A Hurricane in Stamfordham

Now, if you’ve been kind enough to read previous examples of this rambling nonsense that I occasionally publish here, you may remember that I mentioned that I had been to the same school as Michael Fish, the BBC weatherman who once told the nation that there was no hurricane on the way, 24 hours before a hurricane hit the south coast of England, back in 1987.

Given that the Fishter and I received the same education, (Eastbourne Grammar School if you were wondering), you may think I’m talking through my hat when I say there was once a Hurricane in Stamfordham, a little two-pub village in Northumberland. But, in fact, there wasn’t just one. There were seven. But the kind of Hurricane I’m on about is spelled with a capital H, as it was the name of a WW2 fighter aircraft, and there was a squadron of them stationed at RAF Ouston just outside the village.

The Hurricanes have of course long gone, having given the Nazis a good kicking (Hoorah!) and the airfield is now disused. The Ministry of Defence still own the land though and have mysteriously renamed the area “Albermarle Barracks.”

As it’s not far from where I live, and given the fact that I’m of the Airfix generation who were fascinated by the Second World War, I’ve long wanted to have a look at the airfield. So I took myself off for a walk to see if there was any evidence of its existence, given that it had been attacked twice by the Luftwaffe in 1941 and hadn’t been used at all since 1967.

I first tried to approach the airfield from the south, armed with nothing more than an OS Map and some misguided enthusiasm. I was promptly thwarted by an electric fence and a herd of cows who took far too much notice of me whilst I stood in their field and wondered where the footpath had gone.

So much for starting from Harlow Hill then. I retraced my steps, and drove off to Stamfordham, parking in the village before heading south on a footpath which again, seemed to disappear just before Richmond Hill.

I carried on up the hill, with the village of Stamfordham fast becoming a small part of the view behind me. The footpath appeared to fizzle out, but I swerved right (OK, not “swerved.” Let’s say I turned right) and eventually came to Richmond Hill Farm, being greeted by barking dogs and bouncing children. But to be fair, the dogs were only doing their job, and the kids were on a trampoline, and nobody seemed concerned at the sight of this middle aged man puffing and panting as he staggered past their home.

Down the hill on the other side, and finally I get a view of the airfield. There, at a bend in the lane, was a gate with the worrying notice on it which proclaimed it to be “CRASH GATE No 3.” It also advised any passer-by that they were not to enter the area unless authorised. So I didn’t. It didn’t say anything about not taking photographs though, so…..

I stood looking at the gate for a while, trying to conjure up the spirit of the Polish fighter squadron that used to fly out of there, never knowing if they were coming back. I tried to imagine what it was like when that German JU88 dropped a line of twelve bombs which cut through the site. The noise, the smells, the panic. Of course it was impossible. Thank God I’ve never had to experience anything like it.

I walked back to Stamfordham alongside the airfield perimeter which for the most part was obscured by trees. I’m glad the trees were there though as they form a canopy over the lane, giving you the feeling that you are walking along a natural corridor.

The lane ended at Ouston Farm, which gave the RAF Station its name. I don’t think there’s an RAF Albermarle anywhere. I had to walk along a B road for a short distance but then went off on a marked footpath, across fields all the way back to Stamfordham.

I walked across a field of something growing, but I don’t know enough about farming to tell you what it was. Could’ve been pineapples for all I know. But there was a gap in the crop to point the way.

The next field took me past a disused quarry, a dead tree stump, a young couple who looked like they had been hoping for some privacy until I wrecked that, and a startled hare. The sun came out, the grass was thick and lush underfoot and all was well with the world.

And, as I listened, I caught the sound of something on the wind. Was that the whine of a distant engine? The lift of an aircraft into the sun, piloted by the ghosts of those brave boys, 80 years ago….?

No. It was just my tinnitus.