![pic](https://sidmouthfolkfestival.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/Storytelling-Kingswood-Debs-crop-1.jpg)
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.
This poem was written to commemorate the 70th anniversary of Sidmouth Folk Festival. Special thanks to Derek Schofield for access to his book The First Week in August: fifty Years of the Sidmouth Folk Festival and to Paul Tully for his film A Small Quiet English Town.
The lines in italics in the poem are all direct quotes from people either in the book or the film or from a call out that was made for people to write in with their memories of the festival over the years and what it means to them. These include; Martin Carthy, Sandra Kerr, Taffy Thomas, Bill Rutter and Mary Mayfield. Walk with me as the sun goes down is a line from Steve Knightley’s song A quiet little English Town. Neither maid nor man references the title of a song from the band Tarren which explores gender identity in folk music. Throws off its corsets comes from local poet Jan Dean who has always described Sidmouth Folk Week as, Sidmouth with its corsets off. Which I think is the best descriptions ever.