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May 2003
Writer - Peter Fooks
Peter Fooks - Writer
Peter Fooks - Writer
Having now retired, Peter is better able to indulge his life-long interest in writing.
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Writer profile
Born in 1931, on the outskirts of Nottingham, Peter Fooks has worn a variety of hats in his life: as Seaman, Grocer, trainee rosarian, Solicitor’s dogsbody, Civil Servant, Scout Leader and hill-walker – to name but a few!

Having now retired, he is better able to indulge his life-long interest in writing. His greatest success so far has been in the compilation of a number of popular walking guides, but he has also produced some moderately successful poetry and fiction.

A happily married family man for over forty years, Peter has three grown up children and eight grandchildren.

Writer's Work - Larks rise at Eakring

"Above the fields a skylark heavenward soars,
as did the psalms the faithful people sang
so long ago, upon a lonely hill by Pulpit Ash, beyond the parish bounds."

* * *

"What’s your name, mister?" the boy asked.

"William," the man replied. "William Mompesson"

"You are the new vicar, aren’t you?"

"That’s right."

"Why are you sitting up here, mister?"

"Because I like it up here. The Ash trees in bloom; the gentle breeze; the skylarks."

"Why don’t you come down to Eakring mister? To the church?"

"Oh, they don’t want me down there, boy. I’m much better off, much happier where I am. I don’t need a church. I am used to preaching out of doors. I have had plenty of practice."

"Where do you come from, mister?"

"Oh, a long way from here. A place called Eyam."

"You’ve got the plague haven’t you mister? That’s what they say."

"That’s what they say. But it isn’t true. That is all in the past."

"I know. So why don’t you come down and tell them?"

"Because they wouldn’t believe me. I cannot blame them. After all, the plague killed most of my flock. It killed my wife. It should have killed me, but God, I suppose, had other ideas for me."

"Will you show me where you live, mister?"

"Oh, I don’t think that would be a good idea. It’s only a rough old hut in the woods. And you shouldn’t come too close to me. You know what people will say."

"I don’t care what people would say. And my dad wouldn’t mind. He thinks like I do."

"I really don’t think it would be a good idea."

"But please! Let me come with you. Let me help you, run errands for you, carry messages. Let me be your disciple!"

* * *

"And once again, as in the plague-bound days,
Mompesson preached the word beneath the heavens. And now, by Pulpit Ash, there stands his cross, and here the joyful lark His praises sings."

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