12^th AUGUST 2008

The Poetry Picnic held at Thirlwall Castle on Tuesday 12th August 2008 at 6.30pm was organized by Hadrian Arts Trust (HAT) and held in association with Tynedale Writers Group and the Northumberland National Parks Authority.

HAT was set up by Lindsay Allason-Jones, Penny Grennan and Steve Chettle in 2006 to continue the work established through Writing on the Wall and to develop and deliver arts projects in the Hadrian’s Wall World Heritage Site area.

The project invited amateur poets and members of the public to attend a self-catered picnic at Thirlwall Castle to write, perform and hear poetry linked to Hadrian’s Wall and the site. Thirlwall was chosen due to its position on the Wall, the fact that it is built of stones taken from the Wall and because of its romantic appearance and history.

The objectives were:

• to take people to Thirlwall Castle who had not visited before
• to involve local people in their local historic monument
• to hold a poetry reading in an unusual setting
• to inspire local poets to produce new work

An exploratory visit was paid by Penny Grennan and Lindsay Allason-Jones to assess the site and to introduce the project to Mrs Tina Scott at Thirlwall Castle Farm. As a result, Northumberland National Park Authority was approached for permission to hold the event. The Tynedale Writers Group was asked to participate.

A second meeting was held at the site between Lindsay Allason-Jones and Ruth Dodds of the Northumbria National Park Authority to discuss funding and health and safety issues.

It was decided that, due to the limited parking at the Castle, a free minibus would be provided. Baynes Taxis were contracted after three quotes had been sought. It was arranged that a 16 seater minibus would collect participants at Hexham railway station at 6.15pm so as to allow anyone coming from Newcastle to arrive by public transport. The minibus was planned to arrive back at Hexham railway station to allow plenty of time for passengers to catch the 10.15 train back to Newcastle. Ms Grennan accompanied the minibus party

Miss Allason-Jones was designated car-park supervisor at the Castle’s official carpark on the main road, in order to ensure that any private cars arriving could be accommodated.

A poster and flier were produced (see Appendix 2) and distributed to a range of outlets including public houses along the Wall. Fliers were also distributed courtesy of Hexham TIC to other TICs in the area. Information was further circulated to the members of the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne, the Tynedale Writers Group and the Museum of my Life writers group.

HAT is very grateful to the Northumberland National Park Authority for its willingness to fund the event and particularly for covering the cost of the minibus.

The project kept within its budget; indeed, there was a slight underspend.

On the night, despite monsoon conditions, 16 people gathered at Thirwall Castle. Due to the weather, the event was held in the Thirlwall Castle Café, courtesy of Mrs Tina Scott.

A range of poems was read, some written especially for the event; some were sent in advance by poets who were unable to attend on the night (see Appendix 1), but some old favourites were recited. One poem was read in Danish and in translation.

The event attracted people aged between early 20s and mid 80s, with an even gender split. Some participants had never attended a poetry evening; others had never previously read a poem of their own in public.

About halfway through the proceedings the weather improved slightly, so the party visited the ruins to seek further inspiration and was entertained by David Mason on the Northumbrian bagpipes while a skein of geese flew overhead.

A press release was sent to the local media. A short article appeared on the front page of the Hexham Courant.

Despite the weather, everyone who participated enjoyed the event. One e-mail received said:

‘Thanks again for organizing the poetry evening. [We] really enjoyed the quirkiness of it and the poetry – a lovely mixed bag!’

All the objectives were fulfilled.

Thanks

HAT would like to thank Northumberland National Park Authority, particularly Ruth Dodds, Mrs Tina Scott, the Tynedale Writers Group and all the participants for their support and enthusiasm, despite the appalling weather conditions. 

The Mushrooms of Gallows Hill

They were dense as snow,

whitening the hill side.

We gathered them gently,

that misty morning when

the hedges were heavy with rosehips.

From the grassy hill’s crest

we could see Corbridge

and hear the church bells.

The Tyne snaked the valley below.

I remember the brown paper carrier bag,

full to the brim,

the smoothness of the string handle,

the roughness of Dad’s hands

as he caressed my cold cheeks.

It began to rain. We sheltered

under the knot of trees

where once the gallows stood.

I shivered, imagining hanging

corpses and swooping crows.

The downpour became a drizzle.

We walked home through fields, along old familiar lanes.

I remember Dad’s tuneful whistle,

my Mam’s welcoming kiss.

Christine Lowes

 Thirlwall Castle

Flanked by sloping farmland,

silhouette of ages,

its majestic ruin

stands proudly

under a moving sky

that holds a flock of geese

leaving behind a ghostly past.

Down below, a streamlet gurgles

songs of what has been,

of dwarfs and golden tables seen,

of Lords and Ladies in distress

when castle life was less

than romantic fantasy,

a ford against morality.

Built from Hadrian’s legacy

its rooms have crumbled

inside heavy walls

still waiting to protect

the mystery of life.

Gellie Draper

Hadrian

Juice from berries red blue-black

stains my fingers, my lips,

legionaries call along the track

do this, do that.

