Creative writing exhibition

The writing in this exhibition was produced in response to encounters with archives, at workshops held in collaboration between Bath Record Office and writers at the St. John’s Foundation. The poems, stories, and essays show what amazing results can arise from creative engagement with historic materials.

Our sincere thanks go to Michael Loveday (author and editor) and Helen Daniels (Learning Workshop Leader for Bath Record Office) who led the workshops, and most importantly to the writers, for sharing their work with us.

For more information, please read Michael's introduction: A Map of Words: Stories and Poems of Somerset and its Residents.

A Map of Words: Stories and Poems of Somerset and its Residents

The pages that follow contain such things as a poem about a mythical 'man of Mendip', a narrative about a ‘Water Wych’, a monologue by a policeman trapped in floodwater, stories of 18th and 19th century shopkeepers, personal memories of living on Camden Crescent, a poem about the Blitz, an acrostic poem about graffiti, a reflective essay about the Egyptian goddess Isis, memories of Exmoor and a story of refugees in southern Africa, among many other vivid forms of writing.

Historians know that history is about more than cold, factual research – it’s also about creative engagement with the stories of the recent and distant past.

This writing project was a workshop collaboration between Bath Record Office and writers at the St. John’s Foundation. Regular fortnightly creative writing classes had been taking place at St. John’s since July 2017, eventually building up to two fortnightly classes in Bath and one monthly class in Radstock, with a group of about 30 writers in total, 21 of whom eventually submitted poems and stories for this anthology.

The project grew, originally, out of a desire to see the St. John’s Foundation writers’ stories and poems published in an anthology of writings about local history and landscape. Bath Record Office were referred to me as a possible collaborator. We hoped that the St. John’s Foundation writers could engage more deeply with the history of their local community and landscape by responding to materials from the Record Office archive.

With the help of Lucy Powell (Collections Manager: Archives), Helen Daniels (Learning Workshop Leader) researched the Record Office over a number of days in late 2018 / early 2019, to identify suitable artefacts and materials. Helen and I then met several times at Bath Record Office during that period to plan the project’s content. Helen informed the planning through her extensive and ever-growing knowledge of the archive, while my role was to guide the design of fruitful writing exercises and figure out the detail of the lesson plans.

A total of ten workshops were designed, to take place in February and March 2019 in Bath and Radstock. The workshops covered the following themes – Maps, Weather, the Bath Chronicle, Crime, Retail through the ages, and mining at the Combe Down quarries. Artefacts included 17th century maps of Bath and Somerset, an 18th century weather diary by the Rector of Bath, photographs of floods from the early 20th century, Victorian crime reports and police files, copies of the Bath Chronicle from over 200 years ago, and a number of other gems from the archive. There was a wealth of rich, usable material – and it felt like the workshops were only scratching the surface of available possibilities.

The results of the writing – in the form of poems, fictional stories, and non-fiction essays are in the pages that follow. They show what amazing results can arise from creative engagement with historic materials. Thanks to Helen’s expertise, we all learned things about Somerset and about the Bath Record Office that we hadn’t known before. Through responses to the writing exercises, the writers’ engagement with social and environmental history was deepened. And through engagement with archival material, the writers’ experience of creative writing was also deepened. Most importantly, as you’ll see from story titles like ‘Hamster in the Shower’, we had fun, which is a crucial part of engagement with a subject!

Michael Loveday, October 2019

Learning Workshop Leader's Introduction

I’m delighted that these stories, poems and essays, produced by members of St John’s Foundation Creative Writing Groups, have been published here for all to enjoy.

It was an absolute pleasure to work with Michael Loveday and his writing students on behalf of Bath Record Office. I have never been in doubt about the power of heritage to inspire creativity. These varied, personal and richly descriptive written responses to engagement with items from the archive collection, are testament to what can be sparked through making connections with local history.

Researching and taking along original items from the collection to group sessions was a real privilege. These documents and objects included historic maps, an 18th century weather diary, flood photographs, reports of crimes in Edwardian Bath, Georgian editions of The Bath Chronicle, old shop advertisements and cuttings from the Combe Down Stone Mines Stabilisation Project archive.

The combination of access to original historic material and Michael’s skilled and sensitive teaching led to lots of interesting questions and group discussions. I enjoyed sharing my passion for local history with the writers. At the end of one session a member turned to me and said, ‘I shall walk around Bath with whole new eyes after today’. The perfect response and outcome for this rewarding project.

I hope you enjoy reading these compositions as much as I have done.

Helen Daniels, Learning Workshop Leader

Avon's Aerosols

Carved Scape

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Breathe gently,
And wait, for the quickening of hindered light
upon the Mendip Hills
When tarred shadows
deepen the contours of the man-made mounds
and branches stretch in supplication.
Now is the time,
in the thickened stopped air
to hear the bending of grass
and the muffled tread of calicoed feet.
This is when the force of the past seeps
into pulse time
when shadowy slaves, soul-sick soldiers, mystics, drovers, thieves and beggars
crowd the landscape -
fogging the air with their important stories
until your head splinters with the burden of their tales.

Sue Sparkes, February – March 2019

City Shopping, 1755

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

John Pyke looked into the mirror attached to his shop wall and proudly adjusted his powdered grey wig. There was a slight nervousness in his demeanour as he smoothed down his burgundy and gold silk waistcoat which sat over a long, lace-trimmed sleeved, white cotton top. Grey silk breeches, white stockings and silver-buckled black leather shoes added an air of elegance. He smiled at his neat appearance, that he had always prided himself on, and his choice of clothes. Maybe Elizabeth, his wife, had been right in saying that the beauty spot he had attached to his face that morning was not really in keeping with the new role he was about to undertake as a toy keeper.

