down onto a narrow footpath skirting the edge of a field. The meadow is bright with buttercups and other wild flowers, and the flutter of tiny gossamer wings catches my eye. I love butterflies—I’m fascinated by them, their delicate beauty, their breakneck life cycle, and their awesome capacity for reinventing themselves. The magical transformation from caterpillar to chrysalis to elegant butterfly always seems to me so wondrously senseless, a quirk of evolution. Tadpoles and frogs are somewhat similar in their charming eccentricity, but although I like frogs well enough they don’t come close to the ephemeral beauty of butterflies.
I’m stopping every few yards to stare and point, or to crouch down over some little fluttery thing trembling on the leaves by my feet. Nick lacks my fascination, but makes no move to hurry me along. He even lets me borrow his phone to photograph my favorite specimens. In my mind’s eye I’m already designing the butterfly quilt I could make to display all these bright lovelies. I’ll make the first sketch when we get back, while the ideas are still fresh and buzzing. Do butterflies buzz? Probably not, but still.
At last we reach the first cottages in the village itself as we clamber over another stile and across a small stone bridge over a bubbling stream to reach the lane leading to Cartmel’s main street. And there really is only one street. Cartmel is not a big place. Having said that, the village has three claims to fame.
One—the fourteenth-century, world famous Priory, still in use as a church and now a favorite wedding venue for those with money to throw at these events.
Two—sticky toffee pudding, a lovely—I’m told—dessert originally made in the village but now manufactured in a modern factory a couple of miles away and exported all over the world. Not good news for diabetics, though, so I’m afraid that’s the very far reach of my knowledge on that subject.
Three—a racecourse. Yes, a real, honest to goodness, National Hunt racecourse where every few weeks during the racing season hordes of the racing fraternity descend for a weekend to enjoy the Sport of Kings. I’ve been to race meetings here once or twice, but Summer’s not keen. I never managed to entice Margaret, and it’s not that much fun on your own.
As we amble along the crowded pavements toward one of several pubs in the village that turn their hands to decent food, I ask Nick if he ever goes racing.
“Yes, quite often. It’s a good day out. There’s a race meeting this weekend. Do you fancy it?”
Do I? I nod, grinning like a big kid, inordinately happy at that prospect. Mind-blowing sex, and a day at the races. Yes, life is good. Suddenly, though, I remember that I only brought a couple of outfits with me, certainly nothing suitable for a racecourse. I grab his elbow to attract his attention, and sign my problem.
He grins. “Don’t fret, you don’t need to dress up if you don’t want to.”
My scornful expression soon dispels any foolish notion that I might be going anywhere near a racecourse on a race day, other than dressed up to the nines. A girl has to have standards.
He regroups. “Right then, you can nip home and grab an outfit. I assume you do have something…?”
I nod. I have a whole wardrobe full of somethings. And I’m thinking this whole interlude is turning into the most delightful little something of all, not at all the stressful ordeal I had expected. Feared even. After that shaky and inexplicable hiccup when he first arrived home, it’s been wonderful. Well, mostly wonderful, and even the scary bits are incredibly arousing too. And it’s getting better all the time. Nick’s gentle patience in the dungeon, delicious hot tea in bed, walks through fields full of butterflies, the promise of a race meeting and a chance to go home and collect more of my stuff. Without thinking, I slip my hand into his. He takes it, laces his fingers with mine, and we head for the
I’m stopping every few yards to stare and point, or to crouch down over some little fluttery thing trembling on the leaves by my feet. Nick lacks my fascination, but makes no move to hurry me along. He even lets me borrow his phone to photograph my favorite specimens. In my mind’s eye I’m already designing the butterfly quilt I could make to display all these bright lovelies. I’ll make the first sketch when we get back, while the ideas are still fresh and buzzing. Do butterflies buzz? Probably not, but still.
At last we reach the first cottages in the village itself as we clamber over another stile and across a small stone bridge over a bubbling stream to reach the lane leading to Cartmel’s main street. And there really is only one street. Cartmel is not a big place. Having said that, the village has three claims to fame.
One—the fourteenth-century, world famous Priory, still in use as a church and now a favorite wedding venue for those with money to throw at these events.
Two—sticky toffee pudding, a lovely—I’m told—dessert originally made in the village but now manufactured in a modern factory a couple of miles away and exported all over the world. Not good news for diabetics, though, so I’m afraid that’s the very far reach of my knowledge on that subject.
Three—a racecourse. Yes, a real, honest to goodness, National Hunt racecourse where every few weeks during the racing season hordes of the racing fraternity descend for a weekend to enjoy the Sport of Kings. I’ve been to race meetings here once or twice, but Summer’s not keen. I never managed to entice Margaret, and it’s not that much fun on your own.
As we amble along the crowded pavements toward one of several pubs in the village that turn their hands to decent food, I ask Nick if he ever goes racing.
“Yes, quite often. It’s a good day out. There’s a race meeting this weekend. Do you fancy it?”
Do I? I nod, grinning like a big kid, inordinately happy at that prospect. Mind-blowing sex, and a day at the races. Yes, life is good. Suddenly, though, I remember that I only brought a couple of outfits with me, certainly nothing suitable for a racecourse. I grab his elbow to attract his attention, and sign my problem.
He grins. “Don’t fret, you don’t need to dress up if you don’t want to.”
My scornful expression soon dispels any foolish notion that I might be going anywhere near a racecourse on a race day, other than dressed up to the nines. A girl has to have standards.
He regroups. “Right then, you can nip home and grab an outfit. I assume you do have something…?”
I nod. I have a whole wardrobe full of somethings. And I’m thinking this whole interlude is turning into the most delightful little something of all, not at all the stressful ordeal I had expected. Feared even. After that shaky and inexplicable hiccup when he first arrived home, it’s been wonderful. Well, mostly wonderful, and even the scary bits are incredibly arousing too. And it’s getting better all the time. Nick’s gentle patience in the dungeon, delicious hot tea in bed, walks through fields full of butterflies, the promise of a race meeting and a chance to go home and collect more of my stuff. Without thinking, I slip my hand into his. He takes it, laces his fingers with mine, and we head for the
Similar Books