A centurion chants.

Virgil, my work mate says.

And who is he when he’s at home?

I think, but do not say.

Eighty miles of Roman road they plan,

a fortlet every claggy Roman mile.

What for? I think but do not say.

This day

I can say

No mere Brittunculus.

I know the power of the gods

of under flooring central heating ducts

and scripted letters scraped on stone.

Ditches and wall, berms and banks,

a bronze certificate,

thanks for a life in auxiliary ranks.

Shiela Crawford

 Bow and Arrow

‘On a scale of one to ten,

how do you rate your job satisfaction?’

he asked without looking up from his checklist.

‘It’s my duty and I need the money,’ I replied.

Suddenly he stared at me, pointing to my helmet.

‘A Syrian Archer carries great prestige, man.

Avoid negativity’.

That’s rich, I thought, coming from a

fat pen-pushing official with his arse cradled in a soft

goatskin chair.

‘I haven’t seen Syria

since I was thirteen, Sir,’

was all I said.

Jadzia Race

 Well Well

A centurion overlooked the men as they built the lengthy wall.

‘Get on, don’t slack’ forever came his harsh insistent call.

‘If this is not built those Northern hordes will conquer and will kill.

You’ll never see home again, your bones will moulder on this hill.’

The years rolled on, the Northern hordes became the lesser foe,

And English warriors now were told to the Holy Land to go.

The heathen Mussulman must die beneath the sacred Christian sword.

‘Go kill and slaughter,’ that was now the sacred Christian word.

So Baron John of Thirlwall fame did just as he was told.

This worthy Christian also stole a table made of gold.

He brought this weighty item back, with a swarthy dwarf as guard,

and a castle built with Roman stone became his just reward.

The dwarf became a faithful guard, a man of fearful fame,

until those dreadful Scots arrived, and all fled when they came.

Except the valiant dwarf, who dragged that heavy golden table

using all the skill and strength of which that man was able.

He pushed the table in the well. With a loud clang down it fell.

He looked down on those fearful depths reminding him of Hell.

Then down he jumped, that brave old guard, a man who had no fear.

Complaining as he tumbled down, ‘By gum, it’s hot in here.’

And now if you would wish to find that table made of gold,

then you must be a widow’s son, if all is true that’s told.

So if you qualify, go there to the ancient castle well,

and if you are successful, may I be the first you tell?

Kathleen White

Kitchen slave observing the Centurion’s wife

If you ask me, she interferes.

She knows nowt about cooking.

‘It needs asafoetida root’

she tells me without looking

at sumptuous bowls of ostrich brains,

or fineware brimming over

with roasted dormice, barley bread,

and mutton baked in clover.

She never eats a thing herself;

She’s thinner than a splinter.

Sips vinegar and nibbles grapes –

she’ll not survive our winter.

The master though, he loves his grub.

He’s handsome, fit and plucky.

If she expires, I’ll share his cot.

Heck, I should be so lucky!

Jadzia Race

The magic dwarf of Thirlwall Castle

There stands a castle above Greenhead,

A home, it used to be.

It was once the abode of a brave knight

And his large family.

Now, John of Thirlwall was his name,

He journeyed to the Holy Land,

to fight with the Crusaders

on deserts of foreign sand.

He brought home with him a Saracen dwarf

and a table of solid gold.

The strange Black Dwarf had magic power,

he was strong and he was bold.

The marauding raiders from the North

came to plunder, rape and pillage.

They scared the peasants of Northumbria

Who lived in the nearby village.

The fierce wild men of Scotland came,

As fast as they were able,

They thought they could outwit the Dwarf

And steal the precious table.

Sad Dam the Dwarf, that is his name,

unafraid of the invaders,

they attacked his castle, killed the men,

the Dwarf ran from the raiders.

He carried the table to the castle well.

It weighed as much as seven men.

He threw it down into its depth

and both were never seen again.

Now the only son of a widow woman

can break the magic spell.

‘Till then Sad Dam and his treasure

Lie hidden in the well.

Beneath the castle he stands guard,

over the legendary golden table.

Some say this tale’s all fact,

but some say it’s a fable.

Christine Lowes

Wall in Winter

On a quiet day of swirling mist

which makes all things silent,

the lough below mirrors Hadrian’s Wall.

It looks like a giant serpent in calm water,

Languishing above a green ocean

it sits amidst pockets of rusting bracken.

A flurry of snow white-washes stones,

as pheasants rise where legion marched

there are wind-breaks of naked trees.

Rolling hills reach the edge of clouds.

The wall stretches onward to the Solway.

It’s an ancient place, a lonely place.

Nothing ever changes here,

Only spirits remain.

As whispers rise,

shadows lengthen.

Christine LowesTo sum it up

The bright faces of the mad

sit encircled by dripping walls.

Stones that in past times

have heard

the march of boots,

the cries of rustled sheep,

the screams of bed-laboured wives,

now hear,

with some astonishment,

poets picnicking.

Lindsay Allason-Jones

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