May is upon us and my thoughts have turned to the summer and what I'll do once the school year has ended and we are free once more.

Usually we summer on the Aegean in Bodrum and each time we return we discover new changes to the place and to the people we know there. Three years ago this garden existed; last year it had been razed to the bare soil and eight apartments (four two storey blocks) been built there. The chickens were still running around, everything else has gone. This year I hope it will have regrown to some extent.

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Here's to poetry and spring and new beginnings.

A poem on the theme of origins, with a twist, of course!

I try to forget now,
how it began:

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That Durham had a huge coal field is probably known to anyone who has studied the social and economic history of Britain at any level. However, the mines are all but finished and what is left us is a legacy which underpins life with a surprising strength and tenacity.

Three stories this month serve as illustration:

The Durham Mining Heritage Centre held a display during January of artefacts from this major industry; appropriately the display was held in one of the other institutions that coal mining spawned hereabouts: The Social Club - this one in Nevilles Cross. There was a display of traditional mat and rug making given by members of the group who have dedicated their time to preserving the mining heritage of the region. Proggie mats were made out of strips of old cloth, prodded into a piece of material as a backing. Those of us old enough can remember them well - everyone had them, it seems.

Pit ponies were also in the news this month with claims and counterclaims appearing about the whereabouts (or whetherabouts) of the last surviving pit pony. It had been thought that Pip, the famous white pit pony at Beamish museum was the last of his kind. There are lovely pictures of this celebrity of the equine world at work in Sacriston Colliery in the early Eighties, pulling coal tubs to the surface on his traditional leather yolk (half a ton a tub, up to three tubs at a time). That he was 35 years old when he died at the museum is well documented, as are the 23 years of relative ease he enjoyed while he was there. He was very popular with all, adults and children alike, who visited him. No sooner had be died however, and an apple tree planted at the museum as a memorial, when another even older pit pony appeared in the mix - retired for over 30 years now, living in a field nearby. My husband tells me that when he was a mining apprentice back in the late 60s he would visit the pit ponies during the bait break (mid shift) and remembers how even tempered they were, living out their lives underground.

The mining heritage stories culminated in a full pull-out supplement covering the centenary of one of the county's worst mining disasters at Stanley. The explosion which took place at West Stanley Colliery on February 16th 1909 at 3.45pm killed 168 men and boys. The council and the churches both held remembrance gatherings. Along with the overriding sense of tragedy because of the lives lost, were remembered great acts of heroism by miners who were rescued and brought to the surface, only to return with the rescue teams to help bring out other miners. Among the heroes of the day was the grandfather of Kevin Keegan, himself a Tyneside legend, and it was heartening to see the turn out of people of all ages to remember those killed and those who were saved. Whilst researching my husband's family we discovered eight of his family who were killed in the pits, over three generations, two of them at Stanley, the others at Dean & Chapter in Ferryhill. We were able to trace information relating to these deaths at The Durham Mining Museum internet site and have also been able to see their names in the Book of Remembrance for Miners in Durham Cathedral. It was remarked by Council leader Councillor Alex Watson that, "The people of Stanley do not want to forget their past. They want to remember it." I am sure that they want the rest of us not to forget either a little bit of what was the true price of coal.

Whether it was because of the long and drawn out and to be honest somewhat boozy nature of the festive season's celebrations in these parts, or whether that was just the effect on our local journalists, news seemed to be non existent in the first week of the year.

In fact, I was beginning to think that the whole idea of logging a year's worth of news titbits from local papers was going to be a non- starter.

Our main local newspaper, The Northern Echo, and its free subsidiaries, report both local, national and international stories and so provide an eclectic mix every day.

I had so wanted to concentrate on purely local stories but on the 9th I was struck by these two stories which appeared on consecutive pages:

"Sheriff locked up in own jail after prisoners underfed" and "Boris stung by his own road toll".

The first story from Alabama was a truly sorry story of how power could corrupt, as it seems that the prisoners in question told of getting 'half an egg, a spoonful of oatmeal and one piece of toast for breakfasts. Lunch was usually a handful of crisps and two sandwiches with barely enough peanut butter to taste'. Meanwhile Sheriff Greg Bartlett from Morgan County Jail was running a very for-profits fancy food shop in the prison which took his personal salary up to 141,000 USD a year because of the money which he had saved on catering for the prisoners and which he was entitled to keep. We should be relieved that this was deemed to be "probably unconstitutional" and he is no doubt hoping that the next prison governor doesn't carry on where he left off.

Whilst we have probably no sympathy for the said Greg Bartlett, there is something touching about London Mayor Boris Johnson's admittance that he had been fined for failing to pay the congestion charges. Describing it as being "done by my own system" he then labelled the system as "wretched" and "crazy" and said that his case only highlighted the need for an "account-based" way of administering the congestion charges, convenient I guess for those who regularly intend to 'forget' to pay in the first place.

So, two stories which brightened up the beginning of the year and I hope a salutory lesson to law makers and upholders along the lines of being careful what you wish for.

Local stories follow.

Yes it is that cold here in Weardale - weathermen assure us it's because the wind is blowing straight from the Arctic - and why wouldn't we believe them? So here's looking forward to spring:

THE DECEMBER PLANTING

When at last the school break came,
and the weather was unseasonably warm,
I took a bag of half priced bulbs
and planted them.

It was late of course.

I tucked their lime green sproutings
into a bed of softest crumbling soil,
blanketed them with fallen leaves
as deep a chestnut brown as any seen,
and hoped to fate.

This morning I went out to see my sleepy bulbs;
for fear some black withering decay might rob
us of a spring display.

Into the brown black leafy crust I tried to delve
but nothing gave – diamond frost sparkled
against a swirling frozen foam, like a rock salt
mulch. Either a tomb or a protection.

I am praying for a short-lived death,
a good New Year
and an Easter resurrection.

Sujen
January 2009