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another reflection from days gone by, offloaded for the writers group and beddys in general...a true story about love. The Blacka. Many a happy time was spent in the shadows of the Black Bridge be it throwing stones at the station gangs or just throwing stones in the river. If the tide was in it was all about the biggest splash and if the tide was out it was all about the plop or splat...I was a splatter myself. A great big Mackey rock and splat! My mate Reggie was defiantly a plopper, didn't matter how hard he could chuck a stone it always went plop. If the tide was in it would gan ploop!! The gang fights that went on in those days, being the late seventies through to the late eighties was just boys being boys, the usual my dad can fight your dad stuff. In them days some of the lads didn't even have dads so that in itself was deffo worth fighting about. I honestly can't remember any one getting hurt; the odd cracked head or burst nose from a lucky shot with a stone is all I remember. We spent more time running away from the station lads and the rest of the time it was us chasing them...someone would all ways end up crying and that would have been a good day. I was born into this world a mongrel. My dad was pure terrier of the Wood lane breed and mother was from the other side of the tracks being Bebside.I was always destined to be different, I was constantly back and forth over the river throughout my childhood and always in the shadows of the bridge and surrounding woods,, Granddad Bedlington would often come and get me and my brothers and trail us through the woods as far as Stannington to that massive conker tree and back again for teatime. We might pop in to an aunties along the way back for some pop and biscuits. The days were long then, as you get older you get more sense, I would never dream of walking so far these days, especially with three kids full of questions. He was a mighty man though and his kindness and stories bode me well. Granddad Bebside was a different cookie altogether, one time at the allotments by the old Bebside reservoir we went off for a walk along the tracks towards the Black bridge and came across a gang of station lads on our side. I was a bit nervous and Granddad chased them back with stones from the tracks so I'm guessing that my stone throwing is hereditary. "Bliddy Bedlintoners" he was saying to me. I could never work that one out but had to agree for some strange reason. By the time I was about fourteen or fifteen Bedlington girls were looking pretty good to me and I was often found lurking around the Blacka, girls would come down from the station or Bank top estates to play on the swing. That was usually the start of the fighting. It was our swing on our side of the river and not to be shared with Bedlington. The lasses could have a go if they waited their turn but when their lads showed up all hell would break loose and someone would end up going home to tell their brothers. Whatever it was about the Bedlington lasses in their bananarama garb ,.though they were fine they were just as hard as their lads and would turn on you in an instant. All buddy old pal one minute and splitting ya heed with rocks the next. The Blacka swing was mighty though. Either from the rock or the girders. One swing oot then the call for boarders, before you knew it there might be ten hanging on to that swing, or somebody's jumper or trouser leg. If it hurt it was more of a ride. If you fell off or the odd time it snapped you were a hero. If it snapped and you hit the brambles it was the funniest thing in the world. If there was blood it would be talked about for the whole summer. Years ago there was an old tugboat that had been towed up the river and tied up just at the other side of the Blue Bridge. Well we went along one day and robbed the rope off it and built the best swing ever, The rope was as thick as your arm and took about ten of us to drag it.in all it took about two days to get it into the bridge and drop the swing but it lasted for years. The railway men couldn't even shift it. Too much effort. In the end the railway men burnt it and even then it was more difficult than they had anticipated. In the summer months we would often traipse through the Hapenny woods to Bobby Pringles and rob his apples and pears. Not just a few but as many as was possible to carry. Bulging lumpy jumpers. This meant as well as running the gauntlet with the station lads you also had the added thrill that you might actually get shot. Bobby had a shot gun and he wasn't afraid to use it. That poor bloke was tormented by us and it is now that I am older and wiser that I really feel for that bloke. He's long dead now god rest him and if I ever get the chance to meet him in the afterlife he can have all my puddings, that's for sure. Times were hard enough in the eighties without having to deal with some yobs trampling and stealing your crops. We would take the robbed fruit to the bridge and just throw them at each other. It wasn't very often that the fruit would be ripe enough to enjoy although some of the Bebside kids actually did eat them, but in hindsight. They were probably starving. One time he actually caught me in his orchard, dragged me into the house to phone the police. I was crapping myself. I was probably ten or twelve at the time. He got the full info from me, who I was, where I was from. Who my grandparents were and sent me off home with a turnip for me Granddad. A while later me Grandma Bebside gave me two pence and sent me back up for another. Off we went to the garden and he gave me a few strawberries and sent me back off with a turnip. Granny Bebside was telling me that he used to drink with my granddad at the club. It was all part of the lesson I was being taught. Trips to the orchard were not as frequent after that and the dark nights were rolling in. It was back to the Blacka for a swing as Bobby Pringles was too far to go on a school night. Years later in the dead of night during the time I was smitten with this lass from the rows, I climbed the bridge and painted a slavvery love message right across the middle. Six foot high lettering, BUNGO LUVS LUVBUG, right across the whole width of the river for all to see. You could even read it from the road bridge. How cool was I eh? About a month later it was all over after her dad tried to kill me. There was a little meeting with the two families that we weren't invited to, more cups of tea and a ginger biscuit later and she was dragged back to the other side of the river never to be seen again. Untill the top club disco anyways. Months later the graffiti was still there. And months after that, and even more months after that, .There was no getting away from the fact that Bungo loves Luvbug, and that was that. By the time the painters came I had moved on and grown up, though the bridge has been painted a few times since, whenever I return to Bedlington on family visits I can still see the stain. It will always be there where I left it. No black paint in the world can cover up the love I had for Luvbug and the happy times had in those shadows under the bridge. Jesus. Is that the time?...