This was to be the grand opening of the Golden Flower D’Luce; his and Elizabeth’s luxury gift and novelty shop here on the highly desirable Grove, an area of the City that was becoming renowned for its high quality shopping. The City’s growth over the last decade had encouraged the wealthy to move into Bath and buy up the new large town houses. Also, the City’s spas were encouraging wealthy visitors to visit and take the waters.

John proudly surveyed all around him. He and Elizabeth had put a lot of thought into how their shop would best work. They were a young, bright, artistic couple who, after honeymooning in Paris, were eager to bring some of the Parisian way of décor to their own shop. The shop itself was not large; just one room with a small area at the back for storing all their merchandise. Large ornate mirrors, with silver candle sconces attached, lined the primrose painted walls. Lighted candles, reflecting in the mirrors, illuminated the shop and highlighted the wooden cream painted shelves below, which housed the wonderful array of Venetian glass vases, paperweights, atomizers and twisted stemmed goblets. Also hand painted fans, playing cards and the exquisitely painted figurines from Paris. Behind the light wood counter the shelves boasted John and Elizabeth’s most exciting purchases from Paris: a selection of the latest automaton toys: monkeys that clapped cymbals together, clowns that laughed and rolled their eyes and gilded birds in cages that flapped their wings and sung. Silver backed hair brushes, hand held mirrors, snuff boxes, bon bon dishes and many other silverware trinkets were housed on blue velvet lined shelves in a glass fronted cabinet.

A small circular table sat in the middle of the cream and tan tiled floor. Belgium lace trimmed handkerchiefs and exquisitely embroidered ladies’ and gentlemens’ soft kid gloves lay strategically placed upon it, surrounding a large crystal cut glass vase in which sat a magnificent display of highly scented golden yellow roses. Upon a green baize shelf, set within the bottled glass paned bay window, sat a silver salver laid up with a very fine delicate china tea set Suspended above the tea set was a myriad of shimmering coloured and plain glass prisms which, on that bright summer morning, was showing them off in all their glory.

With the children of the affluent customers in mind, brightly painted building blocks were stacked along a low shelf so that the children would get a good view of them. Centre-stage was an intricately carved ark with Noah stood holding a dove on the palm of his hand while nearby the carved wooden animals were set out two by two. And there, in the corner of the shop, was a small display of hobby horses with real horsehair manes and red leather bridles standing behind what, for all the world, looked like a stable door with their heads poking over.

It was a very proud John Pyke and his equally proud wife who opened their shop to the public on that fine sunny, summer’s day to the many compliments from the rich and affluent customers that visited the shop. Of course there were a few who tut tutted and thought the colour scheme ridiculous. But word soon spread about the new Golden Flower D’Luce on the Grove and it grew and prospered under the young, forward thinking artistic couple for many years.

Margaret Eyles, 2019

Evacuee

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

We were all wearing our coats.
We’d been told it may be a while
A lady pinned a label on me and said don’t lose your gas mask

We were ushered on to a big train with steam
I’d never been on a train before
I saw green fields and cows from the windows
I’d never seen a cow...nor a field.

When we got off, a lady with a clip board met us
She called out the names and grown-ups collected us
My name was called and an elderly couple came forward
They looked nice but different to my Mam

Their house was a Palace ...I was sure of that
They had velvet curtains ...Oh, the feel of them...so soft
I’d been given a colouring book
Don’t colour in it until you are told said the First Lady.
So we put it behind the clock.

My sister ran away
I stayed ...there were eggs for breakfast
And new clothes...brand new.
They said call them Auntie and Uncle
They were very kind but stern.

I was five, so I went to school with the other boys
I always had tea when I came home
We did nice things
I had a garden to play in and Uncle made toys
Auntie made good cakes

The war ended
I didn’t go home
No one called
So I stayed

At fourteen my parents wanted me back
Boys could get jobs then
I didn’t want to go
So I ran away
Uncle made it all right
So Mam and Da went away

I stayed on at school and then went to work
First I was an apprentice
Then I was an Engineer
I played football and tennis
I was in the local team

My life was great
I had a girlfriend
She was the Carnival Queen
She too was an evacuee
Neither of us had gone back

Anon, February 2019

Exmoor Musings

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

I read Lorna Doone years ago and, not knowing better, assumed it took place somewhere in the highlands of Scotland. What a surprise it was to discover the setting was extraordinary Exmoor in the more civilized wilds of Somerset.

My first actual encounter began with an exhilarating drive on a narrow, windy road sporting solid rock on one side of the car and a huge, mind numbing drop on the other. This might have been intimidating had I not already survived numerous trips on a similar road in Glacier Park in the Montana Rockies.

We parked the car and walked over Robbers Bridge, passing the petrified army of twisted trees that truly resembled Medieval solders. Their combative poses made them unknowingly eternal, as if transformed by an invisible witch.

I remember following sheep with unusually fluffy, individual faces, better looking than any other breed, as they danced over uneven ground. They seem to know where they were going not needing any dog to guide them to the mini waterfalls echoing in hidden alcoves, obscured by greenery.

Along the ever-twisting road encroached by trees, the Lorna Doone church was unmissable which vividly brought the long-ago novel back to life.

The entire area is magical. My friend, Veronica, my “native guide” as she jocularly referred to herself, had years ago adopted Exmoor as her special place. She insisted on planning the itinerary of every group visit and would often go there on her own.

When she died two years ago without relatives. No designated next of kin saw fit to inform any of her friends of a funeral, depriving all of us the chance to say goodbye. In response my friend Jason and I decided to give her a special send off in the place she loved best.

We bought single roses in a nearby flower shop on the way. The shop owner was quite concerned, trying to sell us plant food to insure maximum survival for the flowers. We didn’t tell her that we planned to sacrifice them into the nearest Exmoor stream.

The journey through the narrow lane included several stops, looking for a likely place to say our “goodbyes.” We ruled out Robbers Bridge as being too public.

