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It’s rather chaotic at Stitches By The Sea HQ as we are having some work done on the house. We had an escape last Tuesday, a trip out for what we call a “Because We Can” day. We do this from time to time ever since we retired because, back then, when we were working,…we couldn’t!

Many of our jaunts take us up the Northumberland Coast and into the Borders, but this time we headed south west until we reached the Tyne Valley, then followed it upstream to Corbridge, a place that holds many childhood memories for me.

Corbridge is a pretty village, with an old church, and some attractive shops, cafes and pubs. It sits perched on a steep bank overlooking the Tyne, only a fairly short drive from the City of Newcastle, making it a popular destination for visitors. To reduce congestion on the narrow streets, there is a large car park just over the bridge outside the village. Stopping there and walking (or in my case scooting) back over the bridge presents stunning views of the river.

Some of the properties on Front Street have steeply terraced gardens leading down to the riverside footpath. It was in one of these gardens that my paternal grandparents had a caravan.

I went there often as a small child. At the time, the garden belonged to the Tynedale pub. There are other businesses occupying the former pub premises now but the central archway and courtyard remain, from which steep steps descend to the flat area at the bottom of the garden. I was so pleased to see that this is still being used to grow vegetables as Grandpa was a fanatical gardener. Having cultivated his garden at home to grow copious amounts of produce, he ran out of space but managed to plant a few rows of cabbages and beans by the caravan.

The seating in the front of the caravan somehow converted into two double beds, separated by a curtain. At the back, opposite the little kitchen were bunk beds for me and my little brother. It must have been pretty crowded, though I remember that sometimes there was a large tent too. This was igloo shaped, with inflatable ribs that were blown up with a footpump until rigid enough to make the structure stable.

My grandmother (Nan) was a prolific knitter: we grandchildren must have had jumpers, cardigans and hats in every colour of the rainbow. She used the leftover yarn to knit squares that she sewed together into very colourful blankets. There were several of these in the caravan. It was always spotlessly clean, and smelt of TCP. Nan had been a nurse and swore by the stuff: she used it as a household disinfectant, an antiseptic on grazed knees and insect bites and even as a gargle for sore throats.

As we wandered through Corbridge I looked out for the Wheatsheaf Hotel. We would sometimes have Sunday Lunch here back then. I was always fascinated by the dumb waiter that brought food from the kitchen downstairs up to the restaurant. As my grandfather was a regular customer we got know our usual waitress by name. She was an older lady (well to me anyway) named Hilda. She would yell our order down the dumb waiter shaft to the kitchen. “Four soups for Mr Brown!”

A steep lane leads down to a footpath by the river. It was a little muddy and criss-crossed by tree roots but the scooter coped. There were masses of snowdrops and some early daffodils in flower.

We soon found the garden again. I thought of Grandpa’s constant battle to keep the grass cut. The rich alluvial soil made it grow long and lush At home he had an immaculately mown lawn (which gradually shrank as the vegetable plot grew) but there was no lawnmower here so he was usually to be found stripped to the waist, wielding a hand sickle.

The fence separating the garden from the path looks the same as it ever did – there was a gate that we used to get to the river. The water was quite high and fast flowing, especially as we got near to the bridge where the river narrows slightly. Buddy the Labrador loves the water, but we kept him well away.

The path floods sometimes. I remember years ago hearing that the river had burst its banks, which to my young ears sounded really dramatic – my grandparents had to clean and dry out the caravan afterwards. During the summers I was there, the river was at a much lower level, safe enough for me to play among the rocks in the shallows, fishing for minnows with a shrimp net.

My father told me that when he was a little boy, he wanted to go fishing with his dad but wasn’t allowed and didn’t have a rod of his own. Ever resourceful, Nan used a garden cane, a piece of string and a bent pin to make a rod. line and hook. . Off he went, with a piece of bacon rind to use as bait. According to the story he caught a pike with his homemade gear. I know that fishermen’s tales have a reputation for exaggeration, but whatever did happen that day, it must have inspired my father. He remained a keen angler all his life.

Have you ever revisited a place from your childhood?