We meet at 7:30pm on
the first Thursday of
each month at
The Biffa Room,
St. Mark’s Church,
(off Avon Drive),
Bedford, MK41 7UY
Visitors (18 and older) and prospective members are VERY welcome, whether experienced writers, beginners, or just curious. Simply turn up on the night or contact us by clicking on the 'Get in Touch' icon for an interesting, enjoyable, and possibly instructive evening.
Beach by Andrew Stock
“There she goes.” Old Adam pointed at the woman as she made her way to the beach, “regular as clockwork she is, never misses.”
“I’m sorry, what?” The young man sitting opposite looked up from his book.
“The woman, there.” He pointed, “Regular as clockwork, she is, watch her.” The young man peered over the balcony of the pub towards the figure, he could see the young woman ambling away from their position, down the slope towards the beach She was simply dressed, white top, blue skirt, straw hat on her head, nothing unusual. The young man turned around, losing interest,
“See her?” The old man spoke again,
“Mmm yes, interesting.” It wasn’t, he just wanted this old man to leave him alone, he wanted to do no more than read his book, finish his pint and then continue exploring Cornwall and all its beauty.
“Watch her now.” Continued this annoying old man as he drained his glass of beer, “She’s going to release a pigeon.” He couldn’t help himself, he had to ask,
“Why? Why would she release a pigeon?” The old man leaned forward furtively,
“Smuggling.” He wobbled his empty glass, “Buy me a pint and I will tell you all I know.”
On the beach Mary Elizabeth, released the pigeon and wondered when her grandfather would ever grow tired of this ‘free beer’ con trick.
Martha’s Cove by Sue Barton
At 9.30 the village was still quiet and the small beach, apart from Martha, deserted.
Just off the beach were two or three people passing through on an early walk and guests could be seen breakfasting on the hotel terrace, taking their time, enjoying the peace of the cove before the tour buses started to arrive. Thankfully, the coaches weren’t allowed to drive into the village and had to stop in the car park up the hill.
Martha always came down to the beach at this time. You could set your time by her. She would place her red shoulder bag on the low wall, lay out her towel next to it and step out of her faded cotton dress under which she wore her swimming costume, all ready to go. She’s been swimming here every day for the last 75 years.
At this time of the morning the beach was pretty much as Martha remembered it from childhood. It was her beach now for this short stretch of time before it was swamped with trippers.
Beach by Joan Lightning
A shorelark sang enthusiastically nearby, while gulls circled in the clear blue sky before diving with hungry screeching into the water. As Sarah walked along the beach, the cold sea-breeze ruffled her hair but the early-morning sun held the promise of harsh heat to come.
She reached the street and smiled. No cars and only a few people – perfect!
Swinging her rucksack off her back, she extracted her favourite two cameras. One was a dSLR bought new for her birthday, the other was a custom-converted near-Infrared mirrorless from Ebay.
Today, at 9am sharp, council workers would appear with their big machines and portaloos to begin resurfacing this street. Under threat of towing and fines, all cars were now parked elsewhere.
At long last, Sarah could photograph those beautiful old houses with no ugly motor vehicles in the way. For the first time, she could stand at the other end of the street and see the ancient dwellings, with the sea beyond, exactly as people had seen them for centuries. She would capture it all.
Her batteries were charged and the golden hour of sunlight had begun.
She lifted the dSLR, adjusted the settings, and pressed the shutter.
Beach poem by John Broadhouse
A breath of wind, faint to the touch, rolls down he estuary
Stirring summers heat through narrow winding lanes.
Salt laden, seaweed drenched aromas caress whitewashed cottages,
Dazzling edifice’s, reflective of decades past, cast shadows.
A sanctuary from the harsh sun, stone walls baked in history,
Invite tranquility in cool caves of fathomless familiarity,
Furnished in memorabilia of their heyday, set amongst roughcast walls.
Laughter, clatter of glasses, a cry from a gull, echoes from rooftops,
Red brazen parasol’s gently flutter, casting shadow patterns.
Voices mingle and life goes on over a glass or two,
Ambitions, work, travel, romance & health punctuate the flow.
Whether tide or life’s journey they ebb and flow taking them forward,
But for know, paradise on a rooftop terrace becomes timeless.
Soaked in sun, wine and contentment they drift from reality.
The lady on the beach searches her picnic hamper for reassurance,
He should be here, the date, the time, the broken promise,
It felt so real the night before, a hug, a kiss, an affair,
Or so she thought, picnic on the beach, row to his yacht,
Cruise the coast, stay at his mansion, all she could wish for.
He was handsome, smoldering blue eyes that fired her desire.
A dream shattered against the laughter, clatter of glasses and the cry of a gull.
For one of our writing exercises we collaborated with Houghton Conquest art society. They kindly provided paintings which Writers' Circle used as inspiration to create stories or poems using a maximum of 200 words. This is a great way to see how the same image stimulates different ideas.
Picture reproduced by the kind permission of Dave Williams who retains all rights. Do not copy without consent of the owner.