An early June rain was falling when we finally found the perfect, partially hidden spot that provided a small waterfall and a sanctuary for ducks. The alcove where we parked was only minutes away, but in that short space of time the shower had ended, and the sun was shining.

We walked carefully, picking our way down the rocky path leading to the water’s edge, noticing the sound of running water mingled with birdsong.

I recited the commemorative poem I’d written, and Jason did the same. Then we threw our roses into the river, watching as they floated out of sight.

Veronica was never religious, but we thought it might be a good idea to recite the Lord’s Prayer anyway. Then the sky seemed to provide the benediction. Looking up, we saw two rainbows crossing each other.

Now, whenever I think of Exmoor, I think of Veronica.

Elizabeth Derl-Davis, February – March 2019

Flow of Thoughts

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

The story was inspired by a photograph of a solitary policeman standing knee deep in water during the great flood in Bath in February 1937.

Can’t believe how fast the water’s rising. There I was directing traffic this morning and suddenly I’m in it up to my perishing knees. It’s not just water that’s swirling around. A couple of dead sheep and half a tree have drifted by. I’ve seen a bicycle float past. Hey, what a laugh if it were Sergeant Bailey’s. He’s far too big to cycle. Back in the nick, we always say “one day ole copper Bailey will come a cropper!”

It’s ok for that bloke up on the wall taking photographs. Bet he’s from the Chronicle. Blimey, me in the papers tomorrow eh? What about that, little ole PC 421 in the papers! My boy Eric will show it off at school. He’ll say, “That’s my dad, that is”. Heck, school likely to be closed tomorrow.

Thank the Lord I’m wearing boots, except they leak and it’s blooming cold. I forgot to bring my cape didn’t I? Rain is dripping down me neck and back. To think I swapped today with me mate Billy. He’ll be at home warming his toes in front of the fire with the missus and downing a snifter or two. Some blokes get all the luck. What wouldn’t I give for a hot toddy and a Woodbine. Serg Bailey says, “Look out for looters.” How could I nick anybody stuck here? Well, best listen out just in case.

Yesterday it was all rush and bustle at this junction. Now it’s peaceful and kind of weird. All I can hear is the whisper of the water as it swirls around and laps against the wall behind me. Even the usual cawing seagulls have fallen silent. The plip, plop of rain drops make silent splashes, well not exactly silent but quietly noisy. Those trees across the river where the mist clings to the bare black branches give me the creeps. Don’t like trees without leaves. Don’t seem right.

I’ll be due off duty soon, but what if my relief don’t come before it gets really dark? Blimey, it’s raining even harder now. Serg or no Serg I ain’t sticking around here much longer. Even the photographer up there has gone off. I’m really alone now.

They’ve got to do something to stop all this again. Bet they’ll say there’s no money for flood prevention. But they’ll splash out on decorations and flags and street parades come the King and Queen’s coronation in May. Oh yeah, plenty of cash for that. And we’ll all be on special duties that day, with no extra pay, only “duty for King and country”, ta very much. Must say after Edward went off with that American Wallace woman, I think George looks a better sort of fella.

Reckon that bloke Hitler in Germany would know what to do about preventing floods. They say he’s building everywhere and it’s not only roads and bridges. I read in the Daily Mirror what Mr Churchill said about us disarming while Germany is building up a bloody great army and air force. If that’s true, all I can say is God help us if there’s another war. I still remember me dad coming back from France in 1917. With ‘im coughing and wheezing all night and every night til the day he died. He said it were the Hun’s gas that got him, not the bullets. S’pose I’m lucky really. He spent most of his war fighting, eating and pissing, ankle deep in mud. He said he only slept when he could between attacks. Well at least, I’m standing in running water, not like ‘im in stagnant water and stinking mud, poor old codger. If war comes, bet I get called up, so best not think about it.

I was going to treat the wife to the pictures on Saturday. She wants to see that new film Fire Over England cos her favourite stars are in it, Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh. She says his voice is all English and proper like the toffs, and I hear she’s a bit of all right an all! Reckon all leave will be cancelled this weekend, so that’s that, old dear.

Best concentrate and look lively. Hey up, there’s a boat coming. I can see lights flashing on the water. Guess there’ll be picking up folk from them cottages up stream. Poor blighters getting washed out, everything gone and all. Thank the Lord we live high up in Combe Down village. Blow me there’s a cat up in the tree opposite. “You stay up there mate”.

Hey up, it’s the River bobby’s boat coming. Where’s my flaming torch?

“Oi, hey, over ‘ere mates, it’s Alf, No 421”.

Good they’ve seen me. Blimey just my blinking luck, it’s Serg Bailey and he’s bellowing something out through a megaphone.

“Anything to report constable?”

“No sir”. What am I supposed to say, just having a quick afternoon paddle?

“Right,carry on lad. We’ll be back to relieve you in an hour or so. Remember, eyes pinned for signs of looting. We’ve just nabbed a couple back there. You’ve got your whistle I trust?”

“Yes sir”. What’s ‘e on about? Of course I’ve got my flipping tooter. It’s part of me tunic ain’t it?

Stone the ruddy crows the boat’s not going on, it’s turned back. And I’m still here up to my thighs in this bloody river and God knows what else floating around. Just me and the moggie over there.

Fire over England? Don’t make me laugh!

Paul Maxwell-Cook, March 2019

Hamster in the Shower

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Buster decided to have a shower and got his kit ready – a clean flannel to use as a towel and a scarf to wrap himself up in afterwards. He used an old toothbrush and some soap to scrub himself and then rinsed his fur under the shower, trying not to be swept into the drain. Then, using the flannel, towelled himself as dry as possible.

He decided to wear a bowtie as he was going out on a date and wanted to look swish. The bowtie was made out of some ribbon he had found. It was red and had MERRY CHRISTMAS written on it in shiny silver. He had no idea what CHRISTMAS was, some strange human occasion, but it looked jolly and bright.

A hamster has short life and he meant to make the most of his opportunities.

