I’ve called myself Oxonian since Coronation year,
The rippling Thames, the Cotswold hills, I hold them very dear.
I rode to school at Oxford’s heart among those dreaming spires,
Through groves of Academe I weaved and dodged the screaming tyres.
I’ve heard the choirs sing at dawn and punted down the river,
I’ve laid on Christchurch Meadow’s lawn and watched the willows quiver.
But that was many moons ago, that land portrayed on “Morse”.
(They’d finished filming every day by 6am. of course )
The town is overflowing now and the villages they spoil.
The green belt’s turning yellow for yet more rapeseed oil.
The countryside’s not valued at that end of the nation,
The south of England soon will be one giant conurbation.
The longer in the tooth I got, the more my brain cells perished,
The more a thought persisted, a distant dream I’d cherished.
A notion wild of moving north I put to He Who Must,
Unusually, he cottoned on and understood my thrust.
There must be somewhere left on earth that‘s still a piece of heaven
Where life is slow and folks are nice- I‘ve got it----CA7!”
But how on earth were we to find a property that suits
And isn’t over sixty too old to find your roots ?
Round and round inside our heads these thorny questions raged,
But youth matures at thirty now so we’re just middle-aged!
So on the internet we surfed, through websites good and bad,
(They all jam up on Sunday nights and drive you hopping mad!)
Searching for a v.des. res. in somewhere not too pricey,
But nowhere halfway up a fell in case the weather’s dicey.
They say the camera never lies but websites have the knack
Of showing you delightful homes with horrors round the back.
An abattoir, a silage pit, a noisy meeting hall,
A barn with sitting tenant or no garden just a wall.
But for every lemon we would find a perfect peach-
In a hamlet with no boozer and the shops far out of reach.
But then we found a village that ticked every box and more,
A church, a school, a W.I,, a pub and general store..
Yes Caldbeck was the very spot and only it would do,
So as the Queen turned eighty we settled in Park View.
We’ve said “Goodbye” to southern stress, to work and all that tension,
We’re learning to relax at last despite our shrinking pension.
The pace of life’s so different here, the need has gone to hurry,
There’s time to rest upon a bench, sit back and smell the slurry.
Our nerves don’t jangle anymore, we’re getting loads of sleep
Because our daytime hours are filled with counting flocks of sheep.
They count them “yan, tyan, tethera,” here instead of “one, two, three”
And talk of “cuddies lowping yats” whatever that may be!
I’m getting used to “wols in walls”, and if I forget I’m sorry
That Eddie’s name is Stob(b)art and it’s on a wagon not a lorry.
There’s someone on the council who doesn’t know how to spell,
The sign for Rosla’s spelt all wrong and Raftan Head as well.
They should replace the “e” and “y”, the “ugh” must go
And whoever in their right mind spelt Whelpa with an “o” ?
There’s something else around these parts not properly described
And that’s the Caldbeck Rambler, where gravity’s defied.
It throws you round the fells so fast, believe me, I’m not lying,
The time we went to Keswick we weren’t rambling, we were flying!
We’ve lost all thoughts of using it for real ale drinking trips
Before you’d got back home again you’d be foaming at the lips!
Stagecoach fly to Carlisle too for those who need distraction,
Though if you stay in Caldbeck you won’t be short of action.
There’s something there for every one whatever their pursuit
There’s films and plays, the History Club and Women’s Institute
Where weighty things are hammered out of varying description,
Like where to go for supper club and four quid more subscription.
There’s walks galore, High Pike to climb for energetic souls
And you’re quite beyond redemption if you’re not into bowls.
Don’t ever think that Cumbria is living in the past
We’ll soon be going digital---when they’ve sorted out the mast.
We’re already on the Broadband, and there’s people writing web logs,
We’ve all the high tech whatnots here and a shop that mends your clogs.
To all these modern benefits there is a small exception
And that’s complete and utter lack of mobile phone reception.
A curse to some I will admit, but to me it’s rather civil
To live without that Crazy Frog and people talking drivel
That noisy world we’ve left behind with hordes of people swarming,
Even the weather’s not too bad ,though due to global warming.
The Northern Fells are just the place for He Who Must and me-
Location, location location, - and Phil Spencer’s our GP!
© Teresa Richardson 2006
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