New Writing by our Group

The Wind Blew In From The West by Susan Bennett

The wind blew from the west gaining strength with every gust. We struggled against its

apparent desire to dash our fragile craft against the jagged rocks growing ever closer. Every

sinew stretched to its utmost attempting to pull against the relentless incoming tide and

push of the wind but we were fighting a losing battle.

That afternoon had been so different. We enjoyed our meal on deck as our boat was rocked

by the gentle waves. We were wafted along in the warm zephyr breeze but then the skies

started to darken as this sweet wind collided with its cold easterly neighbour. Our earlier

pleasure was replaced with fear as we fought to beat our boat against the wind but to no

avail. We raced along driven by the developing storm so we lowered our sails and lashed

them to the masts to try and slow our passage through the waves that grew in tempo with

the rising wind. We lost all control. As the wind gained strength it brought with it rain

which lashed our bodies and soaked our clothes. Fingers became numb with cold and could

hardly grasp the ropes. Only the cresting waves with their white heads crashing against the

rocks relieved the greyness that surrounded us, grey sea joining grey sky seamlessly.

Did we imagine the speck of yellow to our left. No there it was again, a regular flicker of

colour against this monochrome world. The lighthouse. We only had to hold on a little

longer, work a little harder and we would clear the rocks and reach safe harbour. Lifted

spirits lent strength to our aching limbs as we pulled and pushed to turn our craft. We were

so near now, we were saved. We all let out a cheer and at that moment there was a

sickening tearing of wooden timbers. We were run aground on the very rocks we had tried

so hard to escape. How could this be? Then we saw another flickering yellow light a mile or

so down the coast. That was the true lighthouse. We had been tricked by a lantern on the

summit of the rocky nearby cliff. The wreckers were at work that night. Our poor little

boat didn’t stand a chance. Each wave pushed it harder against the unrelenting rock. Water

poured in, cargo poured out. It was every man for himself. Those that hadn’t already been

washed overboard tried to jump onto the rocks themselves, but even though they crossed

the gap they had little chance as the waves overpowered them and dragged them back into

the depths. A few of us waited for the highest waves. We jumped, slipping and sliding on

the greasy rocks we found hand and footholds and held on for dear life. As the waves slid

down we climbed up until eventually our shredded hands grabbed tufts of grass instead of

shards of stone. Exhausted we pulled ourselves up and over onto the top of the cliff. It

took some time to regain strength and breath but when we were able to eventually sit up

and view the scene all we saw was devastation. Splintered timbers bedecked the rocks, only

our figurehead gave any indication that a ship had passed this way.

WILD FLOWERS by Jan Rees

Celandines were the bright yellow stars that shone from crevasses in old stone walls, or peeped from gaps in the hedgerows of my Cornish childhood. They were just too tempting and a small bunch would often be picked to take home – a present for Mum. Finding a container small enough to hold them with their short stems, was a challenge but she had one tiny glass vase which was just right and they would take pride of place on her dressing table.

Small cushions of primroses grew here and there all over fields and in hedges. Their flowers were so delicate, as were their colours, usually the palest creamy lemon but sometimes a soft rose. The pink ones seemed like strangers at a party where everyone else knew each other. Every Spring bunches of primroses were packed in damp cotton wool and boxes of them were sent off to a church in Lambeth, which had some connection with our church, so that the congregation could enjoy something of a Cornish Spring. Little did I know that one day I would be working in a school in that part of London, where the children were having a very different experience of childhood from the one that I had known.

Violets – clumps of the smallest flower heads that grow shyly in woodland or in other sheltered places. Not for them the vivid purple of an emperor’s cloak, but the gentle amethyst of a fading summer sunset. The father of a friend of mine was the butler at the big house. The lady who lived there was called Lady Violet. I remember a rather frail, elderly lady, but her name – like her - seemed to me unbelievably exotic and grand, having little to do with the small sweet flowers I found sometimes while out playing with my friends.

Bluebells grew in great numbers running like a blue river through the woods at the ancient abbey which was not far from the little Devonshire town where my grandparents lived. They filled the space beneath the great beech trees that towered above them, waving and nodding in the breeze. I always wanted to gather armfuls of them but when I did was disappointed by the short life they had indoors. “Better to enjoy them where they grow” said Mum wisely. As a florist she knew a lot about flowers, wild or cultivated.

Dandelions – perhaps the most vivid yellow in the flower maker’s paint box. They had a rather unfortunate reputation as weeds, growing just where a gardener didn’t want them to. But to me they were beautiful, spikey and upright like some kind of floral rebel. When I started to learn French at school and discovered a possible origin for their name, I loved them even more. “Dent de lion” or lion’s tooth, apparently refers to the jagged edges of the dandelion’s leaves.

Tall stems of cow parsley grew abundantly along grass verges like an excited crowd, holding white lace parasols as they wait for a procession to come into view. Their fine filigree heads were constantly moving in the breeze and although we didn’t ever pick them I was enchanted by their elegance.

And honeysuckle – clambering through densely packed hedges that lined the narrow country lanes where we would be walking on our way to and from the beach. Honeysuckle flowers are such an unusual shape, like the spokes of an umbrella. They are not such a visual spectacle perhaps, but oh their scent! There is a sweetness that fills the air around their pink and yellow petals. It is worth burying your head for a moment in the tangle around them to enjoy it. It is the scent of summer.

Jan Rees,

April 2021

PHIL THE GREEK by John Ward

He’s a Diamond Geezer

Phil The Greek

Always keen to please her

Phil The Greek

The noblest, kindest Prince

That you will ever meet

People will be out

To cheer the Queen

“We’ll all have a party”

“Cheer The Queen!”

While he’ll just walk behind

Barely seen.

Yet he has been beside her

All these years.

Saying what he thinks

All these years

And he deserves some praise

In the twilight of his days

For all those years

So let us raise a glass

To Phil The Greek

Let no one treat him ill

Or show him pique

Because the Queen and we

Both know that he’s unique.

(God bless her….and him)

A selection of writing by our group

The Wind Blew In From The West by Susan Bennett

WILD FLOWERS by Jan Rees

PHIL THE GREEK by John Ward