Germany 28 Dec-7 Jan

In Die Nibelungenhalle - with Siegfried's sword, ready to fight dragons! New Year's Day

Over the New Year I went on a writers’ retreat in Germany with some friends – well, when I say ‘retreat’, it was more like an ‘advance’…  When one travels abroad it is a very ‘yang’ act in a way – in effect, penetrating the world, when my natural inclination at this time of year is what I call the ‘inward spiral’. I crave for hibernation and a hermit-like existence… but being an ‘introvert in the body of an extrovert’ I find my legs carrying me to distant lands and my brain setting up all sorts of stress-inducing scenarios! Having just organised a big Winter Solstice event in my hometown (Midnight Sun) which involved co-ordinating a double-book launch and several artistes, what do I go and do … organise another event in another country! Initially intended as a Writers’ Retreat and my ‘Escape from Christmas’ plan, it turned out to be extremely social, festive and expansive.

Although not the quiet, chilled out time I was hoping for (and needing) it was nevertheless a very stimulating and rewarding experience. We were guests of my friend Ola’s mother – who was away in India and generously allowed us to stay in her capacious and stylish house in Rheinbach, a small town in NW Germany – within an hour of Bonn and Cologne.

The Witches Tower in Rheinbach, where local wise women were held before execution - fortunately they are more tolerant of itinerant pagans these days

Typical of me, I intended to make the most of my ‘holiday’ – by writing a script for a TV pilot and contributing to a two-hour bilingual storytelling performance, so I was asking for it really! But they say a change is as good as a rest, and it felt good to forget all my other projects and commitments and focus purely on writing a completely new idea; and the opportunity of performing in another country was too good to miss. Initially, it was just going to be a little talk about my new book – but when I struck upon the idea of holding it on Twelfth Night, January 5th (the traditional end of Christmas) it started to grow into something else. How about an evening of tales celebrating the Wheel of the Year? Ola could offer a tale in German and provide the local link. When fellow Fire Springs member Anthony agreed to join us it suddenly looked like we had a promising night. Ola secured a venue – Bonn Central Library no less – and when her partner Mark joined us, with his fine voice and musical skills, we had a good evening’s entertainment to offer. At Ola’s house we had a couple of nights of rehearsal and feedback – and then, we were on!

Ola introduced the evening in her native tongue; then I introduced the book with three anecdotes – about how we often celebrate the turning the wheel with food and drink: I opted for pork, cider and beer, guessing this would be something the locals could relate to! My first tale was from Oxford, twinned with Bonn as it happens, so the links were there and the bridges already built – all we had to do was cross them. After this temporal ‘forecourt’, Mark led the audience into the ‘sacred’ part of the evening with a splendid song about the wheel of the year.

Ola at Turning the Wheel, Bonn Central Library - she made it happen! Thanks, O!

Ola followed with a fine rendition of story of Baldur and the Golden Bough in German; then Anthony concluded the first half with his popular Gawain and the Green Knight. It was wonderful seeing the German audience respond to our material. The themes of the tales are universal. All stories are ultimately about the Human Condition. I love finding commonalities – links between our lands, between the tales, the teller, the listener. After the break I started the second half after Mark’s flute with a folk tale from Oxfordshire – which I’m currently collecting for a forthcoming book from The History Press; Mark told his distinctive Native American winter fable ‘Shinglebliss’, accompanying himself with his music to atmospheric effect; then Anthony concluded with Gawain and Lady Ragnall, which brought the house down. Mark rounded things off with his circle song, then we all got up and took a bow. Job done!

 

 

 

Anthony Nanson - storyteller

After, we held a Q&A session – after the audience got warmed up they asked some intelligent questions. When they dried, I asked them a question: How do they celebrate the turning of the wheel? Initially, they seemed at a loss, but then a teacher in the front row talked about the Cologne carnival and it’s extraordinary traditions. Another mentioned the birch tree given to sweethearts at May. Fascinating. Finally, the evening drew to a close and after we packed everything away we repaired to a hostelry: the ‘James Joyce Irish Pub’, which was actually more authentic than it sounds, in an old Bonn building with real atmosphere. The tall glass of Maiser Weisse Dunkel I had went down a treat, as did the wedges we finally procured from the ‘shut’ kitchen. We had a pleasant chat with Roland and Anna – two locals. The natives are definitely friendly! The Germans I have met on my travels are warm-hearted and sincere.  I love their love of nature, literature, beer and bread!

Schroder the house-cat, aka 'Strudel' on my bed - where he seemed to spend alot of time!

While guests of what I think of as ‘Castle Schroder’ (after the lovely house-cat, whom everyone fell in love with) we went on several excursions to sites of interest in the Rhine area: the Matronae; Drachenfels; the home of Hildegard of Bingen; Bonn; and the Cologne galleries. It was a cultural feast as dense as German ryebread and perhaps I’ll share more in further dispatches from the Rhineland – once I’ve refilled my Humpen.

Four storytellers on Lowenberg, Siebengebirge, New Year's Day 2012

Turning the Wheel Tour

9-10 December

Back on the road again as my Turning the Wheel tour continues. Riding this time of year can be beautiful … but deadly. The cold sun is blindingly low in the sky, but it illumines the bleak landscape and bare trees in a wonderful way. Our wooden cousins arch over the winding A46 down to Bath like Rackham-esque Ents – waiting to pluck the unwary traveller to their doom! On the way home a couple of days later, they were silhouetted against the full moon – lovely, but not so enjoyable when you’re freezing your butt off!

I hooked up with my old pal Sally (AKA Saravian) to do a combined book talk and gig at the Bear in Holwell – an amazing coaching inn outside Frome. Run by the Reverend Zak Ezelove, Tash and Anita, it is not quite in this world. Decorated with stunning fluorescent Mayan artwork (from Tas Bell – see below), dragons (the landlord’s Chinese astrology sign) and psychedelic foliage, it is a fantastic place to party – and that night, a young man called Fin was celebrating his nineteenth birthday there with an all-night knees up. They were setting up the decks when we arrived – given a lift by Saravian’s fellow musician Paul (after a sunny, but chilly ride down from Stroud on my two wheels it was a relief not to have to ride in the dark – as the temperatures plummeted on the cold, clear night – the moon on the cusp of full). The sign of The Bear echoed this – the pub’s totem portrayed silhouetted against a moonlit background. Saravian and Paul set up, and I put out my little stack of books. Another musician had already set up his PA and it turned out to be my friend, the multi-talented James Hollingsworth – who happened to be performing there, after us. Synchronicity! Saravian and Paul provided some good vibes with their fine tunes, then I gave a brief talk which led into an interesting discussion about ‘turning the wheel’ – no doubt influenced by the far out decor, it was pretty cosmic. Afterwards, James did a fantastic warm-up routine, using his loop machine and pedals to build up a wall of sound. His talent is staggering and he really should be playing stadiums. Yet, as I often find with real stars, his ego doesn’t outstrip his talent, as it sometimes does in those with lesser ability. A modest diva – now there’s an oxymoron to conjure with.

