Winter Workshop, Saturday, January 17th, 2009

The workshop in Jan 2009 is to take place on Saturday, 17th at Bev’s Barn ( details of how to get there will be circulated closer to the date .. or refer to Paul’s info for the Dec meeting ).

The workshop will look at ways in which historical and mythological material can be used to create fresh and original writing.

Dave Bingham will act as the ‘enabler’ using some sessions he teaches at The Gateway in Shrewsbury.

The day will be ‘activity based ‘ and there will be a mixture of developing ideas and techniques
and short opportunities for fresh writing.

We hope those who come will feel free to contribute information and ideas to the workshop.

We will start at 10.00am and finish between 2.30pm and 3.00pm, with a break for lunch. We are hoping to have a shared lunch. Could you bring something along which can be shared with other people.

If you have any ideas for the workshop … please let Dave know .

The cost of the day will be £2 ( this is for the core refreshments … tea, coffee, etc. ).

We hope you can make it!

Extract form 'Greener Grass' by Nadia Kingsley

Tom got up from the kitchen table when he heard the farm dogs barking. By the time he was on the front doorstep a bright yellow sports car was turning into his late father's drive.
The man was driving; though as the couple came towards him, long hair flowing, he wondered if he had got it the right way round. They looked in their early thirties, but who was he to judge a townie’s age? - with their soft unlined faces and perfect librarian hands .
She, in jeans that trailed in the dirt, walked towards him with her hand outstretched. “I’m Evie. This is Ted.”
She winced a little as he shook her hand and raised an eyebrow when he said “Tom Jones” in reply. “That is unusual” she had said, smirking.
Tom turned away from her and directed them towards the house. He told them to take as long as they wanted - he’d be waiting outside.
He stood looking out on his fields, mulling over the long term forecast, trying not to think about the years that his father had spent living here. Tom didn’t like being in the house too long - he could see his father everywhere - in the overlong bath; the nails without their bronzes; the bars and rails he’d installed as his father grew thinner and weaker; the electric armchair his father had barely had a chance to use.
Tom shook his head. He wasn’t cut out to be a landlord, he knew that. But then there wasn’t much money in farming anymore. Everywhere he looked he saw the evidence, of how he had tried to keep it going. He hadn’t sold out like some of his neighbours with their specialty farm shops, pick your owns and hanging baskets, but he agreed with them on one thing: there wasn’t any future in farming, not anymore.
He looked down at his watch. Another ten minutes and more than likely they’d be looking at him through their expensive rear view mirror. This new lot are the eighth fresh-faced couple to look around the house. They all stand and breathe in the air, like pantomime horses, and they look across his fields, and they hold hands and they whisper about the view; about how wonderful it would be to wake up to that, every morning. Next they walk into the house and exclaim about the airing and coat cupboards, as if these were extras that seemed beyond even their dreams. But then they enter the kitchen, and there they all go quiet. ‘Well, it is a nice size’ the man offers as an opening gambit but Tom knows then that the house will remain empty for yet another day as the woman stands in the centre of the kitchen, not touching, just turning; her smile slowly slipping. Once she has muttered ‘Dated’, all that is left for Tom to do, is to lock up behind them.
He didn’t know what townies were used to, but he saw the ads on the TV and felt he could make an educated guess: smooth clean lines, a walk-in shower, mood lighting, instant everything, luxury white goods, remotely controlled living spaces. Their marble work tops and granite flooring would mainly stand empty; their occupants in offices by day; by night they’d be at the latest restaurant, the in-film, buying milk at three in the morning, or just ‘chilling’ the night away.
He noticed a hole in his sleeve, as he locked up; his wife could darn it tonight. There were holes in the tarmac drive too which would need filling before the frosts. The hedges were looking as ragged as he felt, but the tractor had been too busy; getting the straw bales under cover. The piggery looked like it would collapse if he blew on it, along with most of his other buildings. He missed growing crops that you could actually eat: bio-fuels and animal fodder were all he could afford to grow now. Tom sighed, a long, deep sigh, as he made his way back down the drive; home to where his wife would be making stew for their tea. His father would turn in his grave, he thought, if he knew his son was thinking of selling up, and moving into town.

Our Walk Through Historic Bridgnorth, Sunday, December 7th

Derek Crockson, the esteemed town guide and fount of all Bridgnorth historical knowledge, led ten Bridgnorth Writers on a guided walk around some of the oldest parts of the town.

The photographs were selected from those taken by Peter and Anthony.

Peter

We start the day with morning coffee.

Peter

Derek leads us to our first site of interest. Peter

An old cave dwelling. This is the one the Roundheads used to burrow under the castle to blow it up. The Royalists heard them and surrended. Anthony

Where the trows used to dock for loading and unloading in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Antony

The view up to St.Mary's Church which was designed by Thomas Telford.

Peter

Derek gave us pictures so we could see what the area used to look like.

Peter

Bob Holland, who used to live here, dived off the central arch of the bridge to entertain the day trippers.

Antony

Bishop Percy's House - a house with a complicated history.

Antony

A view down The Cartway -Bridgnorth's old red light district. The ancient goings-on here are best not recorded on the blog for fear of upsetting our more easily shocked members.

Peter

A view north along the River Severn

Peter

The way up to St. Leonard's Close.

Antony

Derek tells us about how an explosion in the Civil War led to most of High Town being burnt down.

Peter

At our end of walk reading in the Cinnamon Bar, Adam explains the finer points of poetry to a small Martian and a pair of pink gloves.

