Thursday, 11 August 2016


There is a place beyond the pale, though the map was set to head for Wales, we came one day to live a dream; we were on the road to Ruardean.

Drawn to an Angel in the street, with a view of mountains and fields of wheat, we created many a magic scene, for we’d found ourselves in Ruardean.

Good people young, good people old; carnivals and fairs,
Tradition, culture, unruly sheep, and no talk at all of bears.
Oaks and owls, the cleanest spring; fine gardens gold and green,
We must have found the ancient parish of good ole’ Ruardean.

We’ll sail the seas in salty air and trust in God and winds,
But we’ll hear the whisper of the giant pines, where the bell of the old church sings.
We’ll remember the days on forest tracks; the places where ghosts have been ...

For a part of our hearts and souls will dwell – forever in Ruardean.