Saints’ day remembered

THOUGH serially assailed by very many, I can only ever remember the start of two sermons. One was by Dr David Hope, the former Archbishop of York, at the annual cyclists’ service in Coxwold.

“The Kingdom of Heaven,” began Dr Hope, “is like unto the cyclists’ café at Gargrave….”

The other was at King’s Church, in Darlington, when the preacher launched into the story of the two television aerials who met on the roof, fell in love and got married.

The service was nothing special, but the reception was terrific.

The average sermon may be included among the holy mysteries, like why so many clergy are also steam railway nuts – “It’s because steam engines are like congregations, delightful and cantankerous in turn,” a Roman Catholic priest on the Weardale Railway once explained – and how good Catholics celebrate on St Patrick’s Day, which always falls in Lent.

Do they give up giving up?

The other great mystery of faith, of course, is what on earth Darlington St Augustine’s – the first Northern League champions, back in 1889-90 – were doing there in the first place.

Though not quite the Book of Revelations, all that became clearer after a day-long do at St Augustine’s on Saturday to mark the 125th anniversary of the improbable achievement.

The Saints hadn’t even been invited to the inaugural league meeting, considered “too small fry” despite winning the Cleveland Cup the previous season.

That they gate-crashed is now said to be due to the persistence of William Nolli, who’d played for Hibernian before taking the Dun Cow in Darlington and who, presumably, was a good Catholic, too.

Last Saturday afternoon there’d been a match between “St Augustine’s” and “Sunderland” – the only thing Sunderland won all weekend – and in the evening a talk by the Last-Legged league chairman in which an 1890s league meeting at the North Eastern Hotel in Darlington was ruefully recalled.

Club representatives waited in one room, league officials in another. After two hours, each group decided that the other wasn’t coming and independently went home again.

These days the league’s much better run.

The evening’s other highlight, save for the Sliding Tackle Ale from the ecclesiastically inclined Durham Brewery, was the reprise of Hewin’ Goals, the Northern League’s 125th anniversary play, by the Crook-based Jack Drum Theatre Company.

On the Northern League circuit, and in Darlington, they’d been as John the Baptist, a voice crying in the wilderness. Audiences were frequently in single figures. Here the place overflowed, getting on 200 in, a marvellous, responsive, reciprocal gathering.

“A bit like a pantomime,” said one of the Jack Drum lads and, unlike so many pearls from the pulpit, wholly and happily memorable.

AMONG the St Augustine’s faithful – few more so – was Steve Wilson, Tranmere Rovers fan extraordinary. Now 66, born in Birkenhead but 45 years in Darlington, Steve still rarely misses a Rovers match, home or away. He’s written two books about the club and was just back from the match with Woking, the first in the National League. In the 1990s, they were three times in the second tier play-offs; on Tuesday they played Gateshead – Steve thought for the first time since 1958 when they lost 3-2. A dish best served cold, on Tuesday they were revenged.

THE church team do had been preceded by the second stage of the Last Legs Challenge, cross country from Darlington to Newton Aycliffe via – we were assured – the Black Hills.

These are the Black Hills of Barmpton, not of Dakota, though doubtless there are similarities.

There are seven of us: my two strapping sons, butcher’s dog Ebac Northern League president George Courtney, Harvey Harris, Kit Pearson and Gary Brand, who’s up from London and thus not acclimatised to Saturday’s heat.

Kit’s studied the route, calculates 10.5 miles from Darlington station to Newton Aycliffe’s Moore Lane ground. To make the total 12, we put in a couple of warm-up miles amid the South Park 5k crew.

Harvey has one of those all-singing pedometers which not only records how many steps the wearer takes, but how he’s slept, how many times he’s woken up and, quite likely, whether he’s added sugar to his cornflakes.

Two hours on, the pedometer says we’ve only walked five miles. It’s clear that it’s lying through its teeth.

The plan’s to have a livener at the Blacksmiths Arms at Preston-le-Skerne, a mile from the ground. We arrive at 1.58pm. The pub closes at two.

At Moore Lane we’re greeted by Mary Dalton, Aycliffe’s marvellous mayor, who’s 90, in her fourth term of office and on her third engagement of the day.

Mary’s Dutch, her village liberated after the war by troops who included her Co Durham husband. “I love it here,” she says.

Gary – a southerner, it must be remembered – is carrying a Nivea man bag containing sundry deodorants. “You don’t want to smell for the mayor,” he explains.

No matter that finally we’ve covered 15 miles, it’s a lovely walk, a smashing occasion and Last Legs has tottered to £3,649.

THE day previously there’s a reception in Newcastle for Sir Bobby Robson Foundation fundraisers, the indomitable Lady Elsie there in black and white stripes. “I like being kept busy. This is good busy, not horrible busy,” she says. The fund has raised £8.3m in seven years.

Mike Tierney’s there, too. Compared to what Mike’s planning, Last Legs Challenge is a walk round the block with the dog.

Mike and a friend – “a partner as daft as me” – plan to row the 800k from Scotland to Denmark and, unlike Last Legs, with no chance of a pub in the middle.

If the weather’s set fair, they might do it in eight days. If it’s not, it could take them a month. Until 18 months ago, he’d not so much as taken a pedalo around Peasholm Park.

The boat’s very appropriately named Bonny Lass, in memory of his sister Clare, who died from breast cancer three years ago this month – aged just 47 – and who featured in Backtrack 23 years ago.

Clare was Gateshead FC’s full-time secretary, shared a windowless office at the back of the stand with a lot of kit bags and a one-bar electric fire, was also one of Co Durham’s first female referees. Had she lived, she’d planned an autobiography called Lady in Black.

“I’m not being sexist, but perhaps women have a more calming influence,” she said back in 1992.

Mike, a former Army officer, recalls a junior cup final in Durham in which the lovely Clare had given a questionable late decision. Parents reacted as parents do. “The referee’s a….” they began, and belatedly realising the usual term inappropriate, substituted “slapper” instead.

“Clare just fell about laughing,” he says.

Originally from Low Fell, now in Edinburgh, Mike has already had to call off one attempt because of rough seas. They try again on August 24. Details at virginmoneygiving.com/michaelrowtheboatashore

TUESDAY’S Last Legs stage took us on a circuitous but greatly pleasant route from North Bitchburn to Tow Law, in the course of which we encountered a herd of llamas, recalled Ripping Yarns and substantially further boosted the fund.