I really hope this place flourishes – it is trying to offer a creative alternative to mainstream monoculture. Beleagured by the forces of commerce and mundanity, they are like endangered species – a polar bear on an ever-diminishing iceberg. Such places stop life being too normal – as with certain eccentric seasonal events, as I said in my talk this evening, it ‘widens the gene pool of the imagination’! Long may it thrive!

Afterwards, we popped to Saravian’s local for one – The Griffin, home of Milk Street Brewery. Similarly decorated with original artwork, with live music, it’s great to see such grassroots creativity. My hostess runs the Frome Live Lounge show on the local radio station – and has plans for other community-focused initiatives. The town reminds me of Stroud – it has a similar feel about it: a creative buzz, a green scene, free-thinking (except for the odd small-minded bookseller), great music and cafes. Another locus of alternative modality – like Totnes, or my next destination (albeit with more sense, and less sparkle).

The next morning I set off across the frost-christened Somerset Levels to Glastonbury – for the next date on my Turning the Wheel tour: a book-signing at the Cat & Cauldron, run by Trevor and Liz Williams (SF author). They’ve kindly hosted several of my book events in town and once again made me feel welcome. There was alot going on it town that day – the Frost Fayre, the OBOD Winter bash and the usual Glastonbury madness! There was a lovely atmosphere on the High Street – stalls of festive goodies; the mayor opening the Frost Fayre (in its second year – and perfectly timed, to coincide with the first frost); the Holly King strode up and down in his Yuletide regalia. I asked him if he had to defeat the Oak King to win his title, but he also plays that part and so he had to ‘wrestle with himself’, he joked. Later I saw an altercation on the doorstep of the Cat & Cauldron that seemed to be an amusingly symbolic re-enactment of that very ritual combat: two local ne’er-do-wells (a barrel-chested warrior-type and a weasel-like opponent – which one was Oak, which Holly, I wouldn’t like to say) were duking it out on the road – chasing each other up and down in comic fashion. It reminded me of gruff walruses snarling and clashing on a wave-lashed islet – something from Frozen Planet perhaps). Father Christmas rode by accompanied by drummers (including a formidable Ice Queen – part of the Narnia-themed event); my old friend the  Green Man hawked his golden bough; Mr Tumnus popped in for some of my mead; the talented Bards of Ynys Witrin performed by the Market Cross; druids and faeries got in some retail therapy. In short, another day in Avalon. Fabulous!

It was lovely to catch up with old friends and made it all worth while. I had to dash to make the most of the fading light and heat. By the time I got home from my long-ish ride I was chilled to the bone and needed a good long soak. After a week of being out and about (Bournemouth, Frome and Glasto) I feel like tending the hearth and getting in touch with my inner bear – time to hibernate (if only the demands of the season would allow it – but I doubt there will be much peace to be had this side of the solstice)!

Lonely is the man...

Turning the Wheel

book launches 25 & 27 November; 1 December

On Friday I launched my latest book, Turning the Wheel: seasonal Britain on two wheels, with a ‘book launch celebration’ at (what was) first ‘the British School’, then the Five Valleys Foyer in Stroud (it changed its name half-way through my publicity campaign to Open House – ah, truly sensei, the nature of reality is impermanence ;0). With the help of my partner, Jenni, dropped off the wineglasses and books and I set up. A good crowd turned up to watch my slideshow and talk. Josie Felce provided some lovely live harp music and Gabriel Millar, a poem about the month of the dead, talking briefly about Thanksgiving – this lead into an interesting discussion on how we celebrate the turning of the wheel. Tired, but happy afterwards I felt like I had well and truly wetted the baby’s head. Thank you to all those who came along (a couple came from Yeovil)!

Friends view the book

On Sunday I travelled down to Totnes to give a talk on the book to the Wessex Research Group. The attendance was very low – but I had an interesting chat with one chap afterwards, who told me about the ‘Wheel-turners’ in Buddhism. I knew about the Buddhist resonance in the title, but the idea of an actual role intrigued me. Called Chakravartin (S); Chakkavatti(P), literally, “Wheel-turner”, it is defined as: the ideal king who practices, supports and spreads Buddhism (“Turning the Wheel of the Dharma”).

The Dharma Wheel is one of the earliest and most important symbols in Buddhism. The symbol refers to the story in which post the Buddha’s enlightenment, Lord Brahma descended from the heaven and asked Him to teach by offering a Dharmachakra.

The Dharma Wheel is a symbol of the Buddha’s teaching of the path to enlightenment. The Buddha is known as the Wheel turner and as per some Buddhist Schools, He turned the Dharma Wheel few times. The first, to which all the Buddhist agree, was when the Buddha preached the five sages at the Deer Park in Sarnath. The later turning of wheel account are not always same. They vary, however what is concluded from this is that the dharma wheel needs to be turned thrice for a student to understand dharma (De La Soul got it right – three really is the magic number).

The Dharma Chakra has eight spokes that stand for Eight Fold Noble Path. These spokes have sharp edges that are believed to ward off ignorance. The shape of the wheel is round which conveys the completeness and faultlessness of the dharma teaching. The spokes stand for wisdom, the hub for discipline and the rim for concentration. Discipline is extremely important in meditation, similarly concentration is of utmost significance to hold everything together.

I love the idea of the spokes standing for wisdom, the hub for discipline, and the rim for concentration – this could easily be a metaphor for riding a motorbike (one is always conscious of where the wheels and the road connect) and for the Middle Way, of course!

By ‘turning the wheel’ one can literally change one’s luck, or wyrd (to use an Anglo-Saxon concept). The very act of travel can become an act of prayer. Whenever I jump on my bike and go for a blat I feel I ‘shift’ something – even if it is just blowing away the cobwebs. More conscious acts of journeying (ie to sacred sites on pilgrimage) can really enhance one’s karma.

So, as I keep turning the wheel, I send out a prayer: May my luck turn also! And bring good fortune to all those I come into contact with.

