A poem about Fritchley written by Edith May Lynam and made into a postcard.
The author: Edith May LYNAM was born in 1905 the daughter of Frederick Joseph Lynam and Elizabeth Ellen Smith. Her mother ran the Red Lion in Fritchley whilst her father ran the village butchers shop. Edith's sister Dorothy died of flu in the epidemic of 1930 the year after she married.
To Fritchley, nestling on the hill
My steps will always lead,
My heart and I know they will find
A haven there indeed.
While Crich an elder brother stands
On guard not far away ,
Beneath the Tors o'er towering ridge
Of sandstone grey
To Fritchley I would ever turn
When wearied by the din
Of cities futile race for time,
A race they never win.
Far from the surging crowd there lies
An unspoilt rendezvous
Where slepy cattle turn and gaze
And pigeons coo.
Surrounded by the misty hills
Of ever reaching span.
Here, hovering round a village green
Are grey stoned homes of man.
'Tis here I'd seek the shadier wood,
The sweeter way to trend,
The blither bird, the laughing brook,
And stauncher friend