THE twenty or so British place names beginning with "Cold" - Cold Hesledon, near Seaham, for example, or Cold Kirby, above Helmsley - must not be considered particularly perishing.

The prefix generally means "abandoned" - but that these are temperate climes doesn't mean, either, that we have heard the last of Eskimo Nell.

She has flaunted herself these past two or three columns. Only last week, David Armstrong - Kelloe lad, now in Redcar - recalled fun with the Ballad of Eskimo Nell at RAF stations across the land, including (he said) Cold Hesledon.

"Was there an RAF Cold Hesledon?" the column innocently inquired, and has scrambled a squadron away....

Cold Hesledon is roughly between Seaham and Easington, and must not be confused with Monk Hesleden, which is not only a few miles further south but spelt differently in order to confuse the enemy.

Its RAF base was operational in the 1950s, though all that took off from there were erks on a weekend pass. It was an underground radar station, and down there lies a remarkable story of bunker mentality.

When Russia officially became the world's third nuclear power in 1949, British top brass secretly decided that our defences needed serious strengthening.

A chain of 75 underground tracking stations was built, mainly along the east coast and each with an almost identical "farm" bungalow through which the subterranean spy stations - some with more than 50 rooms - were accessed.

"Once you knew where one was, you could spot them all," says Ron Young who lives, appropriately, on the former Thornaby Airfield.

One was at Cold Hesledon, others at Boulmer in Northumberland, Seaton Snooks near Hartlepool and Goldsbrough, north of Whitby, where some of the buildings still stand.

Though the project cost around £1bn - a radar base could be as expensive as a major London Underground station - the whole thing, as a 1980s television documentary by the young Duncan Campbell revealed, was obsolete before it was even completed.

The stations were described as "ultra-sophisticated", but not nearly so sophisticated as the Russians. Enemy fighters could be on their way back home, Campbell reported, before our boys were even scrambled.

The project was a total failure, the British public "left in its usual state of happy ignorance".

Ron Young, to whom thanks for the Campbell video and for a map of Cold Hesledon marked "secret", agrees. "They were officially on a care and maintenance basis and saw very little of either.

"Cold Hesledon was the Menwith Hill of its day, cost a fortune and - like all the others - was absolutely useless."

SUITABLY alerted - "Was there a RAF Cold Hesledon", indeed - David Armstrong lands with more memories of cold war and Cold Hesledon.

"You will understand how important RAF Cold Hesledon was when I tell you that that the commander was a pilot officer (admin) - just about the lowest rank in the service. We had a warrant officer, two sergeants, a few corporals, about 20 radar ops, seven or eight radar technicians and probably more cooks, clerks and MT staff than ever we needed."

David, a National Serviceman, wandered about as station painter, his mate Tony Blenkin - whose parents had a fish and chip shop in Spennymoor - was down from Newcastle University and therefore made "librarian", a few books on a table in the mess.

"We also had duties on the RAF lorry as coke heavers to the married quarters and as refuse collectors to Murton tip.

"Being young and innocent, Tony and I had applied for every overseas posting listed, thinking that we might as well see the world while helping Her Majesty.

"So where did we end up? Back in Co Durham about 15 miles from home. I used to say I could see East Hetton (Kelloe) pit heap from the top of our transmitter aerial."

For the technically-minded, the radar gear was Type 7s ("the nodding sort of aerial") and Type 14s ("the revolving sort.")

Whatever their value then, times have changed. "Nowadays," says David, "they would be looked upon as as much good as an oil lamp".

SO hot foot to Cold Hesledon where the mound, the plinths of a couple of radio transmitters and a couple of concrete walled buildings are still visible from near the A19.

With the landowner's permission - there are still foot-and-mouth precautions - you can walk up to the top, the road still intact, the masts now sprouting telephone company dishes.

The "farm bungalow" is long gone; there is nothing to suggest what lay - or may still lie - so intricately underground.

But for the intrepid Eskimo Nell, RAF Cold Hesledon might have been forgotten for ever.

SO who was responsible - Nell desperandum - for so colourfully chronicling the adventures of the amorous Innuit?

Last week's column suggested, however improbably, that Rudyard Kipling might be the writer. Harry Watson in Darlington, another RAF man of the 1950s, was always told that it was one of Noel Coward's - "he of the immaculate rhyming skills" - whilst Ray Powlay in Brompton, Northallerton, thinks it might have been Robert Service.

Who?

"Born Preston, Lancs, emigrated to Canada 1894, roving reporter on the Toronto Star," replies Ray.

"Prolific poet and writer, was in the Yukon at the time of the Gold Rush and became famous for popular ballads of life in Alaska at that time. Also known as the Canadian Kipling."

His work includes The Shooting of Dan McGrew, The Cremation of Sam McGee and How MacPherson Held the Floor. "Every bookshop in Alaska has shelves of his work," adds Ray.

Service with a smile - it could almost be the lady's guarantee.

Mote and beam: Alan Archbold in Sunderland points out that on July 27 the paper carried the same story on facing pages - "I'm sure that if the powers that be are desperate for copy, you can easily fill any available space for them" - whilst Maurice Heslop in Billingham draws attention to a gaffe in last week's 7 Days feature on Geordie actor Robson Green. Despite what we said, Wynyard Park (where the wife swapping parties are to be filmed) isn't a suburb of Newcastle, but is across the A19 from Maurice's home town on Teesside. Kevin Keegan can sleep safely in his bed.

But back to casualties of war, and to the case of SAS man Brad Tinnion, killed during a rescue mission in Sierra Leone.

The well-vented story last week that his partner - and mother of their child - had been denied a pension brought a note, and £50 in postal orders, from an unexpected source.

Jungle, as legally and fully he is known, was leader of Darlington's Hell's Angels in the 1970s - a large, bearded and not noticeably well-kept gentleman with (as we have observed previously) more good than harm in him.

It's he who bought the postal orders, asks us to forward them to Mr Tinnion's partner and child and includes a message on the back of an Inland Revenue form that may not be considered entirely complimentary to the Ministry of Defence.

The position has since changed significantly. It's likely that Anna Homsi, formerly from Harrogate, will now receive her pension and other help, too.

Jungle's largesse may be superfluous, though his postal orders are non-negotiable.

Since Jungle drums won't disclose his address, he may care again to get in touch. It would be good to discuss it further, and to buy the little Angel a pint.

SO here's this great oily motor biker heading along Larchfield Street in Darlington and, heading the other way, a Rover driven by the late and much-loved Lady Starmer, a sort of local Queen Mother. There is a collision, the bike rider is thrown to the ground and Lady Starmer - who may not be entirely blameless - emerges to check that he's all right.

He becomes a regular visitor to her handsome home at Danby Lodge, quite at home among the afternoon tea things, and is putting the world to rights with Lady Starmer when her GP pays a routine call.

"Ah doctor," she says, "I don't believe you know my friend Mr Jungle."

After that, bless her, she may have had to ensure that the physician was able to heal himself. Cold comfort, we will be abandoned here again next week.

Published: 08/08/01