Thank you for reading my story, I hope that you enjoy it. This story is dedicated John with love. Mica xx Yorkshire England
It was the anniversary of Paul's death. I felt maudlin and had booked a 'get away from it all' AirBnB in the dales. It was at the end of a long grass track, about two miles from the nearest road, which itself was little more than a single track. The web page had said it had slow WIFI, it had electric and it had a wood fuelled AGA wood stove that also heated the water and the cottage in winter. It sounded perfect. I didn't need fast WIFI, I wouldn't be watching Netflix or anything similar, just an occasional research item or two.
I bundled everything I would need for a few days, food, pans, clothes, deckchair, laptop, phone, chargers and headed off to find my solitude. The journey was a bit of a chore, lots of single track roads, and I missed the track to the cottage and had to double back. After a very bumpy journey I found myself at the cottage. I parked at the side of the cottage, found the key as advised 'under the upturned plant pot', and let myself in.
The first job was to light the AGA so that I could have hot water and cook. There was a folder sitting on the AGA with 'how to light the AGA' written in big letters on the outside. Seemed reasonable, fire lighter, kindling, small amount of logs to get going, vent open, light match, when kindling burning shut door.
I did all that, there was a small supply of logs next to the AGA, I hoped there were more logs to be found elsewhere. Whilst the AGA was doing its thing, I started ferrying my stuff in from the car. The logs needed supplementing and the vent damping after about twenty minutes. I guessed it would be an hour before I could put the kettle on, I went up and started emptying my suitcase. I know some people like to live out of their suitcase, I am not one of them, I like my knickers in a drawer, my skirts and dresses hanging up, my negligee under my pillow, and what girl takes trousers on a break? Not this one.
I looked around the cottage whilst the AGA did its thing. The stairs were narrow in width and also had narrow treads, they needed concentration. Upstairs was all sloped ceilings, basically the inside of the roof, with dormer style windows. There were two bedrooms, one simply half of the upstairs, the other half of the cottage was split into a bathroom and a small single bedroom. The bathroom had an electric bath over the shower, a loo and a washbasin. The larger bedroom had one small wardrobe, two sets of drawers and a Queen bed with bedside tables and table lamps. The floor was wooden floorboards, painted, looking well worn. That would do for me.
Downstairs was a sitting room with two sofas, a small TV, nests of tables and rugs over a flagstone floor, next to it was a small loo, just a loo, no washbasin. The other room was the kitchen cum scullery, cum diner. This was the room that you entered into when you came through the front door. The floor was very well worn flagstones. There was a big oxford sink, a dresser, a small table and four chairs, a tiny sofa, fridge and the AGA. Basic, but everything I would need.
Finally the AGA was hot enough for me to attempt to boil the kettle. I rinsed the kettle out thoroughly and then put in enough water for two coffees. The surplus I planned to put in the Thermos I had bought, just hot water for when I needed it. I dug out my Lapsang Souchong from my box of goodies and made a tea. Splash of milk, which then went back in the fridge. I set my deckchair up outside and sat and looked at the nothingness that was the dales and sipped at my tea. There were hawks of some kind circling, calling with their unique cry. I am no expert, but I did recognise them as hawks, just not which type of hawk. I could hear other birds chittering in the shrubs, keeping out of the way of the hawks I expected.
I sipped at my Lapsang, marvelling that I could see virtually no sign of modern civilisation from where I sat. No other buildings, no pylons marching across the country, just a rather sad looking line of telegraph poles along the grassy lane that leads to the cottage. I sighed in contentment, I could sit here, undisturbed, no one telling me to cheer up, stop moping, he's gone now, and so on. I know that he is gone, and I want to just sit here this weekend and remember him and be sad that he is gone.
My life is okay, my nineteen year old son can look after himself, he is at home doing just that, Lord only know what kind of mess I will get back to, but it won't be anything a bit of cleaning won't sort. I just needed this alone time, and this place was perfect. My tea slowly turned cold as I cradled it rather than drank it, foolish me, no microwave to reheat it. I could put it in a tin mug and heat it on the AGA, but that seemed wasteful of the heat. I went inside, leaving my deckchair outside, I was in the middle of nowhere, I think it reasonable to believe it was safe.
I went indoors and up to the bedroom and stripped. I loved being naked, it gave me a sort of powerful feeling, I can't explain it really. I am not a naturalist, not quite. I rarely wear knickers when out, I rarely wear more than a robe at home, and that is only to save my son from embarrassment, or to answer the door to the occasional caller. I put my robe on, and went down stairs. I had brought some cooked rice and chicken in a sweet and sour sauce for my dinner. I tipped it into a pan and put it into one of the AGA ovens. It could sit there and warm through.
