Arch Sixteen Cafe

One of the lovely things about being back is seeing areas which were in decline when I left becoming regenerated. This is particularly true in Gateshead, much of which was in a fairly desolate state in my youth.

My friend S now lives in Ochre Yards, an estate of fancy new flats near the Hilton, and so any easy walk from the new bars on the Gateshead side of the river. The railway arches have also become home to a host of new businesses, including the butcher’s/wine shop Block and Bottle, and a fancy new tea shop. It’s also home to great wee cafe, Arch Sixteen.

A funky space that offers a range of coffees, cakes and sandwiches (the food offering looks good, though is relatively limited – though it does include several vegetarian offerings, and they plan to expand the menu).

It was a quiet afternoon when we popped in, which gave us a chance to chat to the proprietor Bob, who was lovely. He told us all about the different events the place hosts – ranging from freelancers’ networking to sewing nights and music gigs – and we were impressed by his commitment to really making the place a community hub.

Plus, I *love* a railway arch. Count me in for a return visit.


Baltic Mill

One of the most iconic symbols of Gateshead regeneration, the Baltic is a stunning building put to good use. My friend S & I wandered down after our delicious brunch at Backyard Bike Shop, past all the preparations for the Great North Run at the weekend.

From the viewing box at the top that has one of the best views in the city, we worked our way down from floor to floor. Most of the place was dominated by pieces for the Great Exhibition of the North, my favourite of which was a photography show done in collaboration with the Side, Women by Women, featuring black and white pictures taken in the region. (And it’s all free!)

A slightly dry cheese scone and a cup of coffee in the cafe and a mooch around the fabulous gift shop completed our visit, and we were ready to head for a beer…

Under the Bridge

If yesterday presented all the reasons I missed Brighton, today was a splendid reminder why I moved. I had recently reconnected online with one of my best friends from college, with whom I had lost touch when, in pre-Facebook or email times, I moved away to university. I was a little nervous about seeing him – it’s been 3 decades, after all – but from the moment he turned up at my door it felt like old times, and what started out as brunch near his swanky new flat turned into drinks then dinner and getting home 12 hours later – frankly, it might take several posts to cover it all!

First stop though was the new container yard on the Gateshead side of the river. A short walk from the town centre (or over the swing bridge from the Newcastle side), it’s a great use of previously neglected space. We decided on the Backyard Bike Shop, a cafe / shop hybrid (I think – there seemed to be something going on at the back I wasn’t paying attention to) that turns into a bar in the evening. A very generous avocado on toast (egg done exactly as I asked – always my test) went down a treat, and though I was initially suspicious of the toilets being in a separate container I was pleasantly surprised to find them plentiful, clean and in good nick.

Sated, we strolled along past the Sage to the Baltic Mill – which I will cover in a separate post – then returned to go next door for drinks.

Unfortunately it was, in Geordie parlance, hoying it down, so we couldn’t take advantage of the outdoor seating, but there was a good selection of beers on offer and a couple went down a treat.

Where did we go next? Stay tuned…

Gateshead High Street

I’m in Gateshead High Street, and I’m lost. Lost, because my always questionable ability to read Google maps has once again led me astray, but also lost, because I am in a landscape that is both alien and familiar.

It’s an experience I have become used to over the last two weeks, since I returned, after a 20-year absence, to the town that spawned me, but if feels particularly acute today. Because while I have lived away from the North East for the best part of two decades (or three, really, since I only returned sporadically after I left for university), I have of course visited in the interim. But my visits followed a prescribed and narrow trajectory: city centre, my mum’s place, friends’ houses and, latterly, less happily, hospitals and cemeteries, but I haven’t set foot on Gateshead High Street in over 30 years.

While as a girl I saw a visit as a Saturday morning treat, I speedily abandoned it when the shiny new Metro opened (in 1980!), which made getting from Felling where I lived to the centre of Newcastle a fast and easy doddle. Since everyone else had pretty much the same idea, the high street went into rapid decline, and has only recently seen a bit of a renaissance, as money has been ploughed into regeneration on the Gateshead side of the Quayside and the ‘NewcastleGateshead’ brand is being ruthlessly marketed.

Some of the infrastructure has changed – the iconic ‘Get Carter’ carpark now only fodder for greetings cards and posters – but the Metro Station / bus exchange brings back a flood of memories; nights spent shivering in bus stops after a trip ‘into town’. It’s already a culture shock after London, as I just saw a couple of women who misread the arrivals board in the station and misjudged the time of their next train head back to the concourse, muttering, only to be stopped by a kindly Metro worker who points out, unasked, the next train is in 2 minutes, not 20 – they were reading the time for the 4th train – an interaction I can’t imagine in London. (This is not the first time I’ve seen this mistake happen: while the gaps between Metros are long enough to make a Londoner riot – 10 minutes between trains! – I have watched several people stomp off in a huff because they’ve read the screen that shows the 3rd and 4th train rather than wait for it to go back to 1st and 2nd. Is this a Geordie thing?)

I’m looking for an estate agents, to apply for a lease, and I’m lost. My mood isn’t helped by the fact my period – which has been on and off more often than a soap opera romance since I moved (Stress? Perimenopause? At my age, it’s a coin toss) takes this moment to kick in. Suddenly it’s the elevator scene from Cabin in the Woods in my unprepared pants, so I arrive at my appointment not only sweaty and hassled from my wandering, but wiggling like a duck wearing a wet nappy (you try radiating ‘I am a trustworthy tenant’ when you are hovering your arse above the chair as you fill out your bank details because you are too scared to sit down)*.

But the ladies are lovely, and as we chat I reminisce about the high street. Ah, Shephards, says one, recalling the department store that used to dominate the street. ‘I never did figure out how they did the Christmas sleigh.’ And instantly, I am cast back into a memory so vivid but weird it is almost hallucinatory: of my mum taking me to see Santa. But not just queuing to see a fat man on a chair in a grotto – no, you got into a sleigh, which took off, and you emerged in a winter wonderland. It felt so real and so extraordinary that, honestly, I thought I had made it up, that it was some dream I had solidified into memory, and to hear someone talk wistfully of the same experience is almost jarring, like she peered into my head.

I have a feeling it won’t be the last time this happens.

*If you are thinking, blimey, that’s personal, she shouldn’t be talking about stuff like that – wow, have you come to the wrong blog.

Remember Shephards?

(Unrelated photo alert: the bar in Northern Stage. C’mon, I was having a period crisis. You think I stopped to take pictures?)