WILL the Tees and Wear ever freeze over sufficiently for people of all ages to skate on them again?

It was a frequent winter activity on both rivers in the past.

The fact that there has been no chance of it in recent times is a pointer to how the climate has changed.

The photograph of skating being enjoyed on the Tees near the water bridge in Barnard Castle was taken in early 1929, when all the dales suffered from a major freeze lasting weeks.

Visitors ventured onto the frozen surface below the falls at High Force and could look directly up at a mass of ice hanging from the top rocks.

A lot of folk took to the ice on the River Wear as well and it was great fun for a while.

But the bad news was that water pipes burst in many homes, so families were faced with big bills for repairs, and plumbers were worked off their feet.

There was a shortage of tapwater in many places. The supply was so badly affected in Barnard Castle that the main pipe was shut off every night until a thaw came and things got back to normal.

In earlier years, when the ice was even thicker, there were horse races on the Tees, as well as other sports.

But there were tragedies at times. In January 1826, two 12- year-old boys called Kay and McDowell were seen skating on the river ice near Demesnes Mill. When they didn’t return home, a search was launched and they were found drowned the next day.

It led to a lot of people staying well clear if the ice for some years.

There were also narrow escapes.

John Bernard Coates of Watergate, Gainford, dived into the Tees and swam under ice to rescue his daughter Bernadette, aged six, in February 1947. She had been sliding on the ice when it gave way.

Her friend, Olive Allison, ran to tell her Mr Coates, who raced to the river just in time to avert a tragedy. He plunged into the icy water, swam several yards, grabbed his daughter and swam back to the riverbank with her, partly under the ice. Bernadette was taken home for a hot bath and then put into a cosy bed, none the worse for the ordeal.

The modest Mr Coates had a hot bath then went off to do a shift at the Paton and Baldwin factory in Darlington.

THERE have always been plenty of homely hostelries around the dales, providing a friendly meeting place for residents and a welcome stopping venue for travellers.

But in the past they were also used for much more sombre gatherings. Coroners held inquests in them, and the bars had to stop serving drinks while evidence was given about how folk met sudden, mysterious or violent deaths.

Juries were made up of trustworthy men from the locality.

The majority were pensioners who could be rounded up quickly when required.

They were paid a shilling a time for their services, which sometimes involved looking at a corpse, laid out in a side room, to judge the size and cause of any wounds or bruises.

Usually the hearings involved a simple accident, perhaps in a lead mine or on a railway, but occasionally there was one which attracted great interest.

An example came at the Queen’s Head Inn, in Wearhead, in June 1883 when a man was said to have stabbed his brother to death. A crowd waited outside as Coroner Dean swore in an eight-man jury, with Thomas Sparke, the local postmaster, chosen as chairman.

After hearing all the grim details the jury had to decide if the death was an accident, manslaughter or murder. The jurors talked it over in private then returned a verdict of wilful murder.

But they seemed to do so with some reluctance, as they asked for mercy to be shown to the culprit.

Afterwards, the bar was opened and villagers hurried in to hear what had happened.

No doubt there would be long discussions over glasses of ale about the rights or wrongs of the verdict.

The main point would be whether or not the accused man would hang. That was the automatic penalty for murder at the time. It could only be overruled by the Home Secretary, who could change the sentence to life imprisonment if there were exceptional reasons.

Around that time there were inquests in the King’s Head in Middleton, Rose and Crown in Romaldkirk, Red Lion in Cotherstone, and two inns in Startforth, the Swan and Royal Star.

The hearings into sudden deaths would mean good business for all of them and the landlords also received a modest fee for the use of their premises.

The Wearhead case was eventually dealt with at Durham Assizes, where a different jury brought in a verdict of manslaughter and the defendant was jailed for 20 years.

There would be a full house at the Queen’s Head again that night as the wisdom or otherwise of the outcome was debated.

MANY weekly newspapers carried a column of jokes in days of yore. They weren’t exactly ribticklers which would have readers chortling loudly. Some were on a par with those found in Christmas crackers, but it’s possible one or two would be repeated later over a drink in a bar, or in a school playground.

An example was the Wise and Witty section of the Darlington and Stockton Times.

The Northern Echo:
The Queen's Head Inn, in Wearhead

Here are some of its offerings in 1881:

A judge asked a man in the dock if he was Owen Docherty. “I’m owing everybody,” he replied.

A man arrested for having six wives excused himself by telling the judge he was only trying to find a good one.

A vicar whose congregation was falling announced that he would talk about a family scandal the following Sunday – and the church was packed to hear him tell the story of Adam and Eve.

Women are like flowers because they only shut up when they sleep.

A teacher in a dale school told a bright lad to spell the plural of baby. He replied: “t-w-i-n-s.”

Jimmy Jones was accused by friends of becoming a hard drinker, but he replied that no man ever drank more easily.

What vest do farmers like most? Harvest.

What’s the least popular month with soldiers? March.

Which ship is like a pair of shears? A clipper.

Young Tommy was asked if he would be sorry when Uncle Dick left next day after spending a week at his house.

He said no, because Dick always gave him a shilling when he left.

A farmer took his son to a concert at which the first half was made up of solo singers. After the interval there was a duet, so the farmer told the boy they were now coming on two at a time to get finished sooner.

A young lady should remember that when a gentleman wrings her hand it is not certain that he intends to ring her finger.

Young fellows should realise that if they get into a fight over a girl they should take a walloping, because the girl will sympathise and think the other fellow is a brute.

One thing never seen round here is a hen that can lay a wager.

Perhaps the Chuckle Brothers could get laughter with some of that material.

IN the spring of 1814, dales folk could get helplessly drunk at a bargain price thanks to two men who distilled a rough type of whisky beside a stream in Marwood.

The clear water was ideal for their hooch.

They didn’t wait the customary ten years before selling it. The average was more like ten days, and it had more kick than any legal alcohol.

Supplies were sent to Stanhope and bought for fourpence or so a bottle, and it was also welcomed in the Middleton area.

Barnard Castle Association, set up to crack down on crime, offered a reward for the capture of the bootleggers, and parish constables tried to catch them, but they slipped away.

Their product was so popular that customers hurried to tip them off when lawmen were on the prowl.

Another spirit maker was caught red-handed close to Brignall Mill in 1823, however, and ended up in jail for a year.

Around that time, a man called Anson was busy producing whisky in a lonely spot in Birkdale, close to the Maize beck at the bottom of Mickle Fell. But he went about it in a clever way and was able to run his secret business for years.

He had been a lead miner for a time and claimed to have saved cash before settling in his remote cottage, which he built himself. He had a pony and a few sheep.

Every so often, he loaded a cart with hay from his land and set off to sell this crop to a friend in the lower dale. He exchanged friendly words with folk he met on the way, but what they did not know was that under the hay were casks of his distilled liquor to sell to an accomplice.

Nobody suspected anything until he died and his still and other equipment were found in a stable he had created beside his home. Along with his illegal kit were a number of whisky kegs — and hidden around the property was a small fortune in gold coins.

Anson died a wealthy man, worth far more than he could ever have made as a miner or sheep keeper.

His many customers must have been sorry when he passed away and their supply of cheap liquor was halted.