PERHAPS only because it has a balcony, from which the mayor may acknowledge a cheering populace, Thornaby town hall always reminds me of Trumpton.

You half expect Chippy Minton to be fixing the floorboards, Miss Lovelace to be flogging flowers or a band concert to be blowing across the road.

It’s being extensively renovated, suitably scaffolded, still home until last weekend to a photographic exhibition recalling Thornaby in times past, old images of the nearby railway station of particular interest.

Sadly, however, viewing time was limited because the 2018 railway was an hour behind schedule. How could it be, since the journey from Darlington takes 20 minutes and there are trains half hourly?

“A failure in the signalling system,” verbosely intoned the android announcer, though not what you’d call virtue signalling. “Signal failure” would have been more appropriate.

Still, it was cheering to be reminded of Thornaby station in the good old days when the place had an overarching roof – its canopy glass shattered by the Luftwaffe – WHSmith’s, refreshment room, plentiful porters and flower beds of which they were properly, painstakingly, proud.

There were also four classes of waiting room, their great grates fired with enthusiasm. Is there anywhere on the railway network which still keeps the home fires burning?

Much of the station was demolished in the early 1970s, an action then described as “institutionalised vandalism”, eventually replaced by something thought in 2003 to be suitable for a best station award.

Save for the coffee, it’s OK in a vandal-proof sort of a way, but Thornaby station’s glories are gone.

LAST week’s piece on the 50th anniversary of the Teesdale and Weardale Search and Mountain Rescue Team, and on the terrible events which led to its formation, stirred both emotions and memories.

“Wonderful” wrote Cyril Wilson, who at 79 traversed High Cup Nick, on the high fells that embrace Durham and Cumbria, for the 13th time last summer.

We’ve also heard from Nick Coggins, 12 at the time of the March 1968 tragedy involving members of St John’s youth club in Shildon. “It caused much distress in Teesdale,” he recalls.

Nick’s father Dennis, a teacher whose wife ran the High Force Hotel, was among the first to join the subsequent search. Concerned at the lack of a formal rescue team, he and three friends decided to act.

Tom Buffey was a public relations man for Northumbrian Water, then building Cow Green reservoir, Don Robinson was warden of Langdon Beck youth hostel and Eric Richardson manager of Barclay’s Bank in Middleton-in-Teesdale. The first search and rescue team was formed just months later.

“At first it was pretty basic, mainly relying on farmers’ local knowledge, but they knew they had to do something,” says Nick. “What they’re now doing is tremendous; my dad and his friends have a great legacy.”

A service to mark the 50th anniversary, and to remember the two young men who perished on the fells, will be held at St John’s church in Shildon at 2pm on Saturday, March 24.

THE column a fortnight back carried a couple of inches on a gig in Durham by the folk/rock band Fairport Convention, singing for more than half a century.

It stirred submerged memories for Steve Warren, also in Durham, of his first festival – the infamous Krumlin weekend on the West Yorkshire moors, August 14-16, 1970.

Tickets were thirty bob, many thought forged. Promised landers included Manfred Mann, Georgie Fame, Pentangle, the Alan Price Set – and Fairport.

It being high summer, the weather was woeful – “a storm of biblical proportions, like Armageddon on a bad day,” says a website. Up to 300 were treated for exposure, 70 hospitalised.

It being 1970, many of the bands spent the time drowning their sorrows, Fairport suitably sozzled when summoned to the stage.

The column noted that bass guitar man Dave Pegg had spent most of the Durham gig seated, because of a hip affliction. Back in 1970 his problem was yet more personal – not helped because he was wearing white trousers. “I was a laughing stock,” he admits on the same website.

Similarly caught short, another band member relieved himself through a hole in the canvas surrounding the stage. “Unfortunately the press area was on the other side of the canvas,” wrote Pegg. “We’ve not been popular with Melody Maker since.”

Police called the whole thing off early on the Sunday morning, by which time a soaked-through Steve had still managed to catch a spot by a little-known newcomer – some bloke called Elton John.

LANCE KIDNEY, perchance, also recalls hearing Fairport Convention in 1970, though at the more clement Bath Festival and without the “sainted” Sandy Denny, who’d left. “Probably the finest British female singer of all time,” says Lance. We have reminded him of the much lamented Ms Springfield.

STILL treading the boards, we headed to Newcastle last Wednesday for the Royal Shakespeare Company’s new production of Hamlet at Northern Stage.

It was a matinee. At Shildon Hippodrome matinees used to be ninepence plus twopence for a penny lolly. Here it was £42 – FOTTY TWO PUND, each – and, it should at once be said, worth every button.

This was Hamlet to an African drum beat, the cast mainly black, the production invigorating, ingenious, energetic and colourful. No matter that they laughed in some pretty odd places, Newcastle proved attentive.

At our age, however – and with the first part lasting an hour and three-quarters – it has to be said that an additional highlight was the chance to be unseated at the interval.

As Marcellus or someone observes in the very first scene: “For this relief, much thanks.”

SEPARATE items from the minutes of Leyburn Town Council. 1. “Moles are causing a lot of damage to the cemetery. Some control will be arranged asap.” 2. “Six mole traps have been stolen from the fields. Anyone with information should contact the Town Council office.”

THE Times carries a splendid obituary on Grania, Dowager Duchess of Normanby, who has died at the age of 97.

Born into the Guinness family, forever hooked on the distinctive brewing aroma, she married the Marquess – he of Mulgrave Castle, north of Whitby – shortly after the war.

Family ties notwithstanding, the Marchioness was very much a champagne socialiser – until breastfeeding her seven children, when she would revert to Guinness.

The babies, she would explain, needed a proper start in life.

FREUDIAN and then some, the column three weeks ago wrote of the Darlington and Distrust 5s and 3s League. It should, of course, have been the Darlington and District 5s and 3s League. Darlington’s dominoes players are honourable to a man.

...AND finally, Redcar and Cleveland councillor David Walsh comes across a social care training team with the acronym Oomph, standing for Our Organisation Makes People Happy. David supposes them logo louts, though it seems to me wholly memorable – if a little hard to live up to. Any other appealing acronyms?