The Road That Made Me

Cavendish Road,
my street, my home.

My first memories—
Stanley Road school, then Westdale Juniors.
The training started early,
walking that steep hill on Cavendish Road,
age six,
legs burning on the way up,
freedom flying on the run back down.

Back in the ’60s,
the road was our playground—
full of adventure.
Through twitches and alleyways we ran,
racing push bikes from the Cavo Pub to the hilltop,
then tearing back down—
no helmets, no pads,
just bare skin and courage,
scrapes and bruises the prize.

The good old days, we say.
Knock knock on doors,
everyone knew everyone—
and it didn’t take long
for Mum and Dad to know.
And back then,
it wasn’t a soft talking to—
body armour was comics
down the back of your pants.

Wednesday nights were swimming,
and in summer,
Brickyard ponds.
Pirates and Redcoats—
until we lost George.
He just disappeared.
We didn’t understand.
Time and resilience brought us back,
but we never played pirates again,
never swam those ponds.

The teenage years came fast.
Off to Cavo secondary—
good years.
Not much time in class,
always somewhere else—
gymnastics, trampolining,
cross country running.
Anything but sitting still,
writing page after page
about history, science,
or the English language—
something I’m still learning.

I liked the girls though.
Then came a time
they liked me.

What a street I lived on—
everything I needed.
Life was full.

At fifteen,
I joined the Army—
Junior Leaders Regiment, Royal Artillery.
A life of its own.

Coming home on leave,
back to my street—
at first, nothing changed.
Then slowly,
people I knew moved away.

Years later,
back in the Cavo Pub—
the Cavendish, to give it its name.
Old school friends,
old times,
banter, darts, pool.
But shock hit hard—
so many of the lads and gals
lost to drugs of every kind.

I loved my street.
I loved what it taught me—
love, joy, pain, loss.

But life moves on,
and so did I.
A new home,
twenty-six years lived—
but the games were real now:
real pain,
real fear,
far too many losses.

Still—
resilience,
and the pull of memory,
brought me home.

I still love my street.
Cavendish Road—
my foundation.

still that boy,
from my street—
with a life of poetry within.

By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

Cavendish Road wasn’t just where I grew up—it was where life began to shape me. From childhood games and hard lessons to loss, laughter, and leaving, every step started here. This poem is a look back at the street that gave me everything, and the boy who never really left it behind

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