Felling Colliery, also known as the John Pit, was certainly established well before the 19th century and before the first Ordnance Survey maps appeared in 1858. The pit closed in March 1931 and is shown on the 1939 O.S. map as ‘disused’. The Low Main was a depth of 612 feet, one of the deepest in the area at the time.
It was at this colliery that the disaster of 1812 took place. At 11.30 a.m. on 25th May 1812, there was an explosion in the John Pit which killed 92 men and boys, three quarters of the mine’s workforce. Their ages were between 8 and 65 years. 43 were aged18 or under. Debris and coal dust covered the roads so thickly that footprints were visible and the noise of the explosion could be heard from as far away as Sunderland.
The disaster led to the formation of the Sunderland Society for the Prevention of Accidents, at the instigation of Rev. John Hodgson, the Vicar of Jarrow and Heworth. Within 3 years, safety lamps were introduced, having been developed independently by Humphrey Davy and George Stephenson.
A plain obelisk, commemorating the dead, stands near the west gate of Heworth churchyard. A further explosion took place at this colliery at Christmas 1813, when 22 men were killed.

Click the above book cover to read the Rev. John Hodgson's account of the disaster written in 1815. The full funeral sermon preached at St Mary's is also included.

Click here for the photographs of the inscriptions

The The Speding Flint Wheel was used in the rescue

On 25^th May 1812 there occurred the first great colliery explosion for which we have anything approaching really accurate records. It was, moreover, a disaster of historic importance, for its aftermath marked the earliest attempt of any properly co-ordinated movement to enlist public opinion in the service of mine safety and to arouse scientific interest in the cause of accident prevention. The key figure in this was the Reverent John Hodgson (1779-1845), then the incumbent of the parish of Jarrow and Heworth, to whom fell the task of comforting the bereaved and burying the dead. Felling Colliery, situated between Gateshead and Jarrow, was the property of John and William Brandling. Two shafts were in use: the William Pit standing on a small hill, and some 550 yards away, the John pit. It was here that the explosion first made itself known at about 11.30 am. A fire broke forth with two heavy discharges from the John pit, which was almost instantaneously followed by one from the William pit. A slight trembling, as from an earthquake, was felt for about half a mile around the workings; and the noise of the explosion, though dull, was heard to three or four miles away. Immense quantities of dust and small coal accompanied these blasts, and rose high into the air in the form of an inverted cone. Around the colliery itself a shower of wrecked corves, pieces of timber and small coal fell in all directions. The tops of the headgear of both shafts were destroyed; the pulleys at the William pit were completely blown out. The wooden frames were set on fire, though luckily the winding pulleys of the John pit – which were slung on a crane outside of the blast – remained intact. It was up this shaft that those who survived were wound to safety about half an hour after the explosion. Altogether thirty-two men and boys were brought to bank. A fresh westerly wind gradually dispersed the huge cloud of coal dust, which for a time had caused in Heworth ‘a darkness like that of early twilight’. It fell as a black snow, covering the roads so rapidly ‘that footsteps were strongly imprinted in it. Anxious relatives and friends rushed towards the colliery, the pitmen’s wives, as ever on such tragic occasions, experiencing a deepening foreboding that many of their number were already widows. By noon all the known survivors had been drawn from the pit and volunteers stood by to descend. The accident had occurred during the relief of the fore shift by the back shift and therefore the death toll it was realised only too well, was likely to be abnormally high. In fact the explosion already the most devastating which had yet blighted any British coalfield, though the rescuers were still ignorant of its terrible extent.
At 12.15 nine miners bravely descended the John pit. Unfortunately the men were able to make very little headway. The workings were foul with afterdamp and reluctantly the explorers had to retreat to the pit bottom to ascend. Five had reached the bank safely and two were in the shaft when the mine exploded a second time. The men on the rope felt unusual heat serge past them, but the blast lacked enough force to dislodge them. Their comrades below ‘threw themselves on their faces and kept firm hold of a strong prop’ and also escaped without serious injury. One or two further attempts at rescue were made, but no one doubted any longer the utter hopelessness of the situation. There was simply no question of being able to penetrate those fiery workings to any distance. Nor was it likely that anyone else could have survived the poisonous gases produced by the explosion.
On 27th May both the shafts were sealed in order to extinguish the fire and it was only some six and a half weeks later, on 8th July that the melancholy task of recovering the bodies began.
On 19th September the bodies had been recovered and the ventilation restored. The Felling disaster had claimed ninety-two victims including two boys aged seven and eight.
From now on the Reverend John Hodgson was determined to fight apathy or ignorance and stir up public concern for such wanton loss of human life. Through his persistence on the 1st October the Sunderland Society was formed with some noble supporters on the committee and had within its ranks the varied experience of local clergymen, doctors, mine-owners and viewers. Among these also was Dr W.R. Clanny (1776 – 1850) who had been conducting experiments since late 1811, or early 1812 in his attempt to produce a safety lamp, and George Stevenson the father of Britain’s railways. The main achievements of the society founded in the gloomy shadow of Felling were threefold: greater publicity was accorded to later accidents, a great impetus was given to the more scientific study of ventilation by John Buddle and most famous of all, the help of Sir Humphrey Davy (1778-1829)
The point to be established here is that a safety lamp of some kind was destined to make its appearance. In this focus of both practical and theoretical science on the need for such a lamp, the great disasters, culminating in Felling, undoubtedly played a part.
Davy’s, Clanny’s and Stevenson’s ‘Geordie’ lamps, all now fitted with gauze, were the fruits of the requirements of growing industrialism and the resources of scientific inquiry. 

