A visit to Beamish

Beamish Museum is not a Museum. That is the first thing they tell you. It's a living collection of gifts in use and a recreation of buildings extant as they were, faithfully constructed. When we visited, as many people chatted to you being locals who loved it and came regularly for a wander, as the locals working there, in character, to tell its history, in each pocket hankerchief sized village - the colliery, the 1940s farmhouse, the high street and professionals housed along it, the shops and the trams and old buses you can ride on between stops. When I wasn't sure of my way, I asked a policeman on his beat. A remarkable place and enchantingly hospitable.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And my own ted must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds,

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.