Leigh’s Scribblings

Sunday
Homeward Bound

The first time I stirred on Sunday was at 3:27, according to the blaring red display on the digital clock.

I had that initial disorientating sense of being in an unfamiliar room where everything was arranged the wrong way around – which was daft in a way because I’d never even slept in ‘my’ room at this hotel, having only acquired it late yesterday afternoon.  There was an undeniable naughtiness about waking up in my walk leader’s bed – like sneaking out of the dorm after lights out (to climb in bed with teacher) – but above all there was cosy contentment.

I wriggled inside his warm, solid arms, the left one of which I now knew bore a Cyprus-shaped birthmark.  He was fortuitously awake too, with morning glory rapping against the back of my thigh.  Hey, why waste it?  He squeezed me to him.  Wordlessly, we slithered into position for the inevitable second burst of sex.

The second time I awoke, it was to Lyndon, naked, serving me a cup of tea.  Were I in a cheesy sex comedy – Carry on Rambling, perhaps – I’d have uttered a comment like ‘Don’t use that to stir your sugar with,’ but this was real life and it didn’t quite seem appropriate.  Though, for the record, ‘that’ was pretty damn magnificent.

‘Thank you darling,’ I purred in parody of a married woman in bed with the Sunday papers.  I reached lazily up and pulled him back down to me.

‘You know, I feel like I’ve known you forever,’ he said languidly after another spun-out snog.

‘Me too.  Well I’ve certainly never slept with somebody on a Saturday who I’d only met on the Monday before.’

‘Oh, so I’ve turned you into a hussy then?’  He drenched my shoulder with a comically sloppy kiss.  ‘Anyway, it’s Sunday now, we’ve known each other nearly a week.  That makes it acceptable.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

We lolled against the pillows and sipped tea silently for a few moments, semi-covered by the duvet, feet entwined.  It was very domestic yet sexy.

Lyndon’s room was scrupulously tidy.  His jumbo rucksack was not slouched in a corner like mine but upright alongside the wardrobe, as though awaiting inspection, with his boot bag nestling next to it.  He’d binned the condoms and wrappers, and all the clothes that had been consigned to the carpet last night were now draped over a chair.

‘I’ll have to sneak back to my room in last night’s clothes soon, to change for breakfast.’

I can lend you a shirt and some jeans, if you like.’

‘No, you’re all right,’ I declined, perhaps unwisely.  ‘It’s only a quick scuttle.  I’d best get a wriggle on, though, as I’m sure Shane’ll be up soon for his early jog.’

‘If he sees you, you can always pretend you popped in here to look at my famous map.’

I wrenched myself out of bed, and in the process of rooting out my clothes wandered into the full-length mirror’s unforgiving vision.  Ouch!

‘You could have reminded me my hair was still half up,’ I squealed, plucking out the now-redundant hair clips and ruffling my shambolic hair over my face in mock horror.

‘I don’t know,’ Lyndon vaulted out of bed and clinched me round the waist, ‘I kind of like the scarecrow look.’  I play-thumped him.  He swept a clump of hair back from my eyes so I could see us cuddling in the mirror.  ‘We look cute together, no?’  He made me laugh by grinning exaggeratedly cheesily, as though we were modelling for a Häagen-Dazs advert.

‘See you at breakfast then,’ I said as I stepped into my crumpled frock.  It looked incongruously party-ish in the morning light.

‘Why the need to arrive separately?  I’ll come and call for you, we’ll go down together.’  He kissed me on the lips.

‘Best give me half an hour then.’  I was so used to discretion being key with him, so was thrilling inside at his eagerness to descend for breakfast tellingly together.

‘You might want to make it an hour,’ he teased, ‘to sort that hair out.’  He flicked a lug of it, and I thumped him again, laughing.

‘You can go right off a person, you know!’

I slithered down the corridor with half an eye over my shoulder, like I was about to steal a cache of shower gels from the chambermaid’s trolley (not that I have ever done that in a hotel…ahem).

My key had made it to the lock when I heard the unlatching of a neighbouring door.  I clacked my door behind me, evading an encounter whoever that was emerging from their room (most likely Shane, or Ted and Enid).

I changed out of the purple dress, showered and raked a brush through my collapsed hairdo.

I contemplated rattling off a text to Kathryn or Stewart.  For some reason the prospective message formed itself in my mind in arch, semi-literary terms such as ‘Reader, I shagged him.’  But I couldn’t do it.  Not yet.  I could just imagine Stew squealing to Jason about it in their sleeping bag, and must admit I cringed a bit.  I would share my news later, and elicit jubilant responses, but for now wanted to cuddle the thought of what happened last night to myself for a bit.

My parents and brothers were still unaware of Lyndon’s existence.  A text message was not really an appropriate means of notifying them.

As I sat brushing on my unslept-in bed, I picked up my dress with the other hand.  It still smelt poignantly of last night: him, me, wine.  I was still for a few moments, for what seemed like the first time all week, letting everything swoosh over me, then I pattered my feet, childishly gleefully, on the floor at the side of the bed.

After I’d indulged myself with that little moment, I lovingly arranged the dress into my suitcase, tucking my as yet unopened Durex box inside a fold.

******

By the time Lyndon arrived, I was by all appearances as wholesome as if I’d just spent an uneventful night sleeping soundly in my own bed.

It’s funny it had never occurred to either of us to call for the other all week, the way I had always stopped by for my friend Hazel.  Perhaps I’d been oversensitive to how other folks might interpret our synchronised arrival at dinner or, more tellingly, breakfast.  Today I didn’t care.  As it happened nobody batted an eyelid, though Hazel shot me a wily smirk over the bacon.  Ted and Enid were burrowing feverishly into their scrambled eggs.

Julian was charm itself, apologising earnestly for ‘that ghastly scene last night’ as he dispensed an Alka Seltzer to Enid, who looked very peaky.  A royal blue bow tie jutted over the bib of his stripy apron.  ‘Those sheets have been fumigated,’ he advised.  ‘I might keep them for decorating purposes, but my conscience would never permit me to accommodate future newlyweds in them with the knowledge of what that vile woman did on them with her chocolate.’

This thread of conversation petered out as Martin entered the dining room.  He was with Shane, who had a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle T-shirt on (I hadn’t seen one of those for years) and both of them looked sweaty.

‘I’m taking up jogging,’ Martin announced.  His voice was brave and proud.  ‘I met Shane outside and he took me for a scoot round the block.  I’m hoping this is going to divert me from the heartache.’

This news was greeted with a universal ‘Good for you’ chorus.

Later, as the debris of breakfast was cleared away and we eked out our last teas and coffees of the trip, Lyndon, teacup aloft, proposed a toast.  ‘To the Four Matthews.  We may not have champagne, but this will do.’

‘I’m sure Julian would bring us a bottle if we requested,’ Hazel said as we all clonked cups.  ‘Champagne is divine at breakfast time, but not terribly wise today when we all have to drive home.’

******

Once Julian had hugged us bye-bye, we were on that minibus, with the demeanour of dejected kids returning home from the best school trip ever.  Most of us were a touch hungover from the previous night’s wine-imbibing.

Lyndon and I sat together.  Were we on a real school bus, I’d have been the girl who felt all smug and grown-up because she was sitting with a boy.  I never was that girl in my actual teenage years.  It was never me ostentatiously snogging behind a copy of Smash Hits en route to the Black Country Museum or Shugborough Hall or wherever.

Ted and Enid were together too, naturally.  Enid guzzled water, and they conversed in their intimate mumbles, heads close together.

Hazel was with Martin.  She was gesticulating eagerly, and appeared to be saying empowering things to him, possibly about the future avoidance of psychotic tarts who liked to smear themselves in choccie body paint.  Whatever it was, Martin was listening intently.

Shane shared a seat at the front with Sooty, Sweep and Soo, which attracted one or two double-takes from passing motorists.  He was recounting his journey from flab to Charles Hawtrey weediness, to Clive the driver, the only person hitherto to escape the chronicles.  Clive replied in grunts.

I would much rather have walked back to Sneydley than taken the bus – partly to see the Matthews route ‘backwards,’ as it were; partly to simply prolong the holiday.  It was peculiar seeing it from a different angle, traversing the roads as opposed to rustic footpaths.  I know which I preferred.  I had adapted to the slower pace of life, observing the landscape from canal banks, meadows, even good old schwingmoors (that is such a cool word).

‘Only four weeks to go then,’ Lyndon said, referring to my job.

‘I have a feeling it’s going to be the longest four weeks of my life.’

I looked with love at our hands which were clasped in his lap.  He squeezed my hand, and I’m ashamed to say I suddenly started to cry.  Don’t worry, it wasn’t embarrassing bawling, involving snot bubbles; nor was it manipulative, to incite his sympathy.  Just a wayward tear and a sniffle.  That childish ‘holiday is ending’ feeling, coupled with the unbearable thought of another month working for that tool Adrian Raybould.

Lyndon dropped the hand-hold and put his arm round me.  I felt instantly comforted, warmed and optimistic, as though with him on my side I could never go far wrong in life.

‘It’ll be gone before you know it.  You’re going to shine in this job, Naomi.  You’ll love it.’

‘I know, I know.’  I swiped away my pathetic tear.

‘Aside from the obvious reasons, I have honestly never become so attached to a group as this one.  You’ll find this too.  You’ll make friends for life.  You’ll get the odd arse, but they’re few and far between.  Polly Dwyers hopefully strike only once in a lifetime.’

******

We drooped off the coach at Sneydley, where our forsaken vehicles dotted the Earlcott car park.  Once we’d retrieved our cases from the hold, Clive trundled off, leaving us to cluster, looking slightly lost in the empty area.  It was overcast and breezy, which added to the bleak ambiance.  Nobody was keen to leave first.

Ted stepped forward.  ‘Best holiday ever, Lyndon.  Many thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’  They shook hands, and Lyndon kissed Enid on the cheek, which caused her to blush.

A hug-a-thon inevitably ensued.  So did more tears – which this time did veer towards ‘embarrassing’ on the snivelling scale.  Numbers and e-mail addresses were circulated.  We had all bonded exceptionally this week.

‘That’s what I want with someone eventually,’ Martin said to me wistfully as we watched Ted and Enid saunter to their car, Ted’s arm comfortably resting around his wife’s shoulders.

‘Me too.’

‘I did think at one time that Polls was going to be the one, but obviously that wasn’t to be.  Do you know anybody nice, Naomi?’

‘Plenty.  I’ll flash your photo about among my friends.’

‘Don’t give them nightmares!’  The Ellimans drove away, waving shyly.  They had a beige Lada, with one of those Christian ‘fish’ stickers in the rear window.  We waved them off, and then Martin embraced me chummily.  ‘Seriously, Naomi, thanks for all the help you’ve given me, with, well, you know.’

I wasn’t sure I had significantly helped him with the ‘well, you know’ business, but accepted his sentiments gratefully.  ‘I’ll give you a call sometime, Mart, see how you’re getting on.  Take care.’

When Hazel squished me to her prodigious bosom, emotion was truly unabated.

‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she sputtered, motioning ironically to her own dripping face.  ‘We’ll light up those wilds of Herefordshire in a few weeks, eh?  Best of luck with your job, sweetheart.’  She slapped me on the back in a gung ho gesture.

Shane had his long arms stretched around both of us; the outside wall, as it were, of the group hug.  ‘We ought to have a grand reunion,’ he suggested.

‘What a splendid idea,’ Hazel rallied.  ‘This time next year, on top of Machu Picchu.’

As my friends left before me, I noticed everyone’s modes of transport for the first time.  Martin had a Lexus; Shane an Astra.  Hazel blew kisses through the window of her decidedly avant-garde green and white 2CV.  There was a Bats Protection League sticker in the rear window, its logo bearing somewhat plagiaristic resemblance to the Batman one.

And so only Lyndon and I remained.  It was like the finale of a show, where most of the characters have taken their bows, leaving the main lovers last on stage.

We sort of shrugged at each other in a ‘Well this is it then’ fashion.

‘I’ll see you to your car,’ he offered.

‘It’s two feet away from us, darling, but the thought’s appreciated.’

His navy Saab was in the next space to my Ka, as it happened, which was kind of spooky since at the time of parking neither of us could have known whose car was whose.  We stood between them and entwined ourselves for a lengthy and heady snog.  Had any Earlcott guests witnessed us, they’d have been well and truly put off their breakfasts.

‘Still on for Friday?’ he asked when we finally cleaved apart for air.

‘Should hope so.  You’ll be my ray of sunshine at the end of this week.’

‘Where d’you fancy going?  I’ll come over your way if you like.  Take you out.  Know any good pubs?’

‘I do, as it goes.’

‘You PR girls!  One long booze and schmooze fest, eh?  Not much longer for you, though.’

‘You shut your face!  There’s a nice place not far from me called the Irish Harp.  Let’s go there.’

‘I’m in your hands.’

‘Ooh er!  Planning on staying for breakfast in Walsall?’

‘Hmm, depends on the service being offered.  You’ve got a lot to live up to, you know.  Don’t forget I’ve had a Bozzie breakfast this week, and fresh eggies from Alex McClowie’s wee chicks.’

‘Oh, I’ll send you round the corner to the bacon bap van.’

We continued in a similar vein for ages: flirting, necking, talking crap just to spin out our time together.

Eventually, I wrenched myself away.  ‘Better make tracks.  I’m due at Mom and Dad’s for Sunday lunch.  You’ll be invited too one of the days.’

‘Looking forward to it.’  He was being sincere, unlike certain immature boyfriends I’ve had in the past, who were sneery and defensive about the whole ‘meet the parents’ concept.

‘Mind you, I haven’t told them about you yet.’

My mom possesses typical mother’s intuition.  I was mentally taking bets on how long it would take her to notice there was a new bounce in my step and a smile on my face, and guess their cause.

‘I’d best be going myself, see if Splodgey’s OK, then re-pack for Exmoor.’

‘You be careful out on them moors.’

After another protracted kiss, I clicked open the Ka.  From my rucksack I extracted my mobile, which I placed on the passenger seat should anyone be trying to reach me in an emergency, and my sat nav.

I sat in the driver’s seat with my legs out of the car, chatting to him as I hooked up the sat nav.  I grinned, thinking of the Black Country voice on it that sounded like Shane.  I would think of him as I was guided home with ‘Goo over the roundabout’ or ‘Yow’m where you wanted to be.’

As I finally shut the door I said, ‘Love you.’  It was automatic; instinctive.

Lyndon did not appear nonplussed; in fact he replied, ‘You too.’

When he didn’t follow that with a list of other Irish rock groups, a luscious warmth flooded through me.  It was as though Fate had decreed that the declarations would be exchanged at that moment.

He loves me, he loves me!

Lyndon made me laugh doing that ‘Phone me’ gesture with exaggerated cheesiness like an X Factor contestant, extending his fore and little fingers, middle fingers curled into his palm.  His expression then turned more serious as he did a kind of wave against the window, rapping his fingertips on the glass.

I eased away, sniffling, guided by the sat nav absurdly instructing me to ‘tairn left.’  I waved like mad until I exited on to the main road and Lyndon was no longer in my rear-view mirror.

Two minutes later, my mobile beeped on the passenger seat.  I opened the text message while poised at the next convenient traffic light.

‘Missing you already,’ Lyndon had written.

‘Daft sod,’ I said aloud, bouncing the phone back on to the seat.  I grinned joyously as the light turned to green and I drove away.

 **********

Addendum to Julian Crowfoot’s Wikipedia page:
______________________________________________________________________________
In 2010 Crowfoot received undisclosed damages from the News of the World after they published allegations by 29-year-old receptionist-turned-glamour model Polly Dwyer that he smeared her in melted Cadbury’s Wispa and seduced her in the honeymoon suite of his hotel.

‘Those days are well and truly behind me,’ he commented.  ‘I’ve been celibate for years, and hardly touch chocolate these days either.’

Polly subsequently competed on Celebrity Coach Trip.  A scene in which she fell off a camel in Lanzarote subsequently became a popularly repeated clip on Harry Hill’s TV Burp.

**********

From:  Adrian Raybould
Sent:  15 October 2010 12:12
To:   Naomi Ball and 154 others
Subject: Raybould Communications Autumn Newsletter

***IN THIS EDITION***

** Adrian and Sian get married!!!
** RC welcomes new celebrity client Polly Dwyer to our books!! ………………….
…………………..

From:  Naomi Ball
Sent:  15 October 2010 12:16
To:   Adrian Raybould
Subject: RE: Raybould Communications Autumn Newsletter

Ade, I’ve asked you twice now, please remove me from the mailing list!

*********

Notice in the Autumn/Winter 2012 BFF newsletter:

CONGRATULATIONS to two of our leaders, Lyndon Hyde and Naomi Ball, on their recent wedding!!

BFF played matchmaker in this case.  The couple met two years ago, when Naomi was a participant on our popular Four Matthews walk, led by Lyndon.  Formerly employed in Public Relations, Naomi subsequently switched careers to herself become a valued member of the BFF team!

Lyndon and Naomi married in a civil ceremony at one of our most popular hotels, Julian Crowfoot’s Rosterbury Manor, in Tunclough, Derbyshire, on 14th July.

Bridesmaids were the groom’s sister Caroline Hyde and the bride’s friend Kathryn Wood.  Lyndon’s best man was his friend Peter Rudge.

The couple honeymooned on an epic trek of a lifetime to Machu Picchu in Peru.

Here at BFF we wish the new Mr and Mrs Hyde all the very best for a long and happy future!

Saturday
Urdale to Tunclough – The Fourth Matthew

By the time my ‘real’ alarm clock woke me at seven, order was fully restored and I was half unsure whether the toaster blaze drama had occurred in real life or a scene from one of my dreams.

The indications it really had happened were a heavy, disorientating feeling, the result of a disrupted sleep, and the sight of my fleecy socks drying on the radiator as I’d washed them following my shoeless wade through the car park puddles.

Downstairs, most of us yawned our way through breakfast.  Despite the lack of toast, Frankie’s Fry Up was A-number-one, top of the list, as Frankie himself would have put it.  We had to incessantly reassure poor Ralph of this, as he was almost embarrassingly apologetic about both the toast shortage and our pre-dawn wake-up call.

‘I couldn’t be more mortified, guys.  Believe me, I gave those kitchen lads a damn good bollocking this morning about not cleaning out the toaster.  They’re on their last warning, the lot of ’em.’  (The fire seemed to have robbed him of his pretentious dialect too.)

He looked about ninety-nine years old after the night he’d had, and performed his hand-wringing routine at every table.  I had a sudden mental picture of him having slept, sobbing, with his scorched Sinatra tea cloth cuddled to him like a comfort blanket.  It was a disturbing image and I chose not to dwell on it too much.

There was nearly consternation, as the toast crisis jeopardised Ted and Enid’s obligatory scrambled eggs.  They would not make much of a meal splatted on a plate with no wholemeal base.  The Ellimans conferred about alternative breakfasts for a minute or so, until Ralph offered, ‘Now if anyone really wants toast, I can make a bit of room under the grill next to the tomatoes.’

So the Ellimans got their scrambled eggs on toast (from the menu’s ‘How D’Ya Like Your Eggs in the Morning?’ section) and all was well with the world.

Hazel was last to join us, as usual, a blearier version than the one she’d presented to us last night.  Her hair was spiralling in its usual thousand anarchic directions.  She looked so endearing.

‘Morning Vernon,’ she called to her friend, Sean Connery, who was tucking into bacon and eggs with his fellow Dodderers.

‘Ay up, me dear,’ he bellowed, broad Derbyshire.

‘Vernon, eh?’  I winked at Hazel, elaborately saucily.  ‘Single?’

‘Widower.’  She grinned archly.  ‘Don’t you go getting any ideas, though.’

‘Why not?’

‘Blimey, the old boy’s as deaf as a post.’  The ‘old boy,’ incidentally, must have been all of five years older than her.  ‘I’ve got a sore throat after last night.’

‘Oh ah?’

‘We’ll have no smut, thank you, young lady.’  She wagged her finger at me with mock austerity.

My face was a picture of prim innocence.  ‘Wasn’t being smutty.’

‘Good company’s all you desire when you get to my age, believe me.’  She swiftly changed the subject, addressing the table at large.  ‘Bit of a rum to-do in the night then, eh?’

We compared notes about our respective ‘fire’ experiences, which helped lend perspective to the incident.  By the end of breakfast we had downplayed the hullabaloo to the status of an adventure, or a ‘rum to-do,’ rather than the catastrophe it might so easily have been.

The topic changed again, to our general disbelief that we had reached Saturday already and thus the last stretch of our epic hike.  We were like a gang now.  The fire, and Polly’s departure yesterday, seemed to have cemented us all.  Martin was more forthcoming with us, and even Ted and Enid were starting to emerge from their communal shell.

‘Well I hope you’ve enjoyed this week, folks,’ said Lyndon, to universal murmurs of assent.  ‘I’ve loved it.’  He sneaked the briefest of looks at me, which engendered a lovely melty feeling in my stomach.  ‘Now I suppose you’d like to hear where we’re going today, eh?’

‘Y’know what,’ Shane interjected, ‘I’ll miss your itineraries, Lyndon.  Every time I goo out for a stroll around Dudley, I’ll be expectin’ yow to pop up and tell me what route I’m a-takin’ today.’  He chuckled into his tea.

‘Perhaps I could record my voice on to a sat nav.  Anyway, we’re doing eleven miles again.  Our ultimate goal today – and of this whole week, you might say – is of course the summit of the Fourth Matthew at Tunclough.  It’s the highest one, at 517 metres – 1,696 feet.

‘We firstly pass through Urham.  That is what’s known as a linear village, which is a community that was built along a transport route such as a road, river or canal – in this case a river, the good old Ur.  It essentially consists of a single street.  The housing was added as the transport network and employment burgeoned.

‘Rostham is next along the route.  That’s a place with some colourful history, an intriguing road name too, more of which later.  The river marks the border between the two counties, Staffordshire and Derbyshire.

‘We have lunch at a charming spot called Throstlenest.  Restaurant called Casa Javier.  It’s nice grub, not exclusively Spanish cuisine, despite the name.  They do all sorts of things.  Lots of seafood, salads.’  He smiled comfortingly in Ted and Enid’s direction.  ‘In actual fact, Javier’s accent is more Cannock than Catalan at times, and his real name is rumoured to be Colin!

‘Now Tunclough, if you’ve never been, is absolutely delightful.  I’d defy you to find a prettier spot, certainly in the Peak District.  It’s an absolute gem of a place.  Rosterbury Manor is a super hotel, and I think you’ll all like Julian.  So let’s get cracking, eh?’

******

As we (with the exception of Ted and Enid, still clinging steadfastly to that damn suitcase) stacked our luggage in the foyer for Clive’s collection, it was weird to think it was the last time we would be doing this; that the next time those cases travelled on Clive’s minibus we would be accompanying them.  Back to the Earlcott at Sneydley, and thence back to reality.  Albeit a reality considerably rosier than the one I’d left last week.

Shane had deposited Sooty, Sweep and Soo on top of his case, it being too full to accommodate them.  I could imagine the gruff minibus driver rolling his eyes at the sight of those plump teddies before chucking them unceremoniously into the luggage hold.

We bade our farewells to the tea towel-bereft Ralph, who still looked drained and haunted, and apologised yet again for the toaster annihilation.

Then the Dodderers trooped out, like superannuated Venture Scouts in their matching sweaters and baseball caps.  They were the types I could imagine warbling that frightful ‘val-de-ree’ song ad nauseam on their travels.  Whilst I couldn’t help but admire their zeal, I also couldn’t help feeling relieved they were doddering in the opposite direction to us.

Vernon kissed Hazel’s hand and boomed, ‘Bon voyage, me dear,’ but there was no apparent exchange of phone numbers.

Minnie the moocher, of whom I had seen quite enough last night, blew Lyndon a kiss.  ‘Ta-ta, young man.  If you’re ever in Derby, pay us a visit.  Eh, Mavis?’  Her purple-rinsed friend, who was ferreting in a bag of mints and appeared as deaf as Vernon, responded, ‘Yer what, Min?  Wanna Murray Mint?’

Humouring people was an intrinsic skill in Lyndon’s job.  ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Minnie.’  He grinned across at me.

I grinned back, enjoying the easy, friendly feeling between us.  ‘Good job I’m not the jealous type, eh?’

******

‘So what’s Julian Crowfoot like then, Lyndon?’ I asked, a few minutes into the route.  We were two abreast through Urham, the linear village built along the Ur’s banks.  It was chocolate-box pretty, with no centre as such but bunches of cottages, festooned with hanging baskets, flanking a narrow street.

It had started to dribble with rain.  I wasn’t fazed by walking in the rain today; it gave everything an energising, earthy feel.

‘Very pleasant chap.  I’ve got a lot of time for him.’

‘When I told my mom we’d be meeting him, she said, “Aw, I’m sure he’s changed since he was so rude to poor Su Pollard and Larry Grayson.”’  She’s big on second chances, is my mom.’

He smiled at me, as though liking the sound of my mother.  As prospective mothers-in-law went, he definitely could do a lot worse.  ‘She’s right.  When I did that walk for the hospice, and when I told him my reason for doing it, he made a very generous donation to the charity.  I’ll never forget that.  And all credit to him, he’s built that hotel up from nothing.  The place was a carcass when he took it on.  He jokes that he’s carried on the tradition of Rosterbury Manor being owned by successive drunks and wastrels, but in fact he has really cleaned up his act.  You should hear the passion in his voice when he talks about the place.  It’s obvious he loves every brick of it.’

None of that information was on Julian’s lurid Wikipedia page, which I’d made the mistake of rereading that morning.  I suppose it wouldn’t have made as juicy a read as his alternative uses for chocolate bars.

‘Let’s hope it’s supplanted certain other passions in life that he used to have,’ Hazel barked.  ‘Saying that, though, I used to rather enjoy his show.  Got a dog-eared copy of his book squirreled in a cupboard somewhere.  Should have brought it for him to sign, I suppose.  Mind you, I’m sure the pages are gummed together with prehistoric chocolate splodges.  Oh crumbs, look at that!’

She pointed as a decrepit Austin Montego chugged along the lane, with a coffin (I had to look twice) tethered to the roof rack.  There were half a dozen blue ropes threaded around the thing to prevent it skating off on to the road.  The poor car wheezed up the gentle incline through the village, its roof practically sagging in on the elderly driver.

Shane (he was so adorable) doffed his baseball cap in respect.  ‘I hope when I goo I’m transported with a bit more dignity.’

‘I’d hope there’s no body in there at present,’ said Hazel, and Shane paused with the cap in midair, uncertain whether he was being deferential towards an empty box.  ‘Unless undertakers are cutting back on the cost of hearses these days.’

After the Montego, a Saab – which could have been part of the bizarre cortege or completely unconnected – passed us, with a Great Dane on the back seat.  The massive dog looked so ludicrously human sitting up like that, with its head and shoulders filling the rear window.  I thought Hazel was going to explode.  She had such a heightened sense of the silly.

‘Who’s he then,’ she spluttered, ‘the pallbearer?’

I’ve said it before: you see some wacky sights out on walks.

******

‘Fanny Scranton Lane’ just has to be my favourite road name ever.  It invokes all kinds of colourful images – most of them not all that far-fetched, as Lyndon explained when we queried the origins of the name in the village of Rostham.

‘She was allegedly the mistress of Desmond Theodoric, and bore eight of his sixteen children.’

‘No wonder he died in debt,’ Hazel commented, photographing the quaint road sign.

‘She did all right, though.  She was a big-hearted benefactor.  Left a tidy sum to the village, by all accounts.  Popular character in Rostham, was our Fanny.’

‘I’m not surprised!’

Fanny Scranton was such a perfect misstressy name.  I pictured a cartoon-ish plump wench: bosoms erupting out of her corset; raucous laugh; penchant for ale.

The village itself was sort of pinched and gritty looking, with tight little cottages, and alleyways in which it was easy to picture dark deeds being perpetrated.  The traffic lights controlling the narrow main road looked outlandishly modern in such a place.

It was here we parted company with the River Ur, our unvarying companion for the best part of nine miles in total, at the point it veered north-west in the direction opposite to the one we were taking.  We crossed the river, and the border from Staffordshire into Derbyshire, via what Lyndon reported was colloquially christened the ‘Murder Bridge.’  ‘Village legend maintains that it continues to be haunted by the ghost of a chap who was pushed off it.’

‘Who was it, someone who didn’t pay Fanny?’ Hazel quipped.

‘I don’t know about that, but he’s evidently still quite disgruntled as he keeps coming back.’

The aptly-named Fanny and her free-and-easy nature drew comparisons in my head – and probably others’ too – with Polly, though of course nobody voiced that of course in front of Martin.

However, Lyndon intriguingly referred in quieter conversation with me to Des Theodoric’s floozy as ‘a bit of a Kirsty type.’

I was baffled.  ‘Kirsty?’

‘Oh, I don’t think I told you her name, did I, sorry?’  He flushed.  ‘The ex-wife.’

It was all I could do to repeat ‘Kirsty?’ like a gormless parrot.  Not Sian? I wanted to ask, but I realised how wild and silly my ‘coincidence’ theory would have sounded.  Of course he’d never been married to Sian Whyton!  I had simply put two and two together and made eighty, based on a half-heard conversation in a bar.

There were obviously at least two adulterous cows in the West Midlands who had left their husbands for men they met at breakfast seminars.

‘She lives in France now.  Last I heard, she was pregnant with twins.  Not mine, thank God!  But you don’t really want to hear about her, I’m sure.’

‘And her name’s Kirsty?’  I had to double check; give him one last opportunity to amend, ‘Nope, joking.  Her name’s Sian, she lives in Sutton Coldfield, she isn’t pregnant and she holds a senior PR position for which she is unqualified and which she secured by nepotistic means.’

