have been forged, the clandestine seaside trysts that might have been made.

The once-to-be-splendid Marine Esplanade is no more than a muddy walk along the cliff edge. It should have been an elegant walk along the prom-prom-prom, instead it is a slippery assault course, made more treacherous by the salty assault of the sea winds; the brass band would probably be playing in the town square rather than the sea front for fear of being ejected into the cyclonic air. Tiddly-om-pom pom.

I wonder if the town, had it been built, would have been able to withstand the onslaught of winter; whether the wind, funnelling through the narrow streets would have made off-season life unworkable, unliveable and whether this was one of the reasons the idea of the town failed.

But it doesn’t matter.

David Bowie is dead.

I have been avoiding looking at the hotel. I saw the back of it as I walked to the wind drenched gate but deliberately ignored it. My first encounter with it, its history of madness and Bowie’s death conflated and overwhelmed.

I continue to ear-worm Bowie’s “All The Mad Men,” a song about his brother’s battle with schizophrenia.

My own battle with bipolar disorder came into ultra-HD focus. The unreality of the situation, the eeriness of such an important presence being suddenly, irretrievably absent was almost incomprehensible. In my grief, I wondered if… no. Not that.

Grief makes you think some terrible things, and this was real, unexpected grief. I wondered whether sinking into my ‘madness’ and letting it win would be easier, less traumatic than constantly fighting against it. It would be less exhausting, certainly, but abdicating all responsibility?

Ravenscar, with its oddly gothic name, had become a place of existential angst. I was standing at the gate of madness, Lovecraftian horrors lurking beneath the waves at Robin Hoods Bay, George and John screaming in the madhouse mere feet away…

I struggled back along a spectral Marine Esplanade to the wind bruised gate for a last look at the cantankerous sea from the top of the scar. Curving around me on the Jurassic coast are symbols of the dead, the undead, the demonic, mad and the never weres. Absence in presence, presence in absence, weird and eerie clash and I want to retreat from everything. I’m forcing my way through the howling winds of an existential crisis.

This isn’t what I was expecting from a writing retreat-cum-holiday.

The journey back to Robin Hood’s Bay was conducted in morose silence. I fiddle with my phone and do a google search for ‘David Bowie John Constantine’ and discover a sobering coincidence. David Bowie, in his sun kissed 1980’s incarnation, was the visual model for Lucifer, one of the recurring adversaries in the Hellblazer Comics and part of the reason for his incarceration in the Ravenscar Institute.

Ravenscar, John Constantine and Bowie have a deeper history together than I knew.

Stillborn

There isn’t a band to welcome
the holiday makers that never
arrived, by the railway line,

now closed for lack of use.
Nor promenades one could walk
out with a beau against an apron

of sticky rock and bunting.
An absence of augured guest-house
ma’ams – suspicious of the sharp

influx of nervous ‘Mr and Mrs 
 Smiths’ – that cannot scowl at
a secret seaside tryst while serving

a Full English through gritted
dentures and tart-rouged cheeks. 
Unaware of the might-have-beens,

the intrigues or joy, hardy ungulates
wear their hooves down on shy
kerbstones, that hide and cringe

beneath wind-cowed, lank
and shivering grass, remembering
their erstwhile future in the remains

of a still-born town.

Peak Eternal

Standing at the gateway to the treacherous cliff path, I think of the Emperor Constantine recalling his soldiers from the fort, now hidden by the foundations of Raven Hall. I think of Constance De Beverley, the Nun, illicit lover and mistress of Lord Marmion, walled up in Lindisfarne Priory for her infractions, but haunting the remains of Whitby Abbey, alongside the Abbess HILD. I think of John Constantine, trapped in an earlier and fictional version of Ravenscar, locked inside his personal hell. I think of David Bowie. A constant presence, even after death.

Emperor Constantine.

Sister Constance.

John Constantine.

And Bowie’s constant presence is now, for me, forever tied to the Tyne region.

This place…

This place is eternal.