Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I’m hoping this isn’t an obituary, but by the time you read this it might be. Our dog, Jerry, is sick. He joined our household, or pack as we sometimes call it, in the summer of 2005. I had gone self-employed, with an office in the house, so had the opportunity to care for a puppy during the first, demanding months of the human and dog relationship. We had another Golden at the time, known as ‘Old Dog’, because she was. The arrival of Jerry sparked new life into Old Dog, and she happily took the puppy under her paw and taught him the ropes of domestic life. She tottered happily around with Jerry for another couple of years. We’ve had a dog in the house for twenty years and the other morning, when it hit home that Jerry was very poorly, we looked at each other, my wife and I, and cried at the anticipation of loss. Watching Jerry climb on wobbly legs to the patch of grass at the top of our garden to relieve himself, summed up the bravery of animals in the face of difficulty. ...

‘Mr and Mrs Roper, do please sit down. I’m Mr Hardy, Mike, Joachim’s English’s teacher. It’s lovely to finally meet you. Would you like some tea? Now then, as I said on the phone, Joachim is delightful to teach, quiet, very polite and attentive in class. But there are aspects of his behaviour that we do need to discuss. No, no, Mr Roper he’s doing just fine academically, he’s passed all the key stage tests quite satisfactorily. Yes, it’s wonderful that you’re so supportive, having parents willing you to succeed is such a bonus. My concern is more about his engagement in the non-academic areas of school life. He doesn’t appear to want to join in with the other pupils, he keeps himself very much to himself, preferring to stay indoors and study rather than going outside at break-time. Of course, Mrs Roper, that’s very true, to get anywhere in life you do need to study hard and not get distracted from your ambition. That’s why I’m here after all. But it is surely important to have i...

 I lie with my love while she sleeps, Her book of poems discarded.   Even though I do not sleep, I dream. I dream of another life for me, Where I can paint all day. I dream of escaping this city, With its rows and rows of identical houses, All crammed in, oppressive and menacing.   They suffocate me while I sleep, So I stay awake and daydream. In my daydreams I see myself in the country.   A cockerel crows to wake me up And I rise immediately, Energised by a plan that I made the night before.   Yesterday my wife picked a huge bouquet of Wild flowers from the meadow And arranged them beautifully in a glass vase.   Their blooms filled the house with a sweet aroma And transformed every corner of our humble cottage Into a place of tranquillity. I knew then that I had to paint them, But the light was already fading, So I resolved to do so in the morning. I do not stop to use the washstand or change my clothes. I...

(See July 21 st blog for Part One) Ork walks around the printing room slowly and takes in the mess of papers on the long trestle table and the unfamiliar boot marks on the flagstone that never dries. The cupboard is still locked and he breathes a sigh of relief. There’s a knock at the door. He’s surprised to find a customer who wants to pay him. As he prepares the press for the day’s work, Ork thinks of the provisions he’ll be able to buy. An image of a foaming pewter tankard floats in front of him. All in good time he thinks. When he finally takes out his pocket watch, he can’t believe the day has gone. His hunger hits him suddenly. He wipes his ink-stained fingers on an already-blackened cloth and walks to the door, Digger at his heels. The Oak provides a welcome refuge. He spreads the newspaper on the table, drinks from the tankard and chews the mutton slowly. He reads about the latest Treason Trial. The Government is running scared, Habeus Corpus suspended. The la...

It’s that time of year again when we’ve unpacked our holiday suitcases, got the kids their uniforms for school, and we can now think about what we’re going to do over the autumn and winter months. The evenings are already starting to draw in, which means that it won’t be long till adult education classes start. As an adult education tutor, I, of course, have a vested interest in getting people to sign up for classes. But apart from that, I really believe that classes are a godsend for anyone who really wants to write. Here are Five Good Reasons to go to a Writing Class.  1) It’s a lot of fun and you get a chance to laugh a lot . Sometimes you will laugh because someone has written a piece of humorous writing; sometimes laughter arises out of the energy and synergy of the group. However it happens, you will certainly feel a lot better because of it.  2) You can make good friends and really get to know people who share your interests. OK, you could say that about...

On a clear and cold April morning, we leave the town of Ferizaj where we are staying and head south towards the mountains.  We come off the highway and onto a dusty road, then pull in at a mini-supermarket.  We are here to pick up Hysen, the mountain man who is going to take us up Lybeten, one of the tallest and most beautiful peaks in Kosovo.  Outside the tired-looking building, with its faded cigarette and soft drinks posters, three children sit playing on the ground.  This is the only store for miles which provides essentials for local villagers.  Hysen’s family has owned it for two decades.  The room beside the shop is a café and in the hot summer the plastic white furniture comes out, whilst in the harsh winter the chessboards come out. Hysen comes out of the shop and we climb out of the dusty car to greet him.  He is a sturdy man in his late 50s, with a mountain-weathered face and a smile of rugged serenity.  When I shake his hand, i...

  I love a mystery.   There’s something about one that captures my imagination and like a dog with a bone, I can’t let it go until I’ve solved it.   You never know when you might stumble across one. On a recent visit to Harewood House, near Leeds , a chance remark by my Mum ignited something, which then took hold of me for the next three days.   Harewood was the home of our present Queen’s Aunt, Princess Mary, only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary.   She married a wealthy aristocrat, Henry Lascelles, the 6th Earl of Harewood, in 1922. We were just nearing the end of our tour of the house when my Mum told to me she had previously read that Princess Mary was unhappily married and that her much older husband could be ‘cold and abusive’.   She said that there had been rumours that Mary did not want to marry Lord Lascelles, that she had been forced into the marriage by her parents and that Lascelles had proposed to her after a wager at...