I caught the train home the next morning – feeling wiped out by my big ‘push’ to launch the book. All this publicity and promotional stuff can be exhausting, but is unfortunately part of the author’s lot these days. No hiding of light’s under bushels!

Earlier in the week I had conducted interviews for BBC Radio Wales and BBC Radio Gloucester (a great interview with Faye Hatcher). I got to listen to Phil Rickman’s book review programme Phil the Shelf upon my return – the interview seemed to go well, but was predictably butchered to ‘soundbites’: shame he focused on the salacious side (the aphrodisiac qualities of a certain waterfall in North Wales) and kept getting my name wrong. What I thought was a serious book show turned out to be one that focused on the gimmicky and weird – a kind of ‘odd box’ programme. I was lumped with the weirdoes. Oh well!

Perhaps I can take some consolation in Rickman’s response to the book: ‘Inspiring stuff’. And he said of my Pistyll Rhaeadr account: ‘the kind of incident from which folklore is formed.’ which can’t be all bad…

If anything, this week’s media floozing has just reminded me again what a fickle mistress she is! I felt slightly grubby afterwards – tread softly, for you tread upon my dreams!

What should be more down-to-earth and satisfying is the next date on my ‘Turning the Wheel Tour’. For a start, this one I can walk to. On Thursday I give a talk in my fab local, the Crown and Sceptre – literally, the end of my lane – precisely one year on from moving to Daisybank. It feels like I am thoroughly ensconced in my community. It is nice to be made to feel so welcome. The friendly pub is run by a biker, Rodda, and has a lovely community feel – serving the patrons of the Horns Road area and beyond. The town seems to have a concentration of creative types, and most of them seem to live along my street! Is there something in the water (or the ale)? I think I need to investigate further…

More talks are coming up …

Turning theWheel Tour

dates confirmed so far…

2011
25 Nov – Five Valleys Foyer, Stroud
27 Nov – Wessex Research Group, Bogan House, Totnes
1 Dec – Crown & Sceptre, Horns Rd, Stroud
3 Dec – Isbourne Holistic Centre, Cheltenham
9 Dec – The Bear, Holwell
10 Dec – Cat & Cauldron, Glastonbury
15 Dec – Waterstones, Bath
21 Dec – Midnight Sun, Lansdown Hall, Stroud

2012
5 Jan – Bonn Central Library, Germany!
28 Jan – Swindon Brunel Waterstones
1 Mar – George Hotel, Bridport
29 Mar – New Brewery Arts, Cirencester
21 April – PFNE Conference, York
28 April – Trowbridge Waterstones
7 May – Hawkwood Open Day

Hope to see you on the road – turning the wheel together.

Gerald Manwaring, aka 'Gerry' (1938-2008)

‘We won’t be here forever…’ This was one of my Dad’s favourite sayings. Although I knew this – and found it a little irritating – it came uncannily true sooner than anyone had expected.

Gerald George Manwaring (known as ‘Gerry’ to his mates) died suddenly in early January 2008, aged 69. The family pulled together through this difficult time – my sister and I supporting Mum. I spoke at the funeral service about his life. We planted a tree for him and scattered his ashes over Delapre Abbey, where he loved to walk the dogs. In the summer we held a celebration of his life on what would have been his 70^th birthday. When a small payment finally came through from his pension fund, I decided I wanted to buy something large and solid to remember Dad by, for that is how he came across. I wanted something physical to show he had existed. And so I purchased Triumph Legend motorbike – I’d had my eye on a Triumph for sometime, thinking I might get a Bonneville, but this 2001 model seemed apt, since Dad was something of a legend. Whenever I went for a ride on it, it would be a way of remembering him – in a way, going with him on trips to places I wished we had gone while he was alive. He loved his ‘walkabouts’ as he called them – going on random excursions to, say, Scotland, just to check out a few whiskey distilleries. As a child he had travelled wildly with his father, naval-base hopping around the Southern Hemisphere. If Mum was the ‘fixed point’ of my childhood universe – always at home, her ‘realm’ – Dad was the heavenly body, orbiting – always out and about. Mum symbolised the hearth; Dad, the world. Of exotic heritage, (born in Hong Kong, his mother was from Lima, Peru) he was a worldly bloke – and you could sometimes get him to chat about his travels over a pint or two.

And so, with this in mind, I planned a year-long trip around Britain. The best way we can honour the dead is … to live. When a parent dies, it gives one an intense sense of mortality. There’s almost a sense of duty – to savour each sacred moment. To live life ‘for them’ (…well, almost – ultimately, it’s for oneself) and enjoy the years they should have enjoyed, that were stolen from them. You are their DNA, after all – projected into the future. Living beyond their mortal coil. Thus, we continue, in a way (the only way?). How often does an obituary say: ‘he is survived by his wife and two children’? Saying that, I feel more than the sum of my parents… ‘They come through you but not from you’ (Khalil Gibran, The Prophet). Still, I feel obliged to honour their memory. They did give me life after all. Raised me, as best they can. Set me on my way.

And so I rode the roads of Britain in my father’s memory – exploring how we make and mark the ‘turning of the wheel’: seasonal festivals and customs. My Dad loved Christmas, Pancake Day, his birthday – anything that involved food and drink! I didn’t quite feast my way around Britain (though that would be nice!) but wherever I went I partook of a kind of communion – imbibing the atmosphere, the genius loci, for Dad. I opened my senses and relished it all – experiencing fully this thing called being alive. It made the numerous trips more poignant, to say the least. It was as though my father rode pillion. I wish I could have taken him out for a spin – and, in a way, I was.

Sight-seeing with a ghost.

Yet, it wasn’t as macabre as it sounds. Whenever something went wrong – I got lost, broke down, misplaced something – I could imagine my Dad laughing. He was there, reminding me not to take it all too seriously, to lighten up, to enjoy the ‘craic’, this precious gift called life.

And so I did.

I hope you do as well.

The author hits the road with Gerry

Turning the Wheel: seasonal Britain on two wheels by Kevan Manwaring, is published by O Books, 25^th November 2011. ISBN: 978-1-84694-766-7

Available from all good bookstores or order direct from: www.o-books.com

Join me on the Turning the Wheel Tour – for dates, visit: www.kevanmanwaring.co.uk

In Comes I!

