Welcome to The Woodstock Bookshop

The shop opened in May 2008 and is on the main road in Woodstock, just next to the bus stop. We can supply most books to order by the next day and have several thousand books in stock: to order books ring or email the shop. We have a large selection of children's books and are happy to advise and recommend. We can also supply second-hand and out-of-print titles. We offer discounts for school orders and for book clubs and have a free local delivery service.

We were on the regional shortlist for Independent Bookshop of the Year in 2009, 2013 and 2017, and listed in the Independent's Top 50 UK Bookshops.

are both suspended during the pandemic. We hope to start again as soon as it is safe to do so.

The bookshop started and runs Woodstock Poetry Festival, a completely independent festival that has now been running for 8 years.

The Woodstock Literature Society also holds an excellent series of monthly talks - do visit their website for further details.

Twitter: @WoodstockBooks

Monday, 26 September 2011

Gillian Clarke

We had a great launch for Washing Lines last Saturday. Janie and Barbara had decked the Methodist Church with washing lines and poetry and the church was full. The photos show Gillian signing books after the reading, and chatting to Janie and her husband Nicholas just before the reading began. Barbara can just be seen on the far left.

Gillian Clarke's reading was wonderful - we have some CDs of her reading her work in case anyone would like a permanent reminder of how well she reads (the recording was not made at our talk so is not exclusively about washing). She began with tribute to the four miners who had just been found, reading an earlier poem in memory of another accident -

Six Bells - 28th June 1960

Perhaps a woman hanging out the wash

paused, hearing something, a sudden hush,

a pulse inside the earth like a blow to the heart,

holding in her arms the wet weight

of her wedding sheets, his shirts. Perhaps

heads lifted from the work of scrubbing steps,

hands stilled from wringing rainbows onto slate,

while below the town, deep in the pit

a rock-fall struck a spark from steel, and fired

the void, punched through the mine a fist

of blazing firedamp. As they died,

perhaps a silence, before sirens cried,

before the people gathered in the street,

before she'd finished hanging out her sheets.

She read a lot from Washing Lines, and from her own work. A treat was to hear unpublished, recent poems, including one just completed that day. She also read Shirt of a Lad, an anonymous poem translated by Tony Conran, which will surely be in a future edition of Washing Lines.

No comments: