Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Thank you for inviting me to post. I enjoyed meeting you all in Huddersfield, and hope to come again soon. For those of you I didn't meet, I'm Elizabeth Hopkinson, a fantasy and fairy tale writer from Bradford. You can read more about me at elizabethhopkinson.uk This is a little piece I wrote for the programme of Clayton Dickensian Market, which takes place on 2nd December. It's an annual event in my home village, and it's become a bit of a tradition in recent years for me to contribute something to the programme:       Clayton Dickensian Market. Photo from Hello Yorkshire. The market appears like magic, once a year. Yesterday, it was not here. Today, the cries of the vendors mingle with the sound of accordions and bagpipes, the music of the merry-go-round and the jingle of loose change. The winter air is thick with smell of mulled wine, pie ‘n’ peas, cinder toffee and roasting chestnuts. Here, the boundaries between reality and fantasy grow

Engine thrumming soothingly, absorbing  the kilometres, as each stretch of road is replaced by another, snowier than the last. Winter tyres earning their keep. The pine forest parts before us as if to let us through, drawing us further north. North into the land of the Sami, where the days shrink. The temperature slides, as does the sun. Barely a car passes, barely a sound penetrates the air. The hours pass us by and are left behind. And still the frigid road. And then the magic. Miniature flecks in the distance amplify a nd evolve into elegant reindeer. We stop, while these soft coated, horned magicians silently cross our path, casting their spell. Our drive continues. But, somehow, the images of those majestic Nordic heroes condense our onward journey, and leave us bewitched. November 2017

“As you know from our website Madam we pride ourselves in doing things differently here. You are free to move around the hotel and browse the interesting layout and décor of unoccupied rooms as we leave these open for people to take pictures of and talk about on social media. We are extremely proud of being the most Instagrammed hotel in the UK.” His demeanour changed as he leant forwards on to the desk and whispered in my ear “Of course there is one stipulation we insist that our guests obey which is that you must not enter Room 27 . It is kept unlocked but we must insist that you do not open the door .” At this I burst out laughing! “Really?! I thought this hotel was called ‘The Pavilion,’ not ‘Castle Dracula!”’ In response, he leant back and grew stony faced. “You may laugh Madam but enter that room at your own peril. Here is your room key.” I looked down in to my hand and saw that the key he had handed me was to Room 26. Was this a subtle form of revenge I thought, but said noth

He glanced down at his boots. Ned, the hotel porter, had cleaned and polished them only that morning, but they were already covered in the dust and grime of the city’s streets. Picking his way through the horse droppings, he reached the far pavement and disappeared down the narrow alley just as the wall-mounted streetlamp flickered and died. The dying embers of one cheroot lit the next. A rat scampered away into the shadows as he strode on, the package heavy in the pocket of his thick overcoat. He’d been in Bristol for a month, had got to like the waterfront, the steep hills and the Downs, but never forgotten for a moment that he had a job to do. The road beyond the alley was lined with the grand villas of men with money, carriages lined up on the cobbles awaiting instruction. A lighted match illuminated the dial of his pocket watch and he quickened his pace towards the bridge. The moon emerged suddenly from behind dark clouds, its pale light picking out the massive iron hawse