The True Story of the Backworth Hoard: A Family Legacy from Earsdon

By Danny Sanderson

Long before the Backworth Hoard sat behind museum glass, it lay quietly beneath the soil near Earsdon, protected by time, clay, and rust.

The story you’ll find in official records credits the find to around 1812, vaguely linked to the Backworth area. But in my family, the story has always been different.

This is our version. The real version.

🐕 A Dog Named Spencer

Around 1811–1812, my ancestor George Richardson wasn’t yet a miner. From the age of nine, he had worked on farms in and around Northumberland. As a teenager, he found work at Hartley Glassworks, and only later became a miner when the first pit was sunk at Backworth.

One night, under cover of darkness, George set out to bury the family dog, Spencer, who had died earlier that day. He originally intended to dig the grave near the old village green at Earsdon, but landscaping and construction were underway — likely tied to local governance changes.

Not wanting to risk trouble, George carried the dog, wrapped in fabric, to what was then the deteriorating grounds of an old church, now known as Earsdon Cemetery. Out of respect, he kept to the edge of the field to avoid disturbing any graves.

As he dug the hole for Spencer by moonlight, his shovel struck something.

⚱️ The Hidden Hoard

Beneath the soil was an intact clay pot, surrounded by four rusted swords, arranged in a square. Inside the pot were hundreds of ancient coins, and nearby was a solid silver bowl with a handle, containing gold and silver items, including several rings.

George took only what he could see and lift by moonlight. He laid Spencer gently among the swords and the pot, and reburied the spot exactly as it was, covering it carefully.

He never returned. He didn’t search further for more items, fearing he might be seen or caught.

🧶 A Good Sock, Lost to History

The next day, George packed the items into a knitted sock — one that belonged to his wife. Their young son, John Richardson, remembered his mother’s dismay at George using a good sock for what she thought was just scrap metal.

Together, George and John walked on foot across the fields to Newcastle, where they sold the silver bowl, most of the coins and the other valuables to a local jeweller.

But one item never left the family: A solid gold ring marked with three Xs — the only one that fit George’s finger.

🍊 The Sweetest Taste

Out of the money they received, George bought a treat for the children: orange cake.

According to our family’s memory, it was the only time John ever had it, and the taste was so powerful, he remembered it for the rest of his life. “So sweet, I can still taste it,” he would say, even decades later.

💍 The Ring with Three Xs

That gold ring stayed in the family. George passed it down to his son John, and John’s son William Richardson (my great-great-grandfather) eventually had it melted down into wedding bands for himself and his wife.

From Roman treasure beneath a churchyard to a marriage in Earsdon — the ring had lived many lives.

✍️ The Family Poem

To keep the story alive, the Richardsons passed it down in verse:

“Auld pa George with his haggard back, 
puffed his pipe and hauled his sack, 
treasure laiden, riches bound, 
a gift from Spencer thus he found.”

It’s a poem written in coal smoke and callused hands. A tribute to one man’s quiet act of luck, sorrow and legacy. My grandad recited this poem to the last word on his deathbed. He was Alan Richardson and passed away in 2001.

📍 The Spot Lives On

Over the generations, the exact location where Spencer was buried and the hoard discovered has been shown to each new generation, including myself.

It isn’t just a patch of land — it’s a connection. A silent promise that this history, though forgotten by institutions, will never be forgotten by us.

🧠 Why This Story Matters

The Backworth Hoard exists in museums. But this story doesn’t — at least not yet. It lives in my family’s memory, passed down through the Richardsons — not with scholarly footnotes, but with stories told at tables and firesides.

It’s a story about hard working folk, about chance, and about how a man burying his dog under cover of darkness discovered a piece of Roman Britain — and then let it be.

It’s about not everything being sold, or measured in weight and price.

And most of all, it’s about Spencer the dog, who now lies forever at rest among swords, coins and clay.