Memories visits Cockfield Fell, a desolate windblown part of the region, before reopening the suitcase of the Echo’s first chief photographer, Douglas Jefferson

COCKFIELD Fell is probably England’s largest ancient monument. It is a wonderful and windblown place, with all of the North- East’s history laid out amid its lumps and bumps.

From pre-Roman farmsteads to very early factory farming of rabbits, from the first inland deep mine in the country to 400 or more bell pits, from the canal that inspired the Stockton and Darlington Railway to a steaming express line built by one of the greatest Victorian engineers – all is there on Cockfield Fell.

The fell lies about five miles west of Bishop Auckland, and to help interpret its lumps and bumps – many of which have featured in this column over the years – new signs and leaflets are being prepared by the Gaunless Valley Heritage Group, alongside Groundwork West Durham and Darlington.

They are appealing for anyone with personal memories of the fell to get in touch with them.

It doesn’t have to be industrial – it could be about the ponies or homing pigeons that for generations have called the fell their own.

Not all of the memories have to be positive. Because at certain times of the year – say from January through to December – the fell has a bleakness and a desolation that does not appeal to everyone.

This poem is one of the memories that has been unearthed by the appeal.

Bryan Featherstone, of South Church, found it amid the pocketbooks belonging to his grandfather, William Dodd Featherstone.

William was born at Morley, to the north of the fell, in 1859, and led a full and varied life until he died in 1923 at Hamsterley. He was a schoolteacher, a pitman (he specialised in opening up drift mines), a farmer, a shopkeeper, a violinist in a danceband (he offered four lessons for two shillings in 1877), a haulage contractor and a poet.

In one of his pocketbooks are recipes for the potions that he sold when he worked for grocer Walter Willson.

He’s written down the ingredients for everything from furniture cream to Beecham’s pills, Allbridges Lung Cure, Mother Segal’s Syrup, Keyes’ Tick Pills and a concoction for curing Lost Cud (presumably that’s not in humans).

In another of his pocketbooks are some poems. He may have written them all or he may have been in a literary circle and copied down someone else’s if it tickled him. Many appear to have been published locally in newspapers, such as the Auckland Mercury or the Auckland Times and Herald.

One is called Cockfield Fell. It is dated March 12, 1878, and has the name “John Conway” at the bottom of it. Whether this is the name of the author, or whether William has dedicated it to him, we don’t know.

But it doesn’t paint an entirely flattering picture of life on the fell…

There’s no flower blooming fair,
Upon Cockfield Fell
That with fragrance fills the air,
Upon Cockfield Fell.
And far distant be the day,
When again I’ll wearied stray,
O’er that unfrequented way,
Upon Cockfield Fell

There are no leafy trees
Upon Cockfield Fell,
To protect me from the breeze,
Upon Cockfield Fell.
There no pleasant streamlets flow,
There the vagrant bees ne’er go
For no pretty flowers blow,
Upon Cockfield Fell.

There’s no verdure fresh and green,
Upon Cockfield Fell.
And a shepherd swain’s ne’er seen,
Upon Cockfield Fell.
There is no pellucid spring,
Nor the groves where wild birds sing,
Even scanty is the ling,
Upon Cockfield Fell.

Woodland echoes ne’er prolong
Upon Cockfield Fell,
The blithe sound of reapers song,
Upon Cockfield Fell
For bleak, barren, bare and cold
Is the high and windy wold
And the prospect we behold
Upon Cockfield Fell.

No lark sings in the sky
Upon Cockfield Fell.
Not a struggling crow will fly
Upon Cockfield Fell.
E’en a peewit can’t live there,
Nor a rabbit nor a hare
Ever makes its hidden lair
Upon Cockfield Fell.

■ If you have any memories or items relating to the fell (or if you know who John Conway was), either contact Echo Memories (see the top of the page) or researcher Neil Diment, on 01833-638263.