The Edward Thomas Literary Festival – 2022
Planning is well underway for the 2022 Literary Festival, which is on the theme of Edward Thomas’s first published book The Woodland Life.
This year, which will be the last annual Festival before we move to a biennial format – working collaboratively with the Winchester Poetry Festival who will hold their Festivals on alternate years – our Festival will run between Thursday 6 October and Sunday 9 October.
Thursday 6 October is National Poetry Day in the UK and the Festival will finish with a Walk to the Memorial Stone on the 9th, in the morning.
Details of events, and how to book, will be published when known and, as in previous years we will feature Andrew Motion and Two Poets in Conversation on the Saturday followed by a discussion and readings session with the Robert Frost Society on the Saturday evening.
The event will be live and streamed and if you would like to make a donation towards the costs of the Festival you may do so through PayPal or by direct transfer to the Fellowship’s bank account (preferred option).
The Fellowship’s bank details are:
Bank: HSBC
Sort Code: 40-08-21
Account Name: The Edward Thomas Fellowship
Account No: 11250205
Reference: Festival Donation
The Woodland Life was published in October 1897, when he was 19 years old. The following is a description of the English countryside in winter, taken from the book:
“At length the road emerges from its groove on to the hill-top, and once more it is level and bounded by narrow woods of spruce, whence comes the startling challenge of the pheasant-cocks. Meanwhile the twilight air has become keener and the wind rises — humming through the green firs. The smaller birds are nearly all in cover, and only a belated pipit or a steady flapping rook moves aloft in the rude air.
Sometimes, in the hedges that line the way, robins rustle gently and fly a yard or two, or a blackbird blusters out; otherwise the life so lately stirring is silent, and the tomtits are rocked asleep amid the swaying larch-boughs. Out in the fields, freshly turned by the plough, peewits run rapidly hither and thither, occasionally chirruping a low distressful note, unlike their usual screaming wail. The whole flock is within thirty yards of us, and their markings are perfectly clear,– the flowing crest, the dark band beneath the throat, and the snow-white breast, showing against the clods. With the chilling wind the snow begins to fall again, and from the shelter of this holly-tree we can watch the flakes drifting swiftly across the meadows, and rolling like thin smoke, silvering the sward and heaping by the ditches. Still the peewits move uneasily in the open, always facing the wind and the thin wall of snow bearing down upon them. Scared by a sportsman passing near them, several rise, but soon settle again, running a short distance in the very teeth of the blast. Some of them stand huddled in the furrows, as partridges do by the ant-hillocks. At length the snow ceases and the wind drops to a whisper; then over the hill-top the lapwings start up again and wheel in phantom flight, shrieking their weird night call.”