and even I don’t need to know. Sorry. Oh, before I forget; one other thing. Me and Portman here will be riding shotgun. It’s a condition of us lending you the kit.” Gladstone smirked.
The same look passed between Stewey and Gladstone at the last snippet revelation, one of mutual discontent, bound by a brother-in-arms official oath.
North of the port, in a small secluded logger’s rest, equal alliances were being forged—this time, out of kindness.
14 – Hospitality
Rural location outside the Port of Murmansk, 26 th June 2014, 0700 hours.
The small cottage, nestled in a clearing and surrounded on all sides by thick woodlands, provided a haven after the harrowing journey. Our host, Yaromir—logger of the forest—welcomed us into the warmth, provided us with means to wash, tend to raw wounds, and eat.
I watched as Barbie delicately scooped the last of the thick broth from the base of the deep bowl, clearly enjoying every mouthful of the native cuisine. To be fair, as far as stews went, it was quite something, warming me from the inside, out and more than enough to quell the protestations from my previously empty stomach. I mopped at the sides of my bowl with a hunk of homemade bread.
The gentle giant that was Yaromir—meaning man of peace— according to the snippet of wisdom Barbie recently acquired, sat opposite as we ate. He looked over each of us, presumably assessing the physical damage or perhaps the state of our clothing.
“You are from England?” he asked.
“Yes, Yaromir. We got lost while out trekking. Which way is it to the next nearest town, outside of Murmansk? Don’t suppose you have a cigarette, do you?” I asked, not sure of why I lied to this man, who as yet, had posed no threat to us.
The fact that we were hardly dressed for any kind of recreational trek anywhere, let alone northern Russia, didn’t seem to deter the big man before us. He didn’t question further.
“Am sorry. I no smoke. You stay tonight. Here. Better travel in the morning. Storm coming in,” he offered.
How could we refuse a night in warmth and safety after what we had endured?
I nodded to Barbie and our moods changed accordingly. Where first a need to be on our way, at least farther away from the plumed smoke of the harbour incident had prevailed, now, here in this isolated dwelling, the cosy feeling of security forced back the fears. I offered my hand with a nod of acceptance and thanks to the bear of a man. Yaromir stood and pointed to a small room off to the left, there was only one, with a bed big enough for the both of us. Neither of us complained.
Yes, well, I only slept with her because— the voices of reason colluded inside my head, another pathetic “it’s never going to wash” excuse. I did sleep with Barbie, although not in that sense.
As we lay beneath the thick blankets, she edged closer to my side under the guise of needing the warmth of my body heat, which, I can assure you, could have rivalled that of the open fire right about then. Here I was in an idyllic cottage, middle of nowhere, semi-naked, with a girl half my age who had a figure to die for. What’s a man to do? The answer was sleep. Tomorrow would see us on our way, though to where I had no idea.
While Barbie’s breathing slowed to a rhythmic tempo, my mind raced over what we should do.
Who the hell do we trust? Who do we speak to and what’s the risk? Exactly what is wrong with us?
The problem with the latter question was that I didn’t feel wrong at all. Indeed, I had none of the aches and pains I usually suffered from, no stiffness of joints, age-related symptoms, or grief from the injuries I’d sustained in our escape. I felt fantastic. It crossed my mind to rouse Barbie from her slumber, to ask her if she felt good. On second thoughts, I’d only just managed to quash the pressure in my boxers enough to get comfortable. If ever there was a passion-killer, it was overthinking—better not chance it. Besides, for all
The same look passed between Stewey and Gladstone at the last snippet revelation, one of mutual discontent, bound by a brother-in-arms official oath.
North of the port, in a small secluded logger’s rest, equal alliances were being forged—this time, out of kindness.
14 – Hospitality
Rural location outside the Port of Murmansk, 26 th June 2014, 0700 hours.
The small cottage, nestled in a clearing and surrounded on all sides by thick woodlands, provided a haven after the harrowing journey. Our host, Yaromir—logger of the forest—welcomed us into the warmth, provided us with means to wash, tend to raw wounds, and eat.
I watched as Barbie delicately scooped the last of the thick broth from the base of the deep bowl, clearly enjoying every mouthful of the native cuisine. To be fair, as far as stews went, it was quite something, warming me from the inside, out and more than enough to quell the protestations from my previously empty stomach. I mopped at the sides of my bowl with a hunk of homemade bread.
The gentle giant that was Yaromir—meaning man of peace— according to the snippet of wisdom Barbie recently acquired, sat opposite as we ate. He looked over each of us, presumably assessing the physical damage or perhaps the state of our clothing.
“You are from England?” he asked.
“Yes, Yaromir. We got lost while out trekking. Which way is it to the next nearest town, outside of Murmansk? Don’t suppose you have a cigarette, do you?” I asked, not sure of why I lied to this man, who as yet, had posed no threat to us.
The fact that we were hardly dressed for any kind of recreational trek anywhere, let alone northern Russia, didn’t seem to deter the big man before us. He didn’t question further.
“Am sorry. I no smoke. You stay tonight. Here. Better travel in the morning. Storm coming in,” he offered.
How could we refuse a night in warmth and safety after what we had endured?
I nodded to Barbie and our moods changed accordingly. Where first a need to be on our way, at least farther away from the plumed smoke of the harbour incident had prevailed, now, here in this isolated dwelling, the cosy feeling of security forced back the fears. I offered my hand with a nod of acceptance and thanks to the bear of a man. Yaromir stood and pointed to a small room off to the left, there was only one, with a bed big enough for the both of us. Neither of us complained.
Yes, well, I only slept with her because— the voices of reason colluded inside my head, another pathetic “it’s never going to wash” excuse. I did sleep with Barbie, although not in that sense.
As we lay beneath the thick blankets, she edged closer to my side under the guise of needing the warmth of my body heat, which, I can assure you, could have rivalled that of the open fire right about then. Here I was in an idyllic cottage, middle of nowhere, semi-naked, with a girl half my age who had a figure to die for. What’s a man to do? The answer was sleep. Tomorrow would see us on our way, though to where I had no idea.
While Barbie’s breathing slowed to a rhythmic tempo, my mind raced over what we should do.
Who the hell do we trust? Who do we speak to and what’s the risk? Exactly what is wrong with us?
The problem with the latter question was that I didn’t feel wrong at all. Indeed, I had none of the aches and pains I usually suffered from, no stiffness of joints, age-related symptoms, or grief from the injuries I’d sustained in our escape. I felt fantastic. It crossed my mind to rouse Barbie from her slumber, to ask her if she felt good. On second thoughts, I’d only just managed to quash the pressure in my boxers enough to get comfortable. If ever there was a passion-killer, it was overthinking—better not chance it. Besides, for all
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