American poet Marie Howe thought it was pronounced Aydelburg, but as we all eventually learn it’s really Ohld-brah. The Aldeburgh Poetry Festival celebrates its 22nd birthday this year and – though like all arts organizations is struggling for survival in rocky times – has brought back the usual throng of poets and readers for a weekend by the sea.
We arrived early, in time to dine on sole from the local farm shop’s sustainable fish shop
and check out Tammy’s allotment, where even after a late planting the radishes were flourishing
likewise the raspberries
and sloes, begging for gin:
After some heavy poetry workshopping, we fortified ourselves at 152 (feta-pomegranate salad and beetroot risotto with a natty parmesan chapeau for me)
and the book tables at the back of the stage were thronged as ever. My bags grow heavier, my wallet lighter.