WHAT’S IN A TITLE?

This May, I relinquished my Bardship of Totnes. A sentence that sounds faintly medieval, faintly ridiculous and, in this town, entirely normal.

The new Bard of Totnes is Geoff Petty, voted in among the bluebell delirium of The Glade, where nature itself seemed to have arranged the staging. The woodland floor rolled out a violet carpet worthy of royalty. Birds provided percussion. Trees leaned in observing. There was singing, handholding, laughter threaded with reverence, and the kind of soft pagan pageantry Totnes performs so naturally it barely notices it’s doing theatre.

Presiding over it all was Adam Powell, our Grand Bard, green-robed and bright-eyed, carrying the whole thing with the easy charisma of a man who looks as though he may have stepped out of an Arthurian dream and wandered into a poetry open mic. Adam was the very first Bard of Totnes in 2025 (and as Grand Bard holds the tile for 7 years) . I followed in 2026. Now Geoff takes the staff.

And somehow, impossibly, Geoff feels less elected, more revealed.

I have called him Shakespeare for years. Not as a joke exactly, more an observation that escaped before I could edit it. He has that unmistakable air about him: thoughtful eyes, intelligent patience. If Shakespeare returned in 2026, swapped the ruff for practical knitwear, and developed strong views on education and environmentalism, he might look suspiciously like Geoff Petty.

Geoff comes to the role carrying decades of teaching, writing and thinking. He has written books on education, shaped minds, championed ideas and, underneath it all, maintained his deepest allegiance to poetry itself. Not performance for vanity. Not poetry as decoration. Poetry as nourishment. As witness. As compass.

Which is why he is exactly right for Totnes.

The official handover took place on May 1st at Totnes Castle, that ancient Norman sentinel crouched above the town for nearly a thousand years. Totnes Castle has watched invaders, merchants, dreamers, pilgrims, Civil War tensions, market traders, rebels and romantics pass beneath its stone gaze. It has survived everything history could throw at it, including, now, a modern bardic succession involving three slightly windswept poets trying not to drop ceremonial objects on uneven ground.

It was small. Intimate. No trumpets. No sponsorship banners. No corporate hospitality suite waiting nearby with warm prosecco and branded tote bags.

Because that is the truth of being Bard of Totnes.

There is no salary. No company car. No laminated backstage pass to enlightenment.

The role survives entirely on spirit.

The Bard must carve their own path through the town, offering words where they can, showing up where needed, becoming part poet, part fool, part celebrant, part witness. During my year I threw myself gloriously at it. I created poetry events and important conversations during the 2025 Totnes Fringe Festival, organised workshops and spoken word evenings, wrote for the Fringe brochure and ended the year at the beautiful creative gathering at Fowlescombe Farm with Adam Powell, celebrating spoken word beneath Devon skies.

And throughout it all, Adam remained there quietly in the background. Encouraging. Steadying. Occasionally steering me away from artistic over combustion. The great gift of good mentors is that they rarely announce themselves as such. They simply stand nearby holding the ladder while you wobble around trying to hang stars.

Now Geoff takes the reins, though “reins” feels slightly too managerial a word for something so gloriously untamed.

He will make an immense Bard.

Because the true bards are never merely performers. They are gatherers. Noticers. They carry communities in the lining of their coats. Geoff possesses that rare combination of gentleness and gravity. He is mild-mannered yet commanding, scholarly yet warm, wise enough to lead and human enough to laugh at himself. A maker of beauty. A bringer of words. A confidant. A chap.

A true bard.

And perhaps that is what is in a title after all.

Not status.

Not prestige.

But permission.

Permission to champion wonder in an increasingly cynical world. Permission to gather people together under trees, inside castles, around stages and microphones and kitchen tables and remind them that language still matters. That songs still matter. That stories still matter.

Totnes, for all its eccentricities, understands this instinctively.

Long may it continue.