Amelia Higginbottom strode along the green hill track over the moors that led to the tarn. She was glad to be away for her annual holiday in the Yorkshire Dales, to be away from the Brian Clough Memorial Library with its stuffy books, dusty shelves and dim lighting.
It had been a nightmare year. She had kept up the pretence of Naturist Day in the library until the photographs had been taken and then she had capitulated and admitted everything. The dreadful so-called 'Lady' Esmeralda Peasebottom had laughed. She had actually laughed. Dreadful woman. Married for all of two months to Sir Ebenezer Peasebottom Bt., the tripe millionaire, she now had the temerity to style herself Lady Esmeralda. Didn't she know that was the correct mode of address for the second daughter of an earl not the ex-wife of a baronet? The woman was totally ignorant.
But the thought of her exposure, of the photographs, of her erotic posing, made her feel strangely excited. Wouldn't it be lovely to divest herself of her garments, out here on the moor, to feel the cool breeze on her skin, the soft turf under her bare feet, the warm early morning sun caress her naked bosoms. She tried to put the thought out of her head. She couldn't do it. She couldn't possibly!
She looked around. The lone and level moor stretched far away. It was deserted. She glanced at her watch. She was an early riser and it was only half past six and quite light on this early summer's morning. There'd be nobody out walking at this time, surely.
Almost unconsciously she found herself unfastening the buttons on her blouse, slipping it off, loosening the waistband of her skirt (for Amelia abhorred the modern fashion of ladies wearing breeches for walking) and letting it fall to the ground. She tugged off her boots and stood in her functional Marks and Spencer nether garments looking round. The area was deserted. Putting her hands behind her back she unhooked her brassiere and bending forwards allowed it to fall off her bosoms. Amelia was not well endowed, but her small bosoms were nonetheless charming. She tucked her clothes into her small knapsack and with one final glance hooked her thumbs into her knickers and pulled them down, past her thighs, over her knees and down to her ankles. With a whoop of joy she kicked them off and pushed them into her rucksack.
She left her things by a stone in the heather and retaining naught but her horn rimmed spectacles (without which she could see little further than six inches in front of her nose) she set off down the green track. She would go a hundred yards, she had decided before returning to regain her things. More than that would be folly...
***
Septimus Ramsbottom, professor of Ancient Norse at the University of North Yorkshire, had only three pleasures in life outside of his work, all of them solitary. The other two were bird watching and photography. It was the former that occupied him that morning. He was in quest of the Red Faced Wheatear, a bird of rare appearance in those parts and only to be found on an early summer morn such as this.
As he sat beside the small beck that flowed at the bottom of Moorside Ghyll he mused upon the Norse origin of so many words, like Ghyll, in those parts. His own name for example had its origin not in the rear anatomy of a male sheep but in the expression 'Ramson Bot Ham' or low lying village where grows the wild garlic. And the subject of his undying quest was not so named for having ears in the form of those of wheat, but in the description 'Hwitarse' meaning 'White Rear' on account of the flash of white in its tail. The thought gave him great amusement.
He was indeed in need of amusement for his course was sorely short of students. His evening class indeed had only two members, old Mr Goatsbottom and that librarian, the rather plain one, what was her name again? Amelia somebody or other? He couldn't quite remember.
Meanwhile the naked Amelia had become more bold. She had walked the hundred yards. It was invigorating, the moor appeared empty and there seemed no reason not to go on. She could rest by the beck in Moorside Ghyll and dangle her naked feet in its ice cold horseback brown waters.
Septimus stood up and continued on his quest. Amelia had not noticed the ghyll was so close and stood in petrified horror as the figure suddenly appeared as if from nowhere.
She was stark naked and over a mile from her clothes. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
And the figure looked horrifyingly familiar.
"Hwaet ho!"
Septimus had recognised the librarian and had been astonished to see that she was in, what Nanny had always called, her birthday suit. He had been at a total loss what to say until the idea of using the Old Norse greeting that they employed in class had come to him.
"Hwaet ho!" Replied Amelia, frozen in horror at the sight of her professor.
"My dear Miss Higginbottom," Septimus realised he was babbling, but the sight of Amelia's birthday suit was doing funny things to his physiology, "In no way did I comprehend that you were a berserker."
"A what?" Did the old fool think she'd gone mad?
"A berserker, from the Old Norse 'Berr Serk' or as we would say 'Bare Shift'. That is to say that that they undertook their warrior duties unclothed."
Amelia felt her face turn bright red at this mention of her total nudity.
"Yes," she stammered, "nude hiking is very er... Very healthy."
She noticed that the Professor was looking at her intently. Dressed as nature intended she did not look at all plain. A statuesque beauty of the type so frequently ravished by the old Norsemen.
"I can see that, Miss Higginbottom," he said, "you are a fine figure of a woman, Amelia. May I call you Amelia?"
Amelia Higginbottom blushed. It was not often that gentlemen remarked upon the comeliness of her naked form.
"Why, thank you, er... Septimus."
A wry smile crossed the face of the professor. He had come searching for a rare bird and had found one, but not the one he was looking for. He mused upon the etymological convergence. The Old Norse for a comely maiden 'burde' having become confused with the word for a species of flying animal 'brydde'.
"You are smiling, Professor?"
He was indeed. He had just had an idea.
"May we walk a little way together Miss er... Amelia?" He enquired.
"I think it is perhaps time for me to return and retrieve my accoutrements" Amelia was already concerned about the distance she had strayed from her clothes.
"But Miss Higginbottom, a true Berserker would surely eschew such niceties, and you are indeed a true adherent to the Berserker tradition are you not?"
This was perhaps slightly disingenuous of Professor Higginbottom, but he found it surprisingly pleasing to be in the company of a woman wearing nothing but her natural charms and a pair of horn rimmed spectacles.
Amelia was somewhat upon the horns, not so much perhaps of a dilemma as upon those found upon the helmet of a Viking warrior, for much as she feared the consequences of further exposure she felt a strange internal arousal at the thought of walking naked across the moor in the company of a gentleman.
Well, she thought, in for a penny, in for a pound, "Certainly Professor," she said, and set off with him across the moor.
******
Herbie Pickles liked to think he was a man of consequence in the area: national park warden, river bailiff, special constable, volunteer fireman - he did them all. Indeed if there was anything that could be volunteered for, having no other social life worth speaking of, you'd find Herbie doing the volunteering. The problem was that although he thought himself a man of consequence nobody else did. Herbie was acutely aware of this fact and it pained him greatly.