Peter

Landings by Nick Pearson

They appeared to favour Brown Clee, the planes.
A Junkers 88 lost on its return from Liverpool,
bombed out, banking low, looking to pick up
the Severn’s thread for a way back down home;
or a Wellington out of High Ercall rehearsing
close to midnight its mission one last time.

Perhaps they imagined it softer than Titterstone’s
dhustone face, lunar beneath a moonless night -
softer for the thought of grass hollows pressed
with sheep or young, farmers’ daughters flushed
with the fug of beer and cigarettes in village halls
blacked out for the Tugford or Burwarton dance.

Though clearly they had no real choice, the crew.
Engines shot, blind and dropping, they gambled -
on level ground broadening below, birches clipping
the wings, the nose coming to rest in a barn’s loft;
a sudden beacon of flame lighting up the hill;
the rush of scarring turf, Boyne Water’s icy gulp.


Note

There is a modest memorial on the Brown Clee to the twenty three Allied and German airmen who died there in flying accidents during World War 2.

REMINDER: Bridgnorth, Historic Walk and Victorian Market,Sunday, December 7th

Our next trip is on Sunday, December 7th and is the Historic Walk and Victorian Market, Bridgnorth.

If you are coming please let me know so I can give numbers to the Severn Arms for coffee.
If you are still debating about whether or not to come ….. just turn up on the day!!!

You might like to bring along a festive reading ( not necessarily yours ) .. however vaguely related to the season.

Please find details below:

The itinerary for this is as follows.

Bridgnorth – Guided History Walk and Festive Victorian Market
Sunday, 7th December in Bridgnorth.

10.30 to 11.00
Morning coffee in the Severn Arms Hotel ( opposite the bridge in Low Town )
11.00 to 12.30
A guided walk around historic Bridgnorth with Derek Crockson ( the much celebrated,
official town guide ) He will be telling us something of the history of the town with an
emphasis on some of Bridgnorth’s more interesting characters.
12.30 to 13.30 ( approx )
A chance to merge into the excitement of the Victorian Market and a chance to purchase
that much elusive, ideal Christmas gift. There will also be a craft fair.
13.30 ( approx ) to departure
Refreshments at the Cinnamon Bar with a few festive readings

We hope you can make it!!

NB
You will have to pay for your own coffee and refreshments.
The cost of the guided walk will be £2 per person

Images of Highley and Hampton Loade from Tony Gunn

Here are five images taken recently by Tony Gunn on a visit to Highley and Hampton Loade. Can you spot the poet?

:

