Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

For nine months all he found were mud and stones.  He was beginning to think that he had made a huge mistake.  He dreamt of his home on the Isle of Anglesey and his sweetheart's long black hair and pretty blue eyes.  He was so homesick it hurt. Then one morning it was there, winking at him in the early sunlight.   Gold.                                                                *                                   *            ...

Moderate or poor, becoming good later, The time when life begins, they say, Started with bubbles and uncertain flowers, Sat, like our pain and acceptance, at another table, but then She, long awaited, came, And life, for a while, was bright yellow. Moderate or rough, becoming rough or very rough, He came shortly after, Unexpected, wanted, but his Glowing, growing light, was almost Strangled, by another's shrinking form, and the Jagged, aching, angry, violet storm, that cut us all. Good, occasionally poor, We could hear the lullaby for a time, Gently rocking our babies to sleep, Playful waters, dancing, toddling, babbling, Under a bright sunny sky, with Occasional, manageable, showers. Rough, becoming very rough, gales imminent, We thought we'd suffered storms before, These deepened and blackened and hardened, Dragging us separately, wild eyed and helpless to the edge, Sirens calling us into those cold, dark, forty fathoms, But thankfully, just as sudde...

I dreamed I went to Malin Head.  To the northernmost point of the beautiful island of Ireland. I stared out over the remarkably blue ocean, which seemed to stare back at me.  It told me tales of its hidden treasures – ocean liners and German U-boats, sunk off this stretch of coast.  I could almost hear the cries of drowning men. I looked towards Fanad Head lighthouse and was comforted by its pulsating light, shining out once more. I watched the waves fighting each other before racing to the shore to prostrate themselves on the sand.  I walked along the clifftops and was drawn to the very edge of oblivion, the rocks daring me to jump.  Just once. I dreamed of Banba, mythical queen of Ireland, using her magic to protect her land and her people.  I listened to her soft chanting, the drumbeat of the Bodhràn in time with her heartbeat, her voice like the Celtic harp, charming, soothing, beckoning.  Her image dwindled.  She left me ...

Monday 2 nd October 1944 I still have to pinch myself. A year ago I’d only left Yorkshire once, and that was on a bicycle. Now I’m on my way to Africa in a tin can. The ship, a Dutch trooper, is terribly crowded. I spend most of the day in queues as long as the boat either for meals, chocolate from the shop, or items of kit which are issued as we need them. I haven’t been volunteered for any jobs yet so there’s plenty of time to kill. I can’t send you a letter yet because troop movements are hush-hush. But I feel like I’m talking to you even though you’re far away. Perhaps you will read this one day when I get back home. You don’t need to worry about me. I reckon you are in more danger than me, going to work there in the middle of London. Our bucket is in a convoy of fourteen ships, protected by three destroyers. The food’s better than expected. Yesterday we had bully beef and piccalilli, with real white bread. They showed us a film on Sunday. I saw Random Harvest star...

As the wind sings in the suspended steelwork, the Humber swirls beneath, racing to reach the sea. Mother’s early Sunday morning call – ‘can you come?’ Sounding so unlike Mother. Ninety three, on her own, a small cottage on Spurn Point. Storm surge forecast. The bridge fades away in the mist of the rear view mirror; turn right for Hull. The Super Snipe sweeps through the sleeping city streets, out to Holderness.  Series V, maroon body, cream roof, synchromesh, walnut facia, leather seats and, if I’m lucky, sixteen miles to the gallon; a Humber to its roots. Wipers struggling to keep up, headlights bouncing, racing past Hedon, thinking of Mother, alone. The calm reassurance of the radio, delivering it’s far from calm message Attention all shipping…especially in sea area Humber…the following gale warning…west or north west…gale 8 to storm 10…imminent. Kilnsea. Road closed. Park the car. Waterproofs check, boots check, rucksack of essential supplies chec...

“I’m back here, on these windy rocks, looking for hope in my imagination and my surroundings.”  Outrun , by Amy Liptrot, p. 149. Pathetic fallacy is a literary device which attributes human feelings and emotions to non-human aspects of nature. The wind that ‘rages’ through the trees. The ‘despairing’ call of the curlew. The (oft-used but best-avoided) first line, ’it was a dark and stormy night’, that presages the tempestuous emotions of the main characters or the violence inherent in the story to come.   In Outrun , an autobiographical account of a young woman’s descent into and slow recovery from alcoholism, Amy Liptrot turns pathetic fallacy on its head.   In her self-imposed exile, first on Orkney, then the smaller, more remote island of Papay, Liptrot immerses herself in the wild landscapes and even wilder weather of these, the UK’s most northerly, shores. In doing so, she is able to strip away all the distractions, temptations and false-busy...

I am lulled by squalls, North Utsire, South Utsire, Quelled with gales in Dogger, Fisher, Calmed, westerly, falling slowly. I drift through wintery showers, Humber, Thames, Borne on north westerly, becoming cyclonic, Lulled with squalls, North Utsire, South Utsire. I am soothed through Sole, Lundy, Fastnet, Stilled on a swell, becoming high later, Calm, westerly, falling slowly. Visibility is poor in Hebrides, Bailey, I am hushed by a hurricane, veering northerly, Lulled with squalls, North Utsire, South Utsire. I doze through Shannon, moderate, rising, Floating, steadily, in Faeroes, Fair Isle, Calm, westerly, falling slowly. I am sinking, steadily, dropping later, I sleep in a storm off South East Iceland, Lulled with squalls, North Utsire, South Utsire, Calm, westerly, falling slowly. Many listeners to Radio 4, who have few maritime connections, nevertheless rely on the Shipping Forecast, to lull them to sleep.