On a late-summer afternoon in the ancient city of Chester, with its Roman walls and black-and-white timbered shopfronts, a 57-year-old council worker from the Surrey town of Haslemere stood in a Georgian-inspired coat, waiting to hear whether his voice had been judged the finest in Britain. Christian Ashdown had been the town crier of Haslemere for sixteen years, but he had never considered himself anything more than one among dozens of passionate custodians of an odd and old-fashioned craft. He had gone to Chester, at the end of last month, for the World Town Crier Tournament, a five-day gathering of twenty-five criers from around the world. He thought, he admitted later, that he might be somewhere in the top thirty of the world’s town criers—not exactly a ringing endorsement of his own abilities, but a typically modest assessment from a man who had fallen into the role completely by accident. So when the final placings were read out and he heard that he had finished third, behind Kevin Howarth from the Australian city of Toowoomba and Joris Goens from Veurne in Belgium, Christian felt what he called ‘a very pleasant surprise.’ The result made him the best town crier in Britain, ahead of several formidable Canadians and a field of other competitors who all took the craft seriously. The tourists who had stopped to watch the tournament loved the spectacle; Christian was quietly delighted. It was not a title he had chased, but it was one he had clearly earned through years of practice, patience, and a love for the strange profession he had never planned to take up. For a man whose day job involved projects and amenities rather than public performance, it was as unexpected as it was heartwarming.
The tournament itself was a demanding test, not a simple matter of shouting into the wind. Each of the twenty-five competitors had to prepare and deliver three cries: one about their own hometown, one on behalf of a luxury lingerie shop that had sponsored the event, and one about the hotel where they were staying. The subjects could be humorous, historical, or emotional, but every cry had to be original, clear, and suited to the open-air environment of a town square. Judges scored the contestants on volume, clarity, inflection, and diction, looking for the particular artistry that separates a public announcer from a person just making noise. Christian knows that many people misunderstand the craft. It is not about screaming at the top of your lungs; it is about using the voice as an instrument to carry words across a crowd while keeping every syllable distinct. A good town crier has to command attention with the ancient call of ‘oyez, oyez, oyez,’ but he also has to make sure that the message itself is understandable. Common errors, as Christian has learned, include saying ‘oyez’ while still talking rather than using it as a distinct, attention-grabbing opening, and focusing too much on sheer volume at the expense of enunciation. The competition in Chester offered a perfect demonstration of these principles. It was also a reunion of a small, passionate global community, where rivals were friends, where notes were compared, and where the sound of bells and voices echoed off old stone walls late into the afternoon. Christian’s third place among that group was not a fluke; it was the result of years of learning how to balance power and clarity, tradition and personality.
Christian’s personal story is perhaps the most extraordinary part of his success. He never intended to be a town crier. Sixteen years ago, the town crier of Haslemere announced his retirement at the worst possible time: in the middle of the busy Christmas period, when villages and towns across England were planning carol services, festive markets, and community gatherings that depended on a crier to make them feel special. The mayor of Haslemere, suddenly without a voice for these events, telephoned Christian and asked if he would fill in. Christian, who worked for the town council, hesitated. He later admitted: ‘It had never crossed my mind to become a town crier. I knew what they were, but I didn’t know they still existed. I knew nothing about it, but I have very much embraced it.’ In the end he said yes, perhaps because it was Christmas and someone needed him. What began as a temporary favour, however, soon became something much more. He discovered that being a town crier was not simply a matter of standing on a market square and making a loud announcement. It was a way of connecting with people, of celebrating local occasions, of preserving a tradition that has never completely died out. ‘I think it is on the increase because the guild has advertised on social media,’ he said. ‘It has never really died off, funnily enough. It is something that has never gone away. People love it, and they thank me. It is all positive, which surprised me actually.’ That surprise—that people would be drawn to an ancient, volunteering role—is perhaps the most human part of his story. He did not set out to become a champion, but the role slowly took hold of him, and now the idea of giving it up seems impossible.
Today, Christian is not just a successful crier; he is also the chair of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Town Criers, the largest and oldest body of town criers in the world. The guild has 117 members, and under his steady leadership it continues to grow, partly because social media has introduced the romance of the role to a new generation. Town criers, he points out, work on a volunteer basis. They are not paid for their appearances; they do it because they love their town and because they believe in the power of a human voice to bring people together. Christian himself has a full-time job as a projects and amenities officer at Haslemere Town Council, where he deals with parks, buildings, and community spaces. In his spare time, he puts on the traditional costume—usually Georgian-inspired, since the eighteenth century was the golden age of town crying—and goes out to greet people at special occasions, to preside over market days, and to represent his town in competitions. The costume is more than a fancy-dress outfit; it is a signal that the crier belongs to a long line of public communicators, stretching back to a time when most people could not read and news travelled on the human voice. In an age of smartphones and breaking-news alerts, there is something irreplaceable about standing in a square, hearing a bell, and being invited to stop and listen. The town crier’s role is often comic in appearance, but it carries a genuine civic purpose: to make public life feel more personal, more communal, and more alive.
Christian’s hard-earned advice to aspiring criers reveals how much depth there is to what sounds like a simple trade. The day before a competition, he is careful not to strain his voice. He drinks plenty of water, keeps throat lozenges at hand, and avoids unnecessary shouting. He knows that the voice is an instrument that needs rest and care. He also knows that the temptation to be as loud as possible is the quickest route to poor pronunciation and a raw throat. ‘Try not to scream and shout too much,’ he said. ‘You have to pace yourself. Just be nice and clear. It is not necessarily always about the volume; it is enunciation.’ He has seen many criers make the mistake of blurting ‘oyez’ as part of their opening sentence rather than pausing after it, and he has learned that a well-placed pause can be more powerful than any amount of volume. He has already entered his name for competitions next year, not because he is obsessed with medals, but because the contests are an opportunity to meet other criers, to hear how different people approach the same lines, and to swap advice over a cup of tea. That sense of fellowship, as much as the championship trophy, is what keeps him walking to the market square with his bell. There is a craftsman’s pride in what he does, a quiet commitment to the small details that make a cry clear, pleasing, and persuasive.
Perhaps the most charming aspect of Christian Ashdown’s story is that none of it was planned. A phone call from a mayor during a busy Christmas season, a reluctant yes, and then a slow, passionate discovery that an old craft could still bring delight and gratitude to modern people. His third-place finish in Chester is a testament to his skill, but it is also a testament to the power of saying yes to something unexpected. He has gone from a man who did not even know town criers still existed to the chair of a global guild and the best town crier in Britain. He has already signed up for more competitions next year, and he will keep spending his weekends in a Georgian coat, raising his voice for the joy of a crowd. The tourists in Chester loved the spectacle, and the people of Haslemere have thanked him for years. In a world increasingly fragmented and digital, there is something deeply human about a person who stands in a public square and invites passers-by to stop and share a moment. Christian may not have intended to be a town crier, but he has become one of its finest ambassadors. And as he himself says, the tradition has never really gone away—it just needed people like him to keep it alive.
