I often walk the cycle track below Rodborough Hill,
The old Midland Railway spur from Dudbridge,
And I often cycle the track on to Nailsworth,
Musing on the springs and watercourses, the ancient holloways,
The Roman villa, medieval ridge and furrow, the woollen mills,
The occasional mill chimney, still rising high into the Stroudwater sky.
But, today, I stand at the blue brick retaining wall
At the old Dudbridge railway station,
Watching the cars career around the roundabout,
Drivers mostly oblivious of the history of Dudbridge;
But when I ignore the roar of the traffic,
And I find my mind’s historical eye,
I can see a medieval pilgrim crossing the bridge,
A packhorse with Cotswold wool a mile behind.
For here I stand by the confluence of two rivers.
But also, at the junction of two railway lines:
The interface of water power and steam power,
The inexorable march of the industrial revolution:
Foundries and forges and furnaces
And cranes and pulleys and chains and smoke:
A century-old pandemonium at Dudbridge,
Where once there was an orchard and there is still a Meadow Lane.
Carefully cross the road and study the information plaques
On the wall at Sainsburys; the clothier’s 1646 doorway too;
The inscription at REDLERS from 1910;
The information board at Kimmins Mill,
Then retrace your steps carefully back to the blue brick wall,
And recite these words from T.S. Eliot to yourself:
“And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”