Wise Words: Once Upon A Meadow

Feeling utterly relaxed after a wonderful time in the Garden Tent, I went for a wander into the meadow.  It was quiet, peaceful and full of insects and butterflies.  There was a bit more than that though.  This patch of wild garden had been transformed into every young child's nursery ryhme dream

Following the signs, you were greeted by book birds, dangling from the branches of an ancient everygreen yew tree, it's poisonous crimson berries looking beguiling tempting.  Each book was a literary classic, a tale that everyone should have heard of, and should try to read at least once in their lifetime!  The pages were folded beautifully, creating accordians from words.

Over the river little origami boats floated, ready to set sail on a voyage of discovery as old and young alike learned how to make them in a master class on the banks, brows furrowed in concentration with each complex fold and turn.

Venturing past and into the meadow proper was like entering a world of whimsy and wonder.  Wise Words have always been experts at attention to detail, with lampshades hanging off trees, glass tea parties amongst a trees roots and signs encouraging you to think and debate and laugh, but even knowing this and what to expect, they still manage to take me aback every time.  It is just beautiful - like our own private Wonderland.

Artwork by Jack Cant was displayed in a little woodman's hut and also scattered under the shade of the trees. 

By now you may be thinking that this all looks very nice, but what on earth the point of it all was?  Well now.  This was the setting for an adventure.  At 10am and 3pm every day at the weekend (and that includes this weekend coming, the 20th and 21st September) children could see their favourite nursery rhymes come to life.

With the aid of a song, dance and frolic from the nursery rhyme characters themselves!

This crew of young actors draw children into a world where the sheep have disappeared because Little Boy Blue lies fast asleep and Little Bo Peep needs help to find them.

A dreamland where Mary Mary Quite Contrary collects dreams and helps them grow. A world where Humpty Dumpty and three little dicky birds sit on the wall watching three ships go by. But beware, they warn the children,  don’t go too close to the edge or they may just have a great fall!

If all this sounds far too exhausting then Pretty Polly has a cups of tea on standby and the Queen of Hearts has scrumptious tarts – as long as the Knave hasn't stolen them!

So if you are at a loose end this Saturday or Sunday, and are wondering what to do with the little ones, come down to the Meadow and let Little Bo Peep and her friends invite you into their world. 

There will be things to see, people and animals to meet and lots of activities all day, including family art and craft workshops

All performances are free but spaces are limited so do turn up early and pop your name on the list at the door.  You can reach the Meadow by going to the Greyfriars Gardens, opposite the entrance to the Old Brewery Tavern and by the Abode Hotel in Canterbury.  Family art and craft workshops, like the origami boat making, are £4 per child to cover the cost of the materials used.

It's a wonderful way to get your child's imagination fired up and exploring new and exciting worlds.

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The Franciscan Way

I've been meaning for ages to put these photo's up from a stroll I took along the Franciscan Way.

Where I grew up, there were loads of Green Chain Walks - pathways linking the fields and woodlands together in the heart of South East London.

It was perfectly possible to walk from Bromley to Downham and back via Beckenham without hitting a single road, as long as you followed the signs.  My sister and I, along with Jan (whose internal sat nav would somehow mean we would never get lost for too long), would get home from school in the summer, have dinner at our respective houses then jump on our bikes and head off into the fields and woods for a couple of hours until it got too dark and we had to come home to go to bed.  Every so often we would go further than normal and reach the mansion in the centre of the parkland. 

Other times we would borrow Becky, the Boxer dog who lived next to Jan and run to the park at the bottom of the hill and then go walking along the River Ravensbourne until we got to the tire swing.  Most of the time we made it across in one piece; not always though!  We would spend hours outdoors, just walking, playing and chatting and not once did it occur to us that we were exercising or being healthy - it was just fun.  It sounds so Enid-Blyton-twee looking back on it, but it really was a fabulous way to spend an evening.

Canterbury is a bit different.  The walks are everywhere - essentially you step out of the City and you are in the middle of the countryside until you reach the next town or village so the walks don't need to be signposted as they were in my childhood.  In the city center though there are a few (small) signposted walks that revolve around the ancient gardens and the River Stour, which, in the spring and summer, are wonderfully peaceful places to relax.

