Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Well, yesterday my brother got married and we won the World Cup. The day was quite eventful!   I’m starting my ride in Swindon, ten gears, lights front and back, two overstuffed panniers and a map. Well two maps – one for England and one for France. I reckon Newhaven is a day and a half away. There are some long, steep hills and of course it’s raining. After days of sunshine and blue skies, the weather has chosen this morning to break.  Yellow bike cape, draped over me and the handlebars and a souwester keeping the rain off my head. Shorts are better than long trousers, bare legs quicker to dry than soggy jeans. Head down, I set off slowly uphill, into the wind and rain.   Marlborough, Andover, Winchester and maybe somewhere just beyond. That’s what I decide and that’s the way it turns out – but only because the wind drops. My cursing and shouting may have diverted the storm. There’s a field off a tiny lane and nobody about, as I remove the tent bag from the left...

It took him the best part of three days to reach London, sleeping out under the stars, the dog on guard. It was the first time he’d ever set foot in the capital. His friend Jonas had told him about the inn by the river, cheap but clean, wholesome food and wholesome ale, which was more than could be said for many a hostelry. There was a glimpse of the Thames from the attic bedroom window and he caught sight of a boat moving slowly upstream. Lying on the bed with only his boots removed, Ork re-read the letter, whilst Digger slept on the threadbare rug. The script was neat, the letters well-formed. There was the occasional word that Ork had difficulty with, but after a moment’s reflection he recalled the meaning. The pamphlet was in the pocket of his jacket. The staircase was steep and twisting, unlit, without a handrail. He felt his way to the bottom, before taking his seat in the dimly-lit snug. A tankard of porter was placed on his table, alongside a platter of bread, cheese...