“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”
Pompous Dickens quotation to one side, I’ll address the titular question about landmarks.
I’ve always considered my life to be in chunks, in carefully-defined sections.
There was childhood in Thorne, near Doncaster, up to the age of 18, with its happy memories of education, fishing and trainspotting – before it developed the cachet of say paedophilia.
Polytechnic years of studying English in Sunderland, a town that I grew to hate as its natives were full on gammon, even in the 80s. I still remember abuse from locals in cars for hanging around with black and Asian friends. Backward back then. Enjoyed the course though and friends I made.
Leeds for my PGCE was arguably grimmer as I was placed in two of the toughest schools in Leeds – in Halton Moor and Burmantofts – to learn how to teach English.
Then a long teaching career, beginning in Shaw, Oldham in 1987 in a church school, followed by spells in Manchester, Bolton and Stoke until Doncaster called us back in 2002 with a young son in tow.
The latest, and one of the longest chapters, has taken place in Norfolk. We moved here for teaching jobs and for familial freedom, and it’s been the best of times and the worst of times.
Next month, the calendar flips to a 13 year landmark. 13 years since we upped sticks with a 7 year old and 2 year old to head south from Crowle, North Lincolnshire, to flatter and warmer climes of Norfolk.
Norfolk, like many places now, is a graveyard for teaching careers. I’ve worked in many schools in many areas but never known a place like this for education. Evil is not stretching it – not the kids, I must add, but the adults. I’ve had the displeasure of working in three Norfolk schools and all have been toxic. Suffolk is a different kettle of fish, mind.
And yet.
Those 13 years have been amongst some of the best. We’ve seen our little family flourish here. We’ve developed a love for living here. I began this very business here and it’s grown from a metaphorical acorn to a 10 foot oak tree, with few signs of growth slowing.
I’ve found a job I always wanted to do from the age of four – writer. Little did I know, when penning mawkish poems and stories in 1969, that writing for me would mean B2B or blog posts. I sometimes pinch myself with disbelief at achieving a childhood ambition, albeit at 50 years of age.
I’m 56 now and officially retired from the cesspit of education. My wife, teacher of MFL for as long as me, is too.
Life is sweet.
I’ve recently ploughed my pension lump sum into a second home in Bradwell, a new build, down the road from where we live, with tenants in place.
Out of the last 13 Norfolk years, 3 have been grim with mental health, depression and stress, but in a glass half full way, that means 10 have been good.
5 of them have been teetotal too.
So what is the future for the Waltons in Norfolk?
Son has left for university in Cardiff and, lucky sod, spends his 3rd year from September in Toulouse, escaping this politically rancid country of England. Daughter isn’t far from completing GCSEs and will fly the nest in 3 years, meaning we’re marooned in the East of England with our own home, an investment, a rescue dog, Cassie and a lifestyle that we love.
Norfolk is a funny old place. It’s treated me shockingly and brilliantly – but you know what? With Brexit making escape to Madrid unlikely, this place may form the final chapter of life so far.
Don’t get me wrong – I don’t intend to die or retire any day soon. I’ve created a perfect income tap with Get Pro Copy, and have a waiting list for writing, web design and social media marketing.
I just think that if 0-18 was childhood in Thorne, then 43 to 56 may just Top Trump it in Norfolk.
It’s home and a place we’re very settled in.
