If you’d told me a few years ago that I’d be running a whole project dedicated to the Fens, I’d probably have laughed and gone back to ignoring my own back garden. Despite living in the Fens for as long as I can remember, I didn’t really know much about its history. It was just there, a flat, bleak landscape stretching out in every direction, more drainage ditches than people, and a sky so wide it made you feel slightly unhinged if you looked at it for too long.

And then lockdown happened.

Like everyone else, I started spending more time outside, wandering the local landscape out of sheer boredom. But somewhere along the way, something shifted. The more I walked, the more I started noticing things: the way the mist clung to the fields at dusk, the strange hollows and ridges that hinted at something older beneath the soil, the names of places that sounded like they belonged in half-forgotten myths. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know everything.

So, I started researching, digging into the history, the folklore, the people who had lived (and fought) here. And what I found was a place far richer—and far weirder—than I’d ever realised. A land shaped by resistance and rebellion, where water and earth have been warring for centuries. A place where the old stories never quite died, where ghosts still haunt the marshes and ancient names cling to the landscape like stubborn reeds.

Why Folklore?

Folklore isn’t just about old stories; it’s how history survives. One of the most well-known tales of the Fens, the curse of Tiddy Mun, isn’t just a spooky fireside story. It’s a memory, passed down through generations, of the devastation caused by draining the land. It’s an echo of a time when people believed that if the water disappeared, something bad would happen. (Spoiler: they were right.)

That’s why I started Fen.Folk in July 2024, to document these stories, this landscape, and the people who have called it home. Not to romanticise the past, but to dig into it, to unearth its stranger corners, its forgotten voices, and its uncertain future. The Lincolnshire Folk Tales Project has been a huge source of knowledge for me, helping to connect the dots between local myths and the traditions of the wider region. The Fens are often dismissed as a bleak, featureless place, but once you start paying attention, it’s anything but. I want Fen.Folk to be an invitation for people to look again: to find the beauty, the history, the folklore, and yes, a little bit of whimsy. Because let’s be honest, the world could always use more stories of giants, bog spirits, and mischievous marsh-dwelling tiddy people.

A DIY Approach to Folk Art

The way I share my findings is through art. My style is a strange beast, a mix of folk art, outsider art, and the rough DIY aesthetic of 1960s fan magazines, with a splash of psychedelic design and folk revival imagery thrown in for good measure. I’ve always been drawn to the people on the edges, the subcultures, the ones who don’t quite fit, and maybe that’s why I feel so connected to the Fens. It’s always been a place on the fringes, neither land nor water, never quite belonging to one or the other.

I think we’re in the middle of a third folk revival. The first was between 1890-1920, the second from 1945-1969, and now? More and more people are reconnecting with old traditions, lost rituals, and the aesthetics of what we think of as ‘folk.’ Maybe it’s a reaction to the fast, disconnected digital world we live in. Maybe it’s the need for something tangible, something with roots. Either way, I’m here for it.

Fen.Folk: Past, Present, and Future

The first issue of Fen.Folk is about the Fens and its people, past and present. It’s about a landscape that refuses to be tamed, voices that refuse to be forgotten, and a land that, no matter how many times it’s drained, always finds a way to reclaim its own. But it’s also about the people here now: the artists, the creatives, the ones making work in a place that doesn’t always make space for them.

And honestly, I still can’t believe how many people are also invested. I thought Fen.Folk would be this little niche thing, but it turns out there are loads of people who want to read about ancient marsh ghosts, peasant revolts, and eel-based conspiracies. And I love that.

Fenland might not have a thriving creative scene in the traditional sense, but that doesn’t mean it lacks creativity. It’s just like the land itself, hidden beneath the surface, waiting for the right conditions to break through.

And that’s what Fen.Folk is really about. Digging through the mud, finding the stories, and making sure they don’t disappear.

Fen Folk Volume One is due to be released in February, for updates visit fenfolk.com or join me in the marshes on Instagram: @fen.folk

By CHLOE ROBINSON

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The Lincolnshire Folk Tales project is grateful to Chloe Robinson for providing the words for this post and for championing the folk tales of the Fens. Fen.Folk is a folk art project by South Lincolnshire-based artist Chloe Robinson, exploring the stories, folklore, and landscapes of the Fens through zines and illustration. Blending DIY publishing with a modern folk art style, Fen.Folk unearths forgotten histories and reimagines them through art and independent publishing.

The cover image for this post is a print made by Chloe Robinson and can be purchased on her website: fenfolk.com