Better halves of the Coachmakers – Beverley Fitz-Gerald

What an absolute honour it is to be asked to write a few words for Coachlines. I am not a writer, so bear with me and I will give it a try.

I was born in Hampshire many, many years ago! I married your Master in 1980 at the age of 21 years. We were babies, but I would not change a thing. Hopefully, he feels the same! We moved around for Stephen’s career and settled for a few years in the New Forest, completing our family of two wonderful children.

Stephen’s work brought us back to Fleet where I was surrounded by a support network of family and friends while Stephen travelled the world, working all hours.

My life revolves around our family and I love to have them all together, especially spending time with our four beautiful grandchildren. Easter was one such occasion where I stood back, taking in our gathering. A hearty roast lunch, an Easter egg hunt in the garden and a little chocolate was consumed by us all with glee. We put the lashings of ginger beer on hold! We are truly blessed.

I have indulged in many hobbies over the years. Playing badminton, table tennis, jewellery making, cooking, reading, and of course, my love of poetry. One of my favourite poems incorporates two of my very favourite things, nature and animals. The poet Robert Frost, born in 1874 in San Francisco, wrote ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ in 1922. Evidently, Robert felt that this was the poem he might be remembered for. If you would indulge me, I would like to share it with you.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though:
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his wood fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near.
Between the wood and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Whenever I read this poem it conjures up an image of a cold deep winter, crisp sparkling snow on the ground with delicate flakes floating on the breeze. The warm breath of the pony steaming in the cold air and the rider taking a picture with his eyes of this moment of wonder, before galloping away with promises to keep and miles to go.

Beverley Fitz-Gerald