‘That’s right.’  He looked at me a tad oddly, for which I couldn’t exactly blame him.  ‘Oh hell, you don’t know her, do you?’

Bless him.  I laughed.  ‘No, no, I don’t know any Kirstys.’  Hysterical relief was bubbling through my body like champagne.  I was not entirely sure why.  It still didn’t alter the fact he’d had a wife, of course; I suppose it was just the notion of him with her that was so obnoxious.

Lyndon had been the perfect gentleman, reticent about bedding me, but perhaps I subconsciously hadn’t pushed it either because the imagined past association with her would have spoken volumes about his taste.

Well now my harebrained theory had been blown out of the water.  He didn’t even know Sian; had never heard of her.  He was no longer sullied by association.

I had never felt so utterly happy as I did here, on this damp spring day, in this washed-out looking village.  And now I looked forward to seeing what a combination of this brilliant feeling, a few sips of wine (no Wispas, though) and my best purple dress might initiate tonight…

******

And so we left behind Staffordshire and its disgruntled apparitions, veering off the murderous bridge and out into the wild and lovely Peak District.  It was open, unspoilt countryside virtually all the way thence.

‘We’re coming into Throstlenest now,’ Lyndon related, ‘so-called due to the one-time profusion of song thrushes in the area.’

‘The Albion am known as the Throstles, an’ all.’  Shane was chuffed to share another factoid, this time about his favourite football team.  ‘West Brom.  Cuz the pub they used to change into their kit in kept a pet thrush!’

We clomped down a long field, keeping a line of pylons to our left as a constant marker.  Our passage into the neighbouring field was via either an elderly stile or a heavier and more modern gate, with one of those heavy-duty springs that you feel is going to zing back and snap your finger off.  This second field led down to a rustic lane, and suddenly, in the apparent middle of nowhere, was Casa Javier, AKA the house of Colin from Cannock.

It was an obviously old building painted white and jazzed up, with contemporary but very in-keeping timber windows, silver lettering, wall lights made of slender twigs of metal, and a menu, typed in a chic font, mounted in a glass wall case alongside the door.

The decor inside was simple and tasteful, with venetian blinds and light oak furniture.  Some of the large, flamboyant paintings on the walls had price tags dangling from them.  Not unreasonable prices.  I might have been tempted, had such purchases not been a tad impractical to cart in a rucksack.

Javier/Colin was effusively welcoming.  He was little and brisk, with very wiry legs and a swarthy brush of a moustache, and he came flapping around us as we started to unlace our grimy footwear.

‘Ah, no need-a, no need.  Muddy boots are a-welcome here.’  The remote setting of his restaurant meant the vast majority of his clientele were probably walkers.

His Spanish accent was certainly elaborate and sibilant enough to be phony.  To be fair, it could have as easily been honed by a Birmingham upbringing with Spanish parents as by watching Fawlty Towers reruns.  There was the odd lapse from Madrid to the Midlands, such as when he invited us to ‘peruse-a the woyne list.’

We all declined to peruse-a the woyne list (for my part certainly, lunchtime drinking tends to induce a need to nap) and opted for soft beverages or coffees in preference.

Javier set down two long wooden boards in the centre of our table, each bearing a heavenly medley of breads and olives.  ‘Nice-a little appetiser for you before I take-a your orders,’ he declared.

It was like he was trying to tick all the boxes on a list of Spanish clichés – suffixing ‘a’ to random words being one of them.  He stopped just short of clicking his fingers and doing a flamenco stomp.

A quick mobile check revealed I’d received two texts.  One was from Stewart, in response to a message I’d sent recounting the night’s commotion.  ‘Firemen???  U lucky cow!!  That’s it – I’m torching the tent tonight to get them out to us!!  BTW, how u getting on with Lyndon? Luv n hugz S&J xxx’

The other was from Kathryn.  ‘We’ve been best mates since sixth form college,’ I explained to Hazel, as she dunked a wodge of bread into the olive oil trough that was built into the wooden board.  The bread smelled divinely tomatoey.

She chomped.  ‘Why not bring her along when you come for the weekend?’

My initial selfish instinct was to say no; keep Hazel to myself.  As walking was ‘my’ thing, Hazel was ‘my’ friend.  Then I mentally berated myself – Kathryn would probably love it.

‘OK.’  I accordingly modified the text I was dispatching to Kath.  ‘She isn’t too keen on walking, but she is keen on cider.  I’ll invite her.  If you’re sure you don’t mind.  She’s a good cook too, as it goes.  I’m sure she’d make a cake for the craft fair.’

‘That’s super.  More the merrier, I always say.  Now what are you going to have, my dear?’

‘Some of this tomato bread for a start.’  I tore a crust in two and swiped it through the oil.  My taste buds squealed.  ‘Wow, that’s lush!  And then possibly the calamari.’  Deep fried calamari with garlic mayonnaise.

‘The braised pork tortilla for me, I think.’  Hazel shut her menu with a typically decisive snap.  She rarely dithered.

At that point an enormous group of people of varied ages came clonking in, wearing anoraks and boots and wielding walking sticks.  Now I may have been wildly off the mark here, but I sensed they may have been a fellow walking group.

‘Table for twenty-four booked for the Kinver Ramblers,’ announced a tall man who possessed a booming, beardy, Brian Blessed quality and appeared to have assumed the mantle of leader.  Kinver is a village at the southernmost tip of Staffordshire, quite close to Lower Bratchley, where we’d been on Tuesday.  Kinver Edge was one of our family haunts when I was a kid.

Javier fussed and cooed over the group, whipping off their coats as though they were matador’s cloaks and piling them over his arm.

‘Where’s the loos, Javier?’ one of the ramblers queried.

‘Yer what?  I mean, que?’  Lyndon caught my eye across the table and winked when we heard this vernacular slip-up.

The meal at Casa Colin – sorry, Javier – was lovely.  My calamari was lusciously crispy.  A combination of Javier’s exuberant hospitality and the ramblers’ boisterous presence on the next table made it a lively lunch.

Shane, who I truly believe could spark up a conversation among an order of monks who had taken a vow of silence, was soon enthralling the Kinver lot with his recurring ‘slimmer of the year’ story.  Javier was not spared either.  He cooed and gesticulated with suitable ‘Spanish’ flourish over the now very tattered photo of Shane’s flabbier incarnation.

What with Shane, and Javier being equally garrulous, I was beginning to fear concluding our journey after sundown.  However, we finally managed to extract the bill from our fulsome host, thus greatly increasing our chances of reaching Julian Crowfoot’s hotel without the aid of torchlight.  Still nobody was allowed to make it to the door without a double handshake from Javier, who simultaneously showered business cards upon us and entreated us to ‘Please-a come back!’

******

And so this was the final stretch of our epic trudge up through the scenic and occasionally hilly Midlands.  That was a somewhat sad thought; an inducement for reflection.  I’d been facetious about the notion at the start of the week, but this truly had been a journey in every sense of the word.

We’d passed through some exquisite places: Sneydley, the ethereally peaceful Quanswood – about which I entertained those visions of wicker picnic hampers and smoked salmon with Lyndon – Lower Bratchley, the canal at Crockington, Manderwood Manor, Bhylcroft, the Bozzie, Brabban Bog, Urbridge, Urdale.  I’d learned what a schwingmoor was – though the delights of Peter Lawford’s Parsnip would sadly have to elude me until a later date.

I had met some unforgettable people.  Apart from Lyndon, of course, and my new mates in the group, there were the glorious characters of the week: Pat Codd, Donald, Rod AKA Trannii Minogue, Alexandra and Hope McClowie, Jason, Stewart, Isaac, Ralph, Vernon, Javier/Colin, and shortly Julian Crowfoot.

Julian had a somewhat colourful reputation, though appeared a reformed character these days.  We all make mistakes, after all, and the guy was hardly a mass murderer.  As my mom had said, I was ‘a bab in my pram’ when he had his very public meltdown.  She has always loved her telly, my mother.  The snooker seemed to be permanently on when we were small, and in fact I’m told she went into labour with me during an episode of Duty Free.

But back to now.  The weather perked up a touch as we crossed the numerous fields that divided Throstlenest from gorgeous Tunclough.  The rain had ceased, and a slice of sun was actually venturing through the slate sheet of sky.

As I’ve said before, I love that sense when walking in remote countryside that I could be anywhere; that civilisation and work and reality are a planet away.  I took a greedy gulp of air, wishing I could store that country freshness inside my lungs for when I returned to the sterile office on Monday.  It would be wonderful to bottle four weeks’ worth of that air – enough to keep me going until my joyous leaving day – and treat myself to gasps of it at work, as an alternative to a fag break.

My application form to BFF had been burning a hole in my suitcase since Tuesday.  Once home, I would methodically complete it – stirring up memories of all those Anglepoise-illuminated evenings when I took my time formulating clever answers to try and impress university admissions staff.

‘In the distance on your left,’ Lyndon signalled an austere, square structure whose ornamental chimneys and box-shaped towers poked out of the valley, ‘is Millstrop Hall.  Victorian manor house originally, but been a youth hostel for years and years.  And never was there a more appropriate name.  The old warden from way back was in a permanent strop.  He was an absolute ogre.’

‘Not Mr Fletcher?’ Hazel exclaimed, seizing his arm in recognition.

‘Oh yes, and mind you don’t forget the Mister!’

‘I’m just amazed he wasn’t way before your time.’

‘No, he was still going strong well into my Duke of Edinburgh days.  I’m thirty-four, so we’re going back, what, sixteen, seventeen years.  Terrorised the life out of me when I was but a callow hiker.  I remember him hurling a frying pan at my head because apparently I hadn’t washed it up to his standards of spotlessness.’

‘Were you hurt?’ I asked, outraged at the thought of teenage Lyndon being assaulted by a Teflon-wielding tyrant, though at the same time fascinated by these insights into his past.  I had never actually been youth hostelling, which in the context of an outdoorsy group like this gave me the feeling that I somehow hadn’t lived.

‘No, my ducking technique was finely honed!  He was a troll.  Had this crazy jet black hair that at first I thought was a wig about as convincing as Javier’s accent but was actually the most hideous comb-over ever.’

‘No wig could survive being gusted about on these moors,’ Hazel hooted.  ‘He refused to let Ken and me through the door initially – this was, ooh, good thirty years ago – because we hadn’t brought passports with us as security.  Never mind that no request for our passports had been made on the telephone when we booked the blessed weekend.  Ken was all for turning back and going home – wimp that he was – but I said, “Look, Mr Fletcher, I recently scaled the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu with no requirement to produce identification documents.  I’m damned if I’m going to be refused entry to a youth hostel on my own doorstep because it never occurred to me that a passport might be required for a weekend’s walking in Britain!”  Strangely enough, he relented then.’

I loved Hazel.  I was wiping tears of laughter picturing the scene.  ‘Machu Picchu?  That’s Peru, isn’t it?  Somewhere I’d love to go.’

‘It’s on my “to-go” list as well,’ said Lyndon wistfully.

‘Oh, you must,’ Hazel insisted, in her schoolmarmish way.

She reminisced about her trek to the ancient ruins, intercut with asides about the sociopathic Mr Fletcher, until we crossed a bridge over the busy A515 into Tunclough.

The pathway fed into the main village lane, and as we were afforded our first glimpse of Tunclough I literally gasped.  The place was storybook idyllic.

Tiny, old buildings were grouped cosily together, constructed from the same fawny-grey stone.  There was a tearoom, a gift shop, and the duckiest little nursery school (not quite sure where the kids came from, as there wasn’t exactly a plethora of houses in Tunclough) with sugar paper Easter chicks taped to the windows.

Alongside the lane was a pond, on which a cute little duck family made V-shaped ripples in the perfect reflection of the surrounding lime trees (OK, I admit I couldn’t actually identify a lime tree – Hazel told me what species they were).
At the top of the village, glancing over to Rosterbury Manor itself, a box-shaped church stood on a knoll, behind which was the somewhat larger protuberance we were about to ascend.

There was a uniquely unspoilt, peaceful air there.  We could have been in the grounds of a stately home.  Tunclough had retained its private charm of old and felt more like the private estate it once was than a village as such.

‘Here we are then,’ Lyndon announced, as though ushering us into Oz.  If a troupe of Munchkins had skipped along chomping lollipops at that point, I wouldn’t have been overly surprised.  ‘It’s a gem, this place.  I never tire of coming here.  The church, St Mary’s, dates back to the Norman period.  If anyone’s interested, you can have a little tour of the graveyard after we’ve done the hill.  Many Theodorics from assorted generations are buried there.  Now we shall meet Mr Crowfoot very shortly, he’ll be waiting for us with the coffee pot poised, no doubt, but first we’ve got the small matter of a hill to climb.’

The final and tallest Matthew was commercialised to the extent that stone steps had been built into the hillside to facilitate the ascent.  So it was a breathtaking climb, in every sense of the word, though considerably less dicey than it would once have been.

Hazel gambolled like a little girl up the last few steps.  ‘Yeah,’ she squealed, ‘I’m on top of the world!’  She and I whacked hands in a high five.  ‘Let’s have a celebratory Midget Gem.’  She dispensed her seemingly infinite bag of sweets.

‘Well done folks,’ Lyndon beamed.  ‘Let’s have a siddown and enjoy the view for a bit.’  He eased his rucksack off, set it down and deposited himself on the smooth ridge.  We all followed suit.

The uphill exertion left me with the sensation that I was going to choke on my own lungs.  I had to take a long slug of water from my bottle before I could so much as talk.

It wasn’t the clearest of days, but that view of all the acres of valleys and villages beyond was still pretty extraordinary, and we duly photographed it from every conceivable angle.  It was all the more poignant knowing we’d covered a lot of that land.

‘I never get blasé about all this, you know,’ Lyndon said to me, simultaneously a lover confiding feelings and a future colleague imparting experience.  He looked thoroughly chuffed.

‘That’s good to know.’

This would become another of Our Places, I just knew.  That fabled gingham picnic blanket (I made a mental note to explore eBay for one) would find its way up there once we’d ticked Quanswood off our Romantic Places to Lunch list.

Sitting up there presented a weird parallel of our first day, when we ate our hilltop lunch at Sneydley.  The differences were that Polly had gone, Lyndon and I were sitting much closer together, Ted and Enid had come out of their shells a little, Shane appeared to have shed another half a stone, and we were admiring the same vista in reverse.  It was like turning round to watch where you’ve been out of a car rear window.

I took a huge breath, savouring the purity of it before getting spannered tonight and then going home.

******

Rosterbury Manor was a squat but wide stone hall, with a flat, parapet-fringed roof and dozens of tall chimneys (‘chimbleys,’ they call them in the Black Country).  If the place had been a shell when Julian acquired it, there was little evidence today.  It was handsomely restored and proudly inviting.

It was akin in style to Manderwood Manor, being of the same period, but was somewhat larger, as though designed with the hedonistic Desmond Theodoric’s intention to outshine his brother.  An extremely attractive building, it possessed long, low mullioned windows – easy to climb out of, no doubt, to facilitate his discreet visits to Fanny Scranton in Rostham.   The now obsolete coat of arms, with those three gold lions in the attack position, was depicted over both the gate and the main entrance.