An Epilogue from an Old Miner
As we get older, we develop unusual habits and, since I reached the age 80, I find I have a tendency to wander around old churches and churchyards.One day in May I found myself in St Mary's Church, Heworth, Gateshead. Very old, rather majestic in its way. The churchyard was even more interesting.
Thomas Hebburn, founder of the National Union of Mineworkers, lies here. Born 1796, died 1864. He suffered lifelong victimisation by local coal owners for advocating free education and a 40-hour week for mine workers. He himself went down the mine when he was 11 and the headstone of his memorial at Heworth was erected by public subscription. When the coal industry was thriving it was the custom for the trade union movement to pay tribute to this fine man.
On Durham Miners' Gala day every year, the vicar of Heworth preached the commemorative service, the trade union band played Jerusalem and the political banners were slowly lowered in respect. Appointed speakers made their own salutary orations. No more! All Gone!
A little sad, I made my way out of the graveyard. Near the entrance, hugging the cemetery wall, is a seven-foot pencil-shaped gravestone commemorating the 91 men and children who died underground in the Felling pit disaster of May 24, 1812. No banners bow their heads in tribute here, no flowers deck this lonely spot. The inscription reads, "George Reay, nine years of age, Robert Pearson, 10 years of age, John Boutland, 10 years of age, Thomas Craggs, nine years of age, George Ridley, 11 years of age, Gregory Galley, 10 years of age". The names roll on and on. The whole of the Haswell family, for instance, was wiped out at one stroke. The churchyard is consecrated ground. If it had not been consecrated by the clergy it would surely have been consecrated by the tortured and crippled bodies of the short-lived stunted corpses of these little bairns. In the final days of May, 1812, Felling cried a river of tears. One can imagine the searing heartache and sobbing torment as mothers and wives stood and watched tiny coffins lowered one by one into the mass, dark, gaping chasm that would become their eternal resting place.
"It's sad isn't it?" said a voice at my shoulder. I turned quickly and there stood a young boy who could easily have stepped straight out of the novels of Charles Dickens, small, sunken cheek bones, face white as chalk, large hollow eyes.
"Everybody cried," he added.
"Yes," I replied. "I would imagine so."
"Are you fit?" he asked.
"Long ago, I worked in the mines."
"Is your name on that stone?" he asked.
I shuddered slightly. "No," I responded, "this terrible tragedy happened long before you or I were born."
"My name's Thomas Gordon, I'm eight," he said proudly.
The name struck a chord. I looked back at the monument. There it was, the names of three Gordon's and, right at the bottom, Thomas Gordon, aged eight.
I swung round to comment on this strange coincidence, but my young companion had already gone.

By James Fitzpatrick,83, Gateshead Dec 3 2006