| “Who knit you?” |
| There is a little place on a big island. A place where people who love words and who love stories and who love music come every year in August. At a dead end road. In Newfoundland. For a writers festival. Literary festivals are the beating heart of the literary world. They are among our last remaining democratic spaces and are the lungs of our societies, providing much needed oxygen, like evergreen forests, in an age increasingly shaped by hyper-information and speedy consumption. They are celebrations of words, stories, and the shared human experience, and by extension, the general population’s perception of the arts and their importance. And there’s no place in the world like the inimitable “Writers at Woody Point Festival”. |
| “Writers of Woody Point” is about story, it’s about the power of story, it’s about the power of story to change our lives.” – Shelagh Rogers |
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| There is enchantment here. This place knits us back into the fabric of life. It’s more than just buying the T-shirt. It’s difficult to capture the essence of this festival in words, when it is indeed a festival celebrating words, to describe the magic one feels so profoundly in this place, which is why I keep coming back. I’m never unmoved or underwhelmed. It’s something that has to be experienced and lived in a sense. Once you get here, you know. It’s special. It can only happen here. This place is a convergence of something remarkable. Community-owned, rooted in places and families, gleefully independent. A celebration of the best of Newfoundland and Canadian literature, as well as music, poetry, art and everything in between. |
| “If a Newfoundland writer is given 30 minutes on stage, they will read for two minutes and tell a story spontaneously, just talk in a really entertaining way for the other 28 minutes.” – Lawrence Hill |
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| There is no grand separation here between author and reader, nor a formal pedestal that authors are placed on. Here there is a level of attention and warmth. It’s a symbiotic thing. A back and forth. A balance of fun and profound. Of reverence and valuing of culture and storytelling. Of the efforts of people who value a paired down sense of home. So just how did a little festival in a little town on a dead-end road in Western Newfoundland start with almost no money and no real plan, turn into the “Writers at Woody Point” festival we know today? It may be something about being surrounded by the verdant and humbling landscape of Gros Morne National Park, or the upheaval of the earth’s crust that produced the Tablelands, the water, the heritage buildings, or just being under a canopy of stars. It does something to you. It makes you conscious of time in different ways, rethinking your organic relationships to place, to reflect on where you’ve come from, and where you might like to go next. |
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| People have lived on this site for thousands of years. The Beothuk, the Mikmaq, the Maritime Archaic, the Dorset and the Groswater. It’s a place where people came. Twelve generations now. We really should call it “Oldfoundland”. Over the years, Writers of Woody Point built on this natural setting, its wholesome community, and the willingness of authors and musicians to accept their invitation on faith. Gord Downie once opened the festival with Bobcaygeon, and Gordon Pinsent, the patron saint of the festival, once closed it with a recitation from the Tempest. |
| “For a Canadian author, being invited to attend the Writers at Woody Point event in August is the equivalent of winning the Nobel Prize.” – Douglas Gibson, former president and publisher of McClelland and Stewart. |
| A lot of big name writers and performers have come here since its inception in 2004. The list is long and illustrious. Gordon Pinsent. Rick Mercer. Peter Mansbridge. Louise Penny. Serena Ryder. Michael Crummey. Anne-Marie MacDonald. Waubgeshig Rice. Donna Morrissey. Bernard McClaverty. Elizabeth Hay. Guy Vanderhaegh. Wayne Johnston. Jim Cuddy. Des Walsh. Gail Anderson-Dargatz. Alastair MacLeod. Lawrence Hill. Sarah Polley. Bruce Cockburn. Gord Downie. Will Ferguson. Suzette Mayr. Sylvia Tyson. Michael Ondaatje. Miriam Toews. Margaret Atwood. Annie Proulx. William Prince. Alan Doyle. Mark Critch. Meg Wolitzer. The Once. Linden Macintyre. Madeleine Thien. Stephen Fearing. Ron Sexsmith. Sarah Harmer. |
It is magical because of the communal experience. There is trust between the audience, the authors, the musicians, and the artists. It’s a intimate gathering like we are old friends sitting in their living room. It’s a place to tell stories their way. Stories and songs of belonging and survival, of fragility and of strength. A place where you listen with a slight vulnerability, and with your heart. And to remember. There are numerous belly-laughs, there are tears, and for those who listen carefully, there is the ocean. |
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Perhaps the most unique event of the festival is Writers in the Wild, a guided hike on one of the pristine Gros Morne trails with stops to witness dramatic, musical and literary performances. And on the final morning of the festival, the audience experiences David Ferry’s latest rendition of ShortWaves/Short Stories. Part live theatre, part radio drama, the production at times reminiscent of a Greek chorus. And then, the infamous late night multi-talented traditional music circle. |
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| If you want to “come home” next year, my advice would be to book accommodations about now. Festival tickets go online in May and are sold within minutes, as the venues are small. And that is how they want it. Which is another reason why it is the best festival in the world. And why, the deep roots of it all, cannot be found anywhere else, a fulcrum for writers, readers, and musicians, holding a mountain of stories and natural beauty, along with the province’s legendary kitchen-party hospitality of warmth, charm, humour, and unique turns of phrase. Woody Point gets it “write”. |
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This is my last day here, so I’m going to go pick up some fish and chips, breathe a little more sea air, and take a walk along the coast, discovering again the “knitted version of me” in the bottom of a pair of hiking boots – and a good book. |
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