Tag Archives: Poetry


A number of new signs cropped up around the centre of Chippenham at the weekend as part of the first #FringeFeb. A great way of cheering up what’s been a dreary February.

It was fun to go round spotting them. I didn’t get them all, but watch out for a special Friday Bench later this week 🙂

The furrow followed free

“The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, the furrow followed free.”

~ The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge

For me, one of the highlights of a trip on the West Somerset Railway is seeing the above quotation on a building as the train pulls into Watchet station. Sadly on Sunday it wasn’t to be seen. However, we did find the Ancient Mariner’s statue by the harbour.

The town is proud of its connection with Coleridge and being the inspiration for one of his most famous poems. I love how this has been translated into the statue’s floral adornment. Perhaps the daffodils are a nod to Coleridge’s friendship with Wordsworth?

At Washford station we learnt how the harbour at Watchet was made into a floating harbour like the one at Bristol for the Millennium, but the alterations led to problems with silting and the constant need for dredging. Here’s hoping Watchet harbour isn’t on course to being becalmed, just like the Ancient Mariner. It’s a lovely place to visit.

Guest Bench: #GetCreativeVic

Today’s Guest Bench is courtesy of a Twitter find. I love the mix of technology, art and benches enshrined in this creative idea.

Friday Bench: In Seamus Heaney’s Footsteps

Friday Bench In Seamus Heany's Footsteps

We spent quite a lot of our holiday in Ireland following in the footsteps of Seamus Heaney. The great man’s funeral was held in Dublin whilst we were there, and close to our holiday cottage in County Wicklow is the Devil’s Glen, where Seamus Heaney lived nearby for a while.

We had a choice of walks and chose the red path to the waterfall – the sound of which is the source of the glen’s name as local legend has it that it’s the roar of the Devil himself calling his own.

At one point, the red path crosses that of the yellow, a walk named after Seamus Heaney’s favourite route through the woodland. The red path had sculptures; the yellow had benches carved with snatches of Heaney’s words to whisper on the breeze.