British Citizenship

On the 13th of February 2019 I attended my citizenship ceremony, the final step in becoming a citizen of Britain.

There were also two new citizens from Bangladesh, one from India and a married couple from Rumania. Bill and I both envied the Rumanians their EU citizenship. That relates to why, after 23 years, I finally decided to apply for British citizenship. 

Between the Brexit vote and the election of Trump as President of the US I felt the world had become a strange place that didn't feel quite so secure. As an alien with 'indefinite leave to remain' - an amusing British phrase, it began to feel too...indefinite. 

The wooden thing on the table is a holder for the Mace.

I had looked into citizenship years before but, other than the vote and right to live and work in Europe, I didn't see much gain. I already could leave Britain for up to two years and still return, but not for more than two years, and that condition remains even with naturalised citizenship. We talked about living the US at one point but health insurance costs changed our minds. It's cheaper to just visit for a month every few years. So becoming a dual citizen became more attractive, giving me that vote. 

Of course Brexit continues to stumble along towards who knows what end. I told Bill getting my citizenship at this point feels like running to catch the Titanic.

It took me about a year to complete the process, no doubt someone could do it much faster. Surprisingly it cost more than twice that of obtaining US citizenship. One of Bill's Asian friends hearing my plans, sent the name of a solicitor (lawyer) who specialises in this sort of thing. I wasn't excited about paying the legal fee in addition, given I'd be doing the work. Besides, it all seemed mostly straight-forward and do-able on my own. 

The first step was to buy a book about 'Life in the UK' to study (£11.95). It was so 'rah-rah, Britain is great' I couldn't believe if was written by an actual Brit. Nor could I believe I needed to know about the popular culture and sports heroes as well as the usual government and history questions. I did like that it spelled out my responsibility to look out for myself, my family and my environment. 

No English proficiency exam was required of me, but I did have to pass a citizenship test based on the book. I found this very helpful website for study and took the exams and tests there repeatedly. I copied any questions (with their answers) I wasn't sure of into a document that I studied in between taking the tests. When I could get at least 90% pass rate on all of these tests I booked my citizenship exam. 

This part didn't go smoothly because the private company that had the contract for administering these tests was moving offices and was appallingly bad at communicating with clients but at least efficient in refunding money. The first test was cancelled 30 minutes before it was to be held in a building with only construction workers removing rubble. They kindly directed me and an also anxious young man to another building, this one with an accessible receptionist - for an unrelated company. She informed us that people had shown up for the past few weeks for tests cancelled without notice. One poor woman came up from London for nothing. The receptionist kindly gave us a phone number from the internet, which of course was answered with a recording. I went home and drafted a letter to the Member of Parliament for our area and rescheduled the test for a couple of weeks later.

The second test was at least cancelled a few days before the exam and with that email I found a live person to check with about booking future tests. I sat the exam on the third attempt. The actual test took about ten minutes to answer 24 questions. It cost £50 (when booking, not refundable if you fail.)

Next, I had to complete a 31-page application, get two references to complete portions of the form and have a proper passport photo taken (£20). The application asked for ancient history: the names, dates and places of birth for each of my husbands and for my parents. It also required provision of documents: birth, marriage and divorce records, not to mention the pass certificate for the exam. Fortunately I already had all those. The other fun part was digging out information about where I had travelled in the past three years. Had I not been married to a British citizen that period would have been five years. As it was I used Bill's emails, my diaries and this blog to compile a list of travel locations for the required time period to show I met the residence requirements for application.

The local authority in Newcastle runs a 'National Checking Service' which allows one to submit documents and have them photocopied and certified, to send with application rather than sending off originals. This service costs £80. The application fee was £1,330. 

Soon after officialdom received the application I was sent for biometric testing (£20). That was a bit fraught as the website gave different information than the checking service about which Post Office I should attend in South Shields, across the river. Bill kindly drove me down, which resulted in a traffic ticket for using a bus lane. Not even he could figure out how to navigate in South Shields without breaking the rules. I don't count his £30 ticket as part of my citizenship expenses, though it just goes to show there are many obstacles to overcome!

