Writing around and about here…

With the news that there is to be a literary festival in our town of Weston-super-Mare, I’ve been thinking about what I can do, and what the groups and other writers I’m involved in can offer… I was looking at literary connections here and in our county of Somerset, and there have been quite a few over the years!

As well as Jeffrey Archer, Roald Dahl , Hannah Moore and William Lisle Bowles  who lived or were born in Weston, here are just  a few writers/poets/dramatists i have come across with a Somerset connection:

  • Bill Bryson – Weston-super-Mare
  • Arthur C Clarke – Minehead, Bishop’s Lydiard, Taunton
  • Daniel Defoe – Battle of Sedgemoor, Westonzoyland
  • Elizabeth Goudge – Wells
  • Evelyn Waugh/Auberon Waugh – Combe Florey
  • Fay Weldon – Pilton
  • Henry Fielding – Walton
  • R.R.Tolkien – Clevedon, Cheddar
  • Jane Austen – Bath
  • John Steinbeck – Redlynch Bruton
  • Michael Holroyd and Margaret Drabble – Somerset.
  • Penolpe Lively – Roadwater
  • RD Blackmore – Porlock.
  • Robert Southey – Porlock, Minehead, Dnster
  • Samuel Taylor Coleridge – Nether Stowey
  • Terry Pratchett – Bridgwater, Rowberrow, Wincanton
  • Thomas Hardy – Yeovil
  • TS Elliot – East Coker
  • William Makepeace Thackeray -, Clevedon Court,
  • William Wordsworth – Holford

East Coker

V

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

T.S.Eliot

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