Saturday 19th November

The Fine Lady of Banbury, photographed at the Hobby Horse Fair 2010 by Kevan Manwaring

Today I took a sunny ride down to Bath to experience the raggle taggle delights of the first ‘Mummers Unconvention’ – a gathering of performers, academics, enthusiasts and support teams involved in the obscure world of ‘Mummers Plays – the possibly ancient folk street theatre traditionally performed over Yuletide by amateur locals, who wear a colourful variety of disguises (hence, guizers) to ‘keep mum’ – affording them a certain degree of anonymity, so their satirical skits can cock a snook at the lord of the manor/figure of authority, or, in modern palance – stick it to the man. Although these whimsical ritual dramas, seem far from being anarchic – harmless English fun, to some, along with Morris-dancing, to which it is joined at the ankle (by bells).

It was a beautiful sunny November day, as I rolled into town, noticing the Occupy camp set up in Queens Square. Good on them! (tis a pity they didn’t join in the Unconvention to spread their message: I can imagine a modern day Mummers’, with ‘Old Father Capitalist’; ‘the Whore of Babylon’; ‘Lord Mammon’; the ‘Universal Protester’; ‘PC Plod’; ‘Cokehead the Stockbroker’, etc – depicting the death and resurrection and death of the ailing Economy, aka ‘the Boom and Bust Show’!)

I parked up and walked to the Cross Baths, where the various teams were gathering – an outlandish array of characters: clowns and kings, damsels and knights, men with beards in drag, in a mufti uniform of eras, straddling pantomime horses, others blacked up – like dodgy extras from a League of Gentlemen skit. There was something surreal and slightly disturbing about this defiantly unPC entourage standing there in broad daylight – as though the guilty contents of forgotten dreams had erupted into the light: a cast of archetypes, stereotypes, shadow-dwellers and Id-merchants we keep a collective lid on. Yet it brought an explosion of joy and colour to the streets of Bath. As the Mummers queued up alongside BHS like bargan-hunters in the January sales, waiting for the start of the procession, they brought bemused and amused expressions to the faces shoppers and passersby. And then they were off, wending their way through the hustle and bustle of Stall Street. The home-made ‘moochers’ provided a welcome relief to the bourgeois boutiques of the High Street. This was unchic, anti-fashion. If there’s nowt so queer as folk then this was a Pride Parade of the mad, glad and ungainly! The Mummers were just what Bath needed, to stop taking itself too seriously. Yet the elegant Bath architecture provided a photogenic backdrop for this buffoonery – the presence of the Mummers transformed familiar landmarks. The golden Bath stone glowed brightly in the afternoon sun as they made their way accompanied by drum, squeezebox and pipes. It could have been a Wicker Man re-enactment society, except these folk were for real – inhabiting their roles with serious silliness: ‘Make way for the fine lady!’ called one of the Fine Lady Revellers from Banbury (home of its own Hobby Horse Festival), sweeping a path with her broom. It is rare indeed to see so many Mummers Players together – as most only perform at Yuletide, in one locale, and don’t travel around like Morris sides often do. They are fixed to their location and ‘traditional’ time of year. This was ‘the first attempt of its kind to bring together groups from all over the country and beyond, as a way to spread the word about this fascinating and vibrant drama.’ The ‘unconvention’ was convened by Ian Gilchrist – of the Widcombe Mummers (who perform on New Year’s Day in the Widcombe ‘village’ area). They were conspicuous by their absence today (as the host team) but I did bump into their hobby horse man – Rob Miller – who had made his own ‘oss’ and joined the side… Much-missed local folklore expert, druid and bonzo soul Tim Sebastian played the part of ‘the King of the Beggars of Holloway’ (an actual local character). He would have loved today, having been responsible for instigating a number of absurd traditions himself including cheese-blessing and cucumber-dancing!

Among the teams present were the wonderfully named Sompting Tiptereers, Herga, Bal de Malcasats (Spain), plus the Bristol Rag (performing the Nine Lives of Brunel), Frome Valley, Gloucestershire Morris, Suffolk Howlers, Stony Stratford, Weston (Bath), Potterne Christmas Boys, Fine Lady’s Revellers, and Langport. A Motley team was put together with any members whose full side couldn’t attend.

The surreal raggle taggle procession wended its way around the city centre – along the narrow streets – ending up at the Chapel Arts Centre, where their was a ‘Mayor’s Reception’. Local MP Don Foster played to the crowd. The bar did a roaring trade.

After this pitstop the teams spread out around the town to perform in one of four locations. I caught performances on Stall Street, Old Bond Street and in front of the Abbey. The Catalan team, Ball de Malcasats (Dance of the Bad Marriages) – a traditional street drama from Vilanova i la Geltrú, a coastal resort near Barcelona, Catalunya – were fascinating to watch. Some of their patter was translated as they went along, but there was little need: it was universal, yet at the same time also very Spanish! The comic characters were instantly recognizable – the cuckold, the buffoon, the flirtatious wife, the corrupt priest, the pontificating politician, the bullying baddy. There were very similar to the cast of the Commedia dell Arte, the Comedy of Art, of the Profession – performed in Venice, in half-masks.

During the first Bardic Festival of Bath back in 1998 I had my own Mummers Play, ‘The Head of Winter’, performed in this style by local actors. It was during this festival that I won the Bardic Chair – with my poem, ‘Spring Fall: the story of Sulis and Bladud of Bath’. This was inspired in part by the Roman ‘mummers mask’ found under Stall Street by workman and now in the Roman Baths Museum. This would have been used in the theatre once part of the city-wide temple complex that existed during the Roman occupation. I wondered what kind of play would have been performed for pilgrims – a sacred drama illuminating the mysteries of the mysterious hot springs perhaps? And this gave birth to my ‘play’ (a ritual dialogue between Bladud and Sulis) performed with my partner at the time, Emily Tavakoly.

Bladud of Bath - costume devised for 'Spring Fall' by Kevan Manwaring 1998

The Storyteller's Faerie Trail - 1994 photo by Julie Manwaring

I have been interested in this form since back in my old home town of Northampton, where I devised a piece of mummery called ‘The Storyteller’s Faerie Trial’. This never happened in the end, but it set me off on my own storyteller’s adventure – taking me to Bath, where I became Bard – and onto Stroud. More recently I wrote an ‘eco-mummers’ play called ‘Wassailing Avalon’, set in the Somerset Levels and featuring many Glastonbury ‘archetypes’. I hope one day it’ll be performed on the streets of Glastonbury! (here’s a link in case you’re tempted).