Lyndon unlatched the wrought iron gate and held it open so we could all pass through.  Julian appeared immediately, and it was oddly comforting to see that even if he had sobered up his dress sense had not.  Buttons clung on for dear life as his tweed blazer strained over his tummy.  He’d teamed it with a gold velour bow tie that on anybody else would have looked ludicrous.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ he urged warmly.  He squashed Lyndon to his robust body in a hug.  ‘Splendid to see you again.’

I’d seen a snippet of Choc Wise, Julian’s 1980s show, on YouTube and his appearance hadn’t altered vastly.  He was still corpulent, with teeth that resembled chewed bits of twig and a big wobbly face that a master of the understatement might describe as looking ‘lived-in.’  He made Sid James look velvet-skinned.  At least here was one celebrity nobody could accuse of having undergone Botox.  He spoke in a plummy accent that was rich with the legacy of too many cigars and gallons of port.  He was jolly, gracious, and absolutely at home in his role as host.

‘So you’ve reached the finish line then,’ he beamed at all of us, as he handed out plastic covers for our boots.  At least they were a serviceable black rather than screaming pink like Alex’s.  ‘Well done.  Most of my guests do tend to arrive sporting a look of weary relief.’

I wouldn’t say I was relieved exactly.  I was elated with the effort of the slog, but would have loved to turn around and repeat the journey in reverse.

The large hallway had a fresh, cheery look, its walls painted maize yellow, but the more traditional features had not been obliterated during the manor’s makeover into a hotel.

A large and obviously very old oak sideboard, flanked by two equally antique and flimsy-looking chairs, housed the visitors’ book and a vase of vibrant red, white and purple tulips.  The motif from the family crest was carried through to the gorgeous staircase, where a pair of lions adopted cocky poses atop the newel posts.

There was a rogues’ gallery of enormous Theodoric portraits (thankfully Julian wasn’t cheesy enough to have posed for one of those egotistical oil paintings himself).

‘That’s Desmond Theodoric,’ Lyndon pointed out a dandy straight from Central Casting.  Tights, ruff, haughty yet roguish expression.  No wonder Fanny Scranton whipped her drawers off for him with so little protest.

Long ornate rugs were cast along the oak floor, and we padded along them in our plastic bags to the elegant drawing room.  The oak panelling (yes, I was sensing an oak theme here), we were advised, was original, as was the highly elaborate ebony fireplace which was carved in exhaustive detail with bold flowers, garlands and those lions again.

Another oil painting dominated in here, that of Theo Theodoric (yes, that was his name), eldest son of Des.  Presumably, to have merited such a portrait, he was ‘official’ offspring, from Desmond’s marriage rather than his dalliances with Fanny.  Young Theo certainly inherited his dad’s playboy looks (in addition to his house and debts).

Julian had indeed got the coffee pot on, and accompanying the very welcome beverage was a plate of lusciously buttery shortbread and – my favourite – a bowl artily piled with brown and white sugar lumps.

And so it was in this grand old room, over a civilised pot of coffee and in the company of a renowned chef, that the seven of us celebrated completing fifty glorious miles in seven life-changing days.

******

I was getting ready for more than dinner tonight.  Every droplet of shower water on my body, every zap of perfume, every fleck of blusher, every sensual swipe of brush through my hair, was loaded with significance.

I dried myself and imagined him rubbing me in the same places.  I had one of those silly hotel towels round me that seem designed for scrawny dwarves, so it barely covered my bum and the edges didn’t quite meet over my breasts.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror with all that tit and thigh on display.  It’s a sight I see every day, of course – being in possession, funnily enough, of a shower and mirrors in my home – but tonight it turned me on.  Not that I’m narcissistic, it was just that the next time those acres of tit and thigh were revealed, it would – hopefully – be to him, and the prospect was thrilling beyond description.  Everything was suggestive tonight.

My lovely silvery-purple dress was hanging on the wardrobe door.  I’d given it a brief smooth down, it not being of an iron-friendly fabric, though in fact it appeared little the worse for having been folded in my suitcase all week.  Whilst the dress had looked limp on my bed on Monday, now it looked seductive, full of promise and suggestion.  The beading on it seemed to wink at me.

Oh, but I was so nervous.  Almost unbearably excited.  I was all jangled and wobbly, as though I’d consumed eighteen chocolate bars.  I could have done with a bottle of Julian’s rum; a few swigs might have quelled my jitters.  Hopefully the forthcoming wine would assist in that direction.

Ooh, how long had it been since I went through such a ritual of preparation?  Too bloody long.  My last boyfriend – if you’re concerned to know these things – was Ed, who I met at a Kaiser Chiefs concert.  We had fun for six months or so, then it fizzled out as these things often do.

I hadn’t come on this holiday with any intention of getting laid, but now there were condoms in my handbag for the first time in (go on then, I’ll admit it) two years.

I’d felt like a furtive slut when my money clanked into the machine Julian had astutely installed in the ladies.  Then I’d told myself not to be silly.  I was mature now: no longer seventeen, pacing past Boots twice before slinking in and eventually coming out with three lipsticks and a Shapers sandwich.

I flipped Radio Two on.  It was Alan Carr’s show, which Kath and I love.  We often listen to him while getting ready for a night out.  Or in.  I focused on his camp banter, and the cheesy music he played, rather than thoughts of daunting and beautiful sex.

I spontaneously decided to attempt something different with my hair, having hitherto simply straightened and let it flow loose every night.  I brushed back a section from each temple and entwined them together to create a half-up style, leaving a few coiled wisps to tickle my face.

I physically jumped when my mobile pulsated on the dressing table where it was charging (the battery being, as Shane would say, ‘flat as a dodo’).

The text was from Kathryn.  ‘Your Hazel sounds like a scream!  I’d love to come and meet her.  Want to meet Lyndon too tho!!  Have a gr8 nite chick xx  PS – u listening to Alan Carr?’

For some reason I was shy about sharing with her my objectives for the evening ahead.  I was wary of jinxing my ‘gr8 nite,’ I suppose.  Plus, Lyndon was potentially special; to reduce him to text gossip fodder seemed insulting now.  I kept my reply to Kathryn succinct, centred around Alan Carr and silent on the subject of Lyndon.  She would just have to wait for updates.

******

‘Sad to think it’s the last time we’ll be doing this,’ Hazel lamented as I called for her, as per our routine.  She blitzed her entire body – and some of mine in the process – with a wildflower perfume that seemed to bring the very room to life.  ‘Look at you,’ she clucked like a proud mom on prom night, ‘perfect little hourglass.’  I swear there was a tear in her eye.

‘Never mind me, what about you!’  Hazel had gone for the medieval seductress look, with a high-wasted, long velvet dress in forest green which showcased her amazing figure in a way that, with the best will in the world, floral waterproofs were never going to.  ‘That colour’s fab against your colouring.’

‘Goes well with the rust, eh?’ she chuckled, rubbing at her suntanned forearm.  ‘Now come on, girl, let’s go taste the wine!’

Downstairs, Shane was getting the drinks in.  He greeted us with a hug each and told us we looked ‘a right pair of bosters’ (that’s a compliment in the Black Country).  He had donned a suit for the occasion, bless him – ‘It’s me only one’ – and with his little specs looked handsomely geeky, if not exactly comfortable in the formal garb.

Despite my earlier thirst for alcohol to quell my jitters, I decided to play it safe-ish with a spritzer.  ‘We’ll be necking the vino all night as it is.’  I was also loath to render myself sloshed and incapable for later on, but of course didn’t say that.

Hazel had no truck with temperance.  ‘Ah, I’ve done wine tasting courses before.  You only get a thimbleful of each.  Scotch and water, please Shane.’

Everyone had dressed up.  Martin looked relaxed and trendy in a cream roll-sleeved shirt.  Enid wore a delphinium blue jersey dress and, for the first time this week, make-up.  Ted was actually sporting a bow tie, in which he resembled, appropriately enough, a teddy bear, of the marzipan variety you might see on top of a wedding cake.  I noted with some surprise that they had both forsaken their usual cordials for sherries.  Liberal measures at that.

And Lyndon?  I knew without even looking that he’d walked into the room.  That familiar cliché about a crackle of electricity.  It took a remarkable amount of willpower not to whip my head round and thus appear uncoolly eager.  My instinct was to make a show of laughing sociably at the bar, nudging Shane throughout our conversation, demonstrating just what a tactile friend I was, before feigning surprise at Lyndon’s sudden presence.

I was like the proverbial swan, though: nonchalant on the surface but paddling wildly beneath it.

‘Evening folks.  Hello Naomi.’

‘Hello.’  I turned extremely slowly, as though moving through jelly.  Then ruined the nonchalant effect by practically dribbling at the sight of him.

He had teamed a black jacket with a chocolate brown open-necked shirt, of the slim-fitting variety that clung to his wiry body, exposing teasing slivers of skin between the buttons.  Again he smelt gorgeous, of something attractively masculine and woody.

We just stared at each other for an aeon.  The bar, everything and everyone in it, were reduced to a fuzzy backcloth.

‘You look lovely.’  His voice was all dreamy and husky.  Mmm.

‘And you –’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Julian Crowfoot came crashing into the daze, ‘the wine is uncorked and ready for your appraisal.  Would you care to step this way.’

******

There were thirty-nine of us for the wine tasting evening (would have been forty but for Polly’s absence).  Most attendees were overnight guests; a minority were there just for the course and meal.  We were grouped onto tables of eight – or seven in our case – in a small function room.  There was a spittoon in the centre of every table, and we were each kitted with a notebook and pen.

In startling contrast to the drawing room, this white-painted room embodied twenty-first century minimalism.  Anything antiquated had been scraped away.

Lyndon was next to me.  Frankly, it was a wonder I could hold the glass.  The sexual crackle between us was intense.

I could feel my handbag, soft and cool against my ankle.  Those condoms seemed to be burning a hole in it.  I had a ludicrous vision of them inflating and floating out of there shrieking ‘Heeere’s johnnies!’

Concentrate on the wine, Naomi.  Look at Julian.  Pay attention.

Mr Crowfoot looked every inch the vintner in his aptly claret waistcoat and trademark bow tie (he’d stopped short of adding a monocle to the ensemble), with a flotilla of wine bottles lined along a Persil-white tablecloth in front of him.

‘Now those of you acquainted with some of the ghastly things I’ve done in the past,’ he was saying, ‘may fear I’m something of a loose cannon amid all this wine.  If you’re too young to remember, lucky you – though, if you fancy a cautionary history lesson, the gory details are on Wikipedia, and sadly they are all true.

‘Don’t fear.  I’ve done my stint in therapy, as they all do nowadays, and I am, as they say, over it now.’  He made quote marks with his sausagey fingers.  ‘Now this is not about to turn into some so-called celebrity confessional.’  He did the air quotes again.  ‘I despise that kind of thing, truth be told.  My objective these days is to pass on the knowledge I gleaned the hard way: that alcohol can be savoured and appreciated without having to be consumed to excess.

‘This evening I’ll go through the basics of what to look for in a glass of white or red; how to analyse its colour, nose and palate.  We shall be sampling nine wines altogether: three white, three red and then a further three with our meal, one appropriate to each course.  I’ve tried to come up with a good mix from the Old World, which is Europe, and the New World, which is everywhere else.  Now we’ll start with this one,’ he held aloft the first bottle in his sequence, ‘this is an Argentinean Torrentes.’

The Torrentes turned out to be my favourite.  It was dry, pale and almost silvery in colour, with a hint of pineapple and elderflower, and apparently a lovely accompaniment to light dishes such as fish and grilled vegetables.  I kept it to one side, rather than tipping it in the spittoon, so I could compare it to subsequent samples.

Julian educated us on the art of tilting the glass to examine the colour and clarity of the wine, swirling it around, checking the length of the ‘legs,’ or droplets, running down the side of the glass which denote the alcohol or sugar content, sniffing the wine and gargling it like Listerine to reach every corner of the mouth.

He brought around each bottle in turn, left us to talk amongst ourselves for about ten minutes and make notes before inviting us to share our impressions with the group at large.  In each case he gave us details of the alcohol percentage, average price for a bottle (none of them were pretentiously expensive) and what foods it might appropriately accompany, as well as a bit of background information about the grape variety.

‘Now everyone’s taste buds and senses of smell can differ enormously,’ Julian advised, ‘so try not to be influenced by other people’s responses.  There are no right or wrong answers on this subject.  If you can smell petrol, leather, nutmeg, or even cat pee, while others are smelling blackcurrants, neither impression is necessarily wrong.’

It was a truly fascinating evening.  The unpretentiousness of it all put me at ease immediately.  Surprisingly, Julian was quick to dispel a lot of the snobbery that can prevail in the wine world.  He even put paid to the myth about screw-top kinds being inferior.

As Hazel had suggested, the actual quantity we each consumed in the whole evening probably added up to about two to three glasses.  We were also supping plenty of water in between each vino serving.  I certainly wasn’t Brahms and Liszt.

We compared favourites.  My red preference was a South African Syrah Mouvedre; my white the aforementioned Torrentes from Argentina.

Lyndon’s were the same as mine.  ‘Honestly!’ he protested when Hazel shot him a sceptical grin.  ‘What about you then, Hazel?’

‘The Tempranillo for me.  Nice and robust and leathery.’  She looked like a true buff: all serious in her specs, lifting her glass to the light, twirling it round to scrutinise every leg and dreg.

Enid, whose face I noticed had taken on a cerise, dreamy quality, hiccupped that she ‘liked zzhem all.’

‘You OK, Enid?’ Lyndon enquired with concern.

‘Never better, hic, never better.’

At eight-thirty we moved into the main restaurant for our magnificent dinner.  As in the function room, the decor was minimalist chic: ice white walls decorated with those brashly colourful abstract canvases that I always think resemble a four-year-old’s potato prints but are so effective at breaking up the starkness.

We were served the promised soupcon of wine appropriate to each of the three courses: Verdejo from Spain with the starter of porcini mushrooms and pine nuts on toasted brioche, Californian Zinfandel with the main course of spicy Malayan chicken with coconut and lime sauce and sweet potatoes, and Sauternes dessert wine with the crème brûlée and lemon shortbread.  It was all aesthetically displayed on large square plates and in bold and contemporary glassware.

We were arranged around a long banquet table, which enabled the group to fragment and intermingle with fellow guests.  Ted was merry, beaming like a ventriloquist’s dummy.  Amazingly, he and Enid did not request the salad option.  Perhaps this banquet was their reward for a week spent munching lettuce.

Enid, obviously overloaded with booze and meat, was swapping anecdotes, at increasing volume, with a lady from Bolton.  ‘Well knock me down with a flip flop and call me Elsie,’ I heard her screech, ‘she’d been there all the time!’

What a fabulous expression ‘Knock me down with a flip flop and call me Elsie’ was!  One of those you just hear and have the urge to jemmy into a conversation of your own someday.

Lyndon’s arm was resting across the back of my chair.  We were so open and casual with each other now.  He twirled his glass, letting the liquid loll down the inside, and looked straight at me through it.