They are all located incredibly close to the High Street, and when you are sat relaxing in one of the parks, it is sometimes surprising just how close you really are to the bustling heart of Canterbury.  Only the Cathedral spires soaring over the top of you give you any real indication of exactly where you are.

One of my friends swears by the Franciscan Chapel Gardens as one of the best picnic spots in Canterbury; you work your way up the high street, purchasing various sumptuous delights from each of the street vendors, then head to the gardens with your bag of treats to sit with your feet dangling over the river, basking in the early afternoon sunlight.

The gardens and walk here are a lot tamer than the ones I remember from my childhood - those were uncared for, overgrown and the river was frequently full of litter, shopping trolleys, children's shoes and occasionally the odd door off a car.  In a strange way, that was part of the beauty of it though and I have extremely fond memories of climbing over and through twisted steel gates and fallen trees.  Here, everything appears immaculate in comparison, clean and well loved.

It has a very different beauty; an archaic one that speaks of a bygone era when monks would have tended the river and the grounds to provide sustenance for their brothers.  It still has that air of tranquility about it; a haven in the midst of a busy, bustling city.

They are a sanctuary away from the pressures and stresses of modern life, taking me right back to when I was a child playing games by the river with my sister and my friend.

 

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The Lost Boys Poetry and Music, Franciscan Chapel

This is it, the end of the road and what a road it has been.  Every traveller who has ventured along it has their own tale to tell, tales filled with magic and wonder, music and drama, laughter and love; mine is just a drop in the river, one of thousands of other droplets, all unique but all created from the same Wise Words source.

Up in the rafters of the tiny Franciscan Chapel, with ancient wooden beams and floorboards that have felt the soft pad of human tread since time immemorial, my tale comes to an end as the music of the bass clarinet soars, a counterpoint to the sound of the river rushing through the reeds below us. 

Through the tiny plate lead window panes the familiar sight of the Cathedral was perfectly framed, sitting majestic and proud over the cobbled streets of Canterbury on a cloudy Spring day.

The Chapel is small, we are directed to wooden pews and chairs lining every available space, shuffling past neighbours with mumbled apologies.  I catch the eye of the lady next to me and start in recognition - it's Tessa!  

There is only standing room left, people are sat on the floor under the deeply recessed stone windowsills and perched on the steps of the old oak staircase.  There is no introduction, no long winded speeches, no ceremony.  The music just starts to play softly as the late afternoon sunlight floods the small chapel that straddles the Stour river.  

The music stops and a woman rises at the front.  She introduces our poet, Victoria, a poet who focuses on the idea of well being.  I'm surprised as I recognise her.  I have had dinner at her house before now when The Canterbury Players were invited in to read her play, Bensen, before she entered production. Canterbury is, after all, a small place and for people with an interest in the Creative Arts, it is inevitable that their paths will cross on regular occassions.

Victoria's poetry is not Slam poetry, it is gentler and more naturalistic.  Around the Chapel people sit and absorb her words, eyes closed in contemplative self-reverie.  The audience here is more mature, more traditional in many ways.  

After each set of poems Edward plays songs from Bach and Debussy on his Bass Clarinet or the Soprano Saxophone.  Each song is haunting, a perfect counterpoint to Victoria's poems about Cornwall, the springtime blossom, dog walking, of wine and picnics late at night on the Cornish beaches, of midnight skinny dipping.  

There are three eulogies, the Lost Boys, gone too soon, saluted by the bird song that floats in through the open doors down the wooden flight of stairs that creaks and echoes with every late comer creeping in sheepishly.

My nostrils are filled with the slightly musty scent of ancient buildings that theme parks always attempt to recreate but can never fully emulate, that sense of antique peace and knowledge, a stone's throw  from the bustling city centre that feels a a lifetime away.

Victoria's finale, an ode to the animals, apt for our location, is followed by music that is eerily similar to that of Watership Down, so much so that I get that familiar sense of chill that used to overpower me as a child when I read of the Black Rabbit of Inlé.

The hour wears on, the mood is sleepy and meditative, almost hypnotic.  This was a gentle way to finish my Festival that exploded with dynamic fury onto the streets of Canterbury just a few short days earlier and flooded the cobbled walkways, the coffee shops and theatres, the meadows and museums with an incredible deluge of creativity.

Wise Words Festival, I salute you and will welcome you back when the season's change and the leaves turn golden before the winter winds freeze the spires with their glacial breathe.

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