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 thin. Mrs Cratchit is selling dolls. The Snow Queen pets a dog dressed as a reindeer. Fagin passes the Town Crier a hot dog, as a bird of prey perches on a Scout’s arm.
Where did it come from? Some say from the pages of a story book. Others that it was born in the hearts of a sweet old couple, now grown together and changed into a tree in Victoria Park.
What will you buy? For those who know the right places to ask, you may come away with a box of Christmas crackers which, when pulled, release flights of phoenixes. Or a dress that transports its wearer to Bethlehem in the days of Caesar Augustus.
Best of all is a stall you are bound to find. It is never in the same place twice, always different for each person. But waiting there is a gift made especially for you.
I wonder what it could be?
My stall at the market on a previous occasion. Photo is my own.
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