I went to one place only to find it shut. A bit perplexed but not out of ideas, I asked a lady where the other Post Office was and she directed me around the corner. Sadly when I arrived their machine wasn't working. There were a number of other applicants on the same mission though they hadn't the benefit of English as their first language nor, I would guess, two decades of experience in Britain. One large man was being lectured by a stern woman in a suit that he could not threaten their staff and it wasn't their fault the machine was malfunctioning. He did seem quite agitated and I couldn't blame him, though I gather he had left things to the last minute, thus adding to his own stress. I wanted to assure him it wasn't at all personal - Britain does this malfunctioning thing to everyone including its own native born. I think it, in addition to the practice of queuing, accounts for the level of national stoicism.

The lady behind the counter said I had the choice to wait for the computer guy to come or to go down to Sunderland. I chose the latter. It was in trying to reconnect with Bill that I realised I'd never yet answered my mobile phone in the years  I've grudgingly carried it. I've only ever texted a few times so  Bill and I had several failed attempts nearly worthy of a digital age slapstick before I managed to find him and the car. 

It all went swimmingly in Sunderland: I made Bill park in a car park and walk the pedestrianised street with me to the Post Office and their machine worked fine. After a short wait I entered a booth where I had a facial scan and my fingerprints taken, a rather surreal experience. After that it was just a matter of waiting from three to six months for the official verdict. 

When I got the acceptance letter I had to phone my local authority, this time North Tyneside, to book into a citizenship ceremony - that was free. 

A drawing of the Registry Office that hangs in the lobby. I'm rather sentimental about the place.

The ceremony took place at the North Shields Register office where Bill and I got married eight years ago. I wore the same dress and shoes. It did sort of feel like getting married again, pledging allegiance to the Queen and to the laws of the the United Kingdom. The latter was second nature, I would live by those laws anyhow, but the Queen? Well, I think of her as a symbol and perhaps a wise little old lady. I've been fascinated with her family since I was twelve years old and in any case there wasn't a republican oath on offer, only the choice to 'swear by almighty God' or to 'affirm'. 

The ceremony began with a few tunes on the Northumbrian bagpipes. He didn't wear a kilt, just a shirt and trousers but with a large scarf, perhaps called a plaid, I'm not sure. I recognised the Northumbrian tartan, a black and white check. This was historically quite fitting as we were part of Northumberland until 45 years ago. I noticed piper's cuff links were buttons covered in the same tartan.

The mistress of ceremony was a deputy registrar I'd spoken with on the phone. A registrar's job is sort of a records manager: births, deaths, marriages...and citizenship.  There were also two official gentlemen who gave fairly similar speeches: the Chairman of the North Tyneside Council and a Deputy Lord Lieutenant (pronounced lef-tenant, you know) - sort of a deputy deputy as it were (as in lieu).

The Chairman of the Council, Tommy Mulvenna, was wearing his Chain of Office and was accompanied by a mace-bearer (also a casual civic driver, according to the job advert) who was...carrying a mace. We examined this interesting object later and found the emblem of the Tynemouth Borough Council, one of four and a bit councils amalgamated to form North Tyneside. According to this website about a film made by a local school in 1950:

  The Mace which is now recognised as a symbol of Royal Authority and Civic dignity, was originally a weapon of offence, capable of breaking through the strongest armour. It was carried into battle by Mediaeval Bishops instead of the sword.

The Deputy Lord Lieutenant was there as a representative of the Queen herself. I didn't catch his name but he kindly came up for a chat when the ceremony was over, explaining that we were 'nearly neighbours'. That gave me pause that he knew the name of my street but then I realised that the Queen's representative probably got to see my paperwork. 

The Queen, probably in about 1995, the year I came to Britain.

I asked the Leader of the Council what I might read to help me choose a political party and make an informed vote in May's local elections. Funny enough, he said it was 'all down to how you feel' and didn't recommend any study at all. He said he was once a Lib Dem (Liberal Democrat) but now was with the Labour party and suspected his wife of being a Conservative. I think he was serious, but I'm not positive. 

The speeches themselves were pretty interesting. They touched on the need for us to abide by the laws of the United Kingdom but mostly seemed to welcome our different contributions to the diversity of Britain. 

After the speeches and the pledges came the dirge-iest (that surely should be a word) version of a national anthem I've ever heard. I knew the words from my study. They are fairly amusing in a way. Think My Country Tis of Thee and sing along if you like: 

God save our gracious Queen, Long live our noble Queen, God save the Queen. Send her victorious, happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the Queen. 

It implies that so long as the Queen is happy, it's all good, but then she is a symbol of the country, right? Like I said, the words were no problem but it was s-o  s-l-o-o-o-o-w, when I wanted something a bit more upbeat to fit the cheerful occasion. Never mind.

