David Cope

Ah, the dreaded gym! My fondest memories were of the walks around the grounds and by the river. I remember the smell of wild garlic still. By the way, in my first post it was a Triumph Spitfire I was given to look after, not Sprite. Memory playing tricks. Sorry to hear about your Mum. Dementia is terrible. I had one grandparent suffer from it (although ‘suffer’ is perhaps the wrong word, as he always seemed happy in his own world - much more a nightmare for my Grandma, who had to look after him at home for years until he finally passed away). 96 is a good age. Hope I can make it that long! Did you or anyone know what happened to Joyce? And her daughter? I think she was 15 or so when I met them for dinner. I moved out of the area after I was passed fit for work. I spent 3 years in Cleadon Village, ‘76 to ‘79, when I was taking a degree at Sunderland Poly, but then spent the rest of my working life abroad. One other staff member I remember was a young physiotherapist and amateur chiropractor, can’t remember his name, but he was feared by the patients, especially those with back problems, because he would creep up behind you and grab you to give your neck or back a crack. I’m sure he thought he was doing good, but nobody else did! Hartford Hall was an anachronism, in so much as it was modelled on those pre-war TB sanatoriums you would see in wartime movies, full of crippled soldiers and airmen. Didn’t see too many nurses in starched uniforms, though. And I don’t think we’ll see the likes of them again (or the NHS, either, if the Government carry on like this much more).

@ShaunL Hi Shaun. Like you, I've come across this site by accident. I was a seafarer, and studied at South Shields. In 1974 I was parachuting at Usworth (before Nissan goth there) and managed to break my leg. After surgery at Sunderland Orthopaedic Hospital, part of my recovery programme was a spell at Hartford Hall. At the time I lived in Cramlington New Town, but was still admitted as a residential patient. I think it was your Dad at the time who had a VW Beetle, and was having trouble with his carburettor. One or two of us fancied ourselves as amateur mechanics, and spent a happy afternoon diagnosing and fixing the problem for him. I remember Joyce Miller very well: I was once invited round to her house for dinner, and gave her a Bohemia cut crystal fruit bowl and water jug in return (cheap as chips in Poland, and I had a house full). Very down to earth, and loved a good chat. She was a bit of a match-maker, though. One of the other residents was in for treatment for a broken neck, and somehow he managed to slip on a walk down to the river, and broke his wrist. He had a yellow Triumph Sprite, which he asked me to look after, since he couldn't drive. One of the junior physios was a lovely Canadian girl. I was 27 and single, so Joyce tried to fix me up with her by telling me to take her home one evening. Being naive, I assumed she only wanted the lift home for a chance ride in the sports car, so dropped her off like the gallant gentleman I was, and drove back to the hall. The next day Joyce gave me a right going over for not asking her out. Those were the days! For my sins, I ended up doing a second spell at the hall in 1975, after a further operation, and this time it all worked out OK, so I have some happy memories of that place.