‘Impressive legs,’ he murmured.

‘Thank you very much!’

He peeped meaningfully under the tablecloth.  ‘You’re right, they’re not bad either.’

There was a lovely sexy, squishy feeling in my stomach.  Even when we diverged off into separate conversations with the folks either side of us, there remained this permanent undercurrent, this pull, between us, which I had truly never experienced before (go on, throw up if you want to, I’m merely expressing the slushy truth).  It took only a flicker of eye contact to draw us back together.  I could see that Lyndon obviously hadn’t shaved religiously during his holiday, and the stubble he’d cultivated was giving him a kind of Indiana Jones vibe.

Across the table, Enid cackled a raucous punchline to a joke.  ‘Come back in two weeks time and bring a pair of your old underpants!’

‘Two sniffs of the cork and she’s turned into Amy Winehouse,’ Lyndon whispered.

I saw Ted attentively prise his wife’s glass from her and place it at a point out of her reach.  ‘Don’t have any more, darling.’

By the time the waiters started to dole out the coffee and luxuriant orange chocolates, Enid was slumbering on his shoulder.

‘What you doing after this?’ I asked Lyndon, oh so nonchalantly, as I stirred my coffee.  My heart was going like a jackhammer; my spoon performing a similar action in the cup.

‘I usually like to have a drink with Julian in the bar.  On this occasion we could make it just the one, though.  To be polite.’

‘Right, right, of course.  Can’t be rude.’  My poor coffee was frothed to death.  I removed the spoon and clanked it into the saucer.  ‘And then?’  I was beyond caring whether I sounded forward and cheesy.  We were past the point of retreating chastely to bedrooms at opposite ends of the corridor.

It took him the longest time to answer, during which I’m pretty sure I ceased to breathe.  ‘Nightcap in the mini bar, perhaps?’

‘My room or yours?’ I queried brazenly.

‘Makes no odds really.  Mine if you like.  Room 12.’

‘Room 12 it is then.’  My voice sounded squawky and mangled, like a Speak & Spell with a duff battery.

A look zinged between us that said we both understood it was not the contents of the mini bar that were set to be explored that night.

******

‘I tell you,’ Julian gently closed his hefty photo album, ‘this hotel is my baby.’

He had talked Lyndon, myself, Martin and an American couple called Ernie and Jen through every ‘before’ and ‘after’ shot of his vast project to revamp the once ramshackle Rosterbury Manor.  Lyndon was right: enthusiasm oozed out of him when he spoke of his role as developer and hotelier.  There was nothing pompous or vulgar about this new Julian Crowfoot who had, in his own words, ‘derived a million times more fulfilment from this than I ever did making a buffoon of myself on the telly or consorting with inappropriate women.’

His big face looked wistful, though, as he added, ‘My actual babies haven’t spoken to me in twenty years.  But Josie, my first wife, and I are friends now, so I’m hoping she might sway them towards a reunion.  I’ve got two grandkids I’ve never seen.’

‘Price of fame, and all that,’ Lyndon reflected, and we each took a silent sip of drink as though in agreement.

It was just after ten.  Ted and wobbly Enid had retired to bed, Shane and Hazel were immersed in another food-related discourse, and the rest of the bar was heaving with both fellow walkers and folks who were taking less energetic weekend breaks.

‘I’ve applied for a Civil Wedding Licence.  The intention is that ceremonies will be conducted in the drawing room.’  Oh, to exchange vows before that gorgeous fireplace!  ‘The honeymoon suite’s finished since you were last here, Lyndon.  Got a four-poster, separate living room, Jacuzzi.  Actually it’s unoccupied at the moment.  Fancy a tour?’  An eager chorus greeted the offer.  ‘Righto, then.’  Julian stood up and tugged a forest of keys out of his pocket.

Despite what I was planning to do with him later on, I couldn’t look at Lyndon as we followed Julian.  I was blushing absurdly at all these public allusions to bridal suites and whirlpools and wedding nights.

You’re in company, Naomi.  Focus on the decor, not on thinking about Lyndon carrying you down this corridor and over the threshold of our wedding night boudoir!

The upstairs was much more contemporary in design than down.  There were fawn carpets throughout the corridors, acres of blond as opposed to dark wood, and white walls artistically illuminated by indigo uplights.

Julian selected the appropriate key from his assortment.  The door was not in fact locked, which clearly surprised him.

The porter, a gangling lad with an Adam’s apple the size of a snooker ball, came clomping in our direction at that moment.

‘Tone, why’s the honeymoon suite open?  There’s nobody staying in it.’

‘Tone’ looked as though he feared being shot.  ‘The new chambermaid borrowed the spare key, sir,’ he gulped.  ‘Said she’d forgotten to change the towels earlier.’

‘We haven’t got a new chambermaid.’  Julian’s face clouded.  ‘Tony, what is going on here?’

‘Can’t remember her name.  The blonde one.  She told me she – ’

But Julian was halfway into the room.  So were most of us by that point.  All the lights were on, and there was a peculiar but unmistakable stench suggestive of a chocolate fountain that had been left outside in a heatwave.

The rancid waves were radiating from the vast four-poster bed, whose beautiful cream sheets were soiled by an occupant who resembled a mud wrestler.

‘Polly!’ Martin yelped.

And so the poor man’s humiliation was complete, as his ex of one day was sprawled before us in a porn-star pose, apparently re-enacting the famous scene from Goldfinger, only instead of gold paint her buxom flesh was gilded in chocolate.

Tony’s Adam’s apple practically bounced out of his neck at the sight of her.  A chambermaid’s uniform, in which she had presumably disguised herself to wheedle the key from tremulous Tone, was discarded on the carpet.

Callously ignoring Martin, and not a bit abashed by our presence, Polly tilted herself up on to her elbows, letting her absurdly gooey boobs sway between them.  ‘What kept you so long, Julian?’  Her voice was like that of an actress in a particularly corny porno.  She patted the mucky bed.  ‘Gathering an audience for me, I see.  Well you know what I always say – the more the merrier!’

******

‘I’ll never be able to look a Wispa bar in the face again,’ Lyndon shuddered.  Polly had long since been forcibly escorted from the premises, threatening to scream to the News of the World about her invented tryst with Julian.  Peace was restored, and now Lyndon and I were walking to the long-anticipated room 12.  Alone at last.

‘She’s such a brazen cow, Lyndon.  There’s nothing she won’t stoop to.  I feel so much for poor Martin.’

‘He’s had a hell of a week, hasn’t he?’

‘He told me Polly has always wanted to bag a celebrity.’

‘I have no doubt she will one day.  Somebody Z-list and desperate.  Julian had nothing to do with her, I’m certain.  He’s turned over a new leaf.’

‘Oh, I know.  I could tell he was as shocked as the rest of us at the sight of her.’

After all the earlier flirting, we were walking without touching, along a tunnel of a corridor that appeared to taper and lengthen the closer we got to Lyndon’s door.  We were both in a kind of trance.  To a casual observer we may have appeared a standoffish pair, but in fact ours was the loaded reserve of two people who knew that if we did touch, or even look at each other, we would probably burst into flames.

We’d said goodnight to the others in the bar.  No one can have been in any doubt about why we departed together, but frankly it was too late to fret about being discreet.

Hazel gave me a huge hug, as though I was going off to war.  ‘Tally ho,’ she urged me, in typical Hazel fashion, and then whispered, ‘Have one for me, girl!’

‘Hazel!’  It was the closest I heard her come to smut.

‘Where would she have melted the chocolate?’ Lyndon wondered now.  ‘Did she infiltrate the kitchens, or just bring it along with her ready melted?’

‘I doubt it was actually Wispa, probably chocolate body paint.  You use that straight from the jar, smear it on with a brush.’

‘You sound very knowledgeable.’  He grinned at me with interest.

‘Research,’ I replied cryptically.  In fact I had never used chocolate body paint in my life, but it turned me on immensely to give him in the impression I was arch and knowing.

We had finally reached his room, that blond wood door with the portentous silver ‘12’ winking on it.  I brushed against him, enjoying the effect on him; the look of nervous enthralment on his face.  My tits – even if I do say so myself – looked glorious in the crisp, boned bodice, chafing against his arm.

He scrabbled with the key, jabbing it around the lock like he was playing pin the tail on the donkey, before dropping it.  I shot out my hand, caught the key and purposefully plunged it into the door – an action charged with meaning and innuendo if ever there was one.  Lyndon looked fascinated at the determined way I took charge.

The door shut behind us with a very suggestive click.  It was dark in there, of course, and Lyndon flipped the nearest light switch.  Rosterbury Manor had one of those confusing hotel light systems that you finally start to figure out when you are about to leave.  This switch inexplicably activated the bathroom light.  Well that was good enough.  The door to the en suite was sufficiently ajar to cast a slice of light upon the proceedings without being too harsh as the main bedroom light would have been (and without exposing too much of the rather off-putting toilet).

But that’s enough about the electrics.  We kind of leapt at each other.  I must have had the stronger leap because it was Lyndon who ended up against the wall.  Rid your mind, though, of those images of his lips crushed by mine, his arms flailing like an octopus to resist the onslaught.  No, it wasn’t a comical scene the like of which Hope and her duster had disturbed at the Grange on Thursday.

Lyndon had one hand somewhere in my bra this time, the other hugging my bum.  Like so many women, I had spent far too long being self-conscious about the dimensions of my arse, but under his touch it felt voluptuous.  I grinded against him, enjoying the sensation of giving him a handful, so to speak.  Not to mention the handful he was starting to give me in return, as a result.

Amidst all the activity he pressed against another light switch, which – again inexplicably – brought the bedside lamp to life.  This proved handy, as we progressed from the corridor, stepping between miraculously shed clothes along the way.  I was as thankful as hell I hadn’t restricted my holiday undies to just ‘can’t be bothered’ comfy cotton walking knickers.  I had lilac silky briefs on, with a frilly trim that, whilst lacking the exposure level of a thong, flashed teasing contours of my much-maligned bum.

He had armed himself with condoms too, of course – the old ‘Be prepared’ adage extended to birth control.  His were conveniently poised on the bedside table, which saved me the fag of having to inch back to my handbag, which had been jettisoned on the clothes pile back near the door.  It meant the clinch was able to continue as we edged towards the bed.

My thighs have always been on the plump side – I guess walking bulks them up – but he seemed to love them.  As my lovely dress slithered off, he caressed them solemnly as though fascinated.

At the height of this acute passion, I couldn’t help but laugh.  ‘Never seen any so huge, have you?’

By way of response, he hunkered down and actually kissed them.  And up between them too….mmm, wow!  The latter literally took my breath away.  Believe it or not, I had never actually been a recipient before.  My last boyfriend, Ed the Kaiser Chiefs fan, refused to go ‘there’ with his tongue (not sure why – it’s not as though I don’t wash), though selfishly expected me to pleasure him in an equivalent fashion.  Well stuff Ed!  I was on a different plane altogether now.  I had never felt so wanted or womanly.

His stubble was exquisitely bristly against the tops of my thighs.  I grabbed the back of his neck and gave him a rather unceremonious little tug, as though attempting to eat his entire head with my fanny.

An instant later, we tumbled on to his bed and were, frankly, at it like a pair of alley cats.  I burrowed myself into his torso, revelling utterly in the woody scent and his hairy, sticky skin.  He was fit, of course, on account of his profession, had a delicate brown birthmark in the shape of Cyprus at the top of his left arm and, while no yeti, was happily not an exponent of the waxed, boyband look.

From the unrolling of the condom to my quite startling orgasm, we clasped and scrabbled at one another.  I had never felt so much want in my life.

If climbing the fourth Matthew had been the pinnacle of the walk, then this was my personal peak (OK, I won’t labour the ‘summit’ or ‘peak’ analogy); the fulfilment of a week’s shamelessly ravenous yearning.  Yes, I know a week is not a long time, but Lyndon and I had been in constant and rather intense company and, if you think about it, you can know a person a lot longer but spend cumulatively fewer hours with them.

When I came I thought I was going mad, for I had never experienced anything like it before.  My lower body parts seemed to be encased in a warm, invisible jelly.  I didn’t want to stop but at the same time the unbearable excitement frightened me.  I was torn between wanting to be calm and still again, and longing to recreate that unique feeling.

The shy, composed Lyndon seemed surprised by his own prowess.  With his hair all damp and disorderly, he looked like a proud lion.

‘Didn’t know I had it in me, eh?’ he panted and flaked out on top of me.

 Friday
Hisley to Urdale

I was galloping up a vast misty hill, panting uncontrollably, wearing plastic boot covers and a preposterous jumper made of red flock wallpaper.  The higher and faster I went, the higher the hill magically grew, so that the summit remained continually out of reach.

Lyndon was suddenly tearing down towards me, hair lashing in the wind.  I stretched out my arms joyfully.  He was gallingly just beyond clasping distance when he turned around and loped back uphill at double the pace he’d come down, before dissolving into the roaring mist.  I tried to scream, but my voice was swallowed.

Polly and Sian materialised from the haze with ninja glints in their eyes, performing tai chi moves.  The two bitches seized an arm each and hurled me down the murky precipice.  I landed with a thud on my pillow and awoke.

Hideously unsettled by the nightmare, I arose ludicrously early for a second morning running and breakfasted even pre-Shane.  I contemplated calling for Lyndon, but he would probably take prim objection to the alarm call and frankly I was getting fed up of doing all the chasing.

I sipped my orange juice (freshly squeezed, naturally, its source an orange rather than a bottle) in the gorgeous dining room.  It was so snug and woody in there, like a farmhouse.  Such a room couldn’t fail to have a comforting effect on even the most restless soul.  Of course, being the time of day it was, there were seductive wafts of bacon and coffee and eggs popping and bubbling in the kitchen (What is it about the cooking process of breakfast foods that causes them to sound almost as tantalising as they smell?).

‘Penny for ’em?’  It was Stewart, grinning as he waved his hand in front of my spacey eyes.

He and Jason had come down early, they said, to enable them to ‘get a wriggle on and be in Chillington before Maggie’s runs out of doughnuts.’

‘Wish we’d done the same yesterday,’ I said, recalling the cardboard Wise Price sarnies.

‘What occurred with Mr Handsome last night then?’ Stew asked, his eyes aglow with glee.

‘Another abortive snog.’  I provided the lads with an abridged update, to which they reacted with supportive disgust that was most heartening.

‘Lovely girl like you!  What’s he playing at?’

‘I imagine he would have to be careful, though, Stew,’ Jason appeared the more prudent one of the pair, ‘he doesn’t want to go saddling himself with an undeserved reputation.  It could compromise his professionalism.’

Polly and Martin walked in.  ‘Hiya,’ Stewart crooned, perilously cheerily.

Polly shot him a freezing ‘as if I’d even talk to you, let alone proposition you in a bathroom’ sort of glare.  I had to stifle a smile.

‘Come on, petal,’ Martin urged, ‘let’s sit with Naomi.’