Richard Foley and the River Stour by Peter Hodges

"Why do you not rid yourself of this river?"
The man was on the opposite bank staring into the idle muddy waters. "You have the means," he said. "It floods. It is spoiled so why be troubled with it?"
I wasn't sure about the question. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure of very much then. Except the can of beer in my hand, my usual tipple, Banks Bitter, and it was cool and comforting. I said, "You know the river well."
"Of course," came the reply. "You know that I do, John." Beneath the trees his face was dark. Yet the face was not unfamiliar to me, I had seen it many times. So many that it seemed in some strange way, connected to me. He was a figure from the past. Or so I think. I cannot even now be sure. Strange yet not a stranger. I wonder if I might have imagined… but no, he was there, clear as day, and it was a bright Summer's day. A figure on the opposite bank, short and broad, but powerful, shoulders that stretched the leather jerkin he wore, breeches tight across the thighs, boots that buckled up to the knees. A figure that, for all it was archaic, could have been part of my mind rather than there on the banks of the River Stour in Staffordshire. Was it real? Was I really imagining or dreaming?
"D'yer hear me, John," he called out.
"Yes, of course…" My fidgeting fingers set the condensation running down the can of beer. A balmy afternoon, and I was strolling through the Hyde along the canal towpath at Kinver where the two - river and canal - wind the valley together. Suddenly he was there talking to me as if we had spoken only yesterday or the week before, or an hour past.
"Well, why don't you?" he said.
"Do what?"
"I speak of the river, John. Did you not hear me? I said why don't you be rid of it. What purpose does it serve? You can do most else it seems. Everything once dreamed of in my day you seem to have mastered well enough. What is that you are drinking?"
"Beer," I said.
"Even beer in your hand."
He looked down again at the muddy waters between us. He seemed fixated there. Silvery long hair fell across his face, straggled over his collar. "Do you remember my name?" he asked.
"Why shouldn't I?" I replied.
"Indulge me, John. I like to hear my name."
"Richard Foley," I said.
"That is good. Very good. Richard Foley, Ironmaster of these parts during the reign of the Jacobean. Not that I'm a Royalist you understand. Not a particular one like those who came after. I sold my goods to whomsoever had the means to pay. Here, on this river, I made my money. Here I was master of iron. This was my place." At this he suddenly launched himself over the river in one great bound, splashing down just beneath me to scramble up the bank, scattering earth and stones, to arrive red-faced and glorious, right in front of me.
I jumped back. "You shouldn't have done that. The river's been deepened since your day. You could have been drowned."
"Hah…" he shot back. "Drowned. Not in my river. Here was where I came upon my future, not my end. This river. This valley. This place." He turned and spread his arms wide as if to embrace all before him. But his arms sank. "And to see it now. Wilderness. A waste. The river serves no purpose now. It floods. I know, I have seen it in spate. It is unmanaged. The banks fail. You should be rid of it, I say."
We both gazed at it, slow moving and gentle. I said. "Tell me why we should be rid of it?"
"Because you have the means. You are the masters now. Remind me, what is the year?"
"What year?"
"Now, now… in God's name, remind me, what is the century you live in?"
"The twenty-first."
"In less than four hundred years this place is become Wilderness. Where once it prospered, roared with the noise of iron, furnaces raged, rush of water. Good water that powered my great slitting mill. Cutting iron to make nails to build houses and ships. Here, on this river. Before the canal, before your roads and… what is it you call those carriages that speed along your roads?"
"Cars," I replied.
"Before all of that was my mill. And now…" his voice drifted. "Now there is nothing."
"Oh but there is," I said.
"What, trees and weed? Tumble of walls and broken weirs?"
"There is wildlife."
He stared at me. "Wildlife? What is wildlife?"
"Animals, flowers, that sort of thing. Fish in the river. Frogs. All that sort of thing."
"That sort of thing." He snorted. "Really John, this talk of wilderness. What value is there in that? Flowers grow in gardens. Animals in farms. And frogs…" he was shaking his head. "But power… that is what this river made. I built gates and weirs to make power for my mill. To let boats bring the iron and coal. Carry away my goods. This river added value. Now it is nothing. You should fill your cars with it and carry it away to the sea."
I smiled to myself. "How many times have you returned to see it?"
At this he thought a moment. "I have lost count."
I too had lost count. How many times had I met with this figure from the past? Yes, I wondered too. "You saw it at its best," I said.
"It was best when I was master here."
"What of those who followed?"
"No one did."
"Oh come on…"
"No one, I say."
"Dud Dudley. Abraham Darby. What of those?"
"Hah… he of the iron bridge. One bridge? Tell me what value is that? As for the charlatan Dudley, what of him?"
At this I grew bolder, the little research I had done since we last talked made me so. "Dud Dudley said you never existed. That you were a fiction put about by later Foleys, and that it was many men working in this valley."
"Hah. And what else did the rascal say?"
"He called you Fiddler Foley."
"Fiddler! Aye, I mastered the fiddle. I played many a pretty tune. Men danced to me. Many men with need of a Master. I, Richard Foley of this place, was that Master, and let no one speak the contrary."
We were interrupted by two cyclists coming along the towpath, two girls, and on seeing me they stopped.
"Hi, John," said the first. "You enjoying the weather too? Meet my friend Sally."
"Hello Sally."
"John's writing a book about a fella who used to live down here by the river. What was he?"
"An ironmaster," I said.
We chatted for a while. As we did so he was studying them. They were, it seemed, unaware of him. And very close, close enough for him to study them in their skimpy tops and short shorts. But they were quite unaware. As if he were not there.
As he watched them cycle off he said, "You let your women display themselves on machines like that. Confident and proud for all the world to see. But the power they possess." He turned to me again. "You as well, John. You possess this power. You too have young health and well-being. How old are you? Five and twenty? With prospects, no doubt? One who writes did I hear?"
I shrugged and didn't answer not wishing to disillusion him: I was nearer twice that age and out of work.
"Prospects, John. Like the giants of those times. I have met all the men of substance and prospects. Watt, the man of steam. The builder of this canal, James Brindley. Now there was a man of prospects, a fellow who could see the future. What genius he had. Who would have thought possible the building of a road… yes, a road of water to carry goods the length and breadth of the land. What genius. And those who came later… that fellow Stevenson. Later still, Brunell. I met them all, John."
I let him talk on. I did not want this to end. It was as if I had been put here to meet this man and, real or imaginary, made no difference. He was talking of the most famous and now he was talking to me. Yet did he see me as a man of prospects? Of substance? One who knew this place, this river? An ordinary fellow without work, no giant or genius. I reached into the bag and brought out the last two cans of the four-pack.
"Would you care for a beer?" I said.
"Now that is civil of you, John. Beer, you say?"
I cracked open the can for him.
"Hmmm…" there came a licking of lips. "It is good, if sharp." He raised the can higher. "Sharp on the tongue but good."
"Here's to prospects," I said.
"And to genius."
I tried to imagine the place as he knew it. The noise and smoke, the turmoil of industry as men wrestled iron to create wealth. How different now. Not to me but to him. Richard Foley, ironmaster, born 1580, died 1657, standing next to me and drinking my beer. He drained the can and tossed it into the river.
"You shouldn't do that," I said. "There are receptacles for rubbish."
"What better receptacle than a river of no worth," he answered. "Come, John, I will show you the river as it was. "Come, follow me," and much to my dismay, he was down the bank again and in another great leap had returned to the other side.
"I can't do that," I called after him.
"Why? Are you afraid of the river?"
"I will cross at the bridge."
It was only a hundred yards. I broke into a run to return along the opposite bank pushing through brambles and low branches. He was waiting, hands thrust onto hips, and grinning. "You should get one of your cars, John." I hadn't the chance to explain the difficulties associated with cars and fields and river banks because he had grabbed my arm and was running. Together we flew along the bank. Branches snatched at me. I see it now… so clearly… then suddenly I'm falling… the ground flying by my face. My mouth opens to shout but nothing comes. Noise fills my head. I hear a wild clamour all around me. Then I'm standing. And he is with me, leading me further, the noise is intense. Now I see the river, angry, writhing, and we're approaching a huge turning wheel. I pull back in alarm and the grip on my arm slackens.
"My wheel, John. My river. See, harnessed to my wheel. The river is tamed."
But I was too bewildered to speak. The noise was not of water or the wheel, which was angry enough, but what went on behind. The shriek of tearing red hot metal. A plate of it, feet wide, was driven between a rolling cutter that sliced through it like butter to send strips of it clattering to the floor where half naked men rushed to them gather up. If it were not the din it was the heat that made me turn away. Thankfully we left that place. He said, "You tremble, John. What is there to be afraid of? There shall be no fear where I am Master. No honest man who does his work need have fear of me. Aye, nor woman."
We had reached a track, the noise and heat was behind and I dared to pause and look back. Now I could gauge the site. Through the smoke I could make out the river. At one end was a vast pool held by a dam. From the side of the dam hurtled the water that drove the wheel. At the bottom of the wheel, spent and done with, it slid away forgotten into the valley. For some time I stared at that scene.
"John." It was he calling to me. He had gone on a little, the track was wider, it met another, and I saw gates and a driveway. The gates were open and he was standing there, right there, hands on hips. This was where his mansion was, I knew. Two men on the other track passed between us, both turned to him and touched their foreheads. "John," he called to me again. "I have more to show you. Come."
But I held back. "Let me gather my breath."
"You are tired?"
"Bewildered, overwhelmed," I said. "I should return…" I felt my voice begin to fail. He walked down to me, took my arm.
"I am not holding you. But first I, Richard Foley, will show you how real is all this. Come, if you will. Please me."
Reluctant as I was there was nothing I could do. We walked the drive. The mansion came into view. A newly built place, half-timbering still fresh and pale, young trees planted to create landscape, freshly planted gardens. The scene was so tranquil after what had gone before I blinked my eyes to clear them. I leaned against him. He was speaking but I had difficulty making sense any longer. I saw - or imagined - two ladies sitting in the gardens taking tea, and he was saying who they were…