Among the most powerful performances was by the super-annuated Potterne Christmas Boys, whose collective age must be a few centuries. They simply walked on in silence – forming a circle and then a line – dramatic in front of the Abbey. Then, like Quakers, they began to speak, as though seized by spirit – introducing themselves in the traditional way. The characters were the usual misfits (Old Father Christmas; Saint George; the Turkish Knight; the Doctor; plus one called Almanac – who was a bit of a druid type). The nice touch was after the ritual combat, when Saint George slew the Turkish Knight – it was the Turkish Knight who was resurrected by the Doctor,in a fine show of humanitarianism. Then they sang a song about being ‘all wounded together’ which was quite touching.  These guys you could tell were the real deal – less ‘business’ but more gravitas. Watching them really felt like a window into the past. Many of the Mummers died out literally, due to the devastation of the First World War. The living link seemed lost – and yet, it has been miraculously revived, like Saint George, and lives on ‘to fight another day’. Hip hip hooray!

All in all, a fascinating day, which very much relates to my book Turning the Wheel: seasonal Britain on two wheels – which features the Marshfield, Keynsham and Southstoke Mummers. Here’s to the survival of such colourful eccentricity – stopping life getting too dull or normal!

May it become an annual event. Keep Mum and carry on!

Southstoke Mummers, Packhorse, Southstoke, Boxing Day

The Devil has All the Best Tunes

Tim Curry in devilish form in Legend

It might be a truism to suggest that old Nick could belt ‘em out, as it were, but it seems to be often the case. Last week I took my lady to a great show at the Everyman Theatre, Cheltenham – The Wild Bride, by the ever-wonderful Knee-High Theatre company. This kinetic production of the Brothers Grimm fairy tale, The Handless Maiden, was physical theatre at is best, mixed in with some mean tunes…played by no less than the Lord of the Flies himself. Imaginatively transferred to the Thirties’ dystopia of Dust Bowl America – the stuff of Steinbeck – the Devil appears in the ‘nick of time’ to offer riches to a man down on his luck, in exchange for not his soul but whatever happened to be in his backyard … which turns out to be his beloved daughter. The Devil, brilliantly played by Stu McLoughlin, in an inversion of the classic Robert Johnson ‘creation myth’ (the lowdown an’ dirty granpappy of bluesmen, who claimed he sold his soul to the Devil at the crossroads in exchange for the gift of playing a guitar) is a Bluesman, playing his geetar cockily on a rocking chair and singing with a seductively good voice. His oldtime classic tunes (in the manner of ‘O Brother Where Art Thou’?) provide a wry Greek Chorus and kickass soundtrack throughout the show, which becomes very Tim Burton-like (the unlucky daughter loses her hands, but she is fashioned some out of metal by a Prince – from an old rake and a billhook). Three actresses play the handless maiden at different stages of her life – (The Girl: Audrey Brisson; The Woman: Éva Magyar; The Wild: Patricia Kujawska) each bringing their exceptional gifts and physical presence: a voice, fiddle-playing, dance. The feckless father becomes a gay Gordon-like Scotsman – Stuart Goodwin – hilariously prancing around in his kilt and Mr Magoo specs. The Devil is cheated of his prize – and so he moves onto to … ‘someone else!’ The show ends, the lights go up. The magic lingers. Professional theatre is dazzling to experience. It is such a tonic to be taken outside of yourself – and to experience it right before your eyes, live on stage, performed for you. In a world saturated by virtual experiences, a CGI-version of reality, it makes for a refreshing change. Such entertainments empowers, rather than disempowers, the individual – making them a participant rather than a couch-potato consumer, popcorn zombies.

Carrying on the devilish theme, this year sees the centenary of the publication of Ambrose Bierce’s wickedly witty classic, The Devil’s Dictionary. Originally entitled The Cynic’s Word Book, it was retitled and published in 1911. Addressed to ‘enlightened souls who prefer dry wines to sweet, sense to sentiment, wit to humour and clean English to slang,’ it is full of deliciously ironic definitions. Among my favourite are:

Alcohol, n. (Arabic al khol, a paint for the eyes) The essential principal of all such liquids as give a man a black eye.

Fib, n. A lie that has not cut its teeth.

Language, n. The music with which we charm the serpents guarding another’s treasure.

Love, n. The folly of thinking much of another before one knows anything of oneself.

Namby Pamby, adj. Having the quality of magazine poetry. See Flummery.

Noncombatant, n. A dead Quaker

Novel, n. A short story padded.

Once, adj. Enough

Resign, v. A good thing to do when you are going to be kicked out.

Scribbler, n. A professional writer whose views are antagonistic to one’s own.

Self, n. The most important person in the universe. See Us.

Selfish, adj. Devoid of consideration for the selfishness of others.

Year, n. A period of three hundred and sixty-five disappointments.

Bierce’s definitions have inspired me to start concocting my own. There is a perverse pleasure to be gleaned from reverse logic. Here are some composed (at the Witching Hour last night):

A Lesser Demon’s Dictionary

Writer, n. Someone who takes longer to write than anyone else.

School, n. A place where you do not learn anything.

Pupil, n. A young person prone to look at anything except the smartboard.

Smartboard, n. A device for showing others how dumb they are.

Government, n. An institution for those who cannot rule themselves, who lack common sense and a social conscience.

Money, adj. A fleeting quality. (n) a mythic, outmoded metaphor bearing no relation to wealth.

Freedom, n. The liberty to impose on others harsh laws.

Mobile Phone, n. An instrument for torturing others within a confined space.

Bank, n. A place where your money is not safe.

The Economy, n. A system for the mismanagement of the country’s wealth.

Eurozone, n. A region of mutual impoverishment.

Entertainer, n. Someone who finds it difficult to relate to people on a normal level.

Celebrity, n. A person who is famous for being devoid of talent.

Biker, n. A middle-aged wannabe rebel – often very conservative and traditional in their views.

Punk, n. Angry old men, prone to ejecting saliva.

Hippy, n. A New Age capitalist.

Infant, n. A baby elephant.

Adult, n. A single dult.

I highly recommend this activity. It is a guaranteed way of making yourself laugh, and others not to.

To balance things out – I have been thoroughly enjoying Martin Scorsese’s superb documentary about George Harrison: Living in the Material World. It explores his spiritual quest as much as his career – the two are linked of course, as he expressed, through his sublime music, his deep response to life and the dilemmas it faces. How to be ‘in the world, but not of it’. The Cathar heresy was that the Devil was in fact the ruler of the World – and it is easy enough to believe that these days. It’s a good job he’s a Hell of a good showman. Cue: Sympathy for the Devil…

12-16 October

Kevan performs at the Bristol Story Cafe

It’s been a particularly rich ‘bardic week’.Wednesday night my friend Ola and I performed our show ‘Tales of the Desert, Desire and the Red Thread’ at the Bristol Story Cafe, held above the funky wholefood shop, La Ruca, in Bristol. I started things off with a bit of Rumi, then my Garden of Irem story, finishing with Phaethon and the Chariot of the Sun’, a Greek myth which explains how the deserts of the world were created. Ola then stepped up to the plate to regale us with the tale of the Woman who gave birth to the Moon – a story from her collection, ‘The Firekeeper’s Daughter’. Mine were inspired by my novel, The Burning Path. Escaping Bristol, we wended our way back to the genteel suburbs of Bath.

