COMMONDALE is a delightful hamlet of 100 souls on the North Yorkshire moors, improbably served by the Esk Valley railway from Middlesbrough to Whitby, the sort of place where chickens still casually cross the road without expecting someone to make an old joke of it.

Before proceeding, however, we should perhaps make clear that there’s nothing at all common about Commondale, a place of rare tranquillity and much beauty.

Originally it was Colmandale, named after a 7th century Bishop of Lindisfarne who had a hermitage thereabouts but who went back to Ireland in a huff after the Synod of Whitby in 664 failed to share his ideas on a date for Easter.

We catch the 8 40am from Darlington – direct on Sundays, cheap as chips and a bit like the third little pig in that it enjoys the best of the day before others are awake. Initially the attraction is that the little station is a finalist in the Community Rail Partnerships awards to be announced – gala dinner, of course – in October.

The only other North-East finalist is an initiative on the Tyne Valley line. Since Willington station has been closed for 50 years, we must assume that the similarly shortlisted efforts of Willington WI relate to a distant station with a close-to-home name.

The Commondale citation – “making Commondale station the heart of the community” – salutes Beyond Boundaries, a village based organisation which provides training, activities, sports and courses for adults with learning disabilities.

“Gardening: it’s cheaper than therapy and you get tomatoes,” says a sign outside their farmhouse base.

Within minutes of alighting, still marvelling at the stop-in-your-tracks floribundance of the single track halt, we’re approached by Geoff Walker.

A former British Steel engineer, he’s been in Commondale since 1976 – “the long hot summer” – lives atop the narrow footpath leading down to the station and acts as unofficial tourist guide, passenger adviser and station adopter.

Now 77, he also clears the path of snow. “Sixty-four inches one year,” he recalls, in the manner of a man who measured every one. Alma, Geoff’s wife, used the line for 25 years when working a couple of stops away at Danby.

The place is glorious in the Sunday sunshine, the little waiting room decorated with a large and colourful mural painted by Debbie Mahaffey and with a picture of flames where coal once warmed the cockles.

“They wanted to knock it down and put up one of those awful bus shelters,” Geoff recalls. “We had to get up a petition.”

There’s buddleia and butterflies, hosta and hellebore, geranium and Jacob’s ladder and a herb patch that smells of Sunday dinner. Probably there’d have been more had not the railwayman sent with a strimmer strimmed some of the wild flowers, too.

Geoff admits there are few passengers. “One or two schoolchildren, a few hikers, but you still want folk to feel welcome, not greet them with something scrubby. That way they’ll come back again.”

The Cleveland Arms, the unspoiled local pub, offers more surprises, its walls hung with evocative images of the Commondale Brick, Pipe and Pottery Company – in full and industrious vigour until 1947.

The church and the former school are both built from red Commondale brick, the village institute is dedicated to Anthony Crossley – big brick men, the Crossleys – while Geoff has a little pile of them by the gate. They keep being washed up out of the stream, he says.

Coffee and biscuits at the Cleveland, back past the station, there’s a sublime two-mile bridle path to Castleton. Pint in the Downe Arms, we catch the 13 44 from Castleton Moor back to Darlington.

Beyond Boundaries was formed last year by husband and wife Anthony Laffan and Kay Willis, retired teachers, and has clients aged from 17 to 63, many of whom travel to Commondale by train. Four won medals at this year’s Special Olympics.

They loved working on the station, says Annie Rudd, one of the staff. “These things teach them life skills, make them feel included. They’re really proud of the station, and rightly.”

Much more might be said, but Commondale railway station speaks eloquently and beautifully for itself.

THE paper a couple of weeks back reported plans to remove the pulpit and organ from the historic but now redundant Methodist chapel at Newbiggin-in-Teesdale.

Using an archive image, the story was illustrated with a picture of organist Josie Pollard – playing, we said, at the final service in May.

It didn’t fool former chapel steward June Luckhurst and nor, suggests June, would it have taken in any who know their Methodist hymn book.

The hymn board hung alongside. Number 88 was The Holly and the Ivy, 95 Born in the Night, Mary’s Child and 113 O Little Town of Bethlehem.

There was another clue, however: Josie was wearing her Christmas jumper.

DISCOGRAPHY duly perused, last week’s note on the passing of Cliff Richard superfan Margery Burton was headed “True love ways.” The song was also played at the service in Shildon Methodist church, the congregation entering to Moon River and leaving to Wired for Sound.

The cremation service had preceded it. At that, reports Margery’s son-in-law Paul Mulley, mourners left – perhaps for the first time in history – to the strains of Do You Wanna Dance.

STILL with church music, The Times last Saturday carried a letter from the Rev Dr Peter Mullen, much peeved at what’s happening musically at one of his former churches in the City of London. No longer adorning these pages, Dr Mullen has now moved to the south coast. He’s Angry of Eastbourne now.

A TALE oft told concerns the opening of Mickleton carnival, in Teesdale, in 1975. The chairman said how pleased they were to welcome Mike Amos but – “to be honest” – admitted that the first choice had been Mike Neville.

“Mike Neville was £50,” he added. “Mike Amos was nowt.”

The following Monday’s column supposed me “The poor man’s Mike Neville”, led to an appearance on that night’s Look North and stuck.

Last Saturday I opened the Gaunless Valley History Trust’s photographic exhibition at Butterknowle, in west Durham, chiefly a remembrance of cloudless carnivals and waist-deep winters.

Carnival pictures from the 1960s had captions like “Man in nappy and two Welsh maids” and “Kit-Kat and commando boy.” There was also a wagon load of black and white minstrels, which these days would be supposed a distinctly grey area.

They don’t have carnivals any more, either. “Health and safety,” folk muttered, new meaning to falling off the back of a lorry.

It was a pleasure to be there but, truth to tell, the original invitee had jollied off to Spain and once again I had to come off the bench.

The poor man’s Chris Lloyd returns next week.