Buster was cautious about where he was going. One time he had been given food on a plate, and round the edge it said, ‘DO NOT GO INTO THE VEGETABLE GARDEN AS YOUR FATHER HAD AN ACCIDENT THERE AND WAS PUT INTO A PIE BY THE GARDENERS WIFE’. Wow, you only had to read that once.

He had packed a little bag with pieces of carrot, apple, celery and some lettuce.

He hoped his date would like a picnic. They were meeting on the little park, where he knew there was a roundabout, and a slide and a seesaw.

Her name was Princess, tiny and blonde and totally cute. He felt bowled over, completely thrilled, love at first sight for sure. He took her on the roundabout, where they had a lovely whizz, round and round until they felt a bit dizzy, or it might be love. Then they sat in the sun on the grass, unpacked the picnic, and gazed at each other. This was a huge success he thought, he must ask her out again…..

Janice King, 2019

The hand-held bell on the hill

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Having spent six years in France, around the Dordogne/Lot et Garonne border, moving to Somerset didn’t feel too different. The landscapes felt similar, with rolling green fields and dense woodland. The biggest difference was there appeared to be a time delay in France, like being back in Somerset fifty years ago. The place was less populated, the pace was slower; paysans still wore berets and cooked in a pot over the fire. Somerset was more urban and populated, with towns spilling into the countryside, yet there are pockets which remain unchanged through the winds of time.

Our old farmhouse where we live, speaks to us through creaks in the framework, warped through the weathering of 400 years. The old stone walls have stood firm through centuries of storms. Many features from the era of Thomas Hardy remain, and it isn’t hard to imagine the milk maids living alongside the landowner in this long old house.

This was the chosen spot to raise our family. Four children have known this place as the backdrop and fabric of their early childhood; happy idyllic days, with hens in the yard, and horses grazing in the fields. The village school on the opposite side of the valley, home to the famous Jack and Jill Well and steep hill tumbling down to the village below, was their first school. The sound of the hand-held bell ringing out at playtime and the happy voices and laughter, which would follow, echoing across the valley. These were happy days.

Brimble Wharton, February – March 2019

Inspired by William Hole's illustrated map for Poly-Olbion

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A poem inspired by the map of Somerset and Wiltshire engraved by William Hole in 1612 to illustrate ‘Poly-Olbion’ the epic poem by Michael Drayton.

Sing me a song of Somersetshire
back in the days of old
when maidens and nymphs abound
scantily clad and very cold

Shepherds and sheep - such rustic souls
watch maiden's bosoms a-heaving
in rivers runneth like roots of a tree
mother earth, wandering and weaving

Hunters and peasants live in the woods
like dryads in the oak trees
foraging and waiting from dawn to dusk
by marshes, mountains and seas

Big towns where the well-off live
hold no interest to us country folk
give us a pasture, a field with sheep
or a forest of hearty oak

Sing me a song of Somersetshire
rural, wild and free
folklaw, legend stars and a moon
and rivers that run to the sea.

Ros Foreman 2019

Isis

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A piece of writing inspired by the 1612 map of Somerset and Wiltshire engraved by William Hole to illustrate ‘Poly-Olbion’ the epic poem by Michael Drayton.

Isis, a goddess in Egyptian mythology emerging naked but adorned with a crown, from the river. Somehow she has become part of the Poly-Olbion, a topographical poem written by Michael Drayton, an English poet of the 16/17th century and illustrated by William Hole. The poem consists of 15,000 lines about the nation’s counties, accompanied by thirty county maps.

So how is it that Isis makes an appearance on this Somerset and Wiltshire map of 1612. Her crown now takes on a different form from the hieroglyphic sign of the throne and cow’s horns. She was a caring goddess, associated with fertility and motherhood, a friend of slaves, sinners, artisans and the downtrodden, protecting children, healing the sick, a goddess of life and magic, an original feminist icon. Evidence has been found of her in Pompeii and other parts of Europe.

It has been said that images of Isis nursing her baby, Horus may have influenced early Christian artists in depicting the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus.

It is interesting to see that many characters cross the world and appear in altered formats, contributing to myths and beliefs.

So we can see the ongoing need of man to believe in the existence of powers outside of his or herself from early times to the present day.

Polly Milner, February – March 2019

It all began with a rotten floorboard

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

We had moved into our house and were keen to find out more about its history. It is a small house, dwarfed by its stately neighbours with their armies of chimney stacks which had once been had serviced by armies of maids carrying buckets of fuel. It had a rickety front window that was slightly bowed and with small window panes. In the fairly recent deeds that had been handed over to us, there was no mention of it having been a shop although the vendor said she thought it had been a pharmacy at some time. We discovered that in 1820 the owner was running a business hiring out a light, one-horse covered carriage or fly. Before then was our mystery.

The shop window was dramatically blown in during a fierce gale and then the floorboard collapsed and had to be lifted out. There underneath it, had lain for two hundred years, a penny, now darkened by age but unscarred by commerce. Its date was 1806 and it bore the head of sad, mad King George III, elevated and ennobled by his laurel wreath.

During the time it had lain there Charles Darwin and Abraham Lincoln had been born and lived their lives, Napoleon had rampaged across Europe, slavery was abolished, the American War of Independence and two World Wars had taken place, Beethoven had composed his fifth symphony and Jane Austen had lived in Bath and written Sense and Sensibility. This last event played tricks with my imagination.

Directly opposite our home is Camden Crescent, then called Upper Camden Place and Jane Austen was said to have had friends living there whom she visited. She did not enjoy good health and died eleven years later in her early forties. She would have passed by our house on her visits - is it just possible that she may have called in to the pharmacy to buy medication?

A visit to a coin shop nearly punctured my excitement about the coin’s age. “Oh, you as well, I get loads of these brought in - worth more then than they are now - when they finished a building they used to put a penny in the joists for the luck of the house. Take my advice and put it back!”

