Your opportunity to read The Ulverston Poem

I was lucky enough to be involved in its creation. Here’s what happened.

A few weeks ago Dave Crossley, the director of Another Fine Fest, got in touch.

"I’ve had an idea: let’s create an Ulverston Poem for the festival," he said. "We can invite people to send in words and ideas, so it’s written by the local community. What do you think?"

I thought for about two seconds before saying that it was a brilliant idea and that I’d be happy to help pull it all together.

So we set to work. We invited people to contribute words, lines and ideas by email or at a drop-in workshop.

Within a few days I had a wealth of material. Though the contributions were diverse in style, certain themes emerged. People loved Ulverston’s big heart, its festivals, its vibrant community, its quirkiness, and its fondness for parties. Writers also expressed their love for Hoad and the surrounding countryside and many had strong memories of people and places that have now vanished from the town.

I started to knit the contributions together into a single poem. Though I wanted to represent all those who’d sent in work, I had to change some words to create a poem that would communicate well when read aloud.

With this in mind, I worked on producing a poem that had a strong sense of rhythm and rhyme but still retained elements of the individual voices of contributors.

After much head-scratching, and some help from Zosia Wand and Dave Crossley, I had a version that I was pleased with. With help from Simon Wand, we produced copies to be displayed round town, and sent it to Tony Walsh. If you missed it at the festival, check out the website www.anotherfinefest.co.uk

It’s a love letter to Ulverston: I hope you enjoy it.

The Ulverston Poem

Written by the members of the community for Another Fine Fest June 2019

Where is Ulverston? We often get that.

It’s near the Lakes, on the Bay, a dot on the map –

a tiny dot – but it’s much more than that.

It’s a town where people grow and unfurl,

where we’ll hold you whether you’re up or you’re down

where you can strut in a spacesuit, a tutu, a gown,

in pyjamas if you dare – we really don’t care,

because we’ve got permission to be crazy here.

We’ve got Laurel and Hardy, Charter week,

Carnival, food fairs, candlelit walks.

We sup on mulled wine when the weather is dire

and parade round the streets in Dickensian attire.

Pie fights, open mics, bowler hats,

lantern whales swimming along Queen Street –

it feels like the cobbles are littered with gold:

there’s something here for the young and the old.

It’s a town time forgot – a place that refuses

to change like the rest. She does as she chooses.

It’s a town where you pop to the shops for a loaf

and return after four hours of smiles and chat,

where anarchists perch next to ladies in pearls

and lamp posts are yarn-bombed and flags unfurled,

where you walk back home from the rattling train

and feel that you’re held and safe again,

where our hearts are open, our doors unlocked

to incomers, off comers, refugees – the lot,

where we don’t hear ‘No’, we hear ‘Let’s go.’

Cos this is a place where we fight and battle

for the things that matter. We plan and plot.

We won’t just settle for what we’ve got.

Let me take you through this town of ours.

Walk down the alleys, the ginnels and yards

past the rainbow houses that nestle below

Hoad’s lofty, protective gaze,

along Dragley Beck or up the Gill.

Come to the parks where dogs bark at balls

and old boys tinker with model engines.

Hear the town band play on a Saturday morning:

Wake-up! Bring your bags, roll your trollies.

Chat over carrots, give coins to the buskers.

Our shops and restaurants are funky, unchained,

We don’t want the packaging or the plastic:

give us the quirky, the odd, the fantastic.

Stand for a moment and think of the past

Stan Laurel, John Barrow, Fox and Fell,

Gillam’s – t’owdshop, across the road.

Bill Stables, King’s Deli, Win Langton, Bill Cubin,

La'al Pig Day where local farmers could drink

all day in 20 odd pubs – and this

before 24-hour licensing – oh we knew how to live!

Remember the tang-smell from Hartley’s Brewery,

the flatbed carts that carried spent hops

down to allotments to feed the crops.

If parties were a contest, we’d always win

and when there’s a gig on, we’ll shout ‘Get in!

We’re a festival town of party-giving professionals:

our gatherings, soirees and shows, they're sensational.

But we love to walk up to the top of Hoad

and look down on the shimmering shore

to drink in a beauty that makes your heart soar,

or to stroll along the shortest, broadest canal

from its Head to its Foot, on and away

into the wide, shining embrace of the Bay.

Glaxo’s chimneys rise close to the shore

for Ulverston’s more than shopping and pies –

it’s a place of technology and enterprise.

To our left a train from Grange approaches,

the wheels on the rails singing, modulating

to a raucous roar as it hits the viaduct,

because, yes we’re off the beaten track

but we don’t lack the will or the way

to go into the wide world, to have our say.

On Hoad the pale lighthouse monument

glows azure, violet or red in the dusk,

and beyond Hoad there’s a rocky hill

leading skywards – Birkrigg's wild bracken

and circle of stones from pagan days

where fire met spring flowers at Beltane.

Yes, we’re a party-loving town,

but there’s food for the spirit and soul as well.

Margaret Fell in Swarthmoor Hall

planted Quaker roots that spread round the world

And a Gothic priory close to the shore

that once sheltered miners with clotted lungs

now welcomes Buddhists of multiple tongues.

People leave to explore but they always come back

because Ulverston has an extraordinary craic.

It's the little town with a big, big heart,

And this is our fine festival overflowing

with music, comedy, theatre and art.

We give it our all, we live it our best:

Let’s make some noise for Another Fine Fest.