Pebble Island Revisited

Oh for those hot summer days that seems but a distant memory now.

When as a young boy I would pick up a used jam jar,

make a net from a discarded stocking

and meet my pals for a journey of discovery to Pebble Island.

Stopping off at the sweet shop on the way to buy a jubbly and an arrow toffee bar,

our tuck for the day.

A short walk along the main road led us to the gate at Green farm.

We'd lean over and tease the pigs, grunting and snorting at them as only kids do.

After chasing a few hens we would carry on with our journey

past the parish church of St Mary's and on down the dust track to Black Bridge.

There we would fool around whilst waiting for steam train to pass our way.

On hearing the sound of its whistle we'd jump up and hang over the side,

not pulling back until the very last second,

before being enveloped in clouds of smoke as it chattered beneath us.

Onwards then, along the gentle slope of sandy lane

to the footbridge that crossed the Brooke,

pausing only to test our courage once more by climbing the fence into the bull field.

Sitting at the side of the Brooke I would watch the butterflies dance

as I lowered my home made fishing tackle into its shallows,

hoping to catch a tiddler or two but not really minding if I didn't.

After a while we'd move on,

along the hedgerow at the side of a cornfield towards Pebble Island.

The fields of buttercups before us seemed to go on forever;

eventually arriving at the crossing,

where a large tree had laid out a branch so lovingly;

as if to aid our passage across the Brooke, to the pebbles that lay on the other side.

We spent hours skimming stones off the waters surface, climbing trees

and getting our clothes wet, but it didn't matter,

as we knew they would be dry from the suns heat by the time we got back home.

I didn't understood then, why this place of wonder was called an island;

perhaps it was because of the sea of beauty that surrounded it.

Sadly the journey now is so different.

Gone is Green farm,

Black Bridge now covered in graffiti, t

he lane down to the Brooke barbed

and the field of the bull, protected by keep out signs.

Rows of houses have replaced the buttercup fields that went on forever.

It would seem that the debris from living has isolated Pebble Island

much like myself.

But we are still here.

Yes we are still here.