We did put it back but my fantasy remained. I found myself scrutinising our small sitting room and trying to visualise it as an old pharmacy with a polished oaken counter with polished brass scales and small weights, shelves bearing decorated ceramic vessels with Latin inscriptions and a door bell that clanged when a customer called in. Maybe, just maybe, the customer was a lady wearing a bonnet and shawl and long dress who had left the high pavement opposite and picked her way across the dirty unmade road.

Veronica Connolly, 2019

Life

Man of the Mendip Hills

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A poem inspired by the map of Somerset and Wiltshire engraved by William Hole, to illustrate ‘Poly-Olbion’ the epic poem by Michael Drayton, 1612.

I am a man of Mendip
I work with my pick and spade
Mining, digging, to find
What minerals lie beneath the earth.

I am dark and I am crooked
I go burrowing under the ground
Like a mole; with a candle.
People tell strange tales about me and my fellows

I find and bring out
The black rock that burns
Sometimes metals – gold!
Silver, copper, tin; but not in this shire.

It is dirty, dangerous work.
And there are strange beings,
Under the earth
Who wait to trap me, drown me, choke me with their foul breath.

I am a man of Mendip: people fear me.

Bryony McGinty, February – March 2019

Mr Slater's Popular Potions

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A trade card for Mr Slater's chemist's shop inspired this report, which it is imagined appeared in the Bath Chronicle for 9 April 1762.

The city of Bath may be renowned for its healing waters but it can also boast one of the best stocked and most up to date chemist’s shops outside the capital. Walk along George Street on a fine spring morning and your attention will inevitably be drawn to the handsome bow windows of William Slater, Chemist and Druggist where the sun glints off a fine array of blue jars with gold labels bearing the names of substances whose miraculous powers are known only to Mr Slater. The largest jars made of clear glass with narrow necks and tear-shaped stoppers, contain the brilliant blue, green and ochre liquids of the chemist’s trademark. Open the door and a carillon of bells alerts the busy shopkeeper who will invariably be occupied with other customers. The shop’s location in George Street means that it is on a direct route from the affluent Upper Town down to the attractions of the Pump Room and the Baths, thus providing visitors with a chance to supplement the natural remedy of spa water with Mr Slater’s manmade medicines. Perhaps it is not too presumptuous to suggest that customers might sometimes be tempted to use the latter to treat the after-effects of the former.

As you wait to gain the attention of the chemist you will have plenty of opportunity to admire the contents of this Aladdin’s cave. A solid mahogany counter runs along the back of the shop with glass fronted cupboards underneath stacked neatly with all manner of bottles, jars, bowls and boxes. The walls are lined with bespoke apothecaries’ cabinets four drawers deep, each one marked with a curved green label. The names on these labels are slightly more familiar than those on the blue jars in the window, they include substances like camphor, valerian, senna and opium though there is a smattering of obscure Latin words and abbreviations such as cascar. cort., piper alb., alum exsic. and plumb. acet. Above the cabinets narrow shelves climbing right up to the ceiling are lined with so many more bottles and containers that is difficult to know how the chemist can find anything in a hurry. Mr Slater may have a very tidy mind but I wonder how successful he is in imparting his knowledge to any new assistant. The cupboard doors beneath the counter display advertisements for the most popular patent medicines such as Dr Boerhaave’s Aurea Medicana which claims to promote perspiration, purge Choler, Melancholy, Phlegm and Waterish matter and be particularly effective for Gout, Gravel, Scurvy, Dropsy, Chilick or Gripes.

Mr Slater himself is a slight figure with steel-rimmed spectacles that always seem to lodge themselves perilously near the end of his narrow nose. His pale complexion probably results from the fact that he rarely leaves his shop. When he is not attending to customers he can always be found in his workroom at the back of the premises surrounded by flasks, scales, pestles, mortars, and all the paraphernalia that he needs to make his own medicines and tinctures. Here he keeps his patent sifter and grinder, a large wooden box turned by a cast-iron handle and, his pride and joy, his father’s vintage tablet-maker. In this contraption the ingredients are compressed into hollow grooves and the mixture then forced out into thin sausage-shaped lengths ready to be sliced into pills. The most popular of Mr Slater’s remedies are basilicon ointment for drawing out splinters and boric acid ointment for treating cuts which he markets under the somewhat alarming name of ‘Bulldog’. There can be few bedside cabinets in Royal Crescent that do not contain one or two of Mr Slater’s signature labels.

Unfortunately, Mr and Mrs Slater who live above the shop have no sons to take over the business so, although there will be no shortage of buyers, it is difficult to imagine a new owner able to match the high standards of traditional pharmacy with which Mr Slater has served Bathonians and visitors alike for the last forty years. Perhaps all we can hope for is that whoever takes over the business will safeguard some of the old medicines, equipment and recipes. At some time in the future they will be rightfully regarded as a part of the history of Bath.

Ann Preston, February – March 2019

My Name is Marcus

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

My name is Marcus.

I am proud to have my picture on the map drawn of Somerset and Wiltshire by William Hole in 1612. He walked through my Pewsham Forest towards Colne to get the lay of the land and the flow of the river. I took him through my trails and he was interested in the different trees that grow there. I showed him the maple grove where I cut the saplings for my bows, and he drew that on his map. Maple is a dense wood with a straight grain and flexible enough to handle the bending and stress applied in every shot. I make bows and arrows and trade them in Colne at the market.

There are large herds of boar and deer in the forest that provide me with sinew, bone and horn for my work. Along with pigeon and pheasant aplenty, my tribe will never go hungry. We are hunters and woodsmen, skilled at standing absolutely still for long stretches as we wait for our prey. We can skin and butcher a boar quickly and efficiently. We cut down trees to keep clear spaces for living and use the wood for fires to cook meat and keep us warm.

