Saturday 28 February 2009

'Rosie's Farmhouse Pantry' by Rosie Pugh

This is the start of a much longer piece in which Rosie Pugh describes the years she spent running her teashop.

I had been in Bridgnorth less than eighteen month’s when my husband, Keith, said we must think of something to add to the farm to bring in extra money.
A couple of month’s later, I had a dream in which I was serving tea and coffee with cakes and sandwiches. I shook Keith, in the middle of the night, and told him what I had dreamt. He said we should talk in the morning and that I was to go back to sleep. The dream was so real I was unable to return to sleep and eagerly waited. In the morning over breakfast we discussed it and finally he agreed that I could open a teashop.
It was then left to me to organise and find the information I needed as I had no idea what to do. I had to sort it all out and get the place ready which would involve turning our dining room, with just one table, into a tearoom.
It needed painting as it looked as if it had not been painted for many years. It was the same with the hall and the down stairs toilet. They were both a funny green colour and I wanted the room to be in antique pink and the hall in a pale peach. I set to and bought the paint and brushes and got on with the job. I was not an expert painter but I did quite well considering I was still working outside helping with the potatoes and doing my housework at the same time.
When the room was ready , I had to buy some tables and chairs but I could not afford anything upmarket so I went to a small shop near the cattle market outside Bridgnorth and they gave me three months credit and I bought some plastic ones to start with.
The porcelain cups, saucers and plates came from my sister-in-law Pollie. My table cloths and serviettes were altered so they matched and I added some white lace to make them prettier. Keith and I moved a large dresser into the dining room and placed ornaments and a beautiful, scented candle on the shelves.
Slowly things started to take shape as the place became bright and cheery. My son Garry called and I asked him if he would do a sign for me to hang up near the road. He agreed and suggested I call my teashop ’Rosie’s Farmhouse Pantry’. I thought this sounded delightful. He painted one red rose on a white board and he painted the writing in black.
The weekend I had planned for opening was approaching and I was suddenly gripped with fear. What was I letting myself in for? I was treading into the unknown. I was out of my depth. Deep down I knew I had no idea of how to run a teashop.

