Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Opposite the old church and at the top of High Street, was the park, its land generously purchased and developed by a local benefactor whose name it had borne for more than twenty years. It was a place livelier in summer when nurses with their large prams pushed well bundled babies under its leafy canopies and where families strolled along its serpentine paths, their feet unintentionally falling into step with the distant sound of a brass band playing on the solid, iron bandstand. Later, before returning to their villas on the main routes out of the town, these families would pause to admire the tinkling waters of the fountains and acknowledge those they knew with a tip of their gleaming hats or the slightest smile and incline of their pretty heads. When the first frosts crisped the paths, the park gates were locked to keep out those they thought might seek shelter in its pavilions and so, until spring, only two gardeners were allowed entry. Only they saw the beauty of the snowdrops

Benjamin Witherbread, age 6 and a half, was staring at a rather strange sight from his bedroom window. The room, hence the window, was on the highest and oldest part of his parent’s rickety, rackety house. The house, as any sensible living thing would surmise, looked as if it would fall down if someone or something blew on it with even a small puff of air. However, it had stood at the end of a large wood near a muddy track which seemed to be going nowhere other than to circle the wood, for probably two or maybe sixteen hundreds of days or months or possible years. Nobody knew. Not even Benjamin’s Father or Mother come to that. His grandfather Silas however knew to the day.             The “Strange Sight” that filled the young Benjamin’s good eye looked very colourful and he was reasonably sure that flags were fluttering although it could be something else. He patiently waited for it to come nearer so that he could see it properly with his good eye. It stopped. Benjamin waited and was w

  Home is where the heart is , a phrase that is constantly proving to be true, and since we moved, this old house from the 1850s, has many stories to tell within its thick stone walls. From the sturdy servant bells in the kitchen, and grand focal-point fireplaces to the vast array of different period windows, there’ a tale unfolding in every corner. This house has been a tug of war, since we fell in love with it this time last year, it took eight of the longest months to finally call it our own and cross the threshold in August. Our emotions raged from excitement to hope, frustration to panic, before finally our veins were flooded with sheer relief. We’d invested our hearts at an early stage, myself especially and I simply couldn’t imagine losing it after all these months of back-and-forth negotiations and being stuck in a chain, but it came dangerously close! But wow was it worth it, when we originally viewed it, it was Winter, and dark. The trees in the garden were stripped and s

  Alicia, when she returned from her holiday, was naturally upset at the loss of her pet, but soon settled back into her work routine and shortly afterwards the pair found they were expecting their first child.   Gideon was ecstatic.   He took the greatest care of his wife throughout the pregnancy and willingly agreed to his father-in-law’s suggestion that the girl should return once again to their country estate, where the baby would be born.   Gideon and William visited as often as they could.’ Holmes glanced across at his friend, who was listening intently to the tale. ‘As a doctor, you might not have agreed with keeping the girl in the middle of the jungle, but it seems she thrived. And her father had studied medicine for a while, so it was felt that he could cope. However, it was during one of William’s visits that the tragedy happened.’   Holmes stopped, staring for a while into the flames of the fire, but after a few minutes he shrugged, leaned forward and continued. ‘I will f