Page 104 of Where Do We Go From Here?
But even fitness will fade when she gets home – once she closes the brackets of this trip. And then will anything remain at all?
Just as she’s nearing the radar she hears a noise behind her and turns to see a man and dog catching up fast. He’s no spring chicken, but by God, he’s fit – he’s almost running.
Wendy ups her pace, determined not to be shown up by being overtaken, and as he gets closer behind her she can hear him urging his dog on. ‘Come on, Fifi,’ he keeps saying. ‘You can do it.’
Wendy takes her usual panoramic shot and then turns to face the man, now crouched down, rewarding his dog. ‘There you go,’ he says. ‘Good girl!’
‘I’m assuming your dog is English,’ she says, offering the man a smile.
‘Ha!’ he says. ‘Yes. I’m actually Scottish, but Fifi’s most definitely English.’
‘My daughter’s name is Fifi,’ Wendy tells him. ‘Well, Fiona really, but we call her Fifi. She’d be mortified.’
The man smiles warmly. ‘My wife called her Fifi,’ hesays. ‘She’s French. So it’s justfille-fille, if that makes any sense. She looked very girly when we got her. She had these long lashes as a puppy, didn’t you, Fifi?’
‘She still has a very pretty face,’ Wendy says, nodding at the dog and then turning to look back out at the view. An orange paraglider is swooping gracefully in the distance.
‘We love this walk, don’t we?’ the man says, petting his dog.
‘Me too,’ Wendy tells him. ‘I try to do it every day.’
‘Ah, a local, then?’ the man says.
‘Not really. More a long-term tourist. I’m staying here for six months. Well, if I stay until the end. I may go home a bit early.’
‘Homesick?’ the man asks. ‘Or obligations?’
‘A bit of both, really,’ Wendy says.
‘And where is home?’
‘England,’ Wendy says. ‘Maidstone. Kent.’
‘Ah, well, make the most of this,’ the man says, gesturing at the view. ‘Because you’ll miss it once you’re gone.’
‘Yes,’ Wendy says. ‘Yes, I will.’
And with that, the man stands, says, ‘Come on, Fifi! Upward and onwards!’ And with a wave and a ‘You have a good day,’ the man and his dog head off, continuing up the ridge.
Wendy sighs and sits down on a boulder. She stares out at the view. Yes, it’s true, she will miss this. Perhaps she should stay longer after all.
She takes a deep breath of the cool mountain air and starts her way back down. She’s feeling a bit better – that smog of depression is lifting.
Is it the exercise, she wonders, or the mountain air? Or is it the fact that she has been forced to think about how she’ll miss all this beauty once she’s home?
But no, it’s that brief connection with another human being, she decides. Those few pleasant words exchanged with a stranger have somehow lifted her spirits. She thinks about thoserats in their cages and thinks that the research is probably right – social connection probably is the answer after all.
On the way back she walks as far as the bakery to find it as busy as she has ever seen it. The queue of people picking up cakes for their New Year celebrations spills right out into the sunshine.
When eventually she gets inside, she fills her basket with food – cheese, a jar of posh pickles and a fancy pasta sauce containing artichokes and truffles. If she’s going to spend New Year’s Eve alone for the first time in her life, she can at least try to make it special.
At the counter she adds fresh bread, a raspberry charlotte for dessert, and two croissants for the morning.
‘Nothing to drink?’ the woman asks as she nears the end of Wendy’s basket.
‘No,’ Wendy says. ‘New Year’s resolution.’
‘Ah, ça, c’est pour demain,’the woman says – that’s for tomorrow.‘Vous êtes seule ce soir ?’she asks, then in English, ‘Tonight, you are alone?’