Wednesday 18 February 2009

'Ippikin and the Young Poet' by Dave Bingham

Again the young poet tried.
‘Ippikin, Ippikin, keep away with your long chin.’
And, as before, nothing happened.
The boulder which covered the entrance to the cave remained exactly where it was, the trees which grew from the limestone cliff lost not a single leaf and the birds continued to flit by without breaking their flight.
‘What a lot of old rot,’ he thought, ‘I’ve been a fool. I knew I should have ignored them.’
‘Them’ being the regulars at the Wenlock Edge Inn who had told the young poet about Ippikin.
Ippikin, the twelfth century, robber knight who terrorised the villages between Caer Caradoc and the River Severn and held-up and murdered travellers on the track from Much Wenlock to Ludlow.
Ippikin, buried inside Wenlock Edge for eight hundred years after a huge boulder fell across the entrance to the cave where he and his band of criminals were hiding.
Ippikin, who, legend has it, responds to an ancient rhyme by emerging from his cave to kill the person who calls him.
The young poet picked up his bag. ‘It’s my own fault, I was much too drunk and much too gullible.’ He was about to leave when he heard a rustling in the trees.
At first, in the early twilight, it was difficult to make out what was causing the noise. But, then he saw the shape of a man coming towards him; a giant of a man wearing a metal helmet, a long fur-rimmed leather coat, a leather breastplate and fur-rimmed boots. A sword and an axe hung from his belt and around his neck there was a the brightly shining, gold chain
‘What clay-brained coxcomb is it that would provoke me?’ said the phantom in a world-weary tone. ‘Can’t you pignuts just leave me in peace. Haven’t you louts got anything better to do with your time?’
Shocked, the young poet was unable to speak.
‘Stuck for words are you? You tickle-brained maltworm. Well it’s obvious you are or otherwise you wouldn’t come here chanting such nonsense.’
The young poet was offended by this. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a poet and I’m seldom stuck for words; and, if there’s anyone around here that deserves criticism – well it’s you.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that you boil-brained hugger-mugger.’
‘I dare because I speak the truth. I was promised a lot more than the poor excuse for a phantom you’ve turned out to be, a phantom who can’t do better than creep up on a person.’
‘Well, you beetle-headed baggage, what do you expect if you chant such rubbish. Ippikin, Ippikin. Keep away with your long chin. It’s nothing more than a children’s rhyme and it doesn’t scan properly. Did you really believe it was going to make me angry?. It’s a mild irritation, that’s all. From a poet I’d have expected better.’
‘I’m sorry, but I used the words I was given. Next time I’ll use my own words. And then I promise you my words will drive you mad. But I’ll only do it if you promise to put on a better show.’
‘Put on a show in this world of show? Look here, you idle-headed clotpole, I make the rules around here, not you!’ Iippikin stopped and looked down at the young poet. ‘However, you look like an honest sort. So I’ve a mind to humour you. You come up with a rhyme that genuinely maddens me and I’ll not disappoint.’ With that, Ippikin turned and ambled back into the trees at the foot of the scarp.
The young poet, left on his own, sat on a log and took out his laptop.. He was feeling inspired and was soon typing furiously. He smiled to himself at each fresh creation and laughed out loud at his own cleverness. ‘That’s enough,’ he said to himself eventually. ‘If this doesn’t do it, nothing will.’
He put his things back in his bag and approached the craggy, limestone cliff.
‘Are you ready in there?’ he shouted.
‘I’m ready, do your worst.’
‘Ippikin Ippikin – nerdikin, twerpikin’
‘That’s pathetic, you craven, crook-pated measle, it’s worse than the old one. You don’t really think I’d come out for that.’
‘Then how about this - Ippikin, Ippikin –dumbikin, dunce-ikin.’
There was a moment’s pause. ‘Better, you mangled, gut-griping puss ball, but you’re not there yet.’
‘Don’t worry, I think this’ll do it,’ the young poet said confidently, ‘ Ippikin, Ippikin – crassikin, assikin!’
A heavy silence fell. The birds ceased their dusk chorus.
Then ground shook. A storm blew - lightning flashed and thunder roared. Trees fell from the cliff and rock fragments showered down on him.
The boulder in front of the cave rolled away and Ippikin appeared. He was ten times larger than before and surrounded by fire. The stench of the dead filled the young poet’s nostrils as he looked at Ippikin’s face – a face contorted with hatred and anger as he made straight for the young poet. ‘Come here you venomous, fen-sucked scut.’
But the young poet was not afraid. ‘Ippikin, Ippikin – goonikin, loonikin,’ he shouted as he skipped along the slope.
Ippikin lumbered after him snapping down trees as he gave chase. ‘I’ll get you, you gorbellied, lily-livered jolthead.’
The young poet dodged down the slope. ‘Ippikin, Ippikin – grossikin, dope-ikin.’ he called over his shoulder at the trundling giant behind him.
‘You can’t get away from me you frothy, flap-mouthed moldwarp.’
‘You’ll never catch me,’ the young poet bellowed, ‘Ippikin, Ippikin – dimikin, nitikin.’ He came to a stream and leapt to the opposite bank; but slipped and fell.
Ippikin caught up, grabbed the young poet and carried him, above his head, to the steepest part of the edge. He was about to throw him down the slope when the poet yelled , ‘Ippikin stop! How will people know?’
‘How will people know what you brazen-faced giglet.?’
‘Know the verses they can use to anger you.’
Ippikin paused.
‘I can tell them,’ said the young poet. ‘I’ll write a story about this evening and when people read it they’ll know what to say when they come here.’
Ippikin thought this over. ‘And you promise to do that.’
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘And what will you call this story?’
‘I’ll let you decide that.’
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘ that’s only fair.’
He placed the young poet back on the ground and walked slowly away towards his cave. Just before he re-entered that dark and dreadful place, Ippikin turned and said to the young poet, in a deep and sorrow-filled voice, ‘Call it Ippikin and the Young Poet.’

Monday 16 February 2009

Much Wenlock Saturday, 21st March , 2009

Here are the activities planned for the day:

10.30 Arrive, coffee in Priory Hall, outline of the day.

10.50 Brief walk around Much Wenlock - indicating possible alternatives

11.15 – 12.15 An hour’s free exploration of the town.

12.15 – 12.45 An interview with Ken Milner. PF will ask KM questions about his childhood in Much Wenlock, his work at the Priory and subsequently, the Wenlock countryside and flora, and KM’s written work about MW.

12.45 – 1.15 Lunch (brought by members; speakers are very welcome to join in)

1.15 - 2.00 Paul Weedon will guide us through the geology of the area, and the evolution of its landscape. After his presentation, there will be time for questions.

2.15 A Taste of the Edge – a short walk along part of Wenlock Edge (but for those to whom that doesn’t appeal, there will be displays and reading material in Priory Hall, and/or a further chance to explore the town.)

4.0 Tea at Priory Hall, where we shall be joined by Paul Evans, local naturalist, writer and broadcaster (who writes the Country Diary on Wenlock Edge, in The Guardian, many Wednesdays.)

Sunday 8 February 2009

Images from Tony Gunn to inspire our writing

We have selected images which reflect the magical nature of the landscape or refer to ancient myths or have historical themes.

The Wrekin ( in the distance ) viewed from The Lawley



Gargoyle 1
Gargoyle 2


Gargoyle 3

Clock Gate


Abdon Burf