Page 59 of The Start of Something Wonderful

As I pass by the other diners (all couples), I’m aware of their sympathetic sideways glances and furtive looks from behind their menus.

A rosy-cheeked, well-meaning couple even invite me to join them. I decline politely, pointing at my book and map with a smile.

‘Lovely lady like you shouldn’t be on her own,’ hollers the wife from across the room.‘We can budge up, can’t we Donald?’

‘Thank you, but I really …’

‘Nonsense! Waiter! Bring over another chair, will you?’

I’m almost on the verge of joining them just to silence her, when Donald jumps in and rescues the situation.

‘Leave the poor lass alone. God, what I’d give to be able to eat my dinner in peace without you constantly yakking in my ear.’

This has the desiredeffect, although poor Donald is not in for a good night, judging by the seething look on her face.

I order a glass of red and study the menu. Oh, dauphinoise potatoes, mangetout, beef filet in a red wine jus, how I have missed you! I have been trapped in a world of frozen ready meals, soggy, pre-prepared salads and late-night pizzas for the last eight weeks, and I never want to go back there.

* * *

I awake next morning with the bright September sun on my face, the white muslin curtains swelling like sails in the breeze. I sit up in bed, rub my eyes awake, and let out a startled yelp at the scary vision in the wardrobe mirror opposite.

It’s gone nine. So much for my early morning dip and Himalayan sauna.

I order continental breakfast from room service, take a shower,pull on my hiking gear, pack my rucksack, and head downstairs.

‘Good morning,’ says Max handing me my freshly prepared packed lunch. ‘Forecast is good. You’re lucky. It rained every day last week.’

‘Thanks, Max. I’ll be back in time for dinner.’

He reaches under the desk and produces a pair of binoculars.

‘As it’s such a clear day, I thought you might like to borrow these.’

‘Thank you.’

Placing the binoculars around my neck, map in hand, I exit the back garden via the squeaky gate, over a rickety, planked bridge, and across a gurgling stream. A pheasant darts out of the hedgerow – frantically flapping its wings – then soars upwards, coming to land on a tangle of boulders, high above me.

The springy grass soon gives way to rough and rocky terrain. As the pathbegins to rise up steeply, I start to feel as if I’m wearing a corset, the laces being pulled tighter with every step I take, nasty blisters from my rarely worn climbing boots stinging my heels.

I clamber over a craggy ridge and collapse on a cushion of lilac heather, the warm sun on my face. I open my eyes and study the billowy cloud formations. The wordnuvolefalls from my lips.Nuvole.How beautiful is the Italian word for clouds: light, floating, fluttery, just like in the Wordsworth poem.

My thoughts then turn to Francesco and my heart speeds up again. I look at my watch. He’ll be in the market now, chatting with the stallholders, choosing the ingredients for tonight’s menu.

I’ve missed my Italian lessons, the banter, the silliness. Can we pick up from where we leftoff, or will eight weeks apart have changed us? I mean, we’re just friends. There was that almost kiss, but it’s as well it didn’t happen.Romanzaonly complicates things, and I won’t allow myself to be derailed like before. In any case, for all I know, he may well have a wife and fivebambiniback in old Napoli.

I haul myself up, scramble and claw my way to the top, draw the binoculars tomy face, and scan Scafell mountain range, their summits poking through the band of hovering mist, like islands in the sky.

I have gasped in awe at the Rockies, the Himalayas, and the Grand Canyon, but through a tiny porthole at thirty-two thousand feet, they seemed unreal: remote, unattainable, aloof, inanimate. These mountains leap out at you, inviting you to reach out and touch their rough,rugged edges, to explore their rock faces and scree gullies, to dip your throbbing feet in their icy, tumbling waters, shelter in their shadowy crevasses, be bewitched by their unusual, brooding shapes, daunted by their noble magnificence. They are very much alive, their colours and moods constantly changing with the elements.

Forget the sun rising over Hong Kong Harbour, the Manhattan skylinefrom The Empire State, or the thunder of the mighty Niagara Falls; there is nowhere on earth that I would rather be than here, atop Crinkle Crags, overlooking Bowfell and the Langdale Pikes, like felt cut-outs against a painted sky. I am drunk with fresh air and wonderment, possessed by a mad desire to run in the grass without any shoes, à la Julie Andrews.

I reflect on the last two months:the wobbly scenery, the terrible wigs, and the mixed-up lines, so stressful and torturous at the time.

But thanks to that chaotic mermaid, mature bride, farcical maid, and chain-smoking, theatrical landlady, I now have the material and characters I’ve been searching for to write my one-woman comedy.

* * *

Back at the hotel, I light the honeysuckle-scented candles, find some Einaudion Spotify and languish in the deep bath, intoxicated by the sweet, jasmine-fragranced vapour rising from the steaming water.

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