Ilse Pedler crafted this special 70th poem inspired by YOUR memories and shared your festival experiences.

You can continue share on our Festival memory tree in Blackmore Gardens, growing throughout the Festival week with more memories.

Seventy Years of Sidmouth

How beautiful the song and dance of ordinary people can be

            Martin Carthy

In the quiet moments, maybe at the end of the day

or driving home, when thoughts stray

back over time, settle like butterflies

on a week in August that is unlike any other,

what is it that you remember?

‘55, the year it all began,

a seaside holiday with dancing

a hundred people came

Morris, sword and country dance displays

and processions on the esplanade.

Most in boarding houses but some braver camped

heating flat irons on primus stoves to keep their costumes neat

and when it ended, the proclamation,

It is thought that Sidmouth will continue to dance

 

and so it has

through every year since

a small quiet English town

throws off the corsets of its Edwardian past

puts on its dancing shoes and springs to life

and magic fills the air.

The Fifties

proving youngsters are just as likely to balance and swing

as they are to rock and roll.

 

The Exmouth years

 

The Sixties

From all corners of the globe the dancers came

with flags and drums and masks and even some on stilts

their costumes kaleidoscopes of colour

to entertain us and astound

but still the common people held the ground

to prove above all, that dancing should be fun.

Those were the years where singing joined the dance,

the Beach Store, a shilling for a coffee and a song

spilling over to pubs and streets and campsite

Bill Rutter in his dressing gown summoned

to keep the noise levels down, they just will not go to bed.             

 

But what need have we of sleep

when Sidmouth fills our bellies, keeps our eyelids open wide

and nourishes our souls.

The Seventies

LNE’S at the Bowd Marquee

wood will be provided for bonfires and

Tony Voakes’s hot dog stall will be in attendance.

The year Punk came to Sidmouth,

ceilidhs in the Anchor gardens, dancers pogoing a reel

and a festival of fire, with flaming barrels and burning hoops

and how we revelled in the Company of Fools

with Dr Sunshine, Fabulous Salamis, Chipolatas

and Mike in top hat and chequered trousers.

Fools maybe, but none so wise as those who know that laughter gives us life

And what’s that?

Woman want to dance the Morris?

Whatever next!

Just to think that now more women dance than men…

The Eighties

Ceilidhs in the ford,

the Sidmouth Olympiad

Taffy Mcing two events at once racing on a motorbike in between

or when he dressed as Neptune and as the ceilidh ended,

led the dancers from the Drill Hall to the sea.

And now the generations start to come

who’ve grown the Sidmouth spirit on

The families – The Kippers, the Coppers, the Carthys, the Kerrs, the Kirkpatricks

we pass the baton and watch them run

knowing from little seeds grow shooting roots then giant trees

Sidmouth where youngsters find their feet and older folk find peace.

A place that’s always been the first to throw its arms open wide

push prejudice aside,

from The Rainbow Dancers in their wheelchairs

to Sisters voices raised in song

a safe space for everyone

for maid or man or neither one of these

the pride to be who you are and free.

The Nineties

The years of Frost and Fire and Rain

in ’97 when it nearly washed away

calf deep in water, ankle deep in mud

the craft tent stalls on pallets floating to the sea

but still the Morris sides danced on!

And now world and roots and Cajun music join the throng

and all the workshops,

if there’s a demand for it, we’ll put it on;

the motley choirs their voices raised in song

a Stream of Sound to lift the heart,

come all ye to Sidmouth, sing out loud and strong,

and music, whatever you play, there’s a place for you

slow and steady or galloping on

or learn a new skill or try a craft,

or dance, so many ways to dance

a hundred festivals all rolled into one.

And it proves the saying true,

nobody has a wall around their work –

strength lies in sharing.

Tradition reminds you of who you are and how far you’ve come

it gives you roots and then the wings to fly

this is the festival that can change your life.

So let’s take this glorious pageant of colour and celebration

on into the Millennium,

patchwork years of feast and famine

‘04 nearly the last but the folkies rallied round

and like a phoenix from the ashes a new festival was born,

tentative at first but still with all we love and want to share

still that all that special magic there.

The Morris as its spine, running through the town

jigs, displays, processions,

the sides too many to mention,

to dance at Sidmouth is to realise a dream.

The Arena, the Knowle, the Bowd, the Bulverton,

Carinas where we spent our evenings under a galaxy of stars

where all our dreams seemed possible.

The Bedford, Swan and Volunteer

back rooms, top rooms

the bus shelter on the prom at 2am

the soft whisper of waves the backing track to our song.

And the quieter places The Woodlands, the Royal Glen

the telling of stories as simple as breathing, as precious as breath

words spun into threads, woven into tapestries of history in the spiral of time.

Blackmore Gardens, Manor Pavilion,

how these words have entered our lexicon

each a shorthand for a catalogue of memories

to be dipped into on those dark and wintry nights

to sustain us until summer returns and like swallows we fly south again.

The Covid years

when we emerged small and blinking into the world once more,

Sidmouth opened her arms

and with those rich red sandstone cliffs hugged us in.

 

The year we thought the Ham and Bulverton would blow away

the year we were nearly floorless

but again, the ordinary people won the day

and showed that when love is there

we can always find a way.

And so it begins again;

the week before, the task force works its magic,

bones of marquees lumber to their feet

are clothed with white and anchored down

miles of bunting strung from eave to eave

the mighty Folk Week letters rooted in the ground

and 100 collecting buckets brace themselves

for the heroes that are the volunteers

and all across the country and beyond

folk prepare to travel towards the anchor of the sea;

the seagulls’ raucous laughter, the inexplicable, overflowing

harmony of voices, bells and music,

that sets our fingers tapping and makes our voices hum

and we know we’ve found our tribe.

So, to end and complete this circle

let’s hold each other’s hands

remember those departed

from Bill to Paul and all those in between,

Bill who said Sidmouth was written on his heart

and his greatest wish

to carry the inspiration home with you and pass it on,

so with an ear tuned to the past and an eye on the future

take a walk with me as the sun goes down

watch the torchlight procession through the town

the dancers with tired legs and smiling faces

the glowing lanterns; glorious owls and dragons

swooping high over our heads in celebration,

bright rainbow showers of fireworks lighting up the sky

and as the torches are doused for another year

we feel the Sidmouth blood running in our arteries,

its marrow fill our bones and know that;

as long as our legs will dance for us

as long as our voices will sing for us

as long as our fingers will play for us,

we’ll be back again next year.