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Life in a fishing village in days gone by

 

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Where the Cullercoats wireless station now stands there was in my boyhood a large grass field known as the Howlin.

Overlooking this was a row of old stone houses built in the hollow of the dried up Marden Burn. Our smaller cement four-roomed house was of later date with its front facing the sea.

Our small garden contained a greenhouse, a luxurious possession, the outcome of my father's public school education at Ayton under the aegis of The Friends. He was sent there by generous people at the age of 12 after his father was drowned.

The Quaker influence was evident in my father, William Lisle. Strictly loyal and upright, he had an excellent physique and a chest development that Dr Alexander the first parish doctor of Whitley, used to admire.

His features were well shaped, and like most of his class he wore a beard.

My mother was several years younger with invariably, a smile upon her handsome features and with a natural grace and charm, though entirely unlettered.

With a creel of fish upon her back, a wicker basket upon her arm, dressed in blue woollen fisher costume, she looked like a young Saxon goddess.

Many a city merchant in the streets of Jesmond going to business would stop and listen to the musical cadence, “Will ye buy my fresh fi-sh?”

What wonderful and true helpmates, the fisherwomen of the village. After a hard day's work with the creel they would come home to their household duties and the lights were long lit before they finished the “sken'ing of mush'ls”.

On their lips a fisher melody “Yi gan to thi coals I thi morning,” or “O av lost me lad but a care not, care not, care not, for a've getten another as gud and the tother, he wants ti come back but he dare not.” G. W. Lisle

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