Lines Publications

 

 Round the World to see how far it is - 02

 

Staxton Hill 

 

Once, by the shoreline.

of a bygone lake,

sits a Viking village

courtesy of an ice-age,

left in its wake.

A routeway by-passes it

that has gained renoun

for its bends and its

blind corners put drivers

faces in a frown.

Long before escape lanes,

we would all set out,

Granny, Mum with Dad driving

to Scarbrough for the day

via Staxton, no bailout.

At Staxton what goes up

must eventually go down.

What goes down must go up.

Whichever way you travel

It’s a nervous breakdown.

Try your brakes,

keep in low gear

the smell or rubber burning.

As you hurtle downards

gravity brings its fear.

Gran and I on the backseat,

screaming a mixture of panic

and frenzied laughter.

Tears rolling down cheeks

and merriment that’s manic.

We held our breath,

Dad held his nerve,

the car dived headfirst

gaining speed

we avoided the swerve.

Or, if you went the other way

the nightmare in reverse.

You knew the Hill

lay waiting for you

the engine to coerce.

The short, sharp climb

takes you up to the Yorkshire Wold.

Take a run at it in the car,

a sleek Austin Hereford

hold your breath, with no blindfold.

Heart pounding, nail biting

as the car goes through the gears,

up the northern escarpment

grinding, over-heating and groaning,

raising backseat-drivers’ fears.

A lifetime ago Staxon

waited to make you shriek.

Now I am older

and the Hill is not so fearful

but it’s name is still unique.

For in our lovely country

there is only one still,

no-other bears it’s name

and maybe never will.

There is only one that

makes your heart miss a beat.

Only one Staxton Hill.