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!
Sunday, 21 December 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
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
Peter
Peter 
Peter
Antony
Antony
Peter
Peter
Antony
Peter
Peter
The photographs were selected from those taken by Peter and Anthony.
PeterWe start the day with morning coffee.
PeterDerek leads us to our first site of interest.
Peter
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
AnthonyWhere the trows used to dock for loading and unloading in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
Antony
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.
PeterA view north along the River Severn
PeterThe way up to St. Leonard's Close.
AntonyDerek 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 Wednesday, 3 December 2008
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.
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.
Monday, 1 December 2008
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
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
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