Decima Blake
On a mild spring evening some years ago, in a remote northern Lake District village, I finished my glass of wine and checked the time by a grandfather clock. The historic pub in which I sat had served a wonderful dish of wild trout and chips.
"We must come here again," I said to my (now ex) boyfriend who had booked the tiny flint cottage that stood some thirty minutes' walk away. Sadly, the holiday cottage was a dive with dilapidated furnishings which protruded horsehair, a jammed patio door, a fireplace covered in smuts and an antiquated kitchen and bathroom that needed a thorough clean before they were usable. A room at the pub with a full English breakfast would have been a much better idea.
We set off along the windy lane that led downhill into silence broken only by our clumpy boots and our voices. Pastureland reached out toward distant fells and somewhere, strangely out of sight, there was a church which had an old, clanging bell that had woken us the night before.
Our cottage was one of four in a quaint terrace, tucked away off the lane through a narrow entrance that we had missed on our first drive to it. We had suspected the other cottages were vacant, awaiting visitors in the school holidays and the warmer months.
Twenty minutes into the walk the conversation had ended and we were watching the sun slip away and the lane lose its glow. Ahead of us we saw a figure further down the hill; a broad man walking along with a limp. His clothes were baggy and ill-defined. We were catching him up until we saw the very large pitchfork he held over his shoulder.
It seemed a strange item to be carrying so late in the day, but perhaps that was just the reaction of those who grow up in towns and have exposed themselves to too many murder mysteries?
We plodded behind him at some distance, only gaining pace as we neared the approach to our destination. He took a sharp turn to the cottages, to my horror. Bolder than me, my boyfriend followed his lead and into the driveway we went.
The man, his exact age unclear given his unkempt shoulder-length hair and tatty, smock-shirted, medieval attire, was entering the cottage next to ours.
"Evening," my boyfriend called to him.
An unfriendly, somewhat wary look was flashed our way, followed by a grunt. Pitchfork still over his shoulder, he shut the door behind himself and disappeared into the darkness of the cottage. We saw no more of the mysterious neighbour thereafter.
"We must come here again," I said to my (now ex) boyfriend who had booked the tiny flint cottage that stood some thirty minutes' walk away. Sadly, the holiday cottage was a dive with dilapidated furnishings which protruded horsehair, a jammed patio door, a fireplace covered in smuts and an antiquated kitchen and bathroom that needed a thorough clean before they were usable. A room at the pub with a full English breakfast would have been a much better idea.
We set off along the windy lane that led downhill into silence broken only by our clumpy boots and our voices. Pastureland reached out toward distant fells and somewhere, strangely out of sight, there was a church which had an old, clanging bell that had woken us the night before.
Our cottage was one of four in a quaint terrace, tucked away off the lane through a narrow entrance that we had missed on our first drive to it. We had suspected the other cottages were vacant, awaiting visitors in the school holidays and the warmer months.
Twenty minutes into the walk the conversation had ended and we were watching the sun slip away and the lane lose its glow. Ahead of us we saw a figure further down the hill; a broad man walking along with a limp. His clothes were baggy and ill-defined. We were catching him up until we saw the very large pitchfork he held over his shoulder.
It seemed a strange item to be carrying so late in the day, but perhaps that was just the reaction of those who grow up in towns and have exposed themselves to too many murder mysteries?
We plodded behind him at some distance, only gaining pace as we neared the approach to our destination. He took a sharp turn to the cottages, to my horror. Bolder than me, my boyfriend followed his lead and into the driveway we went.
The man, his exact age unclear given his unkempt shoulder-length hair and tatty, smock-shirted, medieval attire, was entering the cottage next to ours.
"Evening," my boyfriend called to him.
An unfriendly, somewhat wary look was flashed our way, followed by a grunt. Pitchfork still over his shoulder, he shut the door behind himself and disappeared into the darkness of the cottage. We saw no more of the mysterious neighbour thereafter.
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