After all that we had our photos. Shame the Queen got cut out, the photographer doesn't seem to have planned well, though it wasn't his fault the curtains wouldn't shut and the room was set up wrong for photos. Still, I'm content - it was free!

Then we all gathered for a nice cup of tea and a biscuit or a bit of cake. I went around to each of my new fellow citizens to shake their hands and congratulate them - very American of me, I know. They were all pretty pleased with themselves just as I was, and shook my hand, smiling. Except for the Rumanian man. He bowed and kissed my hand instead. 

I do wish Britain could stay in the EU.

We had a G&T at the Grand Hotel before going home to change and attend the Tynemouth Historical Society meeting.

Car Boot Sale - Not

Lately I have been thinking about selling stuff at a car boot sale.  That's the British version of a 'yard sale'.  I've not specifically checked, but I suspect 'yard sales' aren't permitted by the local authority (town council).  Since it's not part of the culture and since your usual Brit isn't the adventurous type, I'm thinking it's no good me trying to buck the trend.



On the other hand, the memory of my one experience of selling at Blaydon car boot sale puts me off: it was wet and very windy.  If I am going to try that again it will be at least under cover.  Tynemouth Flea Market is an obvious choice, but they want £17 to rent half a table and you have to come up with public liability insurance.  Life has to be simpler than that.



So I went to check out Bilton Market AKA Fish Quay Fair; the cafe on site has a different name, I forget what.  I've walked past this place many times when it was open, but the charging of an admission fee (50p) put me off.  In my experience this means there isn't enough good things inside for sale and the site is making money off the buyers instead of the sellers.  Turns out, however, that the 50p gets you a 'free' cup of coffee or tea, so can't say fairer. 

And this place. is. enormous.  There are 'permanent' stalls around the outside, with spaces for let in the centre.  And the whole thing is repeated upstairs, though without quite as much stuff.  I saw a woman in a corner using a sewing machine and I really wanted to ask her what she was making, but the way she was tucked in behind a screen made me think she didn't want to be interrupted. 

 

If I had a square inch to spare in my house I saw loads of furniture I would love to buy.  I'm not convinced they have enough traffic to make it worth my while (assuming I have sellable goods), but this was on a pleasant summer's day.  A place with parking, out of the wind and rain, come winter may be another kettle of fish altogether (get it?  fish quay...sorry).



When I'd finished looking I went to the cafe for my tea.  They have a juke box you can play for free.  I can't tell you which Elvis song was on when I was in there, but I'm sure I would have enjoyed many of the other artists:  Everly Brothers, Sam Cooke, Gene Pitney, The Animals, The Beatles, Stevie Wonder, Thin Lizzie, Crystal Gayle and (of course) Cliff Richard.  (I don't think I ever heard of him before I came to Britain, but he made it pretty big here.)



So, I could go set up on Wednesday, leave my stuff til Saturday and again on Sunday, have free coffee and tea and listen to a bunch of golden oldie music.  I just might be talking myself into this.

In a shop called 'Den of Antiquities'...

 

Annnddd they have a crafters' market the last Sunday of every month!  Must go back and check that out!

A Winter Walk

I'm often struck by the many differences between where I grew up and where I live now.  Time (as in more history) and space (as in a lot less of it) are important factors here in Britain, factors which influence much about the way things are done. 

Where I grew up, the streets are mostly on a neat grid, the ground is flat and the main landmarks are the railway line, a couple of lakes and the small parks dotted around.  Shopping centres are also main features, but those are too boring to talk about.  The point I'm intending to make is that a ditch digger or a crane are very rare features of the established suburban areas.  Construction work is generally limited to  utilities making repairs or the building of yet another housing estate even further out from down town.  One exception to this is in the posh area just south of my neighbourhood, where 'old money' had houses when I was young.  It's not uncommon to see large lots being split.  New houses which dominate their site are then erected to announce the new resident's terrific lack of taste.  

Here in Britain, loads of construction work goes on all the time.  Scaffolding is required to reach roofs being replaced, or brick walls being re-pointed.  The landscape is quite hilly, leading down to rivers or beaches and up to overlook points.  Sadly, the cranes at the major ship-building centre for Newcastle, based at Wallsend (as in the end of Hadrian's wall) are no longer for building ships, but for dismantling the site. 