I awoke in the arms of the girl cyclist.
"John, you okay? Did you fall? You gave us a fright finding you like this. Sally is getting your bag from the other side. Whatever brought you over there?"
I suppose it must have been a good minute before I spoke. I could feel her arm shaking. "I'm sorry I scared you," I heard myself say. "Yes, I am, very sorry." But I was desperately tried to recall all that had taken place. Each and every second of it, detail by detail, and as it came back to me I knew that however sure I may be, I could never explain or convince anyone else. I looked up at the girl's face and smiled. "Sally shouldn't have bothered about my bag. It was an old one."
"Well, we don't like leaving litter around, do we?"
Sally appeared. "I got it," she said quite out of breath. "You okay now?"
"I was dreaming," I said.
"Dreaming…"
"Yes. About Richard Foley."
"Who?" they chorused.
"A man I met."
"Oh," said the first letting go of me. Sally went over to pick up her bike. I thought it time I got up.
"Hot, isn't it?" I said. "The sun, I mean."
"You should wear a hat. We always wear our hats in the sun, don't we Sal?"
They cycled off and I glanced down the bank at the quietly wending river but he wasn't there. He was around though, I knew.

Sabrina - Goddess of The Severn, Could Lead a Man to Hell or Heaven, A Play by Geoff Speechly

MUSIC

Narrator

In times gone by the Romans came
To Sunny Shropshire: such their fame
That when they besieged an English Town
Such as Round Acton as then 'twas known

They would attack by trebuchet,
(We'd call it catapult today)
And if the place held out far too long
And food would go right off and pong
They'd fling dead horses o'er the wall
To make things worse - and the town would fall

Today the Squire obeys tradition
And uses pigs as ammunition
We'll tell this tale to you astound
So enjoy the myth of Acton Round

I must confess that Bridgnorth too
Partakes in our historic view
We weave our cloth from these two places
Our Muse's unlikely belt and braces…

Sabrina, Goddess of the Severn,
Could lead a man to hell or heaven
But if she loved him, though she'd cry
That mortal man was doomed to die.

I - The Roman

Narrator

The Romans came, with sword and law
And taught crude Britons soon the score
They worshipped gods like Zeus - and meaner
But at Bridgnorth they found - Sabrina !
MUSIC

Legionnaire

We must have marched a thousand leagues
To conquer this benighted spot
What would I give for a cup of wine
Or a lusty wench that's really hot !

Sabrina

A goodly sight, this Roman chap
I'll see if I can catch his eye
And if the audience doesn't clap
I'll grab him, love him - and he'll die !

Legionnaire

O Bacchus ! What a wondrous sight !
Is it a wench or a dream I see ?

Sabrina

O, I'm a maid, I'll prove this night
Come Roman man :I'll set you free !

SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES - IN FUTURE RECORDED AS K & D

II - The Saxon

Narrator

The Saxons came in time of yore
And plundered us from shore to shore
And they were pretty rough ; none meaner
There's not a doubt they met Sabrina….

MUSIC

Saxon

What have we here ? Another town.
For sacking and for pulling down
We'll burn the place and kill the men
Destroy the cock but keep the hen!

Sabrina

O rude uncultured Saxon beast
I'll see you soon regret this feast
For Bridgnorth maids and Bridgnorth men
Sabrina's spell will work again

Saxon

Great balls of fire ! A hefty wench
This dish I'll taste without a wrench
Come lass, let's frolick in the hay
You'll not forget this joyful day !

Sabrina

I'll frolick, friend, but you're the one
Who nevermore will see the sun
K & D

III - The Dane

Narrator

In former times, despite the rain
Our city fair was taxed by Dane
And though their habits were much cleaner
We know for sure they met Sabrina

MUSIC

Dane

Now what's this place ? They call it Quatt !
The name's a mess, I like it not
Our taxmen now will sally forth
Across the bridge to south and north

Sabrina

This fellow's dull compared to Saxon
He calls himself a Danish Taxman
Ah, well, though I won't be hasty
Let's tempt him with an English pastry!