I dug out my laptop and sprawled on the sofa in the kitchen. I wanted to write down some of my memories of Paul, how we had held hands, how we kissed, where and when he would caress me, what he liked me to do for him, that sort of thing. I just wanted a record that I could re-read on 'those' days. I remembered us walking along a beach edged by sand dunes, some so high that they were difficult to climb, the sand too soft underfoot. I remember us getting tired and laying on the bottom of a dip between dunes, gasping for breath, the only sounds the screech of gulls and the crash of waves.
Paul kissed me, my eyes were closed and I hadn't expected the touch, I startled and then kissed back, Paul's hands working at my thigh, going higher, nearer, his tongue delving deeper in my mouth. I remembered the way my breath held, the anticipation of his touch, the electrics as his fingers found their target, how I wanted him. I remembered how he eased my bikini shorts to one side and his fingers penetrated, how I wanted his dick inside me. How we shagged in the dip of the dunes, the cry of my orgasm echoing with the screech of the gulls.
So many memories, I needed to write them down. Every time I would read them, different memories would surface, I could relive the moments.
The rice and chicken would be ready, I grabbed an oven glove and retrieved it from the AGA, yes, ready. I transferred it to a bowl, grabbed a fork and sat and ate, my mind still back in days with Paul, recollections and memories swirling in my mind, never haunting, always dreams of pleasure. I would never think of the day I lost him, that day had to be exorcised.
I sat back, my empty bowl to the side and delved once more down memory lane, a boat trip on the broads, a short holiday we had taken just to get away from the fools in the real world, we had boated a few miles from the marina and moored on one of the banks, alone, apart from passing boats. We had lain in the cabin as the rain fell outside, swayed by the gentle rocking of the boat, smiling at each other and then we kissed, my hand went down to his waist and undid his ties, loosening to give me access. He had lifted his bottom enabling me to slide his shorts down, his dick hard and wanting. My first kiss on its end had caused him to gasp, a gasp so erotic it almost made me cum.
His dick so hard on the inside, like steel, yet soft and pliable on the outside, I gently pulled his foreskin down, watching as it released his head, its rim almost purple, a bead of white at his hole. That bead was mine, I leant down and lapped it up. Another memory filled with intimate moments, of fellatio, of love together, now gone.
I cleared away the pot and bowl, washing them in the warm water, heated by the AGA. I stocked the AGA up with as many logs as I could fit in, the night was drawing in and I needed to lay in my bed. I really didn't see the point in locking the door, I was in the middle of nowhere, and if someone wanted to come in and kill me, not that I could imagine anyone that would, a very old locked door wasn't going to stop them. But I locked it anyway.
The night was full of dreams of Paul, all sensual, all wonderful, none helping me get over him, but then, why should I have to get over him? When I awoke I went and had a shower, more of a warm dribble, but it did enable me to cleanse, and then a skirt and a T-shirt. Nothing else. I had considered spending the retreat naked, but, well, I wasn't quite comfortable enough for that, just yet, perhaps tomorrow.
I went down and had some toast and a cup of Lapsang for breakfast, sat on my chair overlooking the still empty dales, no one had built a small town overnight whilst I fitfully slept. The hawks were not around today and the air was full of small birds singing and chirruping. I saw some long thin animal run in the field opposite, stoat perhaps, I was ashamed at my lack of knowledge of British Fauna. I really should know more. I resolved to buy a book when I got back home. The internet was too slow here for me to navigate the online book sellers without frustration, and I was not here for frustration.
Mince and ragu for tea, I may even do some spaghetti nearer the time I decided. I threw a few more logs in the AGA and opened the damper a little to heat up the hobs. I chopped an onion and fried it, slowly, on the hob, before adding the mince I had brought with me, chopped up some tomatoes and added them. I just left it simmering away for about twenty minutes and then poured it all into a casserole pot and put it in the medium oven to simmer all day. I washed the fry pan and made myself another cup of lapsang and went and sat outside.
I saw someone in the distance on my track. Unusual, first someone I had seen, I couldn't imagine that that someone was coming to see me, and I wasn't sure what, if anything, was beyond. As the person got closer I could see he was a he, probably fifties, wearing an open necked shirt, shorts and soft style walking boots.
"Good morning" he said in a soft Yorkshire accent.
"Hello," I replied, "a bit off the beaten path."
"Yes, I suppose I am, I just followed the track to see where it went. Does this continue in a path perhaps?"
"No idea, I am just renting for a few days. I got this far and haven't ventured further yet."
"Oh. Nice spot for a few days away, if you like remote I mean."
"Yes. I needed to get away and this was the most remote spot I could find, I live near Cottingley and the fairies were getting intrusive."
He laughed, his eyes crinkling and his chest heaving as the guffaws fell.
"I haven't heard anyone speak of them in a while, mind you they are not spoken much about in Wigan."
"No, I guess they are not part of the chosen few. But they are so chatty these days."
He laughed again, such a lovely sight to see."