On Thursday I caught up with my friend and co-writer, Terry James. We listened back to the recording of the Dymock Poets Story read-thru – a week on. It was magical, hearing our words brought alive by the ‘company’. Lots of exciting emails have been whizzing back and forth recently about famous directors and actors who might become involved. Can’t say any more than that at present!

Friday night I treated my partner to a mystery night out – taking her to see the master storyteller Abbi Patrix and his talented percussionist partner Linda Edsjö at the Playhouse in Cheltenham – part of the mega Litfest on at the moment. A small entourage of us went over from Stroud, in Fiona’s ‘bardmobile’ – following the moon along the scenic Birdlip route. While climbing to our seats in the stalls I commented to an elderly lady heading in the same direction: ‘This literature lark keeps you fit!’ She replied ‘Nothing can keep me fit!’ It was AS Byatt. We got chatting about her new book Ragnarok – which she was talking about the following day. She was a charming lady – unpretentious and approachable; as was her fellow Booker Prize winner, Ben Okri, who also happened to be sitting in the same row as AS, two rows down from us. Afterwards, enjoying a post-show drink and discussion in the bar, I bumped into him on the way out. We shook hands and had a brief discussion about the wonderful show, which I called ‘Shamanic’. ‘The perfect word for it,’ he said. He asked my name, and what I did. He had a lovely graceful presence. Meeting two writers I admire in one night – I went home happy!

The next day I popped into town and enjoyed the atmosphere of market day – bumping into friends old and new on the High Street – feeling I am lucky to live in such a lovely, friendly place with a vibrant, creative community, stunning countryside and great pubs! Later, I paid a visit to my local, the Crown and Sceptre, joining the Saturday afternoon crowd watching the match. I supped my Budding in its mug and perused the papers – it’s one of those pubs where you can have a quiet read in the corner and no-one thinks you’re an alien with two heads. Along with their weekly nights of ‘stitch ‘n’ bitch’; Up the Workers Wednesdays; bikers & poker night, they also have the occasional arts event – eg a film show with live soundtrack or the up-and-coming book launch. I talked to the landlord Rodda about holding one their for my imminent book, Turning the Wheel.

That evening I went to the Lorca in England finale at Whiteway Colony Hall – which had links with the Spanish poet and his Civil War comrades in the Thirties. It took some finding along the dark backroads – the weird no man’s land that is the ‘Cheltenham triangle’. Eventually we pulled into the carpark in time to hear the jazz – Lorca’s poems set to music, against the backdrop of an impressionistic ‘Lorca-mentary’ made by a local film-maker. In the summer, a competition for the best Lorca poem in translation was held. Tonight the shortlisted poems were read out – by the entrants who could attend (one had come from Paris), or by local Rimbaud, Jeff Cloves, and the judges – two American poets, flown over especially for the event. The suitably international winner was announced (an Italian living in France). Another well known local poet, Philip Rush MCed the whole event in a witty and informative way – a cool school-teacher daddy-o. The rioja flowed as we hobnobbed with the crowd of poetry-lovers afterwards. It’s not often one goes to a bilingual poetry reading – and has a good night. The whole thing wasn’t so ‘worthy’ as to be dull – it had a slightly anarchic air to it. The archive footage of the Wall Street Crash and soup kitchen queues, the spectre of Fascism and the fopdoodle of the media made the whole thing eerily resonant. One could imagine Lorca being at home with the protesters around the world who took part in a global anti-austerity/corporate greed demos today. Power to the People!

And today – Sunday – there is the Stroud Short Story night at the SVA. Words galore! What a place to live!

Dymock Poets Dinner Party

6th October

Dymock Poets Dinner Party at Daisybank, 6 October 2011

Last night seven of us gathered at Daisybank to celebrate a special friendship. On the 6th October 1913, the poets Robert Frost and (then prose-writer) Edward Thomas met for the first time. I decided this was an auspicious anniversary to have the first read-thru of the screenplay I have co-written with ex-ITV news editor Terry James about the lives of the Dymock Poets (a mutual passion of ours – Terry wrote a play about Thomas and his wife thirty years ago). Having the initial flash of inspiration in Spring 2010 after a discussion with Terry about another project, we began work in earnest late last summer – I drafted the initial treatment while on Skyros, running my first Writers’ Lab course. This was an evocative place to work on it – being the ‘corner of a foreign field that is forever England’ (Rupert Brooke, one of the Dymocks, is buried there). Having the village in Gloucestershire where it all started on my doorstep helped to bring it alive also, and I’ve spent several weekends on writers’ retreat there – staying at a lovely place in Redmarley D’abitot, walking in the footsteps of Frost, Thomas et al along the Poets’ Walks in the area. Talks and walks organised by the Friends of the Dymock Poets also helped to stir the cauldron (most recently, last Saturday – with excellent talks about Marsh and the War Poets). The recent wave of media interest in Thomas was an uncanny coda to my own ‘Dymock Fever’ I’ve been experiencing this last year and a half (to the point I even moved to Gloucestershire last December).

Kevan Manwaring - co-screenwriter of the Dymock Poets story

I invited 6 people to my soiree – the dress code was ‘Edwardian/Georgian’ and everyone made a real effort. I provided a roast dinner and there were contributions of pears from Herefordshire (from David’s garden), home-made cake, Wisset’s Pink from Suffolk, and other tasties. After the meal we read out some of the Dymocks poems – beginning with ‘The Sun Used to Shine’ by Thomas, about the ‘walk-talking’ rambles he used to enjoy with Frost in and around Dymock.

Then we repaired to the ‘lounge’, where a fire was roaring – not for port and cigars – but for a read-thru of the screenplay. Roles were allocated and the casting seemed to be spot on as the respective thesps rose to the occasion – Jay carried off a good American accent for Frost; Anthony was perfect for Thomas; as his partner Kirsty was for Farjeon; Gabriel played Helen (& the barmaid!); Ola, Brooke; David, Marsh (& Bott). The other parts were played by ‘members of the cast’, as they say. I read out the scene descriptions and filled in where necessary. The dialogue flowed well and the group held the focus for over two hours – with no one breaking the spell for a loo break, etc. At times, with the fire crackling in the grate, the atmosphere was powerful. And once again I found the Dymock story deeply moving.

