Monument
 August
3, 1990 ---- We arrived at Chester-le-Street in northern England about
four o'clock, after a day spent on the road. In our usual fashion, we
started looking around for a bed and breakfast that would suit us. We
saw very few as we drove about the town, and none of these struck us as
being particularly wonderful. The previous two nights we had stayed at a
dairy farm in Wales, and the smell of the barnyard beneath our window
and the lowing of the cows through the night, had failed to impress
either Pam or Pete. We were now looking for fancier digs; someplace to
compensate my wife and son for having endured the rigors of farm life.
As we drove along, Pam spotted a laundromat, and since we were due for a
wash day, we stopped to investigate. While Pete examined the driers with
their loads of spinning laundry, Pam sought out the manager to discuss
the hours of opening and the coins required. I studied the bulletin
board in hopes of finding a notice for a nice B&B. As I stood there, a
woman came bustling in and posted a notice for a luncheon on the board.
The notice was decorated with a strange looking snake, and I chuckled at
this and asked why she had used a snake to advertise a luncheon. She
looked at me and said, almost pityingly, "That's not a snake. That's the
Lambton Worm!" This was even less appetizing to me, but we fell into
conversation, and I told her that we were from Pennsylvania and in the
area to visit the National Garden Festival. I also described the sort of
B&B we were looking for, and she told me that she knew of just the
place.
Back in our car, we did the best we could with her complicated
directions. To our dismay, these led us out of Chester-le-Street and
into the surrounding countryside. Soon we came to a farm lane with a
sign advertising a Bed and Breakfast. Pete and Pam groaned in unison,
but I pointed out that this seemed to be a wheat farm and convinced them
that the place was at least worth a look. We drove down the lane,
leaving a great plume of dust behind us to mark where we had been, and
pulled into the farm yard. There stood a large and elegantly built old
stone house which looked out on a sweeping landscape of green pastures
and distant hills. Here and there a fine looking horse grazed
contentedly in the early evening sunshine. I looked over at Pam and she
smiled. This place would do just fine.
* * * * *
August 4, 1990 ---- We woke up in our elegant farmhouse, and as we ate
the light breakfast, which was brought to our room, we gazed out the
window at the bright new day. Far, far away, on top of a hill, we could
just make out what appeared to be a large Greek temple, and this added
just the right finishing touch to the magnificent view. We looked for
this temple in our guide books and road maps, but could find no trace of
it. Having eaten, we got in our car and drove to the National Garden
Festival in Newcastle, where we spent the day enjoying this marvelously
eccentric event. Among the many sights was a clever fountain which
splashed out of a model of the Lambton Worm. I was becoming interested
in this beast, but no one could tell me much about it, except that it
was one of the legends of this part of England.
By five o'clock we had returned to Chester-le-Street, where we bought
some sandwiches. We sat and ate these in the park, and, once again, way
off in the farthest distance, we could just catch a glimpse of that
strange temple. Pam and I were much intrigued and so after dinner, we
got into the car and made a bee-line for the place. As we drove along,
Pete gave us constant reports on its position out the car windows, Pam
kept track of us on the map, and I did my best to keep on a straight
course toward the temple. After twenty minutes, we came to rugged park
land that stopped our forward progress, and the temple was nowhere in
sight. Then Pam pointed to a pub sign across the street, and we knew we
were very close ---- the pub was called The Monument, and beneath these
words was a picture of our temple. Nearby there was a dirt pathway
leading out into the wilderness, and at its end, high up on a hill, was
the old stone temple we were seeking.
It took us forty minutes to hike through the waning daylight up to the
monument. Along the way we met a man walking his collie. We talked to
him for a minute, and he told us that our Doric temple was built long
ago, as a monument to Lord Lambton from his tenants. On seeing how much
money was being spent on the monument, Lambton decided that he could
raise the rent, and this so angered his tenants that they never finished
the monument. Here it still stands to this day ---- of interest to no
one except the local people. This particular hill was chosen for the
monument because, in medieval times, the Lambton Worm was said to have
spent its afternoons wound nine times around its summit. As our friend
departed, he looked at the sun and cautioned us that the Penshaw
Monument was still considered to be a pretty spooky place on a dark
night. As the sun was just setting, we stepped out onto the summit of
the hill. The temple was huge, and its stones almost black in the dying
light of the day. We climbed up into it, and found it to be empty, and
so we gazed from its huge steps, far out into the countryside to where a
river wandered worm-like through the twilight. A chill wind sprang up
and the place felt wonderfully eerie and surreal. As we turned away,
back down the hill toward our car, we congratulated ourselves on having
had an interesting adventure and resolved to do some research at the
town library the next morning to learn the real and true story of the
Lambton Worm.
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