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Rob BlaneyThis poem makes fun at the nickname given to Shutlingsloe hill near Macclesfield as the 'Cheshire Matterhorn'
It is based on a walk up the hill in windy weather when my companion became disorientated by the height.
Shutlingsloe is only 500 metres high but in the poem it growns to Alpine proportions. We think of Cheshire as a 'flat' county. Shutlingslow is indeed our 'Matterhorn'.
Shutlingsloe(height: 500 metres. ‘The Cheshire Matterhorn’)
I am a bump on a map,
a squashed pig with its snout in air,
pretend mountain,
five hundred metres of grass and rouble.
You scramble up on all fours, climb past a dead sheep
staggering breathless as if I’d grown four thousand feet
and my four ice faces gave birth to avalanches.
Contours bulge, fatten,
swathes of cotton grass turn to snow
a trig point catapults heavenwards.
You are no longer plodding up a gentle grit stone path
but struggle roped together up a winding crevasse.
Imagine cowbells, edelweiss, ibex leap across my back
sabre tooth tigers eat stragglers,
hunters spear day trippers in oak scrub.
You collapse hiding under your hood
like a headless bird, arms spread-eagle,
refusing to look down, unable to get up.
Losing nerve, losing control, hanging on a precipice,
mist curling over the edge into the abyss
and insist you phone for help
despite no signal in gusting wind.
‘Give us soft turf bowling greens
banks of trees, wide rivers,
Cheshire lanes,
farms with smooth fields
dotted with cows.’
And I grab the white knuckle
of their hands and take them up.
Alan Johnson
I recently walked the 35 mile Gritstone Trial with a good friend of mine. It gave me the opportunity to come back into contact with possibly my favourite hill - The Matterhorn of Cheshire herself; Shutlingsloe.
I'm developing quite a penchant for this little lump of our planet and wrote this in response to my latest viewing. If you've come into contact with it you may understand what I'm talking about. If not you may think I'm nuts... Anyway, here it is. I hope you find it of interest.
The title refers to 'her' nickname of 'The Queen of the Western Flanks'
The Queen
A cloud veil slips from her shoulders,
Up she rises on shapely, smooth flanks,
The wind whistles a siren song around her,
To the pilgrims who come to give thanks.
Thanks to nature, thanks to freedom and beauty,
Thanks to the Queen humble courtiers seek,
Heavy legs lifted up by the vision
Of perfection in this glossy green Peak.
Never tiring of admirers she relaxes,
Ushering you into this most delicious trap,
An embrace that you'll never be free of,
No one ever gets over her pap.
And you lie with her, as she lies with you,
A whispering breeze softly kissing each ear,
Now wherever you roam in this country
In your heart she'll always be here.
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