Afterwards, there was cake and crit – although some had to depart due to the lateness of the hour. Finally, the guests left (except Ola, the Bonn-Bath migrant, who had to crash over), and I went to bed feeling replete – a perfect night, made so by exceptional friends, all talented writers, storytellers and poets. The Dymock Poets story has such a pull for me, because I find the way those poets (their wives; close friends; & muses) inspired and supported each other very inspiring.

Here’s to creative fellowship!

Ola, Jay, Anthony & Gabriel - creative fellowship

Skyros 1-11 September

Sunset at Atsitsa

I returned to the gorgeous Aegean isle of Skyros on the first of the month for my second year of running a creative writing workshop – this time focussing on what I call ‘Life: Fiction’, my hybrid of life-writing and fiction-writing (where one ends and the other begins is often hard to say). I rode to Heathrow and parked up my ‘bike – before catching the BA flight to Athens. We were picked up by the distinctive purple Skyros coach, and guided to our hotel by Julian – the long-running member of staff, a skilled guide and consummate professional. Our brief stopover in the capital city was a chance to check out an attraction or two, as well as connect with fellow participants (& tutors). Before the respective parties went to either Skyros Centre (Writers’ Lab/Life Choices) or Atsitsa (various courses & activities) it was nice opportunity to forge a collective identity. We were all embarking on the adventure together. A group of 19 of us went out, looking for somewhere to dine – deciding to venture to the so-called ‘Anarchists’ Quarter’ to sample the local scene. The atmosphere seemed pleasant – with young black-clad Athenians hanging out, sporting long hair and lots of make-up (back home they’d be called ‘Emos’ or ‘Goths’). The food finally came – a barrage of starters, in true meze style. The cold bottle of Mythos went down a treat after a long journey, yet it wasn’t over yet. The following day, after a morning (which I used to visit the National Archaeological Museum) we set off – well, we would have done if not for the Student Protest which caused our street to the blocked off and the hotel barricaded up. We were stuck until they had passed, delaying the departure of the coach – but making for an interesting spectacle. The student protesters were far more civilised than their British equivalents – stamping and singing in good spirits. It felt ‘good-natured’ if earnest – they have true cause for complaint. The economic crash has hit Greece hard – there were a lot of beggars of the streets and lots of political graffiti everywhere, but I didn’t feel unsafe. However, there was a sense it was a powder-keg – and combined with the heat, noise and endless traffic – it was a distinct relief to leave the ugly metropolis. If nothing else, a night in Athens makes you appreciate the time on the island even more.

Graffiti in Athens

As soon as we reached the Aegean coast, things looked up. The ‘wine-dark’ sea (actually a dazzling turquoise at that time of day) was a sight for sore eyes; and soothing to the other senses also – to stand on deck of the ferry as it crossed over to Evia, feeling one’s body enveloped in a warm breeze – and then onto the Linaria from the other side. Due to the delay caused by the protest we nearly missed the last ferry – getting there with five minutes to spare. As we approached Skyros we were treated to a spectacular sunset. At the same time the maiden moon rose opposite. And it felt like we had slip through the Symplegades of reality and entered a realm of enchantment. This effect was somewhat challenged by the ’2001: A Space Odyssey’ music blasting out as we entered the port of Linaria (something of a tradition – which the residents must love!). By now, after twenty four hours of travelling I was feeling rather spaced out and very glad to finally arrive at the Skyros Centre for a late dinner. With relief we were shown to our quarters. Despite a dripping tap, I slept well, dog-tired.

Courses started the very next day – straight after the breakfast community meeting. For the next eight days (with one day off halfway through) I ran a three hour writing workshop every morning from 10.30am. My group of participants was small (6) but the international cross-section and striking personalities more than made up for it (an Australian; a South-African; a Belgian; an American-Asian; & a couple of Brits). The group seemed to bond well and produced some good work. Every afternoon, after a delicious lunch conjured up by Vasso, (the near-legendary local cook) I enjoyed a siesta down on the lovely beach at Magazia – swimming in the warm clear seas and cooling off with a beer and a book. Bliss.

Life's a Beach - on Skyros

One day, while I was running my writing workshop on the terrace a British couple turned up who had met at Skyros twenty five years ago – got married and were celebrating their anniversary on the island. They were invited to join us for lunch – and a cake magically manifested from Vasso’s kitchen.

Great massages were on offer from Martha – our resident native masseuse – and Andrea offered a ‘personal styling’ drop-in in the evenings. It’s half-board at Skyros, so most evenings the participants took themselves off to the town or the beach to dine – and most evenings they seemed to end up on the terrace of the apartment block where I was staying, enjoying a ‘nightcap’ or three – usually courtesy of Peter’s generosity (he kept regaling us with bottles of wine and whisky in an ongoing ‘tasting’ session).

Terrace party

The Dionysian revelry was not sustainable – and folk started to flounder after a few late nights. I had learnt to pace myself quickly – and enjoying a few quiet ones in allowed me to be clear-headed most mornings – essential for my class! If the late night drinking was avoided, the life-style at Skyros was in fact very healthy – great food, plenty of exercise, rest, sun and early morning yoga – so my body soon started to ‘glow’.

The excellent catering was occasionally supplemented by superb additions by the multi-talented Andrew – who co-runs the Skyros Centre with Julian. One morning he treated us to home-made bagels. And one evening a delicious curry for the staff (yum!).

Skyros Centre - all quiet for siesta time

Half-way through the session we visited the sister site at Atsitsa – a chance to swim off Dead Goat Beach, enjoy a drink at Mariana’s while watching the sunset, and catch up with our fellow travellers. The bold (or foolish) could try a bit of Greek dancing, although the ‘free-style’ to resident musician Tom’s drumming posse was more to my taste. Alas, taxis whisked us back to Skyros at eleven like a fleet of pumpkin coaches, yet the visit had provided a welcome ‘change of scene’. Both groups seem to decide that their place was best! In truth, both have their attractions – but a plus for Skyros is the experience of living ‘amongst the locals’ in traditional Greek dwellings, and so could be said to be a more authentic experience, culturally. You get to know the predominantly ancient locals, sitting on their porches, as you pass them everyday, calling out ‘Kalimera’ or ‘Yaisas!’

