Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

(Please see 25/08/2014 for Part One) We are glad to get out of the cold when we step inside the house.  The room we enter has rough white plastered walls and is empty apart from a single mattress, plastic chairs and a woodburning stove in the middle.  Hysen invites us to sit as he hangs his shotgun on a hook behind the door.  He explains he must keep it to hand at all times, as the wild animals on the mountain include bears and wolves.  After collecting firewood from the store outside, he deftly lays and lights the stove.  The warmth spreads and shortly after the teapot is whistling on the stove.  Hysen is preparing Turkish tea, a remnant of the Ottoman Empire in the history of Kosovo.  It is also a central tradition in Kosovo-Albanian hospitality, where guests are afforded great respect and are regarded with an almost regal courtesy.  He uses a blue enamel double teapot.  The pot on top is made into a strong tea and then diluted using the water from the lower pot.  It is ta

I shield my eyes from the burning sun, as I watch a pair of vultures circling slowly.  There’s sudden movement in the undergrowth. The boar has decided to make a bid for freedom. I’m quick with the shotgun, but not quick enough. The boar suddenly lurches off to the left, unharmed, the gunshot ringing in my ears. The sound is followed immediately by a prolonged scream, a human scream.  I break the gun and run forwards, almost certain my shot went to the left of the scream. Around the other side of a large pine sits a man. I’m much relieved to find him fully alive, if a little out of control. He tries and fails to get to his feet. “What the hell are you doing firing that thing?” he shouts.”You could have killed me!”   “I’m shooting in my forest. What are you doing here, off the trail? Didn’t you see the signs?” He calms down a little and tells me what has happened. He’s lost the rest of his group, can’t walk and the pain in his knee is awful. I notice his swollen hand. No doub

I hear a sharp crack. What was that? I know there are hunters in these woods. Or maybe it was distant thunder.  Calm down, Clive old boy. I sometimes find that talking out loud to myself steadies me. But not this time. Instead of floating away from me, as they usually do, my words hang in the oppressive air and enlarge my feelings of isolation. This is not going to plan. My badly twisted knee is throbbing like hell and the bee sting is causing my hand to swell up like a balloon. There is little chance that I shall be able to climb back up the steep incline towards the path at the top. I only meant to hide in the bushes by the track, but taking a tumble like this has left me shaken. Damn Michael. I speak out loud again. When he and I had agreed that I would ‘become lost’ at some point on the walk, we both grinned at the simple idea. I would be able to test Jemma’s reaction to my disappearance. He would report back to me how she behaved. My unexplained absence would surely make

Seamus keeps his hand in the small of my back, guiding me back along the path. I wish he wouldn’t. I can feel the sweat running down between my shoulder blades, and I’m embarrassed by my sticky, dusty state. In fact, embarrassed is what I’m feeling generally, I realise with a jolt, as we follow Charlie’s back pack bobbing ahead of us. I’m more embarrassed than worried, despite Charlie hinting that something dreadful has happened to Clive. Embarrassed, and angry. How could Clive draw attention to us like this? As if it wasn’t bad enough already. Seamus keeps glancing at me. I keep my eyes firmly ahead, but he’s persistent. “Jemma, I’m sure Clive’s fine,” he says, panting a little. We are out of the shelter of the trees again, and the sun is piercing hot.  I nod. He has to be alright. The alternatives are too awful. Seamus puts his hand on my shoulder, turning me towards him a little. He drops his voice low. “You don’t think he’s, well, gone off somewhere, do you?” he glances over

I have to sit down. There is a fallen down log, a little away from the others. I sit there to compose myself. This is hell. It was bad enough when Natasha said we had another one or two hours to go, but now it’s going to be who knows how long? I cannot believe she has just left us all here.  It’s not just the threat of being shot, stung to death by bees or lost forever sending this feeling of panic through my body, but I cannot bear to be surrounded by these insufferable people for a second longer.  It’s like I brought James with me. He and his tart are everywhere! I came away to try to take my mind away from thoughts of them and the agony of being separated from my babies. It really is like hell. My last days on earth being tormented by Mr God’s gift to women, everybody’s 'mate', and Charlie chump know-it-all.  But if that’s not enough we also have the mistress, in the guise of the simpering, manipulative Miss Jemma. No wonder Clive went off. Something I should have don