View of Rodborough from Rodborough Common

Looking towards Rodborough

View from the common across the valley to Randwick

Fort

Rodborough Tabernacle

My dad was cremated on a sleet bleak February day,
And afterwards, we walked, hand in hand,
On Rodborough Common,
My dad’s favourite spot,
When a faint cold gleam of spring-promise sun
Slipped through the grey-black bank of cloud cover,
And a skylark soared high, hovering and singing;
I creased my eyes in tight concentration
So that this bird’s song and my dad’s ashes
Would be forever interlinked.
Three years later,
I closed my eyes on the common again,
This time, a warm, quiet May time evening;
I lay back in the grass,
Listening to what I thought was a silent spring,
But I heard instead,
All the layered sounds of life,
Cows chewing the cud within the roar of an express train,
The wind in the beech leaves and the shouts of children playing,
The muffled drone of traffic and the barking of dogs,
The rattle of change in a pocket and the crunch of boots on chalk,
When a skylark soared and sang once more.

I opened my eyes and took in my world –
The wind blowing the milk-white cuckoo spit,
The long stalks of seed headed grass,
Hill fields bleached from May time mowing,
Dad walking to Hill Paul mill in 1926,
Fair isle pullover and short belted trousers,
Carrying his granddad’s dinner time snap.
Then a giant cloud blew in from Sugar Loaf,
Carrying rain from the Severn;
The skylark stopped singing,
Dinner time over for dad and for me.

Fort

Fort

Fort

Whats the flag ?

Memory Lane, for so many of us,
Who have lived their lives in this parish,
Twists and turns, then rambles on,
Up to Rodborough Common,
Where we watch the sun-set of our lives,
A dream-like tableau of an earlier time,
Seen through the mists and swirling haze,
An age of all our yesterdays,
For there we are, as we used to be,
When we were young and so carefree,
Wandering down the common's tracks,
Through the winter smoke of chimney stacks.
But stand awhile, and drink your fill,
While I list the sights down Rodborough Hill -
Coal-stacked barges, the canal,
Wallbridge wharf, all pell-mell,
The Cheltenham Flyer, check your watch,
The ground vibrates, your letter-box knocks.
There's Captain Forster, head of the school,
Proud and strong with Great War's wounds,
Watching o'er St. Mary's choir,
Or Dudbridge Donkey's smoke and fire,
Running the bowls club, blazer-green,
The secret garden, so serene.
In Rodborough Fields, in grass and trees,

They're kicking a ball, grazing their knees,
Milking the cows or running the errands,
In sailors' suits and ribbons and bands,
Then hide and seek in the new-mown hay,
Watch horse and cart, milkman and dray.
The Dainty Brothers, for Rag and Bone,
The Co-op shop, just like home,
Chat away, share the news,
Mum gets the divi that buys your shoes.
The Tabernacle and Sunday School,
Learn scripture, hymns and golden rules,
So you could sing with all your heart,
To Farmer James with horse and cart,
You didn't always have to shop,
The carts would bring milk, bread and pop,
And Mr. Smith of Dudbridge Hill,
Your plate on Friday, he would fill,
Fresh fish in basket on his head,
By daughter, Kathleen, crisply led,
Then dance next day in Bath Road shed,
Formal waltz and etiquette -
Factory and farm-hand beat the lark,
Saturday nights, come home in the dark,
Rodborough, Stroud, or Butterow,
Where there are 4 pubs in a row,

The ' Royal, The ' Albert, The Woolpack, The Lamb,
Or stamps on the corner, or telegram.
Letters to Empire, over the sea,
Bread from Gardiner's bakery,
Unemployed miners from Welsh pits,
Brass bands at Rodborough at Easter and Whit,
Walking the common in Sunday best,
Reading the 'papers, Poland is next.
Sent down from London, they stare at the sky,
A Spitfire and Heinkel, dog-fight up high,
Rations and black-out, ITMA, "Keep Mum",
These are the dark days, 'forty-one,
Till GI's arrive, lorries and tanks,
Black faces appear, these are the Yanks.
VE Day, VJ Day, Celebrate, Mourning.
Austerity's chill comes with a warning,
Till rationing ends: we're out of the wood,
"You have never had it so good",
The 60's swing, the Twist is here,
Babycham, not Wallbridge beer.
The fields built over,
Modernity's come,
No meadow and clover,
Cars, concrete, The Sun,
And Wallbridge and hops?
The aroma has gone -
But for some of our locals,
The scent lingers on,

Though memory's hoary,
And bones sometimes creak,
They remember the story
Of each Rodborough week,
Mondays for washing, drying and mop,
Tuesdays for ice-cream, the corner shop,
Wednesdays, play marbles, by Mrs. Cook's,
Thursdays, float rafts, get throughly soaked,
Friday is pay-day, dad's in a good mood,
Saturday evening, checking the pools,
Sunday, allotments, church, chapel, a pint,
And a hot bath to follow on each Sunday night:
So, "Remembering Rodborough",
My tale, it is told,
But, "Remembering Rodborough",
We never grow old,
We remember the past,
We are of good cheer,
Then there's more to remember,
With each coming year.

Guess the date ?

Bank Holiday

Bank Holiday

Fort from The Butts

What's the sign ?

Guess the date ?

Imogen 2009

Imogen 2009

2009

2009

2009