Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

A golden afternoon, light shimmering on the water. Our post-prandial stroll arrested by the view - A line of pontoons staple the lake to the shore, Ancient forested mountains loom vertiginously, And patches of terracotta dwellings Huddle round tall bell towers. You swim, I watch. Easing your way from the warm shallows to deeper water, Your pale skin stark against the inky green depths. With a flick of your legs you dive underneath, Bubbles wobble to the surface and break. Later, stretched out to dry, droplets from your hair spot the sun-bleached wood. That day, on the shore of the Lago d'Orta, We were held by the warmth of the sun, Soothed by the rhythmic slap of gentle waves, Mesmerised by the movement of light on water. It was still and calm, We were restored.

‘Cup of tea?’ Please, and make it with loving laughter. The ease of dusty sweepings I don’t deny, A bag tossed carelessly into tepid water And stirred to thickness with sweetened milk. But are we not New Age tea drinkers, you and I? ‘We are. For you, I will make posh tea. I will fly to Darjeeling, Swoop down from an icy ridge, To alight on a distant continent Like a crested migrant on a burnished bush. I will buy a golden packet, neatly folded, tied with string, From the youngest estate, rare and tender, And brew for you the choicest summer flush.’ You go. I fill the kettle, remembering your exquisite flavour. Yours is a light perfume, your leaves palm-rolled, Best relished pure. Beauty is soaked deep into your fabric, Like tannin on a teacloth. Will I taste your golden tips, unclouded? Will I quench my thirst from your tender cups? Will I drink again your heady muscatel brew, Scalding my tongue on your boiling heat? Here’s why

The title – Darkstone - came to me first. What I had in mind was something mysterious, something set a few years in the future, something about a powerful security service…  I’d started writing fiction just after I retired. I had to unlearn my report-writing habits and think about plots, characters and dialogue. Two creative writing courses helped me greatly and the first short stories began to appear on my laptop. Short stories gradually became longer stories. I wrote a couple of these before I had the Darkstone idea. When I started writing it in 2013, I had a rough plot in my head and a few character outlines. I never do much planning. I’m always eager, probably too eager, to start writing.  The plot developed, more characters were added and I began to feel I might actually finish the book. I’m a regular at the Yorkshire Writers’ Lunch, weekly sessions held in a Huddersfield café. We’re a group of writers who are, or have been, involved in Gale Barker’s creative writing

I love it when my big brother, Eric, sings to me.  He must love it too, because he does it lots.  Sometimes I join in and sing with him.  Then he says, ‘don’t interstruddle me!’, which I think means he prefers me to listen.  Here’s the one he did the other day:           Georgie Porgy went to Gloucester           In a shower of rain.           He stepped in a puddle           Right up to his middle           And frightened Miss Muffet away. I don’t know about you, but I reckon he’s been sellotaping those words together like he does with his bits of paper.  * Mum sings to me too.  She likes to do it while she’s rocking me:           Lu-la, lu lu-la,           Lu-la, lullaby.           Lu-la, lu lu-la           Lu-la,  ...      (no matter how hard I try, I can never catch the ending.) * Dad’s songs are a bit more upbeat.  His favourite goes something like this:           Hello Ella Ella           Hello Ella Manuela Ella Neither of us

February saw the first anniversary of the Yorkshire Writers' Lunch Blog.  Let's take a look back over the first year and taste just a sample of what has been on the very varied menu. As an appetiser, we could hardly do better than 'Are you a Scribbler, a Typer or Both?'  (Inez Cook, 12 May).  Whether you are an experienced author, an aspiring writer or an avid reader, this thought provoking piece tickles the taste-buds.  It makes us reflect on why we use the medium we do when transferring thoughts to paper or screen.  And it causes us to think about what is gained or lost by whichever we choose.  A perfect introduction to our writers' fayre. The fish course has to be 'The Fish Market' (Emma Harding, 18 May).  Here we are not only offered a choice from clams, squid and many more fruits de mer , but, via the wonderfully descriptive writing, we can smell the salt of the sea and hear the song of the market.  This is fresh fish indeed. So to the main cours