Plunging Into Elsewhere

Magic is in the air, says Sue Limb, as Stroud Book Festival returns to the Shire.

What is it about Stroud and books? Writers seem to gravitate towards it. William Cobbett dropped by in the 1820s on one of his Rural Rides, and admired the fact that there was a fat hog in every villager’s back yard. So Stroud got the Cobbett seal of approval – and that wasn’t easy. (‘I passed through that villainous hole, Cricklade about two hours ago… Cheltenham is a nasty, i'll looking place, half clown, half Cockney…’)

Local treasure Jilly Cooper, famous for more raunchy rural rides, has described Stroud as ‘the sort of place where artists grow out of the cobblestones.’ And indeed one can hardly venture three inches into the shabby but charismatic outskirts of Stroud without being assailed by buskers, men in Afghan hats playing the hurdy-gurdy, art galleries, installations, witches on broomsticks, organ-grinders with monkeys, eco-friendly flying machines: you get the picture.

Stroud with its humming looms was a hotbed of nonconformity in the 18th and 19th centuries. This meant a defiance of authority in religious matters, and adventurous radicalism in politics and the arts. Two fingers to convention! Hell, why stop there? Three fingers!

Nowadays the Baptist and Congregationalist chapels are more likely to be arts venues, and the tradition of a buzzing cultural life has attracted writers for decades. Some were born Stroudy (Laurie Lee, Alan Hollinghurst), some achieved Stroudiness (Katie Fforde, Matthew Fort) some had Stroudiness thrust upon them (Jamila Gavin, born in the foothills of the Himalayas; Jilly Cooper, born in the foothills of Hornchurch).