The river is our source of water, fish and smooth round stones for slingshots. The constant musical sound of its flow gives us joy and pleasure.

Lynne Damberg, 2019

A Policeman's Lot

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

I'm a disgruntled copper,
My name is PC Plod.
Bath's had another horrific flooding,
Some say it's an 'act of God'.

My beat is the Broad Quay area,
Adjacent to the river.
I guard the unrailed foot path
And repel fools who come hither.

The low-life up in Avon Street,
Yell out from upper floors.
There'll be a reduction in corruption,
While they are confined indoors.

A miscellany of floating craft
Rides by on the river swell,
Rescuing people where they can
They'll have some tales to tell.

They wave to me as they sweep by
But offer no relief,
I see no end to this duty
I'm fed up to the teeth.

I'm wet and cold and hungry
The water's reached my knees
My boot are overflowing
And my toes are in deep freeze

They sky is darkening again
They'll be more rain I fear
My sergeant is a sadist
If he plans to leave me here

I take the rough with the smooth
But when all is said and done
At times like this you must agree
A policeman's lot is not a happy one

Anne Salter, February – March 2019

‘To Believe Or Not To Believe… That Is The Question’

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Views are those of the author.

The Reverend Duel Taylor, Rector of Bath (1752-1767), in what seems a quaint approach to weather observation, kept a diary in which he recorded daily observations of the weather. The recently discovered ‘weather diary’ is invaluable in that it is a record of weather patterns for the period 1756-1761. Equally quaint were photographic images from 1899, showing the Medical Officer of Health for Bath City Council, Dr. W.H. Symons, taking sunshine readings on the dome of the Guildhall in Bath. Treasured artefacts from a bygone era that were brought to our creative writing workshop, courtesy of Bath Record Office.

Fast forward to the 21st century and weather observation, aided by state of the art technology, has become a sophisticated affair. There are complex computer generated models, graphs and diagrams; and automated networks of scientific instruments that monitor the weather around the clock, and around the globe. It is surprising then, given the benefit of technology, that such fierce contention around the issue of global warming should stalk the scientific community. Setting aside the matter of contention, NASA’s website proclaims, “…the vast majority of actively publishing climate scientists -97 percent- agree that humans are causing global warming and climate change.”

Among climate contrarians is the distinguished climate scientist, Richard Lindzen. He dismisses global warming as “alarmist nonsense”, and claims that “Global warming is about politics and power rather than science. In science there is an attempt to clarify; in global warming, language is misused in order to confuse and mislead the public.” Furthermore, he says, “The misuse of language extends to the use of models. For the advocates of policies allegedly addressing global warming the role of models is not to predict but rather to justify the claim that catastrophe is possible…”. Distinguished scientist, nobel laureate, Ivar Giaever, is quoted as saying that “…global warming has become a new religion.”

Scientists tell us we are in a new geological age: the Anthropocene - the age of humans. The risks to our planet, associated with the escalation in levels of carbon dioxide emissions, are real ones. According to the findings of the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services, “Over a million species of plants and animals are under threat of extinction … a direct result of human activity.” Following the publication of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change Special Report of 2018, the United Nations Secretary, António Guterres, said, “We face a direct existential threat.”

It takes resilience to peer into a not too distant future, to stretch the imagination trying to visualise the unimaginable; temperature extremes, food and water shortages, the disintegration of society, breakdown of law and order. Situations that could become the norm. The prospect of catastrophic scenarios fill us with alarm and trepidation. An uncertain future compels some people to bury their head in the sand, while others rally to ‘do something’. Though not quite on the grand scale as the philanthropic splash made by Pink Floyd musician, David Gilmour. Gilmour’s collection of classic guitars, recently auctioned at Christie’s, raised a staggering near £17 million for his charity, ‘Client Earth’. The charity’s website blurb reads, “The climate is in crisis. Nature is in immediate peril. We need action now.”

The United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation states that, “Livestock farming accounts for around 14.5% of global greenhouse gas emissions. More than the global transport sector.” Deforestation, water consumption and water pollution all associated with the industry, have environmental impacts. According to animal rights group Viva! over a billion animals are killed in UK slaughterhouses each year. Some eight billion animals are killed each year when fish and shellfish are included. The human appetite for animal flesh and animal derived products is rapacious. Animals as commodities, sentient beings held captive in the squalor of factory farms, vested interests motivated by profit, the industry cannot be said to be one associated with compassion. The unpalatable truth of what goes on inside these gulags is obfuscated by animal body parts being processed and packaged, made ready for supermarket shelves.

In, ‘Meat the Truth’(2007), Dutch MP, Marianne Thieme - Party for the Animals, reveals the toll the industry is having on the environment. Documentaries like ‘Meat the Truth’, ‘Cowspiracy’(2014), ‘Dominion’ (2018), help promote a vegan lifestyle. Genesis Butler, Aiyana Goodfellow, Zohar Gaderi, youth activists who raise their voices on behalf of animals and the environment. Greta Thunberg, teenage Swedish activist and initiator of school strike for climate movement, has gained global recognition. On the cover of Time Magazine and nominated for a Peace Prize, she has received standing ovations. Greta has travelled to Rome for an audience with Pope Francis and has visited the Houses of Parliament. She is said to have chided UK politicians for supporting shale gas fracking, airport expansion and so on. Addressing members at the European parliament, she referred to climate change as an “existential crisis”, and uttered sage words when she said, “Why study for a future that is being taken from us?” At the UN’s COP 24 climate change convention, politicians and journalists were challenged by Greta on their knowledge/or lack of, in relation to the ‘Keeling Curve’ and ‘albedo effect’.