Dane

O Woden ! What is this I see?
A vision yet untaxed by me !
I'll take her measure, scribe her rune

Sabrina

You're right, my Dane, come take my boon !
K & D

IV - The Norman

Narrator

In elevenhundredand twenty-two
Which Acton Rounders e'er will rue
The Normans came and built their keep
And tried to turn us all to sheep

MUSIC

Norman

We brought our culture to this land
Rude English habits we have banned
Now Lords and Ladies served by serf
Can all enjoy our Norman earth

Sabrina

These Norman gangsters must be humbled
Methinks his tongue of "ladies" stumbled
Let's see if ancient English lore
Tonight our honour can restore…

Norman

Mon Dieu! Quelle beauty do I see
Ma chėre, what luck you've met with me !

Sabrina

Indeed your fortune's doubly blessed
Now I'm the host and you're the guest!
K & D


V - The Welshman

Narrator

O'er centuries in mist enveiled
The Marches dripped with blood; impaled
On Welsh ambition our English town
Became a field of battle and renown
MUSIC AND LEEK

Welshman

By Cardiff, Anglesey or Rhyll
Never before did my heart thrill
To see so soft an English village
Ripe-ready for Welsh guile and pillage

Sabrina

The cheeky Celt! How dare he gloat
Before he's even crossed my moat
I'll tease him, be so coy and meek
And then I'll parboil up his leek !

Welshman

By Llanfairfechan and Glendower
I've never seen so fine a flower
Come, English Maid, and be my love
I think you're sent from heaven above

Sabrina

Oh yes, my little laverbread
One kiss - and then you'll find you're dead !
K & D

VI- The Roundheads

Narrator

In sixteenhundredandfortysix
In Parliament, by knavish tricks
Our sovereign lord quite lost his head
And Cromwell took his place instead

MUSIC

Roundhead

These Royalist dogs and their cold bitches
With Papist plots, warlocks and witches
Shall now the power of Cromwell feel
With Roundhead flesh and Roundhead steel

Sabrina

This fellow's pretty hot, he thinks
He'll get no favours from this minx
Or rather if he dares to touch
He'll burn from fingernail to crutch

Roundhead

Come lass, forget your bonnie Charlie
Now with a real man you'll parley

Sabrina

O Soldier brave, you little know
Just quite how far this wench will go
K & D

VII - The Cavaliers

Narrator

In course of time, the good Lord willed
That Ironsides' ardour should be chilled
So Cavaliers now roamed the land
And freedom reigned, naught more was banned.

MUSIC

Cavalier

By Royal command I've ridden far
Please show me to the nearest bar,
I'm thirsty and uncommon dusty
Just find for me a girl that's lusty !

Sabrina

Whether their heads are round or Royal
There's but one thing that makes them boil
I'll not object to a little loan
But me they'll never call their own

Cavalier

Fair lady! Let me but now thy praises sing
And I will grant thee everything
I'll bring you lutes and daffodils
If you would only cure my ills

Sabrina

Such honey'd words his lips have passed
'Tis such a pity they're his last !
K & D - VERY LONG !- I SIGH AND "'ave you done ?"

VIII - The Irish

Narrator

In eighteenhundredand sixtytwo
The Railway came, the town pierced through
And snorting trains with fiery funnel
Rushed proudly through the newbuilt tunnel

MUSIC

Irishman

My name is O'Malley and I came to dig
Not to roister or rampage: although the jig
Which I dance on a Saturday night is fine
When I ravish their women and drink up their wine

Sabrina

Here's importunate Dublin and confident Cork
And sometimes there's action as well as the talk
But they'd better take care if they tangle with me
I'll not be seduced by a riddle-me-ree

Irishman

Oh look at the beauty of this Bridgnorth maid
The glory and ecstasy of how she is made!
My dear English darling, my heart's at your feet
I crave but a kiss, like the soup before meat!

Sabrina

A kiss you shall have, but hungry you'll be
For no more will you taste the sweet joys of Tralee
K &D

IX- The Airman

Narrator

In nineteenhundredand forty two
At Stanmore trained the boys in blue
They came from every land and nation
And Bridgnorth was their comfort station

MUSIC

The Airman

Saturday night, a forty-eight
Don't miss the bus or we'll be late
The pubs are open, the girls are willing
I'm glad I took the Sovereign's shilling.

Sabrina

They may be rough at times I know
But when to war the lads must go,
They do deserve a little fun
Before they face the horrid Hun.

The Airman

Good heavens! Miss, you're quite the best!
You're even better than Mae West!

Sabrina

Farewell, my friend, away you fly
Not from my lips will I send you die
I must be getting sentimental
I though he was, though rough, quite gentle

WAVES AIRMAN AWAY

X-The Tatung

Narrator

From cleverness born in the East
In Low Town grew a powerful beast
Where once the peasants listless hung
To Bridgnorth came- and later went - Tatung

MUSIC
Enter Tatung - singing/humming to Walkman;
Narrator - TURN OFF THAT
FIENDISH WALKMAN !

