Flat out in Newcastle

I was confused in Newcastle.

That may not be too surprising based on a snapshot of, for example, the average Saturday night out in the City but in my particular case it was a Wednesday, about midday and I was my usual stone cold sober.

It was, after all a working day and I had driven some distance in a north easterly direction from my home area. A pleasant journey up the A19 and A1 but one of those where you think that you are close to your destination but yet the mileage displayed on the signposts refuse to verify it.

Durham, well that is almost South Newcastle, isn't it?

It was not until the Angel of the North loomed into view, magnificently rusty orange, that I could accept that I was just about there. I am surprised that the motorway which passes close by and almost under the Gormley sculpture is not littered with wrecked vehicles from those losing concentration at the sight of the magnificent figure. There should be a lane dedicated to first time visitors just to segregate the rubber neckers and finger pointers from the rest of the traffic going about its business. The traffic speed reduces significantly and those thinking they have entered a speed trap cause a further ripple effect of brake lights and not a little anxiety amongst their fellow motorists.

The route snakes its way through the outskirts of Newcastle. It is a busy place with signs of plenty of activity from the industrial estates, trading parks and shopping centres. I had not been to the city for quite a few years and had forgotten the size and importance of it.

The river crossing on the main iconic bridge takes you into the heart of the Metropolis. The first stage of confusion set in as I struggled to find the exit ramp so as not to end up on the road to the Scottish Border.

The city, as with many, is a conglomeration of many small towns, villages and settlements. There are distinct districts but they all merge into each other with very little greenspace apart from a few large burial grounds and small parks.

My destination for the day was an inner western residential area. It had become developed in the middle part and onwards of the 1800's, a particularly prosperous period for Newcastle. The working and middle classes gravitated outwards from the older city areas as they took a share of the increased wealth from industry, shipbuilding and commerce generally.

Gritstone terraces and semi detached villa's lined the new streets. These were interspersed with bright red brick and pebble dash fronted houses under blue slate roofs. Some areas still retained their status as better perceived areas to live. Others went through that transition of decline and resurgence and this would occur on a regular cycle over the decades. The majority form of occupation for at least the first century of the suburban housing was as a tenant.

Whole streets had been built for the rental market, the long term rental market, with families putting down their roots over successive generations. The drive for owner occupation began with the expansion of the old style Building Societies in the latter half of the 20th century and was confirmed as an aspirational thing in the post war period.

I had arrived at the address for my day's work, or at least to take up what remained of the day after my long journey. It was a hilly street with the tightly packed properties stacked up the slope, paired roofs stepped and staggered.

My main confused state was prompted by the phenomena of the single house number, at my destination, having two front doors.

There were no indications that this had been a modern alteration. The housing in the street was the same, two front doors. The brickwork, dressed stonework and openings were all original from about 1880.

To add to my mental state any former numbering affixed to the respective doors was missing, similarly along the terraced block so I had to take a walk to find any surviving digits and work back, odds and odds or evens and evens or a mixture of both.

My paperwork instruction for the day just had the one address but my office had evidently contacted two occupiers to arrange for my visit. It dawned on me in one of those stupid moments that I was in front of a pair of properties.

Something in my distant memory bank was triggered and I laughed out loud at the realisation that I had come across my first genuine, bona fide and unadulterated Tyneside Flat.

A brief mention had been made of the type in, I think, a seminar when I was at Polytechnic by a Geordie student. It is a format unique to Newcastle. The small group of us had, I recall, laughed at the prospect of two front doors and put it down to some form of eccentricity or segregation amongst the local population. One door for the working man, the other for his missus. Separate doors for supporters of Newcastle United and Sunderland. Perhaps designed by a drunken local architect who erred on the side of caution and built what appeared to his blurred vision and befuddled mind as a logical feature.

I pressed both of the door chimes. Deep within the building I could hear that I had signalled the start of a race as footfalls echoed out of the letter box openings. The occupier of the upstairs flat was fleet of foot and easily beat a rather lethargic ground floor resident to get the door open. The latter would need some warning to tidy up a bit if his living conditions were as grubby and dishevelled as he was.

I followed into the first floor accommodation along a short lobby hallway and up a steep flight of stairs. The ground floor man lingered awhile and scratched himself down there.

The flat was surprisingly spacious but had not always been. The whole of the terraced block had been extended over two stories to the rear to overcome what appeared to have been quite a cramped and dark original layout. There is likely to have been a shared outside toilet as the sole facility.

The upgraded and enlarged flat obviously been as part of a major urban regeneration programme in the 1970's to save the area from fatal deterioration and obsolescence. The rear outlook was onto row upon row of similar flats with uneven cobbled rear service roads, almost a back to back arrangement.

In other large UK cities such properties had been bulldozed and redeveloped with hideous low or high rise replacements, themselves destined for demolition within thirty years.

The flat had a front living room with a street view, two bedrooms, a vented out bathroom and the kitchen. Unusually the upstairs and down were owned by the same Landlord but I could see where legal complexities would exist if in separate ownership. The ground floor provided the support for the upper and in return the upper had the roof and responsibilities to maintain such. A nightmare for most but a lucrative income stream for the lawyers every time a property changed hands.

The other occupier was obviously annoyed at my intrusion. He made the usual comment that he would have cleaned the flat if he had been given more notice. My instruction sheet indicated that he had been informed a week ago to the day.

I tiptoed through the rooms hoping not to feel anything squishy under foot or to find my shoes stuck in and dragging a foil takeaway tray along complete with partially digested contents. Having seen and measured the accommodation above his greasy head of hair I could conclude my inspection rapidly and in the interests of my own health and welfare.

So that was a Tyneside Flat. Not obviously something that could have been a major export from the city to the rest of the country then. They were wise to concentrate on beer and ships.