Crossroads

There was a very apt quote in the  pamphlet of winning entries for this year's Gloucestershire Writers Network competition - Flannery O'Connor's words "The writer operates at a peculiar crossroads where time and place and eternity somehow meet. His problem is to find that location."

The overall theme of the Literature Festival here this year was "Defining Moments" and on Sunday evening at the "locally sourced" event it was fascinating to see how different competition entrants had responded to the challenge of writing about "Crossroads" in their poetry and prose. Short stories spanned everything from the unexpected outcome of a driving test to the horror of lynchings in the American Deep South; poems encompassed villanelles and blank verse sonnets. A very good evening - and it was lovely to be a participant in it.

National Poetry Day

Yesterday was National Poetry Day, celebrated nationwide on radio and television, in newspapers and magazines and very much in style at Smokey Joes in Cheltenham. Angela France and Roger Turner headlined our event, preceded by a lively open mic session. Our theme was "Gloucestershire" and poems celebrated the wonderful countryside and the interesting towns with which we are blessed. Naturally my contribution had to be an appreciation of our great river ...

Severn Sunset

We walk with the living and the dead

who strode this slow stretch

at low tide to Evensong's toll

in the sunset shimmering light

of a thousand summers,

and sharp-eyed, long-shanked waders

emerge from sighing reeds

to gorge on the bare expanses

of the river's sandy entrails

as dusk softens the Forest shore

where the hills beyond the hills

fade into the mind of yesterday.

(Copyright Gill Garrett 2014)

Frankie March at the open mic

Stop the world ...

Perhaps you know that feeling - when you'd like the world to slow down just a little so that you could jump off and catch up with yourself. So much going on at present and no time to deal with it all, to do things properly ....

The Canal Laureate, Jo Bell

Swindon Festival of Poetry and the Cheltenham Literature Festival clash every year, which is a real shame when both have excellent events that you'd love to go to. Last Friday I spent a great morning at the lovely Lower Shaw Farm in Swindon at a workshop with Jo Bell, their poet in residence this year. Jo was an archaeologist before she took to poetry and canals, living on a narrowboat on the English waterways, and she writes brilliantly (and often very humorously) about both of her existences. If you haven't come across her latest publication, "Kith" (Nine Arches Press), do get hold of a copy - there are some fantastic poems in there.

Within hours of the workshop I was back in Cheltenham and at the Festival here to listen to Pat Barker, in conversation with Antony Beevor. I have always loved her WW1 Regeneration Trilogy, and recently read "Noonday", her latest novel that follows on from "Life Class" and "Toby's Room" to take WW1 characters through to the 1940s London Blitz - an excellent read. Then on Saturday I was able to hear another of my favourite authors, Kate Atkinson, talking about her most recent novels and also about the craft of writing, which I found fascinating.

But now it's back down to work, to the more challenging prospect of writing myself rather than listening to others talking about their writing!

Walking history

I've written a lot in the past about the River Severn, in poetry and in prose, but I'm currently working on some poems about the Wye  My favourite walks are always by water (and preferably through woods) so over the last couple of days I've really been in my element. Yesterday we were walking by the Wye near Monmouth and the old Welsh legend of the three sisters, the Rivers Hafren (the Severn in English), Varga (the Wye) and Ystwyth, came to mind.

All three rivers arise on Plynlimon in mid Wales but the story goes that from there, in their youth, they decided to strike out in different directions. Ystwyth, being lazy, took the shortest route to the sea, setting off to the west; Hafren, who was bold and beautiful and sought the company of men, made her way through towns and villages down to the Bristol Channel. But Varga was shy and retiring  - she took the hidden way through quiet hills and secret places to meet up with Hafren at their journey's end. And that to me exemplifies the wonderful Wye Valley - a place of peace and quiet, quite magical to walk.

Varga - shy and retiring

Today I was walking my dog down by the Sharpness and Gloucester Canal, another favourite place of mine and about which I'm currently preparing a script for a radio programme on "Walking History". It's only been in recent years that I've appreciated how interesting the stories behind our canals - their origins, their working pasts and their current regeneration - can be. Next week I'm going to a workshop on the Swindon Poetry Festival run by Jo Bell, the Canals Laureate; I'm really looking forward to meeting her and to working on some ideas with her.

The swing bridge at Purton

A Literary Pilgrimage

Looking over towards Exmoor

We spent a couple of days this week down in North Devon, on the edge of Exmoor, where (many moons ago!) my husband was at school at West Buckland. He had been invited back to give a careers talk to the senior pupils there and we had a fascinating tour of a school which now presents a very different face to the world from that which he knew in the 1960s!

But for me the visit held a different interest. Many years ago I read "To Serve Them All My Days" by R. F. Delderfield, who had been a  pupil at West Buckland just after the First World War and who used the school and its history as the basis for the book. I'm now rereading it, and loving it as much this time as I did before. Delderfield was a  master of description and the passages about the moorland in particular paint beautifully vivid pictures of that scenic part of the world; his use of the story of David Powlett-Jones to illustrate the changes in education and the social turmoil of the inter-war period makes for a very engrossing read. If you're not familiar with the book, it's well worth having a look at.

A part of the old school Delderfield would have known

Tools of the Trade

When we arrived back after our few days walking the Wales Coastal Path (with a gratifying further forty miles under our belts) there was news of a poem I had submitted for "Tools of the Trade". Each year, when Scottish medical students graduate, they are given an anthology of poems relevant to their future practice, many written by health care practitioners. As a now retired lecturer in nursing studies, I was delighted to hear that mine had been chosen to appear on the Scottish Poetry Library website.

The title "Tools of the Trade" reminds me of a visit we made on the last day of our walking trip to the Margam Stones Museum, which houses the most amazing collection of memorial stones from the ninth century onwards. They have been brought to the museum (a Victorian schoolroom building) from various locations in Wales and are beautifully displayed. The most impressive was the huge wheel cross of Conbelin but my favourite was the smaller cross of Grutne, a tenth century memorial with the inscription "In the name of God the most high this cross of Christ was erected by Grutne for the soul of Ahest". Given the limitations on the "tools of the trade" all those centuries ago, the intricacies of the techniques are so impressive. Research into who Ahest may have been have so far proved fruitless but - as always! - there must be a story there ....

Back on the trail ...

After quite a long break, last week we resumed our Wales Coastal Path walk - in wonderful late summer weather and, despite the notice in the photo above, with no untoward events! There's some spectacular scenery on the Glamorgan stretch of the path and interesting history to follow up on. The only down side - I had thought I'd broken in my new walking boots sufficiently before setting out but unfortunately now have the odd blister to show for it - largely I think from upping and downing across Kenfig Dunes, sand walking never being easy on the feet.

I'm always interested in the local myths and legends of the places we visit and they abound in the areas we've passed through here. Kenfig was a large medieval town, the largest in Glamorgan until, in the 14th century, the sea and then the dunes encroached upon the land to the extent that it became uninhabitable. Sand now covers everything except a very few stony remains of the castle. But legend has it that, if you visit Kenfig Pool at dusk on an autumn evening, you will hear the church bell toll beneath its waters ....

Kenfig Pool

On another stretch, near Cwm Nash, we came upon the remains of an old mill in quite isolated woodland, by the side of a rushing stream that tumbled down towards the sea. I could find out little about its actual history but, as I explored it, my mind was busy weaving stories. I wondered about who might have built it, what events the stones had seen over the years. Such fertile ground for writing! As we covered the miles that day I had all sorts of companions walking by my side - ones who may well see the light of day in forthcoming stories. As always for me, walking provides such great opportunities.