Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Wind whips grassy waves Skylark trails spirals of song Tall stones slice the sun The sky darkens over the mountains to the north, but to our left, in the east, the sea sparkles. A strong wind buffets us as we tramp over the coarse tussocks of marsh grass.  Oliver’s small hand is warm in mine; he pushes his face into his coat, retreating from the cold.  William runs ahead, excited by the sense of discovery. The grass ripples in a golden ocean, William’s red coat billows like a spinnaker.  Our ears ache with the incessant wind. We startle a skylark, and it explodes into indignant song, climbing in jerky, breathless bursts high into the vivid blue sky.   We reach the first stone circle and crouch behind the largest stones, taking a moment’s rest from the wind’s onslaught. Concentric rings of rounded grey boulders nestle in the rough grass, with gaps here and there like missing teeth. Respite over, we continue across the exposed curve of the m

A Walk I stand under the petrol station canopy, watching the rain as it bounces off the already deep puddles and wonder if the walk was such a good idea after all. Planning it in the dry and warmth of the kitchen, maps laid out across the table, it had seemed straightforward. Catch the train, get off, walk, find somewhere to stay - a short break without any planning really. But I'd forgotten to allow for the rain - and I call myself a walker! I finish the last mouthful of BLT sandwich, my gourmet lunch, courtesy of the garage shop. I take off my rucksack and reach in for my waterproof trousers. Balancing on one booted foot, the other comes to a halt, halfway through its journey down the trouser leg. I almost topple, but manage to force my foot through to freedom. The second foot is no easier. I'm sweating and tell myself for the umpteenth time to take my boots off before going through this performance. Mission completed, I rest against some bags of barbecue charcoal and g

Just for a moment, take some time out from writing, or thinking about writing, or reading about writing, or avoiding writing and let me take you somewhere else.  For a few seconds, let me whisk you away to the depths of..... An African Night The dense black sky holds you tightly in its grip.  It tempts you with effervescent stars, beckoning you to faraway galaxies. As you gaze up at worlds which are long dead, the sounds resonating here below remind you of life on the edge.  The distant throaty, rumbling roar of a male lion proclaiming his territory.  The whoop whoop of snorting zebra, uneasy at the presence of predators.  The honking sound of hippos emerging from their jacuzzi to take a midnight stroll and check out their favourite eating places.  The small pond, quiet and peaceful during the day, now allowing its population of frogs to raise their voices in a chorus of amphibian passion, their love songs filling the air. The hubbub of sounds that lets you know that this is

I read in the paper about a North-South divide in house prices. The divide is not new, but over time it takes different forms. I grew up in a North-South divide household in a London suburb. My father was a displaced, domino-playing Yorkshireman. My mother was a committed southerner, and hated it when we traveled too far north. She associated the North with grime and poverty. I loved the trips to Bradford when I visited my grandparents because it was a completely different world, one where I struggled to understand what people were saying; a world which provided a sharp contrast, visually, with my modern, suburban surroundings. PARADISE LOST Down at the bottom of the Northern Line Is a thirties estate where the weather is fine. Dad gets the tube at seven thirty And Mum stays at home so that nothing gets dirty. Mock Tudor houses have lawns and wooden fences The streets are lined with blossom trees, the parks have bins and benches. The gutter sparrows c