Tatung

This occidental place is strange
They do not know our latest range
And if a salaryman feels randy
All he can do is dream with brandy

Sabrina

It's sad our friends from the Pacific
Now have gone - but it’s terrific
That they're not really far abroad
But ten miles north to great Telford

EXIT TATUNG WITH ORIENTAL BOW
XI-The Tourist

Narrator

In nineteen hundredandeightyfive
Bridgnorth really came alive
Divorced from juggernaut and truck
Relying on part skill, part luck
The Bypassmen did pass us by
And tourists now to us do fly

MUSIC

The Tourist

I am the Tourist, last of all
Now to Sabrina's wiles I'll fall
Will she accept me ? What must I give ?
Can I but love her, and still live ?

Sabrina

Yes sir, you can; the others' mistake
Was never to give but only to take
So welcome, Stranger, come to my arms
And I will enfold you in my charms.

THEY KISS………ETC ETC ETC ETC…………………………….…

MUSIC

ALL 3

So friends, you've heard our wondrous story
This land is part of England's glory
So join with us this lovely day
And shout aloud Hurray - Hurray !

(c) Geoff Speechly, Nov 2008

Linley Halt by Adam Rutter

I stand alone in Linley. The sunlight flickers between the branches. But my eyes are fixed onto the private house that was once a railway station – a request stop for passengers to alight whenever they chose; although hardly anybody would get off here.
It is just as peaceful now as when the trains used to run through. The cool breeze makes the leaves rustle, crows caw from a tall oak tree and magpies add to the cacophony by making a constant chatter. A car clatters over the suspension bridge until it reduces to a grinding noise as the tyres go over gravel. The car parks outside one of the cottages. The car door slams shut.
I used to ramble around these parts; over the stiles and across the fields. Sometimes, I would walk all the way along by the River Severn from Bridgnorth to get here.
Once I had arrived at Linley Halt, the gas lamps would have been lit, showing the station sign, bearing the name “Linley” in white letters and illuminating the posters along the wooden fence. Buzzing noises were heard from the telegraph wires, indicating that the signalman at Coalport signal box was ringing the bell at Bridgnorth signal box. A quiet hoot of a tawny owl emanated from the woodlands and the chugging of the steam train echoed in the Severn Valley. The high-pitched blare of the whistle resounded from every direction. The light from the steam engine shone on the telegraph poles and cast a shadow on the track.
The station master stood in the middle of the platform holding up a red flag. The clanking noise of the cylinders vibrated under my feet as the train made its way into the station. The train stopped. The station master yelled, “Linley Station! Anyone for Linley?” There was nobody on board. At other times I might see two or three passengers.
The station master opened the door in order for me to get on. After I had closed the door, the station master blew the whistle. The train pulled out of the station heading for Bridgnorth.

Itinerary for the December Outing on Sunday, December 7th

After our adventure-filled outing to Highley we now look forward to our next event on Sunday, 7th December in Bridgnorth.

The itinerary for this is as follows:

Bridgnorth – Guided History Walk and Festive
Victorian Market
Sunday, 7th December in Bridgnorth.

10.30 to 11.00
Morning coffee in the Severn Arms Hotel ( opposite the bridge
in Low Town )

11.00 to 12.30
A guided walk around historic Bridgnorth with Derek Crockson
( the much celebrated, official town guide ) He will be telling us
something of the history of the town with an emphasis on some
of Bridgnorth’s more interesting characters.

12.30 to 13.30 ( approx )
A chance to merge into the excitement of the Victorian Market
and a chance to purchase that much elusive, ideal Christmas gift.
There will also be a craft fair.

13.30 ( approx ) to departure
Refreshments at the Cinnamon Bar with a few festive readings

NB
You will have to pay for your own coffee and refreshments.
The cost of the guided walk will be £2 per person.

I hope you can make it!!

'Tickets Please' by David Bingham

Beware of those
who would volunteer to wear
uniforms at the weekend;

like the man who,
dressed as an inspector,
lingered at the entrance
of a first class compartment
to extend the moments
of our embarrassment
to his satisfaction;

then left us,
toes uncurling,
free to recall
other men in other times
and other worlds

who clipped their tickets,

not on the line from Highley to Hampton Loade,
but on a much darker and more sinister road.

Hampton Loade to Highley in the past

Here are a couple of photos to show what the area was like :

Hampton Loade Ferry

Alveley Sidings ( which is now where the Country Halt is found )

Highley Colliery

It must have been strange living in a monochrome world!

Report on Highley to Hampton Loade Outing, Nov 1st by Paul Francis

HIGHLEY INFORMATIVE…

An informal record of the first outing in the Out Here project, on a crisp Nov 1st.

A memorial to the miners who worked in this area, descending from shafts at Highley and Alveley, which were linked by a passage beneath the river.

Like pin-ups and crab, rock can be dressed or undressed. This, we were reliably informed, is dressed.

River high, muddy path. But two weeks ago, it was really dry. Or so Dave says.

Looking back from Alveley to Highley, across the valley. Note the golf course.

Pumpkin-coloured logs, sliced from alder. (According to the guy with the chainsaw.)

Dave takes the opportunity to get writing advice from a real professional.
(You may not know that Anna Massey drops in for tea at Tom’s?)

The train arriving at platform One, Hampton Loade…(I’d like to have included a photo of the roaring fire in the waiting room, vividly described in the outline of the tour. Unfortunately…)

A carriage for sorting mail, one of the coaches from the train involved in the Great Train Robbery. (Which was also showing video footage of Auden’s Night Mail).

Paid for with many euros of regeneration money, the Engine House at Highley is trainspotter heaven, but also has a pleasant café and balcony with a view

Many thanks to Dave for a great day, much enjoyed by all. Paul F.

