Ode To Wallsend

A Memory of Wallsend.

ODE TO WALLSEND
I was born at Wallsend Village green in the heart of Wallsend Town,
I spent my childhood in an era great to be around,
We all grew up together and played in our back lanes,
My cousins and my neighbours in the shadows of the cranes.
At the top of each old terraced street there stood a corner shop,
I often spent my pennies there on Black Jack chews and pop.
The last sweet shop to ply its trade was on the street of Hugh,
It was run by Florry Patterson (who everyone knew).
Her deep broad Geordie Accent, I can almost hear it now,
Her pinny and her witch like hair, and deeply furrowed brow.
I’ve fond memories of Rik’s (JET) cafe where a few of us hung out,
that was in the bleak mid eighties at a time we all had nowt.
We used to play our snooker there and play on Arcade games,
We sat around and nursed our teas whilst Prince sang Purple Rain.
My mother worked at Joe Rea’s caff for twenty years or so,
A place where folks like Suzy the tramp would almost daily go.
Rope swings at the Seven Arches, down at Haggies Gut,
Discos at the East End Club, where my stuff I used to strut.
Pick n mix at Woolies, and the street guide at the door,
The downstairs lavs, the Forum Clock, alas they are no more.
Ruddick’s for your fruit and veg, Milburn’s for your kets,
Disque for all your music needs, Joe Simpson’s for your bets.
Another place I had a great times was Richardson Dees Park,
Banana slides and shuggy boats, the Bandstand after dark.
Bottles of Olde English with a motley crew for sure,
The belly laughs we had there were a pleasure to endure.
I still recall the steam omitting from the great pit heap,
And the snow drifts there in seventy nine were var nye ten feet deep.
I ventured there one full mooned night, and could only stand and stare,
When I saw a hungry short eared owl take on a full grown hare.
From four feet up it had a go, but alas it proved too weak,
For the hare kicked out and caught the owl who gave out a piercing shriek.
Fourteen egger partridge nests, sticklebacks and vowels,
Crested newts, mad march hares, tiny shrews and moles.
These creatures shared my stomping ground, up by the swallow pond,
Vivid memories still take me back to the place I am most fond.
I hardly seem to recognise this once great town of mine.
So forgive me if I hanker for a better place in time.

James Bridgewood.