A half marathon of memories

Let's go for a run

Ellen Kate Boyle

Jan 16, 2025

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TW: Parental death

I’ve lived in the North East of England for most of my life. Even when studying in Hull, then travelling South East Asia and living in Australia, Tyneside remained my home.

It was only when I started running that I really noticed the places around me, and the memories they hold.

So, let’s go on a run.

I leave my house, run over a big roundabout, and towards the local Metro Station. This is next to our local Sainsbury’s and a few other shops where we get our ‘bits’.

I continue along a big ‘new’ bypass— I say new, because I think it’s probably been there ten years (in fact, I know it has because I drove there a lot in my driving lessons in 2013). But any road like that seems new, even for decades after the tarmac has dried. There’s little of note on this part of the route, except maybe the Costa Coffee, where I sought refuge in the newborn days, desperately wanting to be around other grown-ups but nervous about breastfeeding in public and typically feeling absolutely exhausted after about three hours of sleep the night before.

About 2km from home, I pass my doctor’s surgery. This is where I went for my prenatal appointments, where I first heard my daughter’s heartbeat via a Doppler monitor.

Another kilometre in this direction, I embark on a gruelling hill. At the top of the hill, you leave my part of North Tyneside and enter my ‘hometown’ — where I was raised — Whitley Bay.

A seaside town that I spent my youth desperate to get out of, and now couldn’t afford to get back into even if I sold a kidney.

It’s not long before I jog past my old school. Both middle and high schools sit next to each other. It was here that I discovered my love of writing, and my hatred of being told what to do. I can still feel my hands freezing, clinging to a hockey stick at PE time, doubled over from period cramps, praying to God no one passes me the ball.

There’s also a grassy hill that seems small now, but was impossibly big back then. We’d ride our bikes, scooters and even the odd shopping trolley down the well-trodden dirt path formed in the middle. I liked to imagine that under this hill was a sleeping Iron Giant.

Ellen at a preteen standing with Bug's Life — A photo of me around this age so you can imagine how socially awkward I was

I tootle along and come to the cut at the back of the high school. This was my gateway from school to home. It takes less than ten minutes from this gate to my childhood home, which is now someone else’s childhood home.

I walked this way for many, many years. Carrying my MP3 3D player, blasting Led Zeppelin II into my ears, trying to drown out the stress of the day. Once, I was spat on by an older kid on this path. Another time, I had my first panic attack, which I now suspect to be an autistic meltdown.

Turning right, we come to a posh street where, even in the 90s, I could not afford to live. One time, I decided to wear a skirt for school (a rare occasion for me as a tomboy); I was walking this way home for lunch when a car drove past, and a man catcalled me out of the window. I was 13. Safe to say, I wore trousers for the rest of the year.

Okay, down the back lane, and we’re at my childhood home.

Forgive me if I gloss over this part, as it’s still raw for me. I am also writing this on what would have been my mam’s 65th birthday. We moved into this house when I was three, and it was my mam’s pride and joy.

As a grumpy teenager, I begrudged my box room and the fact I would be told off for so much as leaving a cup on the table. But now I long for the panelled hallway. The row of ceramic cups she collected. The family computer where I downloaded albums and played The Sims. The kitchen table where I sat and painted, drew and ate. The living room carpet where I let the gas fire mottle my skin on taco night in front of Casualty.

I am about 7km from home now. But also, this is home. Well, it was. But now it's someone else's.

Off I trot.

The church at the end of my street is where I cast my first vote. It's also where I attended Brownies, from the ages of seven to ten. I learned to sew. I cleaned the church pews (looking back, they shouldn’t ask children to clean churches, but then again, that does seem pretty on-brand.)

Now, I zip down my street until the sea air fills my lungs. Here is the local leisure centre, where I took swimming lessons as a child. Upon completing my first block of lessons, my mam said I should keep doing it. I responded with:

“Why would I need more lessons? I can swim now.”

I am at the beach now. Standing at the cliff edge, overlooking the promenade, the sand and the unruly North Sea. It’s in this exact spot where Craig proposed to me in 2018. He suggested a walk to the beach, and in a bizarre turn of events that immediately made me suspicious, my parents and nephew came along. He handed my nephew the camera, who secured some shaky footage of the moment I looked out to see and read “Will you marry me?” etched into the sand.

