The Dun Cow, Durham, 1997
Part one
Weekends get busy; stuff to do, places to be. Reading ‘a different sober’ likely slips down the priorities list. Fair enough. So, this weekend, a cross-post from my cricket publication, SpeakingCricket. Originally written in 2022. A two-part story about relocation and finding new environs—it sits well here, too.
Where the week went, I’m not sure. Nonetheless, it was Sunday morning. The day dawned with a sky that felt like a cellar ceiling, suffocating and dark, and the air cut through like a hot knife slicing butter. Any unsuspecting nose would be a prime target for unwelcome dew drops, Tissues being as critical as a warm coat and bobble hat. It was February 1997, and I was in Durham for the first time as a temporary resident.
1997 was a mostly unspectacular year, the exception being the untimely death of Princess Diana. Why Durham? Well, it just happened to be the meeting of two opposites.
David Boon, of Australian fame, had decided to finish his decorated career with a three-year stint in county cricket with Durham CCC. Remarkable really. The opposite was yours untruly, who, at the conclusion of the 1996 season, after a 12-year career, had been politely shown the door by the powers-that-be at Lancashire CCC. I found myself continuing in county cricket, with, you guessed it, Durham CCC.
The two opposites morphed into equals away from cricket. Mr Boon and I became Durham City neighbours, purely by chance. Later, I felt blessed that our families could share so many fond memories during this time.
Claypath is a beautiful part of Durham City, perched high in the North-Western quarter. Every walk into the picturesque centre was downhill, until you had to walk back! There were views across the valley to Crossgate Moor, and beyond to the Dryburn hospital, where our daughter, Ella, was eventually born.
How we stumbled on that house in Douglas Villas, I’m really not sure. It felt like we saw the entire county of Durham looking for suitable accommodation. I knew every village and hamlet, from Shincliffe to Lanchester. Maybe it was the city person in me that brought me back to Durham—that’s Durham City. One thing is for certain, though, in hindsight, I am grateful that we did. Credit must also go to a teammate, Michael Roseberry, a Durham native. Thank you, Rosey!
Returning to that Sunday morning. What was there to do?
The removal crew had made a hasty retreat to Manchester, for reasons that will become apparent later. This, despite furniture being strewn randomly around 44 Douglas Villas, and importantly, household essentials being hidden away in unmarked boxes. The real essential was, of course, the TV. This was still in Manchester!
With no television or Durham Sky TV subscription, I was in trouble. Factor in the weather, unfamiliarity with the surroundings, and a language barrier—the locals speak a dialect I’m not entirely familiar with—and it spelled disaster.
Manchester City (MCFC, City, The Blues) were playing the early Sunday game, kicking off at one o’clock. Simple, wander down into town, coat and tissues at the ready, and find a suitable hostelry to watch the game. A couple of pints, some food, and if my pub selection stood up, a deal of good company to get me through the afternoon. The removal crew, and they should have been the move-in crew, were, you guessed it, all Manchester City fans. Nothing gets in the way of football.
As I set off down Claypath, I can conservatively report sightings of at least half a dozen pubs, the first one being The Woodman – it stood like an Ugly Duckling; and I judged on face value, which was latterly rescinded by its warm hospitality—a recurring theme in the north-east.
Onward. It was still early, 45 minutes or so to kick off, although the cold and dew drops were starting to take hold. The market square gave me some perspective, with the cathedral and castle now peaking down. The fork in the road— is it upwards toward the cathedral, or down across the river via Elvet bridge? I wondered if the river was frozen, but it wasn’t, just my nose!
I chose down, across the river. Now, there was one obstacle between me and my eventual destination—The Swan & Three Cygnets. Flashbacks arrived. I had been to Durham before, as a Lancashire player, and before that for a U19 National tournament. The steps leading up to the pub seemed significant. And then I got it. This was the scene of an inglorious evening on that U19 trip. Although I was merely a bit player, it held too many demons. Move on.
I’m now walking East on Old Elvet and feared I had missed my calling. Signs for the Courthouse and HM Prison kept me interested. In addition, at the end of Old Elvet was the Racecourse ground, where Durham CCC had previously played and was the home of Durham University cricket. Press on, it was 15 minutes to kick off.
And then, finally, it appeared: The Dun Cow – 37 Old Elvet, Durham DH1 3HN, UK.
It was the most indistinguishable of all the pubs I had seen, yet it was the one that sparked complete curiosity. As far as I could see, there was no front door. Instead, there was a stained glass bay window and a hole in the wall that looked like an entrance to a passage. After crossing the street and standing at the entrance to the passage, the infamous sliding door was in full view.
Male and female voices drifted through the well-ventilated opening. I could hear a television playing in the background—the channel could have been anything—there seemed a snugness about the surroundings, and the aroma of real ale was immediately apparent. No turning back now.
This was it, ten minutes to kick off. I’m a Mancunian, football is in our DNA. Walk tall, Nicholas. Stride with purpose; paranoia circled me. Anyway, it was too cold to walk back. Howay Man, you better get in there.
So I did, and the rest is history.
— To be continued.
Nick
‘The Holy Grail’