Large buildings are being made over into flats, old sub-standard housing torn down and new (sub-standard) homes built.  Old industrial sites no longer in use are being demolished to make room for new housing or other developments.   

Tiled entrance to The Chain Locker

Roads are in continual need of repair (which occurs at the most inconvenient times, it seems).   Also, surprisingly enough, new roads are often being built through old areas. 



The Chain Locker was previously the Crane House Inn, dating back to 1834.

It was to one of these locations that Bill and I chose to walk the other day.  West of the North Shields Fish Quay is a row of newish apartment buildings over looking the river and beyond that is Collingwood Mansions (nothing to do with Dark Shadows).  Built in the mid 19th Century as a Sailors' Home, it is now a collection of flats, quite nice flats from the look of them.  The short street used to be book-ended by two venerable pubs, The Porthole and The Chain Locker, but only the former has remained.  The Chain Locker and something called the Brewery Bond, a warehouse, have both been made into flats. 


What we were most interested in, however, was the point where the buses have to turn around after dropping passengers at the ferry landing (the one that just crosses the river, not the big one that goes to Amsterdam).  Beyond that turn around point has been some disused docks and industrial wasteland.  Now there is a road that continues just beyond and then heads north into the existing housing estates. 

Town Mission built 1904

This suggests a plan for further development of the riverside, which is always exciting.  The road is not yet opened, however.   A bit of research indicates this development, called Smith's Dock, has been in the works since 2001.  Change is continual here, but generally very slow.  I'm hoping this road will provide a nearly traffic free cycle route to the largest leisure centre (gym) in the area.  We shall see. 




Bill showed me a bridge that crosses the road and reveals a roof top conservatory at the back of Collingwood Mansions.  On this cliff above the fish quay are also the old Town Mission and a former sail maker, now specialising in sheet metal, which is somehow apt.  Not a lovely building, but interesting and certainly historical. 



We made our way back past the fishquay and to the park, now strangely decorated, perhaps by 'Friends' of the park. 



It was a very cold day, as evidenced by the frozen pond,



but a pleasant walk, nonetheless.

All Roads Lead to Oklahoma?

Another of those weird things I keep running across: when I was researching the history of North Shields for these articles, I found a list of famous people born there. 

Other than Stan Laurel I only recognized George Stephenson, but Alan Young seemed vaguely familiar. Turns out he was Wilber in one of my favourite childhood television shows: Mister Ed.   Does anyone remember Mister Ed?

Seems that the horse that ‘played’ the talking horse was named Bamboo Harvester, but there was a second horse used in publicity photos, etc., who lived longer than the ‘real’ Mr. Ed.   When the second horse died, he was buried on Snodgrass Farm in Oklahoma and there was some confusion at the time that it had been Mr Ed who was buried there.


I’m not bothered which horse was buried where, but boy did it make me homesick for my childhood…. I wonder if there are Mr. Ed videos? Would I still think they were funny?

Yes.  And yes, well, moderately.

Knott Flats

I vaguely remember knowing where some of the ‘social housing’ was in Oklahoma City, in the north east part of town. I once visited a friend from work there and it was pretty grim. Did we call them tenements? Projects? It’s too long ago to recall the name we used. Vanessa didn’t recommend living there – she had some horrific stories - but it was affordable and her mother was there to help look after her son.

The 'beach' at North Shields

Social housing here in England varies a lot, though I’m no more well versed about it here and now than I was there and then. I gather it’s ‘means tested’ but strangely enough one can ‘inherit’ a council house tenancy and some council estates are fairly pleasant. I gather the main thing that makes or breaks a council estate is not so much the architecture as the inhabitants. There are some pretty tough cookies living on public money around here.  Some vulnerable people who would easily qualify for a flat would prefer to live rough on the streets rather than deal with the harder characters and, but for the climate here, I’m not sure I wouldn’t be amongst them.



Sunday Fish & Chips at the 'beach'

Unless of course they offered me a flat with a south-west facing balcony and a view of the river and the sea. I figure the tenants at Knotts Flats in Tynemouth are pretty well behaved folks. I met a woman who lived there once, through another friend, and she remarked that loads of people who usually didn’t bother with her became her new best friends just before the Tall Ships race.  (They came to Newcastle in 2005 when I was still working in the city centre; I'll have to dig out those photos for you some time.)