‘How are you this morning, Mart?’ I asked, ignoring the funny look Polly was giving me.  I was actually quite reassured to find Mart hadn’t been murdered in the night or kidnapped by orgy organisers.

‘Much better, thanks.’  He patted his fragile tummy.  ‘Ravenously hungry now.’
‘You were last night too,’ Polly murmured.

Hope brought my breakfast at that point.  When she leaned towards me and confided that my eggs had been ‘laid by Moira, she’s me ma’s favourite hen,’ Polly’s face was a picture of utter disgust at these sad, rustic folk.

‘Just coffee for me,’ she snapped when Hope took her and Martin’s breakfast orders.

‘Think I’ll have the boiled eggs too, please,’ said Martin as I lopped the tops off mine and they spilled forth with stunningly bright yolk.

‘Coming right up.’  Hope glided to the kitchen with her notebook.

‘Bloody chickens kept me awake all night,’ Polly griped.  ‘I’m going out for a fag.’  She aimed the latter word in Stewart and Jason’s direction, then almost knocked poor Shane flying as he sauntered in.

‘Wounding!’ laughed Stewart, clutching his heart with thespian distress.

******

I exchanged mobile numbers with Stew and Jason after breakfast.

‘I’ll text you when we get to Maggie’s,’ Stewart promised.

‘Rub it in, why don’t you.’  One day, I vowed, I would make a special drive out to Chillington and stockpile rolls, doughnuts, meringues, sausage rolls, you name it, from the illustrious Maggie’s.

‘Don’t forget to let me know how you get on.  And you know I don’t just mean with the walk!’  He winked impishly, and we hugged.  I wished the boys were heading in our direction.  They would have been fun additions to the group.  Stewart then embraced Alexandra, lifting the petite hotelier clean off her tiny feet.  ‘Alex, dear, always a heartache to love and leave you.’

‘Ooh, get away with you,’ she giggled ecstatically.

We were all jammed in the lobby now, suitcases piled for collection by Clive.  Alex had done us a packed lunch each.  They were exquisitely presented in paper lunch bags bearing the hotel’s picture and contact details.  It’s all in the little touches, as they say.  I think stale Ryvita with jam and gherkins on would have looked inviting in such packaging.  What it did contain was an alluringly nutty-looking roll, a muffin (homemade too, by the look of it, and even sealed with a Grange/Orange sticker), an apple, a banana, and bottle of water.

I nudged Hazel.  ‘Very Famous Five, eh, this?’

After Stewart and Jason’s departure, Lyndon talked us through the day ahead.  ‘Now there are no Matthews for us to tackle today.  What we will be doing, though, is getting out into some wild and lovely countryside as we approach the southern tip of the Peak District.  We’ve got another eleven-mile stretch ahead of us.  The ground is a tad spongy and hard-going in parts, particularly at Brabban – that’s the next spot along the route – but no fear, we’re all appropriately equipped, aren’t we?’  His dubious gaze landed on Ted and Enid’s cumbersome suitcase.  He paused for a second, no doubt considering it a waste of time to comment.

‘We’ll reach the periphery of Brabban Bog, which some of you may have heard of.  It’s an extraordinary but extremely hazardous natural feature.  It’s a very beautiful area, this.  One of the most picturesque in the region.  We then go for three miles along Shinton Green Railway Walk to Urbridge, which is a quaint little town.  That’s where we’ll stop for our lunch, prepared by the lovely Alex here.  Then it’s a nice wend back along the banks of the River Ur to Urdale, where we’re staying tonight, at a hotel called the Sands.’

Alex hovered throughout, listening in, though none of this detail can have been new to her.  She then hugged us goodbye in turn.  By the time she was squashing Lyndon to her bosom, Shane the diet convert had started a dialogue with me about the virtues of tuna and protein so I was only half listening when Alex whispered, ‘Nice girl.’

I looked up swiftly in time to clock her nodding discreetly but unmistakably in my direction.  Presumably Hope had apprised her mother of our post-tai chi garden room activities.  Whatever reply Lyndon made, though, was maddeningly drowned out by the oily fish crusade.  Posturing Polly was eyeballing me again too.

‘I just worry about you, lad,’ I heard Alex say, patting Lyndon’s arm maternally.  She then addressed the group at large: ‘Now Godspeed to you all.  Please return if you ever pass this way again.’

As we departed, she actually plucked a pink hanky out of her pocket and flapped it in farewell.  Hope, once again in her tabard-and-turban combo, had joined her mother by now and looked ever so slightly embarrassed at her side.

‘Wave your duster, Hope,’ Alex prompted.  Hope rolled her eyes but complied.  They certainly were a pair of characters, the likes of whom enriched our journey.

******

‘Why does Alexandra McClowie worry about you then, lad?’ I asked Lyndon discreetly a bit later on, as I pretended to scrutinise the Ordnance Survey map (those maps again!) over his shoulder.

‘She caters for a lot of walking groups and tends to see us all as her charges.  She’s a bit protective of me after…you know, what’s happened in the past.  She’s a mother hen at heart.’

‘Is she concerned I’m going to be a corrupting influence?’

His smile as he glanced up from the map was brief but heart-stopping as ever.  ‘The exact opposite, in fact.’

‘She thinks I’m a nice wee girrrl?’  I rolled my ‘r’ in a dodgy approximation of a Scottish burr (I’ve never been great at accents).

‘Yes, that’s Brabban Bog there.’  Lyndon jabbed at the map which was in a waterproof case around his neck.  He darted me the briefest of eye signals, making me aware of Polly’s presence behind me.  She was giving me that flinty look again.  It was difficult to be discreet in such a public, group setting.
We had reached the remote settlement of Brabban and were taking a breather, a banana/apple break, after negotiating an area of spongy grassland which had been tough on the old calf muscles.

In places we were knee-deep in brambles which could impale even the most impervious of waterproof trousers.  On such undulating and partially obscured terrain our steps were slow and ankles might easily be twisted.  The innocuous looking hump of earth on which you ventured a foot could give way and suck you into its muddy belly, or turn out to be concealing a trench.  It was hard to get a standard left-right-left-right rhythm going.

This vast common was bisected by a gully of gunge, and our passage from one side to the other was by means of an obstacle course that involved inching around tree trunks, crawling under low branches and fashioning makeshift bridges, Swallows and Amazons style, from stray chunks of wood.

We were – and I think I speak for most of the others, judging by their expressions – feeling pretty gung ho about the experience (the exception was Polly, who wore a look of revulsion as though she was utterly sullied by the flecks of mud on her trousers).  There was a sense of accomplishment; a sense that this was ‘proper’ walking, the sort of ordeal that tests the heartiest of hikers.  The necessity to help and look out for each other, offering a steadying hand around the trickier geographical hurdles, seemed to intensify the camaraderie between us too.

I felt alive and, I must admit, rather cocky.  The wind was in my hair, there was colour in my cheeks, I was grubby and exuberant and not impounded in a sterile office.

Brabban Bog was close by: an unbecomingly named but nationally unique and very ancient beauty spot.  The rest of the gang gathered round, interested in what Lyndon had to say about that rather than about his fledgling relationship with me.

‘The technical term for that type of geographical feature is a schwingmoor.  A German word which translates, as you might expect, into “swinging moor.”  In layman’s terms, it’s a floating peat bog.  It consists of a layer of peat, about three metres thick, which literally floats like a raft on the surface of a lake which is thirteen metres – forty-two feet – deep.  The trees there all die eventually because as they grow they sink through the peat and drown.  Brabban dates back to the Iron Age and is the only one of its kind in the country.  You’d be hard-pressed to find more than a smattering around the world, in fact.

‘This, I’m afraid, is as close as we are able to get to it.  You can only visit by making a prior appointment and obtaining a permit.  BFF health and safety regulations prohibit us from doing either.’

‘Oh, elf and safety be blowed!’ Hazel chuckled robustly.  Anyone else might have employed a profanity, but she always used quaint substitutes.  It gave her a quirky, Enid Blyton air.

‘My sentiments exactly, Hazel,’ Lyndon grinned, ‘but unfortunately the insurance premiums against getting swallowed by that quagmire would be exorbitant.  You can photograph it, though, if you find a handy gap in that hedge over there.’

The tall hedge offered a few brambly gaps through which I could jab my camera.  The schwingmoor (my new favourite word) viewed through a frame of spikes and leaves looked almost magically wild and desolate.  It was all feral and brown and green and scratchy looking, with eerily gnarled trees reflected in what looked like paintbrush water in which whoever might have painted this landscape had dipped their brush.  Sounds a strange landscape to admire, yes, but it appealed to me.

There was a latent urge to adopt Hazel’s ‘elf and safety be blowed’ attitude and swing (or should that be schwing?) from its half submerged tree trunks and run across its fragile sheet of moss, daring it to subside beneath my weight and let the gooey earth devour me.

******

It was much better today weather-wise: breezy, bracing and dry, though the layer of recent rain gave a lovely fresh scent to the world.

From Brabban we progressed to the considerably less stark Eadon, one of those villages that seem to have been created to be bathed in spring sunshine.  Its main – only, in fact – street was the wonderfully-named Egg Lane.  Apparently food-derived street names were popular in the Victorian era (there was a Crab Lane close by, according to Lyndon).

Egg Lane acted as a margin between the cluster of eighteenth and nineteenth century timber cottages on one side and modern de luxe detached housing on the other.

Hazel and I played a game of ‘which one would you buy if you won the Lottery?’  She, not surprisingly, favoured characterful black and white; my preference was for a sprawling ranch bungalow with louver shutters at its huge windows, and gates outside which were adorned with an American-style mailbox and a tubular receptacle marked ‘Newspapers.’

‘Not terribly cost-efficient, bungalows,’ Hazel demurred.

‘You’d worry about that even in a Lottery-funded fantasy?’

‘Hmm.  They take up a lot of land, need larger plots than two-storey properties because they have to expand horizontally rather than vertically.  Add to urban sprawl.  Not so good for the environment.’

‘I wouldn’t mind living where you live, actually, Hazel.  Herefordshire’s lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Delightful,’ she pronounced with feeling, ‘especially when the wind’s off the cider factory.  Yum!  You should come and stay sometime.’

‘I’d love to.’

‘Actually I’d like to take you out with my nieces.  We’d have a blast.  You’re about their age and I think you’d get on like a house – or bungalow – on fire.’

‘How many do you have?’

‘Four.  My brother Bernard and sister Iris have two girls each.  They’d love you, I’m sure.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Chloe and Belinda, they’re Bernie’s; then Iris has got Joanna and Laura.’

‘Pretty names.’

‘Yes, aren’t they?  I’m godmother to them all – poor things.  Yes, we absolutely must synchronise diaries later and arrange a weekend.  That is if you’ll be able to tear yourself from your hunky hiker over there.’

‘Oh, I’ll make time, Hazel.’  I’d be hugely flattered to be an honorary niece for a weekend of cider and camaraderie in Ledbury.  ‘It sounds really fun.  I actually wouldn’t mind visiting your bat group too.’

‘Really?  Ooh, there’s a food and craft fair the end of next month, to try and raise a few coppers for the poor old bats.  Don’t suppose that would be your cup of tea – pardon the pun?  If you’re not careful, I might rope you in to contributing a cake.’

‘I do a cracking Victoria sponge, as it goes.  I’d love to come.’

‘Perfect!  We’ll go on a pub trek with the girls afterwards – ’

‘Or just inhale the cider if the wind’s in the right direction.’

‘Absolutely.  Then it’s sleepover time at Aunty Hazel’s.  Nice mug of cocoa to fend off hangovers.’  She clapped her hands, like a dorm prefect orchestrating a midnight feast.

‘Can’t wait.’

I really couldn’t.  I knew the shallow tribe from my work thought I was ‘sad.’  I didn’t care.  I could hear Adrian’s contemptuous screech in my head: ‘You!  In your pinny!  Up to your elbows in flour baking cakes for a bloody save the bat group!’  Not that he would ever find out, as I’d be (oh beautiful thought!) emancipated from Raybould Communications by the time that event rolled around, but it strengthened my resolve.  I’d open a bloody bakery to help the bats – and crochet a doily for the craft stall while I was at it.

I felt, despite Polly’s dagger eyes stabbing at me, utterly safe here; comfortable in my own skin; among friends with whom I could be open about my interests.

******

The Four Matthews trail was one which took many formats: hill, field, footpath, road, canal towpath, bog and now disused railway line.  Just beyond Eadon, we joined the Shinton Green Railway Walk for a three-mile spell.

‘This was originally the Shinton Green Branch Line,’ Lyndon announced, ‘which was constructed at the end of the nineteenth century.  It was closed down in 1965 by good old Dr Beeching.’  The ‘good old’ was said with heavy irony.  Hazel snorted in agreement with Lyndon’s disdain for the man who controversially shut miles and miles of British rail track.

The Beeching Axe was a topic we did cover in school (I remember my dad being appalled that term we were studying the decade of his youth in History class).  Little danger of me making what Hazel would call ‘booboobs’ on a par with thinking historic naval battles were fought in central London.

Like so many redundant rail tracks, Shinton Green was resurrected in the 1970s as a walkway.  There are obvious advantages to it being flat and linear, of course – it’s ideal for pushchairs and cyclists as well as foot passengers, though for more experienced walkers I suppose those attributes can make it a tad monotonous in comparison with the undulating countryside.  Hark at Alfred Wainwright here.

The narrow pathway was canopied by willow trees, which produced a tunnel-like effect, though intermittent gaps between the branches afforded slits of views across the open country. We frequently had to adopt single file mode to allow cyclists past.

‘That’s Shinton Hall,’ Lyndon pointed to a thin, spooky-looking building jabbing the sky like a contemptuous middle finger.  Like the Victorian pumping station back at Swinley on Tuesday, it was a clichéd horror movie backdrop.  I could almost hear the thunderclap.

‘It was built in 1899, originally as a hotel for folks who travelled on the train from cities like Birmingham for their holidays in the country.  It wasn’t a great success, though.  In fact it went bankrupt, by all accounts due to the local beak refusing to grant the owners a liquor licence.  Making it even less inviting.  The place was subsequently converted into – awful word, but that’s what they were called at the time – an asylum, then it was a tuberculosis sanatorium for a while, and it’s now a residential home for the elderly.  Good place to stick your grandpa to give him nightmares, more like.’

‘I’m glad it ain’t a hotel now,’ remarked Shane, ‘I wun’t a-stayed there.  It gives me the shivers just looking at it.’

Lyndon concurred.  ‘Those Victorians did like their ornate, Dracula’s castle style architecture, didn’t they?’

‘I wouldn’t have fancied staying there either.  The place projected eerie vibes – you know how some buildings just do?  This probably makes me sound wussy, but I actually chose not to photograph it; I half expected one of those ghostly images you see on urban legend websites to appear in the developed picture, indicative of the subject bearing a curse.

Swinley pumping station was an oddity, but Shinton Hall seemed spookier somehow, due to its bleak history and the current presence of vulnerable elderly people within its fortress-like walls.  I was starting to shiver myself, which could not have been solely attributable to the footpath being so shaded.

