MIKE HALLOWELL: Great Fly Swarms of '33

In my last blog, I discussed the Great Bee Swarm of '33, a legendary incident in the annals of Geordie Forteana, in which Mrs. Gibb from Todstead became covered in bees, and was only rescued from her plight by the heroic actions of a passer-by.

Now I may have given the impression that the Great Bee Swarm was the apex or acme of Northern cryptozoological events in 1833. If I did, then I truly apologise; for, breathtaking though the Great Bee Swarm of '33 was, even it was overshadowed by the Great Fly Swarms of '33.

On August 1, Mr. Charles Trewitt was ambling near the north bank River Tyne at North Shields when he saw a Very Strange Thing: It was a cloud, and it was black. Although he didn't realise it at the time, he was witnessing the first of two invasions that are still talked about in Geordieland today, or will be if enough people read this blog, which they probably won't.

Trewitt watched in amazement as the vast cloud, "proceeded in a westerly direction" from the sea. Unlike the bees of Todstead, they did not alight upon the head of Mrs. Gibb; they simply kept on flying – as flies do – until they disappeared from sight.

Less than a week later, a second invasion took place. Another swarm – or just possibly the same one, who knows – flewed [or possibly fluorated] in from the North Sea and proceeded west. This time, however, Trewitt and his pals were ready for them.

"I've got the measure of them little buggers", said one. And he did, for by means we know not he was able to measure the swarm which, according to contemporary documents, was, "21 feet by 8 or 10 in breadth".

Now I'd be the first to admit that that this doesn't sound like a very big swarm, but by fly standards it isn't bad. Even those that gather around the toilet in the yard of Ye Olde Flick Knife pub in Whitley Bay are less than half that size.

The puzzle was just where the Great Swarms of '33 had come from. Norway was suggested, but why would flies want to emigrate from a balmy climate like Norway simply to come to the frozen wastelands of the Geordie Kingdom? To we northerners, Norway almost counts as a sub-tropical paradise.

"What about France?" said another.

"Don't be bloody stupid", was the retort. "You know what the French are like; if those flies had come from there, they'd have billed us for them or maybe even declared war and invaded".

"But they've tried that dozens of times", said Trewitt, "and every time they've failed. Every year France declares war on us, and every year we beat them. If those flies were French they wouldn't dare come over here because they know we'd shoot the lot of them".

"What about Lithuania, then?"
"Now you're being piggin-well ridiculous. Lithuania hasn't bee invented yet".

And so on, and so forth. It never was determined where the Great Swarms of '33 had came from, or where they eventually went. The Geordie Ambassador to France, however, offered to sell the flies back to the Gauls for £158,000 francs, which they accepted. The French Ambassador to Geordieland duly paid the dosh and took delivery of eighteen sacks of raisins. To this day the French don't realise how we foxed them.

And thus ended the saga of the Great Fly Swarms of '33, never to be repeated. Except in miniature around the outdoor netty at Ye Olde Flick Knife, that is…