Summer Memories

Ashwell Fair

   With this nice weather here at last it brings back so many memories of my life growing up in my village of Ashwell in Hertfordshire, the Ash lined country lanes down which we rode our bikes and the small woods where we made camps in the summer holidays, all part of growing up as a village boy. I think one of the highlights of the summer was the arrival of the fair on the village green, for us kids it was a great time of excitement and we would spends hours watching the men set up the rides and build those small stalls where we could win a goldfish by throwing darts at playing cards or throw wooden rings over prises, it was such a huge thing in our young lives then.
   One person who stands out in my memories from those years is" Robert The Bouncer", Robert was a real character, a kind friendly man, young in mind but very strong, some would call him the village idiot, but most of us village people knew him as a kind man he was just different to the rest of us. Robert had a habit of standing under some of the great trees in the village picking leaves from the branches and stripping them down to the vain, also he was always walking the streets of the village in the evenings, winter or summer closing garden gates to keep them looking tidy, he also would bounce a rubber ball has he walked, hence his local name of "Robert The Bouncer", I would often lay in bed as a child and hear the sound of Robert's ball as he walked by.
    When the fair arrived Robert was to be found there every day from dawn helping the fair families who all know him, they would make him meals, give him gifts, really treat him special as for most who knew him he was special.
   Below is a poem I wrote last summer about Robert, I often write about my village and the childhood I spent there, so I hope you enjoy it and any of you who indeed grew up in Ashwell I'm sure will have nice memories of him.

Robert The Bouncer

A million leaves picked and shredded under great Chestnut and Ash,
Gates of a hundred houses closed and bins positioned so neat and tidy,
That big weathered face covered in grey bristles, teeth so worn and coloured greet you with such huge smiles.

Those old worn shoes, walked a thousand miles through lane and path,
Loud cries of laughter sound with every mention of the fair,
Photographs appearing from jacket pockets, photos of his pal Henry.

Dark winter nights so still, then the faint sounds of a rubber ball thudding on the cold street,
Nearer they come only stopping for the rattle of oak gates,
Nearer and louder until they pass and sleep takes over.