Extinction Rebellion, ‘International movement that uses non-violent civil disobedience to bring issues such as climate change to the fore’, took its campaign onto the streets of London in April 2019. A focal point for XR, a pink boat moored in Oxford Circus and sporting the slogan, ‘Tell the Truth’. Named ‘Berta’ in memory of Berta Cáceres, assassinated Honduran environmental activist. From its deck Emma Thompson, actor, held court. In response to hypocrisy claims having travelled by air first class L.A.-London, in what was a non-Oscar winning performance, she said, “I don’t fly nearly as much as I did because of my carbon footprint, and I plant a lot of trees.” In a similar vein, Al ’An Inconvenient Truth’ Gore, has been challenged on his carbon footprint, so too the delegates who show up in private jets at World Economic Forums. “…1,500 private jets have flown in to hear Sir David Attenborough speak about how we are wrecking the planet,” said historian and author, Rutger Bregman, Davos 2019. “The garden of Eden is no more…”, warned Attenborough in his speech. Bregman brazenly insinuated a correlation between the ultra-rich, tax evasion, and poverty, ruffling more than feathers among the elite.

In relation to fossil fuel reduction initiatives, Dr Yan Li, University of illinois said, “I believe the increasing adoption of renewable energy can save humanity from climate change.” Michael Shellenberger, co-author, Breakthrough: Why We Can’t Leave Saving the Planet to Environmentalists (2009), disagrees. Shellenberger expounds on the topic, ’Why renewables can’t save the planet’, in Quillette Magazine. The revered French writer, pioneering aviator, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry(1900-1944), would be aghast were he to witness the transformation taking place in the Sahara/Sahel desert landscape. Massive renewable energy wind farm projects, fields of wind turbines or solar panels. “I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams.” Le Petit Prince(1943).

“There is a growing number of people who conclude we face inevitable human extinction.” -Jem Bendell, Professor of Sustainability and Leadership, author,‘Deep Adaptation: A Map for Navigating Climate Tragedy(2018). December 2018 Bendell gave a talk in Bristol: “If it’s too late, what now?”. Members of the Climate Psychology Alliance were in attendance. Eco anxiety? - don’t suffer alone, “We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing each other.” -Louciano De Crescenzo.

M.E. Dawson, 2019

T Polton, British Wines etc invoice dated 15 March 1831

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

An invoice from wine and pickle merchant T Polton, sent to his customer Mr Barnett on 15 March 1831, inspired this piece of writing.

I am George Spinks and I started work last month, February 1831, in Polton's in Abbey Churchyard in Bath. When I left school at Christmas my mates at school laughed at me and said: “only girls work in shops”. Well I like it. It's far better than going down the North Somerset Coal mines or sweeping chimneys. I got to stay at school till I was 12 because we have a National School in the village where I live and my reading and writing are good.

The shop is much bigger than it looks from outside because it has a cellar for the barrels of wine and cordials and a big bottling and pickling area at the back. Mr Polton, the owner, says that, if I work hard he will teach me everything he knows about the business. His son died from influenza in 1829 and I do not think his daughters are interested in the business.

When I get in at 7.30 each morning my first job is to collect the returned bottles from the yard and put them in the washing machine. Then I turn the crank handle to start the machine. When they have been thoroughly washed I put them on the spikes to dry. Then I paste on the labels: sack, Madeira, raspberry and many others I have never seen before. My favourite name is Double Strength Jamaican Ginger Wine which is meant to cure lots of diseases. It tastes very hot! I don't think anyone saw me having a taste.

My next job is preparing the orders. Most of our customers want a dozen bottles of wine and some seem to get through an awful lot. They have to pay a deposit on the bottles but they get it back when they return them. I am not so keen on working with the pickles and putting them into jars because the vinegar makes my eyes hurt. The fish sauce smells disgusting.

The front shop is full of floor to ceiling mahogany shelves, specially made to hold all the different bottles containing all the drinks we sell. There is a special gantry for barrels that the fortified wines are kept in. Mr P lets some of his best customers taste before they buy and keeps a few glasses for them. Nearly all the customers are well dressed in fine clothes and the men have top hats and silver topped canes. Some send their butlers who are not quite so smartly dressed but very well spoken. Poorer customers do not often come into the shop because Mr P likes to sell the wines by the dozen bottles and they cannot afford that as well as the deposit on the bottles.

Mr P. says he will show me how to make the fruit cordials and wines in the autumn when the berries are ripe but the cowslips need to be picked and processed into wine soon. I had no idea wine could be made from all these fruits.

I have to wear a large apron and wash my hands a lot between the different jobs. There are three others working in the back shop and four serve at the counter. Nobody has to work all the time in the cellar where the more expensive wines are kept. It is cold, dark and creepy down there.

It is good working in the centre of Bath because it is a busy place. Someone told me that Mr Jolly is going to make his temporary shop permanent and it will be in five houses and be called a Department Store with a wide range of services and products for sale. Maybe more people will want to work in shops. I think it is a good place to be working.

Kathy Elam, 2019

The Warmth of the Sun

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

When I arrived into this world,
I had an older brother,
He was gentle, kind and loving,
We really liked each other.

Our early years of childhood,
Were disturbed by interruption
of wailing siren warnings,
Then followed by destruction.

Little children are excited
By things which make a noise,
Counting Spitfires flying over,
Was a thrill for little boys!

The War raged on around us,
As events became chaotic,
Our home was now involved,
The conditions - catastrophic.

Shattered glass and debris
Came flying through the air,
Our world reduced to darkness,
The noise - was everywhere.

Time just counts for nothing,
Horror strikes the soul,
Everything is different,
Familiar things unroll.

From our space inside The Shelter,
We saw the sky - still blue.
As the Sun continued shining,
There’d be a Future, too.

Susan Roden, March 2019

The Warmth of the Sun

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A poem inspired by the illustrated map of Somerset and Wiltshire engraved by William Hole to illustrate ‘Poly-Olbion’ the epic poem by Michael Drayton, 1612.

She wears long tresses of weed entwined with flowers and fronds
Long enough to reach her feet
Otherwise she is naked
She emerges slowly through the night’s blue/green mist and steps towards the edge of the river bank
The people see her and start to shout
Holding their flamed torches high.

