Terra Novalis, Consett

MONDAY 31 DECEMBER 2007
New Year’s Eve

Until I was about 11, New Year’s Eve was the day I felt most sorry for my elder brother - our Deryck. My two brothers and I had been left fatherless since I was 5 and, along with all the other horrors this situation forced upon the family at that socially conservative time, came the responsibility - always on our Deryck’s shoulders - of being our firstfoot. Normally, of course, my father would have performed the requisite duties; and according to the physical standards required of firstfoots (firstfeet?) at that time, he would have been the perfect harbinger of good luck. A tall, dark and coincidentally handsome man. But fatherless we were, so the formalities of ushering in the New Year always fell to our Deryck to perform. For those truckshunters not long enough in the tooth to know what I’m talking about here....
Picture it. It’s a bitterly cold winter midnight. In the same way that summers were always long and warm, New Year’s Eves were always bitterly cold, weren’t they? Peterlee, where we lived, mostly sits on the side of a long hill above the North Sea and New Year’s Eves were invariably enlivened by sub-Arctic winds blowing directly from Spitzbergen. My nana called them ‘idle’ winds - too lazy to blow round you, so they blew straight through you.
As midnight approaches, men mysteriously appear in front of their own front doors. I say ‘mysteriously’ because they’ve all left their houses via the back door. It was regarded as chronically bad luck for the last person out of the front door to be the first person back in again.
And they were always shivering and stamping their feet in the cold as they waited for the midnight minute. Each would be bearing the traditional New Year gifts: a bottle of wine or spirit or beer, a lump of coal; perhaps a slice of fruit cake; sometimes a pinch or two of salt. Calling weak ‘Wot cheors’ to each other across the silencing snow and ice, they knew that each of their fellow firstfooters were thinking the same thing. Why am I doing this? Is it worth it? What are the correct words to use? Why didn’t I put my coat on?
Then at the stroke of New Year, they would knock at their respective doors and be welcomed inside (right foot first - ALWAYS). The mistress of the house would have the glasses and plates ready and everyone would look to the firstfoot for his ‘speech’. To all within this house I wish and bring health (the cake), wealth (the coal or salt) and happiness (the wine). But most of all - health (more cake). That’s when I felt sorry for our Deryck. He was always self-conscious performing duties like this as the under-age ‘man of the house’ and I squirmed as he recited the words. But he always did it so very well, being aware (I think) that his father would expect nothing less and might even have been proud of his oldest son.
I don’t know the extent to which this tradition genuinely persists in north-east England. I would like to think that we haven’t quite outgrown it just yet. And, although Deryck died almost 10 years ago, I nevertheless feel that it’s not too late to thank him for the many happy and peaceful years he ushered into our house.

CONTACT ME
Post comments on this blog or contact me in any one (or more) of these ways....
ian.robinson@bbc.co.uk
text 07786 200954 (while the programme is on-air)
call (between about 0545 and 0630 Monday to Friday) 0191 232 6565
Ian Robinson, The Nightshift, BBC Radio Newcastle, Spital Tongues, Newcastle-upon-Tyne NE99 1RN

NOTE
Please bear in mind that the views expressed in this blog are my own and NOT the views of the BBC.