Knott Flats

The land for Knott Flats was given to the Council for social housing by a gentleman named Sir James Knott with the proviso that it could only be used for social housing. I’m not sure what would happen to the ownership of the land if the Council decided to change it’s use, but I reckon that hill has to be worth a pretty penny.  They have some great views from their windows.





We’ve been on the waiting list for an allotment garden now for about 3-4 years and George, the allotments liaison officer – our neighbour – told us today number 88 is available and there’s ‘only’ about 50 names in front of us. One can only imagine what sort of waiting list there might be for Knott Flats…

The Fish Quay

This post was sitting all ready for you Friday morning, but Blogger crashed and this post disappeared into the resulting hole.  Fingers crossed this one will not suffer the same fate.

As I mentioned way back when we started, fishing is what established North Shields, but that industry has gone flatter than a  flatfish (more about those in another post).  When I first moved to the area, the warehouses were all abandoned, their windows shattered. There has been some renovation occurring and Irvin’s is the new ‘in’ restaurant, with warehouse flats on offer just above.

Renovation aside, there are three main aspects of the Fish Quay, at the bottom of the cliff I’ve been showing you the past few days. I think of them as ‘hooked’ ‘cooked’ and ‘raw’. The ‘hooked’ bit is where the fishing ships dock. I’ve rarely seen that actually happen, as I said the fishing industry is pretty scarce even around here. That said, the other day Bill pointed out a fishing boat coming in past the piers with a colony of seagulls following it. He reckoned they were cleaning the fish as they came into dock. Naturally, I didn't have my camera to capture the sight. 

There are still some of the best fish & chip restaurants to be found (the ‘cooked’ part) where you can get a piece of cod that hangs off both sides of a plate and more incredibly delicious chips (French fries are a completely different species – whatever you call them now) than one really should even consider consuming, for about £5.   We buy fish and chips maybe once a year and we may soon have to have our serving for 2011 my mouth is watering so.

Strangely enough there has been an influx of a local chain of Italian restaurants-  three of them so far -  but still, I think, with a fish theme: they have crammed as many tables in as physically possible and hired only skinny waiters; as a one-time customer I felt like a sardine in a tin.

The 'raw' part is even more interesting to me. I haven’t had much to do with a whole raw fish since I was very young. Mom and Daddy liked to go fishing on the pier at Lake Hefner and I remember a picnic basket with fried chicken and beer, playing in the minnow bucket, keeping away from the large live catfish in someone’s bathtub, my Dad teaching me to scale and gut sunfish on the back porch and walking around the back yard munching the fins off a freshly fried sunfish.

I associate fresh fish with a happy childhood, can you tell?

Maybe this is why I was so fascinated by the fish shops in Italy last summer, particularly Genoa. 

I took loads of photos there, in part because I thought they were wonderful, but also because some of it was pretty gross. 







Moscardinos are baby octopuses.   

In Genoa there were not only fishmongers in the village arcades,

but also down on the marina near the movie prop boat we explored.  



(And have finally found an excuse to show them to you!) 

Bill says this monster is a monkfish.

It seems obvious that almost any coastal town will have fishing / seafood as part of its culture, but for whatever reason - because it's not cheap even here, it's largely foreign and some of it is pretty disgusting if you didn't grow up with it, and apparently even if you did - it's not something I've had much contact with in the fifteen years I've lived here.   Oh, and another reason?  Bill keeps pointing out to me that fishy business takes place early in the day and that's just not my prime time.

So, imagine my pleasure when we rounded the corner and found that Taylor's is now open on Sundays and that they have a special:  £1 for 1 lb of selected fish (varies daily:  lemon sole, plaice, mackerel, hake, squid, witch, herring, gurnard). 

They, too, had an impressive range of fish on display, obviously something all fishmongers are trained to do. 

I felt like I was having a 'cultural experience' just about (but fortunately not really) at the bottom of my street!   We both decided that we were just going to have to figure out a way to do some shopping here.  So you can look forward to hearing more about our fish adventures, I'm sure.  I might even learn what is a ‘gurnard’ or a ‘witch’…

Dockwray Square

These lovely new houses are striking in several respects.

One is that they sit on a cliff that overlooks the river. Another is that they are situated where as late as the 1930s there were slum clearances. Photos of what used to be in North Shields are here on the library’s website.

The library and other websites describe the slums along the Fish Quay as being between the tall stairs that link the quay with the Tyne Road on the cliff top above.  The stairs are there still and we routine use one or another of them to get down to the promenade at the river level.  This description made us both remember our visit to Mary King's Close in Edinburgh, where all the tenements were built in layers between the market street and the lake (sewer) at the bottom.  There aren't houses off those stairs anymore, only offices and restaurants to my knowledge.