She plunges in
The ropes of flowers stream from her head like a cape
The water is deep and biting cold
Her body is rigid for a moment like a fly in amber
Her nerves and sinews briefly frozen like sharp ice shards
Her teeth chit-chatter in a voice of their own as she floats down the river
Her skin starts to blush red and tingle as she gets used to the icy water.

The river whirls and eddies over rocks
Some water is trapped in whirlpools destined to make patterns forever
Now the current is getting stronger and she half floats, half swims as the undertow pulls her along
The river is getting faster and faster
The people are trying to keep up with it
Crashing and falling in the undergrowth
Dropping their torches
Trying to run in time to it
Trying to keep up with the flow.

The weeds caress her skin as she is carried along
Silky smooth and velvety
Faster now
The river widens as it rushes her along
The people become distant as she stays in the middle
Her floral rope is tangled and torn
Pretty flowers in pieces float past her
Damaged and destroyed

She is near now and hears the booming roaring sound
Water spray is thrown up as the full moon emerges in the sky
It is now that it must happen to bless the harvest
As she is sucked towards the precipice the people throw their flamed torches at her
Some blazing, fizzing and whomping as they hit the water
She opens her arms, catches the torches and dives down into the waterfall.

Francesca Knight, September 2019

Xenophobia in Cape Town

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

It was eight pm the shopping mall was still heaving as I surveyed bright, colourfully dressed people dashing about with large bags on sloping shoulders, laughter & exhaustion vying with each other on their faces. As I reached the top of the escalator my new work colleagues greeted me, steering me towards the escalator down, light dawned as they read out the text from a mobile phone. ‘Come to Warehouse immediately, xenophobia broken out in Khayalitsha.’ We were back on the Wetton road arriving at The Warehouse a very long twenty minutes later.

Emergency plans had slipped it seemed, effortlessly into place. The Warehouse, an outreach centre with offices for eight projects from orphans of AIDS to the unemployed, in an hour became a centre for refugees. South Africans in the township had turned on their Zimbabwean neighbours with such ferocity they had fled with their families. Some never made it they were stopped by machetes.

Vacuum cleaners were the first into action, cleaning the floors of the cement dust which constantly accumulated. Next came blankets, shaken rigorously outside until free of cement dust. Water urns switched on, cups and glasses lined up; stacking chairs unstacked, tables wiped. I was given a roll of sticky labels & a pen. As each family came in I had to write their names on a label & put it on their clothes. Then pass them over to Elizabeth who settled them with blankets on a floor space. Craig brought them drinks while those needing medical attention were taken to a specially screened off area where doctors & nurses were arriving to attend the injured.

There was an extraordinary quiet over all this activity, people spoke softly, respectfully, kindly. The sense of calm seemed to penetrate the refugees as they entered almost like entering a holy space. The children’s tears soon ceased as they huddled in family groups, with soft toys and pillows comforting them.

So the night passed and with morning came deliveries of food & drink and the next stage moved into action. People began to arrive willing to take, twos, threes, fours, fives and so on into their homes. The Warehouse gradually went from over 100 to twenty or so. Here the police moved to transport the remaining few to a local school which could provide more than just floor space.

At 11am that morning Elizabeth & I went to a community centre called Chrysalis where an appeal for clothes had gone out. As we drove up we were in competition with baboons which were attracted by the activity and rightly guessed there would be food around. The refugees milling around didn’t seem bothered by them, the least of their problems seems an understatement. There were van loads of clothes coming in with too few volunteers to sort them. Elizabeth & I stayed for a few hours sorting the garments which were first checked over, then the sizes sorted, then the colours, finishing in small bundles of two jumpers, two t shirts, two skirts, two trousers, underwear all same size & colour co-ordinated finally tied with ribbon & set aside to be given out to each individual. The care and respectfulness of this made me cry, as did vacuuming the floors at The Warehouse before the refugees arrived.

From Chrysalis we went to Soet Strand (Sweet Beach) where two thousand refugees had been pushed out of several different townships. There were marquees set up accommodating the various needs. I remember the baby’s marquee with a mountain of disposable nappies and highly vocal babies with flaying limbs fighting every effort of restraint on changing mats.

These refugees had been marooned on the beach with nothing but the sea behind them, they could run no further, they had nothing. I think of some religious practises where the ‘believers’ are asked ‘to empty themselves’ What does this really mean? Is this where the refugees found themselves, emptied?

Brenda Carter, 2019

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I’m delighted that these stories, poems and essays, produced by members of St John’s Foundation Creative Writing Groups, have been published here for all to enjoy.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A poem inspired by the map of Somerset and Wiltshire engraved by William Hole in 1612 to illustrate ‘Poly-Olbion’ the epic poem by Michael Drayton.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A piece of writing inspired by the 1612 map of Somerset and Wiltshire engraved by William Hole to illustrate ‘Poly-Olbion’ the epic poem by Michael Drayton.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A poem inspired by the map of Somerset and Wiltshire engraved by William Hole, to illustrate ‘Poly-Olbion’ the epic poem by Michael Drayton, 1612.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A trade card for Mr Slater's chemist's shop inspired this report, which it is imagined appeared in the Bath Chronicle for 9 April 1762.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Views are those of the author.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

An invoice from wine and pickle merchant T Polton, sent to his customer Mr Barnett on 15 March 1831, inspired this piece of writing.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

A poem inspired by the illustrated map of Somerset and Wiltshire engraved by William Hole to illustrate ‘Poly-Olbion’ the epic poem by Michael Drayton, 1612.

Written in 2019 by a member of a creative writing class, through a collaboration between Bath Record Office and the St. John’s Foundation.

Explore Bath's world heritage

Explore Bath's world heritage

Other things to do in Bath

Creative writing exhibition

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