High Country - Skyros mountain walk

The day after was our official day off – making the most of the free morning I visited the local archaeological museum (its modest collection of local finds not quite matching the main one in Athens!) then went for a solo mountain walk after lunch with the Atsitsan guests. It was great to strike out alone – and enjoy some peace and space, after a few intense ‘people-rich’ days. I like good company – and my own! I need both to stay pleasant. The only company I had was a herd of wild goats – the sound of their bells is a familiar sound in the high country of Greece – and evokes an Arcadian idyll unchanged for centuries. One half expects Pan himself to step out from behind an olive tree, or to catch a nymph bathing in a sun-dappled pool (on the South Island, there is the Spring of the Nymphs below the Temple to Pan on a mountain top – amongst the tangled shade of a massive tree growing by the Spring goats gather, unwittingly conspiring in the mythic resonance of the place).

The magic of Skyros is palpable – in the vibrant colours; the air like warm honey; the golden evening light; in the vast star fields; the nocturnal chirrup of insects; the chiming of church bells in the distance; the heady scents of the night; the crowing of cockerels; the steady rhythms of work and prayer, siesta and socialising. At night the little cobbled streets of the town comes alive – young and old alike are safe until late. There appears to be no delinquency. Like the way the white ‘box’ houses hem each other into into a maze of passageways, so to does Greek society ‘hold’ everyone in place in a very community-focused way. It is a jigsaw puzzle of connections and consequences – a system that is both emotionally and physically ‘earthquake proof’ (when an earthquake hit the island – the monastery and castle were badly damaged, but the ‘sugar cube’ domestic buildings withstood it well).

Sunrise from the castle - Skyros

One morning I got up before dawn to watch the sun rise from Brooke Square – where a statue to the Dymock poet is dedicated (and to ‘classical poetry’). Last time I was here I visited his grave on the South Island (the actual ‘corner of a foreign field that is forever England’) and worked on a screenplay which is now starting to attract some exciting interest – I thanked the spirit of Brooke for any assistance he’s been giving!

I managed to do some light editing of a poetry manuscript – and a lot of reading – but after my class I was often too mentally tired to much other than blob out on the beach. Twenty four hours of teaching in 8 days is quite a lot (in effect, a 10 or 12 week course condensed into just over a week). But time and time again I was surprised and impressed by what participants shared. There was some good work created – and that is always the proof of the pudding. The final feedback was favourable too, and I ‘clocked off’ with some satisfaction. My work was accomplished. School was out.

My writers - on the terrace at the Skyros Centre

On the last night I hosted the centre’s ‘soiree’ – a chance for participants to share a party piece (song, poem, story, joke…) The ‘Skyros Singers’, coached by Kate Daniels, performed a choral world music song. Everyone seemed to pitch in something – either officially or unofficially! There was a great atmosphere and a lot of talent. My own offerings (a Greek myth and a smattering of poems) seemed to go down well. I closed with a Celtic blessing. Then Abba came on at full blast and everyone started to dance in a very silly manner – it was a hoot! There was a lovely sense of connection with everyone – tutors and participants all. Friendships had been forged; latent talents nurtured; new skills learnt; minds and hearts opened; and lifestyles changed or enhanced.

Hosting the soiree - on Skyros

The next morning we left at a civilised hour for the ferry (unlike the usual ‘stupid o’clock’). Again, this provided a nice chance to catch up with Atsitsans and ‘compare notes’. Everybody seemed to be glowing – the body language, expressions and tell-tale ‘twinkle’ said it all.

The magic of Skyros had worked once again!

Bardic Picnic
24-27 July

Bardic Picnic, Delapre Abbey, Northampton July 24 2011

Went up to the annual Bardic Picnic, in my old stomping ground of Northampton. The 3rd ‘official’ Bardic Picnic (actually the fifth) was held in the beautiful grounds of Delapre Abbey – the green heart of the town. This is a very special place for me – I grew up just over the road and would walk my dog here everyday. It was the ‘nursery of my imagination’ as I say in my poetic tribute to this personal soul place, ‘The Green Abbey’.
I rode up on Saturday evening, catching the last rays of the sun as I blatted up the Fosseway, over the Cotswolds. This is one of my favourite runs. I arrived in the dark, just in time to share a few beers with my old buddies, Justin and Jimtom, the co-organisers, along with the crew – who had been working hard all day, putting up the marquees. The boozing and buffoonery carried on into the night, but I needed to crash. I wanted to be fresh for my performances the next day – but since I was camped right next to the fire, it wasn’t easy to go to bed!
Nevertheless, I awoke the next morning feeling refreshed – it was a beautiful sunny morning. One of the highlights of this event is being able to stay over in Delapre Abbey. What a place to wake up! The place is looked after by the Friends of Delapre Abbey and is an important community asset. Its great to see stuff happening here – long may it be run by the people, for the people!
After breakfast I went to rehearse amongst the ‘oaks of my Arcadia’. I was on early – scheduled for 12.30pm – but I ended up being the first act on after Justin introduced things. I performed a set of nine poems from memory on the main stage – it was nice having my sister’s family in the crowds who had gathered on the lawn, picnicking in the sunshine. There was time for a quick sandwich and a drink, then I was back on – to do my storytelling set in the ‘secret grove’, a new and welcome addition to the stages (storytelling always works better acoustically). This seem to be well-received, and I encouraged others to have a go afterwards. Bill, from the Flying Donkeys, a storytelling group in Derbyshire, rose to the challenge admirably.
My bardic duties complete I could finally ‘let my hair down’ – (not so much these days!) and enjoyed a pint while listening to some of the excellent acts on the main stage included Donna Noble (former Bard of Northampton); Ian Freemantle, the Bard of Stony Stratford; Jimtom Say!; & Enki. It was also a chance to catch up with old friends and hang out with my sister and her brood – my great-niece adopted me and clung on ferociously.
The atmosphere was very chilled and family friendly. The weather could not have been better – it was an idyllic summer’s afternoon. The gods smiled down yet again on the Bardic Picnic, and it really feels like the town has got something special going on – there’s a creative buzz and strong community spirit. Everyone pitched in – notably the Umbrella Fayre – and made it happen.

The New Bard of Northampton, 2011

The Bardic Finals took place throughout the day – culminating in the ‘Bardic Statements’ and the Judges’ Decision. The winner was a popular choice – and feels the Bardic Chair has been accepted by the community – and is truly representative of the town and its diversity, as it should be. As the poster says: Spoken Word, Northampton style!
As the sun set we danced to the ever popular Celtic Rasta – a storming end to the best Bardic Picnic yet. Well done, guys!