******

Not that the Shinton Green Railway Walk wasn’t charming, but as lunchtime approached it was with some relief that we left the straight path for the scenic town beyond the willow cocoon.

We descended a set of steep wooden steps into Urbridge.  It was a quaint market town, where establishments like Boots and Costa Coffee incongruously occupied eighteenth century buildings squished together along the high street.  Urbridge was by far the most populous and bustling place we had passed through, not that that was saying a great deal.  Four customers in Boots was pretty much all it took to make it bustle, but still.

And who needs Costa Coffee anyway, when they have Alexandra McClowie’s homemade rolls?

The BFF bunch veered off the eponymous Ur Bridge and took possession of the two long picnic tables alongside the River Ur.

We had such an exquisite picnic.  It was a pleasure to open those Grange (or ‘Orange’) bags and feast on the lunch within.  Like kids, we all compared our tuck – with the exception of Polly, who had what my old nan would have described as ‘a face on her like a dog licking piss off a nettle.’

‘How does it compare to your homemade bread then?’ I enquired of Hazel’s ham salad bap.  The ham was what my mom would have called ‘nice ham,’ the variety to which she would treat us for our Saturday salads when we were growing up, an alternative to Tesco Value wafer thin.

‘Very well.’

‘This is lush.’  I indicated mine, which I had already gnawed down into a half-moon.  This local cheese was fabulously creamy with a tart aftertaste, resembling a hybrid of Stilton and Double Gloucester.  It was a beautiful counterpart to the red onion’s caramelised tang.  Alex’s home-baked walnut bread was quite possibly the best thing in the world.  I would have to e-mail her to request the recipe.

The sun had come out in force by now, the only disadvantage being that it lured the wasps.  In my game of mental word association, wasps called to mind bees, and in turn Hazel’s new hobby.  ‘Will there be any Hazel Honey for sale at your food fair?’ I asked, batting an insect away from my now unwrapped chocolate and orange muffin.

‘Don’t think Boden’s Bees will have had much opportunity to be productive by then.’

The muffin was divine too, of course.  I tore off nuggets at a time and tossed them into my mouth.  I closed my eyes and tilted my face adoringly towards the sun.  Then I felt my rucksack buzz.

I wished I could swipe the sender of this text message away as easily as the wasp that kept zeroing in on my choccie citrus cake.

‘Him again,’ I sighed to Hazel.  I was mindful of Lyndon’s proximity and, if my suspicions were correct, the effect Adrian’s name might have on him.  He was a captive audience to Shane, though, who was still on his tuna crusade.

‘“Nay Balls!”’ I read.  ‘My surname is so hilarious, you see.’

‘I’m sure it ceased to be in your last year at junior school.’

‘At the latest.  “Not hrd from u – hope we don’t have 2 send out a search party!  LOL!!  Changed our minds about the honeymoon – thinking of camping in the middle of Wolverhampton Ring Road!  What d’ya think?  C ya – wouldn’t wanna b ya!!”  Oops, my finger seems to have slipped over the delete button.’

‘Just think,’ Hazel said, ‘if his IQ was slightly higher, he could be a cretin!’

‘How quickly you’ve got the man sussed, and you’ve never even met him.’

‘Actually you and I ought to exchange numbers and addresses.  And e-mails.  Though I’m a horrendous technophobe, darling.  Takes me a week to compose an e-mail.  The bat group despair of me when it comes to circulating minutes.  My nieces keep trying to get me on Facespace, or whatever it’s called, but I’ve no real use for it.’  She fished out a biro and notebook from her backpack.  ‘Can you tell I was a Girl Guide?’I inputted Hazel’s details to my phone; she jotted mine down in the more orthodox way.

******

‘Enjoy your lunch?’ Lyndon asked at the outset of our four-mile stroll along the River Ur.  I felt like a schoolgirl conducting an affair with the games teacher during these intimate, conversational moments between us, which Lyndon limited in order to avoid showing suspicious favouritism.

‘Mmm, it was wonderful.  How about you?  Wish you’d had the tuna now?’

‘Oh blimey, he’s a super bloke, but I’ve learned more about oily fish today than I ever needed to know.’

Lyndon whispered this, grimacing, and Shane wouldn’t have heard anyway because he was engaged in an intense conversation with some ducks (yes, you did read that correctly).

‘Sorry, quackies,’ he apologised to a fowl family bobbing past, ‘no bread for you today.  I’d normally save you some, but those cobs were far too nice to share, even with you.’  He was right; Alex’s bread rolls were far too gourmet for game birds.

‘Now you’d never know it,’ Lyndon addressed us all, back in guide/historian mode, ‘but this was once the most polluted river in England.  ‘There was so much industry along these banks, particularly the section further north into the Peak District, which we won’t touch on today.  The textile industry in particular boomed during the Victorian era.  Most of those disused factories have either been demolished or converted into trendy flats.’

‘Half a million for something the size of a broom cupboard, no doubt,’ Hazel muttered.

Nobody spoke for some time.  It was so extraordinarily serene and beautiful there as to render speech an unnecessary, bordering on sacrilegious, impingement.  Around every bend in that river was a potential calendar landscape (‘April: a spring walk along the River Ur’).  Gnarled trees craned right over the river as though trying to eavesdrop on it.  As with the canal three days earlier, the background traffic and general ‘town’ sounds were reduced to a muted thrum.

‘Now Urdale, where we’re staying tonight,’ Lyndon told us later, ‘is an extremely pretty little town.  We’re doing well for time, so we can spend a good hour or so mooching there before we check in at the Sands.’

‘Why is it called the Sands when it’s about as far away from a beach as you can get?’ I asked.

‘It used to be the Unicorn, but when Ralph, that’s the proprietor, took over he changed it.  He’s something of a Frank Sinatra fanatic – as you’ll soon find out – and the Sands was a notorious hotel in Las Vegas where the Rat Pack often performed.  In Urdale there’s also a fantastic walking and camping shop called Wilbur Rudge’s, which has been there since time immemorial, and some nice little curiosity shops.’

My mobile pulsed in my bag again.  Hazel gave me a ‘What does he want now?’ look.

‘Actually it’s Stewart this time.  He and Jase must be speed walkers – they’re already sitting on the bench outside Maggie’s, scoffing doughnuts with their “swoonworthy” tuna rolls.’

******

Urdale was utterly charming.  It was snaky, cobbled, villagey, and surrounded by dry-stone walls, but within beat a modern heart.  There was a pride there, with its gleaming signage, flowerbeds and modern war memorial.

Even the public toilets had piped music.  A brass band playing Gershwin classics provided the incongruous soundtrack to today’s ablutions.  I had visions of opening a cubicle to find the actual Salvation Army band in there, their trombones wedged against the cistern.  The comedy-sketch image gave Hazel and me the giggles.

It was such a cute town, I wanted to box it and take it home with me.  Which I did, in a fashion, because I bought myself one of those cheesy snow globes featuring a miniature Urdale in a blizzard (I know, I know, don’t judge me).

I bought my snow scene from the rather exotically-named Ursula’s Toy and Gift Emporium (perhaps the Unicorn became the Sands to avoid every establishment in Urdale also beginning with U?), into which I was enticed by, of all things, a display of Matchbox cars in the window.  My brother Simon, he of the model aircraft fixation, collects them, big kid that he is.  I got him a mini ice cream van, and also a picture frame depicting a town scene in relief for my mom, a mug for my dad, a corkscrew for Gary, a cinnamon and raspberry scented candle for Si’s girlfriend Louise (Gaz is presently single) and a box of raisin fudge for my nan (soft enough for her dentures to cope with).

Yes, all that did make my rucksack somewhat leaden, but we only had a mile to go to the hotel.

I automatically reached for a wine bottle stopper I thought Uncle Terry would like, then had to check myself and sadly return it to the shelf.

‘Ooh, Sooty, Sweep and Soo!’  Shane, the proverbial kid in the sweet shop, bobbed up from behind a shelf waving a trio of oversized soft toys.  ‘My nippers love these.’

By the time Hazel and I had relieved Ursula of half her stock of vintage toys, crafts and confectionary, Shane was outside the shop, photographing a bemused-looking Ted and Enid holding the teddy bear, dog and panda of TV fame.

‘Don’t go yet, girls,’ he said to us.  ‘I wanna get one of you an’ all, show our Bart and Myles all me new friends.’  We obliged him, adopting decidedly wooden poses with the juI Got Rhythmmbo stuffed animals.  Like I say, some surreal things happen on walking trips.

‘I’ll get one of Lyndon later,’ Shane said as I held his rucksack open for him so he could unceremoniously squash Soo into it.  There was no room for Sooty or Sweep in there, so he walked away carrying one in each arm, like twin babies.  ‘Cheers, bab.’

Lyndon!  What with all the distractions offered by Ursula’s, Sooty and toilets that played , it was a while before I realised I hadn’t seen him recently.
Almost simultaneously, I spotted Martin on a bench, morosely licking a Cornetto.

‘Where’s Polly?’ I asked him.

‘Went to the ladies.  Ages ago.’

There was something not quite right here.  Even as I was mentally berating myself for being so inanely insecure, I was ignoring Hazel’s baffled look and my hand was reaching for my mobile to scroll through to Lyndon’s number, which was of course now saved in my contacts list.

‘He’s here round the back of the musical bogs with me,’ Polly answered without preamble.  ‘Ain’t he got a nice big one!’  She hung up.  I felt my stomach plummet.

‘You don’t believe that load of old rot, surely?’ snorted Hazel, who had heard every word.  She touched my arm calmingly.

‘Why’s she answering his phone then?’  I was shaking pathetically.  Despite myself, I dashed impetuously to the back of the loo block.  Polly, cigarette in one hand and Lyndon’s phone in the other, was lolling back against the wall with her red zip-up top unzipped to below bra level, in an approximation of post-coital dishevelment.

‘You just missed him,’ she said huskily.  ‘He left me panting, I can tell you!’  She wheezed theatrically.

Hazel gave an unimpressed snort.  Despite the girl’s less than convincing acting skills, though, relief could not yet wash away the nauseous adrenalin that was surging through me.

‘It’s the fags that have done that to you, more like.  Stop lying, Polly.’

‘What d’you come running over here for like Paula bloody Radcliffe if you don’t believe me, Naomi?’  It was a good question really.  ‘Gonna fight me for him?’

‘I will if I have to.’  How had my lovely walking holiday descended to this?  I think I was about fifteen the last time I engaged in catty scrapping over a boy.
‘I heard the pair of you through the window last night, whispering your pukey sweet nothings.’

My face blazed mortifyingly.  ‘Yeah, well we could hear you as well.’  OK, not the most cutting thing I could have said to someone like her.

She chuckled smugly.  ‘I always appreciate an audience.  What’s this about you sticking your nose into my relationship, by the way?  You wanna sort your own out first, love.  My boyfriend tells me you’ve been acting as his agony aunt.’

‘I make no apologies for offering Martin my opinion.  I wasn’t giving him orders.  I only said he ought to be true to himself, and that you condescending to come walking for a week does not obligate him to be dragged into swinging.’

‘Ha, swinging!’  She exhaled a slow swirl of smoke, and repeated the word slowly and with amusement, as though mocking a child for mispronouncing a big word.  ‘Might do you good to try it, you bloody goody three shoes.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Don’t look down your nose.  That sort of thing is common nowadays.  Don’t you watch Jeremy Kyle?’

‘No, I’ve got a job.’  Well for the time being I had.

‘I tell you, I deserve to sleep with a hundred men after putting up with this boring crap all week.  I met another one off Facebook last week, as it goes.  And as long as Martin’s minted and stupid enough to keep me, what’s it to you if I enjoy a bit of fun on the side?’

She had a voice like a rape alarm.  She was ranting meanderingly, veering from the very subject that had brought me here.  Her malice had no focus.

‘Where’s Lyndon anyway, if you’ve supposedly just “had” him?  Hiding from me, is he?’

‘Oh, him.’  Her tone was dismissive now, as though she actually had forgotten her original story about Lyndon.  ‘Face it, love, you’re not his one and only.  Why do you think he runs these holidays?  He’ll have tried it on with all the women here – probably even Susan Boyle with the suitcase over there.’

It was only then I noticed poor Enid was indeed ‘over there,’ and that our screechy fracas had lured a crowd.

‘Don’t you dare speak about my wife like that,’ said Ted gallantly.  Shane stood bewilderedly next to him, clutching the inanimate onlookers, the two giant teddies.  Slightly in front of them, as though on the hot spot, was poor Martin, standing absolutely motionless, his face as white as salt.

At that point Lyndon strode through, all assertive and gorgeous.  ‘Thank you for finding my mobile, Polly.  I must have dropped it outside Wilbur Rudge’s.’  He extended his hand, into which Polly petulantly slapped the phone.  ‘I’ve been in that shop for the past half-hour, in fact, despite untruths you may have heard about my recent whereabouts.’

‘He has,’ Enid vouched.  ‘Teddy and I were in there the whole time, looking at flasks.’  It was the longest sentence I’d ever heard her utter, and I smiled gratefully at her.

Lyndon gave his mobile a little flip in the air and caught it nimbly.  ‘I think you’d better leave now, though, Polly.’

‘I don’t think you can chuck me off the trip like that, mate,’ she pouted, crossing her arms over her colossal chest.

Lyndon primly recited the terms and conditions off pat: ‘Best Foot Forward reserve the unconditional right to debar a person from a holiday in the event of conduct which in our reasonable opinion is liable to cause distress, damage or annoyance to guests, employees, property or to any third party.’

Wearing an ‘Am I bovvered?’ expression, Polly dropped her fag end and mashed it beneath her impractical heel.

‘If you walk back to the hotel with us and collect your luggage, I assume there’s somebody you could telephone to pick you up from there.’

‘Several bodies,’ she replied cockily.  ‘Oh, I’ll be going, don’t you worry.  I wanna refund, though.’

‘I think you’ll find it was me who paid for this, Polly,’ Martin pointed out, with a placid dignity I’d been unaware he possessed, ‘seeing as I’m so minted and stupid.  I’ll have your keys to my flat back while we’re at it.  You can collect whatever stuff you’ve left there next week when I get home.’

******

‘My parents were right all along,’ Martin was confiding that evening, in the Sands, ‘I’ve been an ostrich far too long, burying my head, blind to what she was like.’

We were having a pre-dinner drink.  ‘Just sticking to the one this time,’ he assured me sheepishly, tapping the rim of his pint glass, as though I was an AA counsellor.  He deserved twenty pints after what he’d just been through, but I didn’t voice that sentiment for fear he’d take it at face value and end up poorly again.

Martin was understandably dazed but in remarkably philosophical spirits.  Polly had gone.  She’d left forty minutes earlier in a BMW driven presumably by one of her Facebook men, or possibly her obliging Aunty Maureen.

She’d arranged the pick-up en route to the hotel.  After we’d given Martin our hugs and support, it had been an unsurprisingly sombre mile.  I for one felt slightly ghoulish witnessing the collapse of a relationship.  I had no platitudes to offer the poor man that would not have sounded trite and patronising.