Two Poems from Jeff Phelps

Haste to the Wedding
(dance tune – trad.)

They hoist her up, the new bride,
and parade her round at shoulder height.
It’s part of their Morris ceremony -
old and borrowed, the halting, skipping steps,
the jumps and cracking of sticks
stout enough to break knuckles.
A piece of bark comes flying off.
It’s a joke, that’s all,
a jingling end to the afternoon, a climax.
She whoops, astonished
at the view from up here – the pub yard,
the gawping father, the pie-stuffed page boy,
the town and all the future laid out before her.
There with pint glass to his lips
her new husband manages only
a nervous laugh, adjusts his carnation
as she is swept away
still waving, like a surfer
caught by some cross-tide,
far from land.


View from out here

To the east, uphill,
the edge of the town, waist-high grass,
a belt of oak and sweet chestnut.
To the north, between houses,
the tip of the Wrekin
and west at eye level, Telford’s church,
the town piled up like russet bricks,
the Clees, clear and signalling
imminent rain.
A better view is hard to imagine.
Here at the intersection
of ley lines and lines of sight,
a place to sit and do nothing,
a better place to write.

My Arrival in Bridgnorth by Rosie Pugh

Officially I arrived in Bridgnorth on the 5th of February 1990 as Keith, my husband, had bought New Barns Farm at auction at the Punch Bowl on the Ludlow Road. We had been married a year.
It was the lower part of Bridgnorth that we discovered first and we were led to believe that this was all there was to Bridgnorth. It was a few weeks before, when out with my friend Pat from Cheshire, I ventured over the bridge from Low Town and discovered the magic of High Town.
I was captured by the view from the castle wall. It was a picture of beauty that lay before me. There were hills, fields and trees and in the midst of them the river flowed. People walked by me. They chatted and laughed amongst themselves. A gentle breeze touched my skin. The birds sang and mingled with the human laughter it made a richer chorus. I was in a place of contentment and at peace.
As the weeks passed I felt at home as I had as a young girl growing up in Donegal Ireland. The people I found friendly and very helpful and this would be more so in the weeks and months to follow.

Autumn Photographs from Tony Gunn

Tony sent me a selection of autumnal photgraphs. These are the two I like best.

Some News

Two things:

( 1 )

I thought the Cinnamon session on Tuesday revealed that lots of great work is being written for the ‘View From Out Here’ project.

If people want to e mail a piece ( or an extract ) to me I can put it on the blog

( 2 )

REMINDER!!!!
Next Saturday, 1st November is the Highley / Hampton Loade trip

See the posting for October 7th for details of the arrangements

You will need to have appropriate footwear as parts of the paths can be a little muddy
and there is a gentle climb up into the country park.

Further to Nordy Bank Photograph

Tony Gunn has provided these notes to add background to the photograph he sent us:

Some years ago Marilyn and I found that this was a great place to unwind and we would take the forty-minute drive on a summer evening to where we could sit on a bank and (to steal a phrase from one of Steinbeck’s characters) help the sun to set. The isolation, absence from road noise and so on made it exceptionally attractive to us.

Over time we have explored Brown Clee in all weathers and in all seasons. Though nothing ever improved on those sunsets. I have carried a camera since I was in my mid teens and photographs are a part of my life. The photo you have chosen was an attempt to capture the lengthening shadows and the mixed blessings of the isolation experienced by those few who live on the hill.

Highley and Hampton Loade Trip, Sat, November 1st

On Saturday, November 1st the first of our trips will take place. It is hoped these trips will be enjoyable days out which but will allow us to experience the area and inspire us to write.
There will be no workshop on this day so feel free to bring friends and family with you.
The trip will consist of a ramble from Highley , through the country park and along the river to Hampton Loade ( visiting the Severn Valley Country Park Visitors’ centre en route ). We will return to Highley on the Severn Valley Railway. Once back in Highley we can visit the Engine House and have refreshments in their cafeteria.

Itinerary:
10.50: Meet at the car park.
To get there turn off the B4555 ( which is the main road through Highley ) at Station Road. There is a mock-Tudor house on the corner and a brown sign which reads – ‘Severn Valley Country Park, SVR Stn, River Severn’. The car park is a 100 yards down the road.
11.00: Leave car park
11.20: Highley Station
12.00: Severn Valley Country Park Visitors’ Centre ( stay for approx 30 mins )
13.20 : Hampton Loade ( packed lunch in the station waiting room by a roaring fire )
13.59 to 14.07: Travel by Severn Valley Railway to Highley
14.20 to 3.00: Visit the Engine House ( where we can have refreshments in the cafeteria )

Notes:
The fare from Hampton Loade to Highley is £2.50
Entry to the Engine House is £3.00
The Ship Inn is open from 13.00 to 15.00 if people prefer a beer
You will need to bring a packed lunch ( unless you can wait until 14.20 )

Remember: There's no such thing as bad weather , only inappropriate clothing.

Any questions: Contact me on david.hodgebower@googlemail.com

Dave Bingham

A View From Nordy Bank ( on the ege of Clee Burf )

Here is a photograph taken by Tony Gunn which shows a view from Clee Burf ( Brown Clee summit consists of Clee Burf and Abdon Burf )

Maybe it will inspire someone to write a short piece.

Writing Themes

On the launch evening we discussed the possible writing themes that might arise when thinking about the area in and around Bridgnorth.