Dockwray Square was originally built as elegant housing in 1763, but because of little provision for water and drainage, they deteriorated to the slum level of the houses nearby and the well-to-do moved into Northumberland Square a few blocks away.

Dockwray Square has since been re-developed, in the last 10-15 years, I'm guessing.  Were we to move, I think Bill would consider living in one of these houses and though I’m slightly less enthusiastic I have to agree they are rather attractive.  And they are right across the road from the High Light…


Just to be confusing, this is Low Lights


So what has this to do with Stan Laurel? It will be old news to the local folks, but he lived in the old Dockwray Square at number 8 for about 5 years around the turn of the last century. There is a plaque on the wall of that house and a (not very good, IMO) statue of him in the green.  

Home boy made good and all that...

A Sunday Walk – Part II

We walk along here quite often – at least once or twice a week – much as we do past the Castle and the Priory. It’s almost a reflex action if I have my camera with me, I’m somehow compelled to take certain photos. No doubt one day I’ll be able to show you the Priory as it appears virtually every month. I feel just the same about the High Light and Low Light in North Shields, the two white buildings in this photo.













They are landmarks that have been there for hundreds of years - in some form or other since 1725, guiding ships into the mouth of the River Tyne, safely past the Black Middens.  I think it's seeing paintings of the quayside from the 19th century that show one or both of these lighthouses and then seeing them for real is the thing that really gets me about them. 

They are now private homes; I can’t imagine what that would be like, having such a strangely shaped house, not to mention one built in 1808.  However, come to think of it, I remember that the former windmills that were used to drain the Norfolk Broads have also been converted into houses, which would be roughly similar.

I remember a few years ago when the Low Lights was for sale.  The description is all that remains:  apparently it has 4 bedrooms. 

Well, enough maritime history. Tomorrow we’ll talk about Stan Laurel for a change.

A Sunday Walk – Part 1

I had a couple of items to pick up in North Shields and I invited Bill for the walk. We took the straight way there, but the scenic way home.  I've mentioned before that North Shields town centre not a pretty place, probably because much of it suffers from the 'modern' thinking of the 1960s which resulted in hideous buildings.  There are a few grand buildings left, however.   


First of all, the name comes from an old word, shiels, which means a shed or hut. Back in the early days of the Priory of Tynemouth,


View Larger Map

the monks needed food and they gave permission for the fishermen to build their huts on either side of the Tyne, hence, North Shields and South Shields. I understand that back then you could walk across the river at low tide. The ship building industry and coal shipping obviously caused the Tyne to be dredged to create a port.

 Still, Tynemouth is only a village and North Shields a town; there are more services and shopping options in North Shields. I also find the staff are much more straight forward and approachable.  With the exception of the post office and the restaurants, people in Tynemouth often strike me as incredibly rude.  I take all my other business to North Shields.






It wasn’t until I was looking with open eyes at North Shields that I found the old Library. Two of the ladies in the sewing group worked there for years and both said it was as beautiful inside as out.  Looking up through the windows we could see an elegant banister and part of a conservatory roof.  The 'new' library is a horrible glass and concrete box, but must larger I'm sure. 



 Then there is the old town hall, now offices and a restaurant.


Also the Registry Office, where people go to register births and deaths and to get married in a civil rather than a church service. It used to be a shipping office and it overlooks the river.

Standing in front of the Registry office looking up the Tyne, you can see the river ferry approaching the landing that I showed you the other day.


Further up river is a very large ferry that does a daily trip to Amsterdam.  We also found a sign directing us along the North Shields Heritage Trail, a walk I’m determine to take one day to show you the other parts.

It has been bright and breezy around here of late and the Tynemouth sailing club is just around the corner, so to speak. You can see parts of the Fish Quay (that word in pronounced KEY, strangely enough, not one I ever encountered in the States, but then I did live pretty far inland.) This is where fishing boats have unloaded for hundreds of years, but the fishing trade here has largely gone the way of coal mining, textile factories, ship building and steelworks. That said, the Fish Quay is still the best place to buy fish and chips or fresh fish in this area; I’d put them up against Long John Silver’s any day.  My mouth waters just thinking of it. 

Even better, we've discovered a new place to shop!  But that I will save for another post.