Polly lagged at the back, and we’d heard wafts of her brazen phone chat (‘Yeah, Martin’s stopping here with the rest of the freaks,’ she’d snorted at one point).  You can supposedly tell a lot about a person from their ringtone; hers was the Pussycat Dolls hollering ‘Don’t cha wish ya girlfriend was hot like me!’

My personal highlight of that otherwise subdued stroll was that Lyndon put his arm around me, evidently now unembarrassed about such a telling gesture being witnessed.  ‘You do know she was lying, don’t you?’ he said to me.  His earnestness was so sweet.

‘Of course.’

‘I’m so sorry you were subjected to her tirade.’

‘Hardly your fault.’

‘I was in Wilbur Rudge’s.  Looking at tents, in actual fact.  Terribly rock ‘n’ roll.’

‘Thinking of going camping, are you?’

‘Only if you’ll share my canvas.’

‘I’ll give it some thought.’  It was so liberating being able to flirt openly and not have to keep our fledgling relationship clandestine.  What were we doing wrong, after all?  Compared with Polly, we were virtually virgins.  I saw Hazel winking encouragingly at me over Lyndon’s shoulder.

Lyndon leaned closer towards me and asked, sounding incredulous and flattered, ‘Would you really fight for me?’

I toyed briefly with his fingers on my shoulder, once again enjoying the public, if not flagrant, intimacy.  ‘To the death, babe.’  Cheesy, eh?  I meant it, though.

And now here I was, sitting alongside him in a hotel bar adorned with pictures of Frank Sinatra.  Whilst not exactly all over each other, we were positioned closer than strictly necessary on the padded seat so that from the waist down we were touching.  He caught my eye and smiled as we reached for our drinks in unison, like an old married couple already in tune with each other’s movements.  I felt very sensual and knowing with him, as though we were permanently sharing a secret.

‘She tied me up again last night,’ Martin resumed his narrative.  ‘I was poorly as well, but she didn’t care.’

I gave a polite nod, quite unsure how to respond to such information. With what?  I couldn’t help wondering.  And to what?  Those Grange beds had padded headboards, not iron bedsteads.  Did she use her bootlaces, or had she brought handcuffs on holiday with her?

I really must tame that imagination of mine.

Martin took a pensive sip of his beer.  ‘I guess I’ll need to cancel the counselling sessions now.’

‘Ladies, gents,’ the hotelier thankfully interrupted, ‘would you care to peruse this evening’s menu?’

‘Cheers, Ralph,’ said Lyndon.

The menus were bound in red faux leather with a tassel down the spine, and the same monochrome shot of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Junior in the cover insert as was displayed proudly on the wall behind the bar.  Ralph flicked them open and handed one to each of us in turn.

He had an egg-shaped face, with what looked like a huge Play-Doh nose splotched on the front. I rarely saw a smile beneath said nose, so was not quite sure whether his rather affected way of speaking was intended to be jocular.

Taking the hotel ‘theme’ to extremes, the bill of fare promised such delights as Sammy’s Salmon Tikka with Cucumber Yogurt, Sinatra’s Spaghetti Carbonara and Deano’s Duck à l’Orange.

The typeface was so swirly and arty as to be scarcely legible.  The soon-to-be-ex-PR exec in me ached to rebrand the Sands’ corporate image.

‘The soup of the day,’ Ralph announced, utterly deadpan, ‘is Peter Lawford’s Parsnip.’

Yes, I did snigger.  Perhaps I’m immature.  Ralph, apparently oblivious to innuendo, dealt me a stern look.  I was reminded of being eleven, told off in RE for tittering when in a lesson on Judaism Mr O’Hare explained to us what circumcision was (well you just don’t expect to hear a teacher say ‘foreskin’).

‘He’s full of the joys, isn’t he?’ I murmured to Lyndon when Ralph had gone.

‘Oh, Ralph’s all right.  A tad eccentric, that’s all.’

‘Seems to be a prerequisite in the hotel industry.’

‘Face as long as Livery Street, but a good heart.  Lyndon rarely disparaged people, or at any rate not without a disclaimer that emphasised their merits.
‘Now I can’t say as I fancy Peter’s parsnip, or any other part of his anatomy.  Anything you can recommend, Lyndon?’

‘Dubious as it sounds, the parsnip soup is actually delicious, but if that doesn’t appeal to you the Ava Gardner Avocado Mousse is lovely.’  He dropped his voice.  Our intimate chat was muffled anyway by the rest of the gang’s discussion on the potential merits of Ocean’s Eleven Pie.  ‘You look very lovely tonight too, by the way.’

‘Complimented in the same sentence as an avocado mousse – how terribly flattering!’  I wouldn’t call myself a natural flirt, but it was so easy to cultivate a rapport with him.

He blushed, bless him.  ‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’

‘I know, I know,’ I laughed, probably sounding inane and feeling utterly giddy from the effects of both the wine and the events of this most peculiar day.  ‘And, though it’s very unlike me to be egotistical, I actually feel lovely tonight.’

I never normally say things like that, but it was true.  Without wishing to sound Mills and Boon sappy, my love for him – and yes, I was beginning to acknowledge it as Love – flowered enrichingly through me.  It was such a fulfilling, pure feeling.

I was still saving the purple dress for Saturday at Julian’s place, although Lyndon had of course already seen it.  Tonight I had teamed a sleeveless aubergine ruffle top with black leggings.  I tossed my hair in parody of a Pantene advert, but actually enjoyed the silky sensation of it against my neck after having it tied back in a sweaty clump all day.  I had just washed it, and yes I’m afraid I am the kind of girl who takes my hair straighteners on walking trips.

‘I mean it.  That colour really brings out the green of your eyes.’

Hark at Gok Wan!

******

No, I didn’t sleep with him.  Or at least not that night.  He did get to see my La Senza jimjams, though (more on that later…).  It doesn’t do to rush these things, and as ever he had his professional position to consider.  We’d be colleagues soon, though (hopefully), and who could frown on a workplace romance?  Isn’t that where most relationships stem from?  Or is it the internet nowadays?

Anyway, what we did share was a little dance in the bar post-dinner.  Despite the cheesy theme, the food was excellent (not to mention the company, of course).  All credit to Ralph, for all his oddness, for attempting something different.  Even Ted and Enid’s Caesar’s Palace Salads looked enticing.  The avocado mousse to which I was inadvertently compared was heavenly (nothing like me then), and I followed it with Deano’s duck.  Peter’s parsnip, I have to say, looked tasty.  I’ll stop right there with the innuendo.  For dessert I opted for the Grace Kelly Jelly (lime flavour).

Afterwards, Ralph cranked up his obviously played-to-death Rat Pack CD in the small bar.  This greatly delighted our fellow guests, the Derby Dodderers.  I am not being insulting here – their matching sweatshirts proclaimed them thus: as the name suggested, a Derby-based walking group consisting of sixteen very sprightly senior citizens.  Like Stewart and Jason, they were traversing the Matthews path north to south.  Good for them.  They possessed more spirit and zest than many folks a quarter of their age.

The evening turned into a veritable sing-song.  Ted and Enid actually stayed up – this was their kind of music.  Martin drooped off to bed after his painful day, and it was almost spooky not to hear the bedroom bounces that had become the soundtrack of the week’s evenings.

Hazel was nattering animatedly and positively flirtatiously with the most un-doddery Dodderer, a Sean Connery lookalike.  She looked so fabulous in a regal purple kaftan, her sooty hair all fluffy after washing, that I decided Ken the Druid must have been insane to abandon her for a warty old witch.

Ralph leant on his bar with a beatific look of bliss on his elliptical face, utterly lost in the smooth music.

Shane almost shattered the spell by declaring at one point, ‘I quite like that Michael Bublé.’

Despite the CD being on, I swear a hush descended.  ‘He’s a mere pretender,’ Ralph sniffed, looking at Shane as though he had just confessed to a liking for pouring urine on his cornflakes.  A couple of the Derby Dodderers grunted agreement.

‘I like him too,’ I said, feeling sorry for Shane.

‘You’re young,’ Ralph retorted.  Obviously that accounted for my ignorance.
Lyndon and I enjoyed a brief sway to, appropriately enough, Sway by Dean Martin.  It was pretty tame – no pornographic grinding at this stage – but romantic and rather quaint.  And inopportunely interrupted by Eric, a jovial member of the Dodderers, who whisked me away for a spin (‘Mind if I steal your lady friend, son?’).

Meanwhile, a sprightly widow called Minnie, who was Harry Enfield’s randy old lady character to the life (‘Ooh, young man!’), was in bits over Lyndon.  ‘Ooh, the eyes!  He’s the image of my Fred.’  She positioned her bejewelled hands in front of Lyndon’s face, so his aforementioned eyes peeked between them like a wanted poster.

I thought what a surreal coincidence it would be if Lyndon turned out to be not only Sian’s ex-husband but also Minnie’s Fred’s long-lost son.  Or grandson.
In short, there was enough material there that night to supply Adrian ‘funnyman’ Raybould with a whole routine about ‘sad’ Naomi and her friends.  Did I care?  Did I heck!

******

I was wrenched from my sleep on Saturday morning by what I instinctively took to be my alarm clock, even though its shrill pitch was a good deal more penetrating than usual and appeared to be lodged right inside my head.

Funny, though, I couldn’t remember setting my alarm for half-one.  And why was the frantic siren wailing on, even when I fiddled frenziedly with the off button on the little clock?  Finally, I sleepily twigged that the earsplitting blare was emanating from another source.

The fire alarm!

Shiiiiiiiiit!!!!!!

I catapulted myself from the bed in panic.  Fire terrifies me.  I am lucky enough to have only experienced fire drills at work.  In the middle of the day and with unrealistic forewarning.  This was a decidedly unsocial time for a drill.  It had to be the real thing.

I was already wearing the aforementioned La Senza pyjamas and a pair of thick socks (hey, I was chilly in bed and, let’s face it, unlikely to be indulged with company), and without pausing for shoes, I swiftly pulled on my cagoule and tore out into the car park, where the evacuated guests were being directed.
It had briefly rained during the evening, and stepping in puddles in my woolly socked feet was a pretty revolting sensation.  Though one infinitely preferable, of course, to being charred alive.

Outside, there was no palpable sign of an inferno, nor scent of smoke.  Perhaps it was a false alarm after all.  As the siren bawled on, I was not altogether certain whether I was actually awake.  I wondered whether, were I to blink, the Sands Hotel and the people spilling out of it in their motley array of sleepwear would vanish.

Bloody hell, I hope Lyndon’s OK!

Shane, who apparently slept in boxer shorts and a Garfield T-shirt, had Sooty, Sweep and Soo with him.  ‘My kiddies would be devastated if these got singed,’ I heard him say to Ted and Enid, who were adorably wearing matching stripy pyjamas.

Hazel was still in her purple kaftan, and still deep in the thrall of conversation with her Sean Connery lookalike.  Despite my worry about Lyndon, I grinned and winked at her as if to say ‘Get you, girl!’  She returned my look with one of pure, butter-wouldn’t-melt innocence.

Please let my Lyndon be safe!

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he said at my shoulder, and I almost collapsed with relief.  Now was really not the time to comment on the cheesiness of that line.

Funny really, to think that was the first time we saw each other’s nightwear.  He favoured sensible pyjamas: charcoal grey, the top short-sleeved.  I supposed he spent so many nights in hotels, this sort of emergency was always a possibility so he needed to ‘be prepared,’ like Boy Scouts.  Perhaps he kept a thong for more frivolous occasions?

Illuminated by the headlights and blue lights of the arriving fire crew, the remote hotel suddenly took on a sinister, Norman Bates vibe.  I shivered.

‘You all right?’ asked Lyndon solicitously, and put his arm round me.
I nodded in a ‘big brave girl’ way, though shamelessly snuggled closer.  He had the most solid, cosy hug in the world.  His biceps were, without being freakishly body-buildery, well developed enough for his short sleeves to fit attractively tightly.  Mmm.  I shivered again, this time not with displeasure.

The fire crew had to all but forcibly restrain poor Ralph from re-entering his beloved, potentially perilous hotel.

‘What’s this all about then?’ I wondered.  ‘Hey, you don’t think Martin’s…’  The euphemistic phrase ‘done something silly’ hung in the air between us.

As if on cue, Martin shambled out into the car park, looking as bewildered and rumpled as the rest of us but reassuringly un-suicidal.  Lyndon and I exhaled in thankful unison.

Martin joined us, and even had a stab at humour.  ‘Good job Polly’s not here – she’d be giving the firemen all her phone number.’  He rubbed his eyes like a toddler waking from a nightmare.  His acceptance of his fate was half heartening, half heartbreaking.

‘She’d have had to fight off Minnie first,’ I said.

I had worried for the Dodderers’ safety should flames proliferate, but they seemed to be actually loving it.  They must have lived through enough catastrophe and tragedy to put a blip like this into perspective.  The female members were clucking with delight at the presence of firemen.

I had to laugh, though, at the sight of some of them who, while the entire hotel could have been incinerating to a shell around their heads, had taken the trouble to get fully dressed and in some cases fully made-up before venturing outside their doors.  I hadn’t dared do anything but obey the fire safety instructions to the letter: the ones about legging it as speedily as possible and not going back for personal effects.

Randy Minnie was regrettably not in the ‘fully dressed’ category, but sported a long powder-blue negligee previously modelled, I think, by Mae West.  I must admit she had good legs, though her boobs were plunging towards her knees.  Lyndon shuddered when she winked at him.  ‘I thought Polly was a sight enough,’ he murmured into my hair.

‘You’d better not have set the place alight with one of your joints, Min,’ I heard another of the old ladies cackle.

‘That skunk’s done wonders for my rheumatism,’ Minnie hooted back, her crinkly cleavage wobbling with the movement.

Bloody hell – and there was me concerned I might look a bit racy by trying to get off with my walk leader!  I’d better start hotting up my action.  These wayward pensioners were putting me in the shade.

I made a token effort by squeezing against Lyndon and putting my hand on top of his.  Wow, that was going to get the ‘racy police’ on to me!

About five minutes later, with the gruff announcement that ‘Toast’s off tomorrow breakfast,’ one of the firemen emerged lugging the huge, and now scorched, kitchen toaster.  It was one of those steel catering-sized models with a conveyor belt so the bread glides through and pops out browned.  ‘All the crumbs and crusts and crap have built up and built up and just went whoosh.  You wanna educate your kitchen staff to clean it out once in a while, mate,’ he said to Ralph, who was beside himself.

‘And to not leave tea towels too close to it,’ added another of the crew.  ‘Oh well, no real harm done, guys.  Apart from to the toaster, and this.’  What was once a Frank Sinatra tea towel (yes, such items do exist) drooped between his fireproof-gloved fingers.

‘I bought that in Vegas,’ Ralph snuffled.

There was a spooky hole in the cloth where Old Blue Eyes’s face had once been, leaving the legend – I kid you not – ‘I cooked it My Way’ in gaudy red typeface around the border.

The sight of a grown man snivelling over a scorched rag as though it were his pet kitten that had perished in the blaze just about put the cap on a decidedly bizarre day.