The main themes we identified were:

Personal experiences of the area
Old ways and new ways
Viewpoints and biographies of local people
Movement and transport ( ice sheets, Romans, Normans, urban overspill… commuters, the Welsh influence, river transport, Severn Valley Railway )
Working communities ( modern rural life, isolated settlements, loss of post offices, rural industry )
Farming (developments in agriculture, wealthy landowners, property, competition, well-being )
Origins ( growth of settlements, landed gentry, rich and poor, place names, local dialects, myths and stories, religion, artists and writers who have lived / worked here, families )
Connections
Heritage and tourism ( holidays, camping, walking, fishing, forests, quarries, steam railways, iron, coal, pottery, tar, museums, castles, churches, abbeys, halls, landscape, limekilns )
Leisure
Landscape ( nature, formation of the environment, conservation, geology … rock formations, fossils, the seasons … hunting, poaching, fishing … rivers, floods, the hills..The Wrekin, Brown Clee, etc … caves, bridges, birds, wild animals, views, weather)
History, nostalgia, ( research )
Local myths
Distinctiveness

However, probably the most useful themes to individual writers may be the ones they haven’t thought of yet

First Work on the Blog

Here is the first of the work to be produced as part of the 'View From Out Here' project. It was written in a short workshop session which was part of the launch at the Cinnamon Bar on Tuesday, September 16th.
Thanks to Dorothy for getting us on the move.

On Brown Clee
by Dorothy Leiper

Twelve tents, neatly arranged, almost in line; ten in a row and at either end one angled to keep watch provide a stop. Cub camp. Kids in sixes with Arkela book-ends.
Tired from the school week and ready for a change, they are not too tired to sleep, but prattle on in muttered confidences, squeals, mingled with the cries of protest as sleep insists and fellow campers deny.
As the sun, still well below the horizon, lightens the canvas from midnight blue to holly green to pale green the voices start in time with the first birds; little chatterings and chirrups.
A head pops out from the fumbled-open door, hovers an inch from the dewy grass at eye level with an upturned Wellington. A full bladder calls for relief and warmth of sleeping bag abandoned, tent ties pulled open, he staggers out, one foot reaching for the toppled boot, one hand clasping the dew sparkled canvas.
He leaves a green trail across the silver of the grass, continuous dragging of boot, flop, boot. A yawn, a glance up, a look around at the still camp. My, this is nothing like a Saturday morning at home.

Where is 'Out Here'?

In our first posting we described what the project is about and how we hope to organise it.

In this, our second posting, we are thinking about the geographical area we consider to be 'Out Here'. The map above shows this area.

Hardy created 'Wessex' and Trollope created 'Barchester'.

Bridgnorth Writers are hoping an appropriate name based on our year's work will naturally develop for the area shown on the map.

If you know the area, please feel free to make suitable suggestions.

The View from Out Here - Introduction

Illustration by Beverley Fry

‘The View From Out Here’ is a long term writing project which will be planned and organised by Bridgnorth Writers for the period September, 2008 to November, 2009.

( 1 ) There are two basic aims of the project:
To encourage fresh writing, which will reflect both the distinctiveness of the writing we produce as writers who live in a particular geographical area and the wealth of original, individual voices which exist within the area.
To develop the fresh writing for publication ( form to be decided on ) and work for a finale performance ( or other forms of final presentation which might grow from the work we carry out in the time of the project ).

( 2 ) The time scale of the project will be as follows:

PREPARATORY PHASE
( May to August 2008 )
LAUNCH
( early September 2008 )
ACTIVITIES AND EVENTS
(September 2008 to September 2009 )
PREPARING FINALE
( September 2009 to November 2009 )
FINALE
( November 2009 )

Where is ‘Out Here’?
‘Out Here’ refers to the area where our members live. Members live in an area which shaped like a bulbous crescent centred on Bridgnorth, and stretching from Roddington in the north to Kinver in the south and reaching out westwards to Burwarton.
We agreed that this area could be extended out to the west ( ie towards Church Stretton and Ludlow ) but not to the east ( ie into the West Midlands conurbation ).

What should we write about?
We want to leave writers to be as free as possible to write what they wish when inspired by this area.
But here are some suggestions for possible starting points for writing: personal observations and experiences of the area, biographical material about local people, modern rural life ( farming issues, incomers, isolation, rural slums, drugs, hunting, conservation, loss of post offices, etc ), history, mythology, nature, genre fiction using this area as a setting, media news stories / articles and many other ideas as yet not thought of.

What will we do?
We aim to plan a year’s activities to help to inspire writers in directions they may not have explored previously. These might include: a nature walk, visits ( to old churches, a museum, a stately home, etc ), river walk, guided heritage trail, farm visit, research days and writing workshops. These will be directed at enabling writers to see the potential of the area as a source for creativity.
We hope that individuals in the group can suggest other activities which would help to create a more varied programme.

The launch
We are launching the project at our regular Bridgnorth Writers’ meeting at the Cinnamon Bar on Tuesday, 16th September, 2008.

The final products
The end products of the year’s work will fall into two main categories: written and performance. The final form these will take will depend on what the group has produced over the period of the project. It is hoped that as many writers as possible will have their work published and / or performed before a live audience.

Finances
We will be investigating different ways of funding the project over the next couple of months. Any suggestions here would be most welcome!!!

Keeping in touch with the project.
It is hoped that we can keep everyone informed with the progress of the project through a blog / website and / or a newsletter.

Dave Bingham
Feel free to contact me:
Telephone - 01952 432112 e mail - david.hodgebower@googlemail.com