The StAnza Poetry Festival

So I worked out a travel plan online and set off. It worked perfectly and soon I arrived in St Andrews in the dark and rain. The lights in the Byre Theatre were glowing in the darkness and inside I took a quick turn around the ground floor bar, noting with satisfaction the poet Kei Miller deep in conversation at one of the tables. Just as you'd expect from a poetry festival of such standing. Upstairs I met a few people I knew and managed to find a way to hear Seamus Heaney's evening session. After admiring the handsome Faber editions of his poetry collections on the book stall I went into the event. Heaney was great company. He gave short introductions to each poem he read- some old, some new- and he was gracious, amusing and warm. It was a huge treat to hear him. He made us feel the experience he was writing about, he wasn't just telling us about it. That's what the writer and broadcaster Richard Holloway says poetry is and it certainly felt as though he was right. Afterwards, as a huge queue formed to get Seamus Heaney to sign their books I did a quick circuit of people I knew who were milling around: press officer- tick; Director's PA- tick; arts writer for a newspaper- tick; reader in residence- tick. All delightful people and it was hard to be disciplined and set off for the journey home; like leaving a party really early.



The Travel Plan served me well again until Leuchars, where I stood shivering waiting for the 2325 train to Edinburgh. One came through at the expected time and I hopped on. At we left Leuchars the conductor looked at my ticket and frowned. 'You're not supposed to be on this train. It doesn't stop in Edinburgh.' The warm StAnza afterglow faded to black and I said, 'Oh?'. 'No. We're going to London Euston.' Silence. 'I see.' Seamus seemed suddenly far away. Contemplating making a surprise appearance at the hot desks in Broadcasting House in London in the morning I remembered just how much work I faced the next day. By way of heading off a fine I showed my Travel Plan and explained how I'd followed it exactly and fortunately the conductor transferred his disapproval to the website that had worked out the journey- they'd made mistakes before. This meant he offered to let me off the train at Kirkcaldy. I thanked him. 'Ok, Inverkeithing.' I smiled this time and thanked him again in the hope of coaxing him to put me off actually on the Edinburgh side of the Forth Rail Bridge. But he wasn't being beaten down any further and so I stepped down onto a deserted Inverkeithing Station at 1210am with instructions to look for the phone with a red button that would put me straight through to a taxi company.



Coming down the other side of the railway bridge I saw the Station Master locking up the darkened booking office. 'Hello!' I called. He flinched and turned round. 'What are you doing up there?'. 'I just got off the sleeper to London'. 'But why?'. I explained and asked where to find the phone with the red button. It turned out it was locked up inside but he went back into the office, telling me to wait. After a cold ten minutes he emerged with a list of numbers for local taxi companies. I discarded the one that had only a mobile number- landlines seem somehow more trustworthy when you're vulnerable- and dialled one on my mobile. No answer. Maybe they were all in bed. I suppose there wouldn't be much call for taxis in Inverkeithing in the middle of the night. The other landline was for Tony's Taxis. A man- Tony?- answered sounding groggy. I explained and, with the Station Master mouthing 'Get a quote!' at me, he said he'd do it for about £30. Done. So Willie the Station Master very gallantly kept me company in the rain and darkness and passed the time by telling me about his job. After 20 minutes there was no sign of the taxi and we were discussing the exact extent of the amenities in Inverkeithing town centre ('Well, you can't really call it a town centre..') when Tony finally hove into view at the end of the road. He was a small man, eyes level with the top of the steering wheel, cap jammed down over his eyes and a huge beard and I couldn't make out much of what he said. I did hear him though when he asked me if I had enough money. Clearly this had happened before. We set off and I explained what had happened, hoping that he wasn't a serial killer and, even if he was, that if I chatted brightly enough he wouldn't be able to bring himself to do it. As we got to Edinburgh I felt I was pretty safe but then he asked whether my family would be worrying about me being so late home. I nearly said, 'Oh no, my family live in England.' but suddenly wondered if it might be a leading question. 'Oh no' I said, 'I called them on my mobile. They're waiting up. Aren't mobiles handy? You can CALL PEOPLE IN EMERGENCIES.' Point made, I sat back feeling I'd negotiated that pretty well and looked forward to reaching home at last.



Despite the fact I'd almost made an unexpected appearance in London, had ended up in a dark, deserted station in Fife in the middle of the night, had had to throw myself on the goodwill of two strangers who in the end were very kind, had had a rather expensive night and would have only 4 hours sleep I still felt that I'd had a pretty great evening at StAnza and was glad I'd gone. It was worth it all for the company, the atmosphere, seeing the darkened gothic town by the sea, and most of all for hearing Seamus Heaney reading his poetry. And if that isn't an endorsement for the festival nothing is.



Serena Field, Producer, The Book Cafe