Photo of sand with "Ellen will you marry me?" etched inside a heart

Craig’s mam, aunty and best friend popped out from behind the bandstand, popping a bottle of prosecco to celebrate my positive response to their handiwork (sandy-work?)

This ended up being the only video footage I have of my camera-shy mam. I watch it back sometimes, when I feel strong enough.

Before I head back inland, I take in the beautiful Spanish City dome. The stunning venue began life as a dancehall and amusement park; it has recently been restored to its original glory. During my childhood, the Spanish City still had a rollercoaster, a ghost train, and even a helter-skelter. It was, honestly, pretty rough. But it was our Whitley Bay; a classic brand of seaside kitsch that has been well and truly swept away by the waves of gentrification.

90s funfair at Whitley Bay — Source: Newcastle Chronicle

Right, let’s try and get somewhere near home. I pass the amusements, the chip shops, and the Playhouse — where I stood on stage at some point in school and played bass guitar terribly. I go up the avenue until the Metro Station, which was my local one as a kid.

This platform was the gateway to the rest of the world from my boring suburban life. At the weekend, I’d head into town for ice cream at the Green Market, browse t-shirts at Pet Sounds and studded belts at Kathmandu, buy band patches to sew onto my bag at Windows and eat pizza at the Monument Mall. Maybe one day I’ll write a whole post about Newcastle in the early 00s.

Anyway, the rest of this run is uphill as we’re leaving the coastline behind.

Eventually, I pass my gran’s house. My safe haven. Where my mam sought refuge from her stressful life and where my two-year-old daughter now barges in multiple times a week. She knows where the treats are in the drawer, she has a special stool, a cup of her own. Four generations of women in the house, with one there only in spirit.

My legs are hurting imagining this run, which is probably a half marathon. I shuffle past the homes of childhood friends, new restaurants and my old doctor’s surgery. Eventually, I am at the palliative care facility where my Mam died.

I run past this a lot, and drive this way even more often. I never fail to remember the final weeks of her life, during which she spent her last birthday — 59 — confused and in a drug-addled stupor, rapidly losing her life to one of the most deadly cancers. Shortly after she died, I went back with Potter, our eldest greyhound, to visit the residents and give back to the people who cared for my Mam and Grandpa (who died five days apart and had a joint funeral) in the final few weeks of their lives.

Black greyhound wearing a red neckerchief surrounded by happy, elderly people — Potter visiting the residents of the care home

Ironically, right next door to this building of death is the hospital where I first saw my daughter on an ultrasound scan. The first signs of life inside my body. This was also the last place I saw my mam, in the Chapel of Rest, the morning after she passed away.

Okay, the last 5km to home is pretty uneventful. Most of it is just a boring path by a busy road. I hate this bit because it’s mostly uphill, and I am knackered. But, not before long, I arrive back in my village. To my home. The tiny former miner’s cottage that I share with my husband Craig, my greyhounds Potter and Harmony, and my daughter. The first place I have ever felt entirely free to be myself.

I guzzle an electrolyte drink and take a shower.

Time for a rest.

Maybe it’s just me, but everywhere I go, I remember things that happened in those places. Like I see the ghost of myself leaving the palliative care facility for the last time, or rushing back to school after having a toastie for lunch at home.

I can remember what I ate, what music I listened to, who I last spoke to… it’s like these pavements are more than just a means of getting from A to B, but landmarks in themselves. Landmarks of memories in my mind.

💌 About this email

I’m Ellen, and I write about mental health for the chronically online. I am a freelance copywriter, strategist and web designer, and I work from home with my husband, Craig, at Content By The Sea. We have two rescue greyhounds, Potter and Harmony, and a toddler.

I started this newsletter in March 2020 and have sent over 200(!) emails; currently, I have over 1,200 subscribers. I write about a wide variety of topics, including diet culture, my love of running, jealousy, my life falling apart, mam guilt, and this dystopian world we all live in.

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