We decide between ourselves what to write for the next month and try to write 200 - 600 words. At the meeting each author reads out their own work.

No previous experience is necessary - most people have never written before.

New members are very welcome, please contact the Group Coordinator via the link above for more details.

The Writing Group in session

And below is a short piece of writing by one of the group members on the hottest day of the year.

It was the hottest day of the year

The old oak tree stood in the centre of the wood. No one knew it's age, or who might have been on the throne of England when a little acorn first put out a tender, probing root. Of course, legend had it that this was the tree Charles II had hidden in from Cromwell's army. However, that distinction is given to most old oak trees, but the idea keeps people happy. Locally it was called the king of the wood and also called home by some hundred or more species.

Its avian residents included the tree creeper, the pied flycatcher, the woodpecker and of course the wise old owl. Squirrels cavorted among its branches, bats found homes behind loose bark, a fox dwelt in a hollow at the bottom of the trunk, it was home to butterflies and moths, beetles, spiders, many insects, fungi, mosses and lichens.

Usually a hive of bustling activity, all was still. It was the hottest day of the year, temperatures were soaring, tension and apprehension seemed almost palpable through the wood. No wind rustled the leaves; it was as if a secret message was being transmitted as the heat intensified. Stay still, hide, keep safe. As the atmosphere thickened, dark clouds rolled in overhead. The sun vanished. Fat raindrops splattered on the leaves, more and more until a veritable deluge descended. In the distance thunder rolled as the ancient gods threw imaginary rocks above the clouds. Lightening lit the sky, cruel yellow streaks zigzagged looking for places to ground. The top of the oak tree, standing proud over the wood was an obvious target. With a crash the tree split as the lightening found its way to earth. Splintered debris of wood, bark and branches were flung to the ground as tiny homes were scattered and sap turned to steam.

The storm of course blew itself out, careless of the devastation it had left behind. The tree was mourned. The broken branches gradually took on another life but the reign of the king of the wood was over.