Gallow Hill

I grew up in the suburban Dundee in the 70s-80s. Some houses were bigger or older but this was predominantly 1930s bungalow land. Yet there was this one space that was from another world.

We were city kids but the city was somewhere else. This was our place. We were creatures of the suburbs, of Ray Davies’ Shangri La. But this was our place. We had the park, the ponds, but they had rules. This was our place. A sanctuary of wildness in an ocean of the tamed. This was our place.

Life was safe and pleasant. We had a fine Victorian park, nice boating ponds, and loads of space to play and indeed spent a lot of time playing there.

Then we found it. As we grew, we found it, just out of sight but now within reach. It was wild but had echoes of cultivation. Nature had reclaimed it and given it to us. We didn’t know what it was called. I’m sure we called it something but its name was unimportant.

We navigated the sinuous paths that cut through the high grass, dodging the raspberries gone wild (and sometimes consuming them). We built dens, played games and abused our bikes on the rough terrain.

We grew here. Lost in the dense foliage which nurtured us, we grew. We grew. Then we left.

Those who came were not kind. Clambering men in big bad boots, dug up my den, dug up my roots. Concrete, brick, cement and order reigned. Neat lawns, parking bays and paving slabs grew here now.

Stolen from the future, it still persists, in our fading memories and quiet smiles.