Going With the Flow

This is a short extract from my upcoming novel “The Keepsake”

An accountant by training and in my late forties, I had undergone a recent, unpleasant divorce and was trying to adapt to life as a single man after twenty years of marriage. It wasn’t easy. Even here in Manchester I lived in constant apprehension. My former wife still lived nearby and I was petrified I would meet her. To avoid such meetings and to forget the pain, I worked longer hours than I should. This was taking its toll; lack of sleep and a poor diet made me irritable with colleagues. Everyone was sympathetic but I could sense their frustration and found myself less welcome at social gatherings. I was as tense as a tuned violin string and didn’t know where to turn. The transfer could not have come at a more opportune time. I suspect it was no accident, for the job could have been done by a more junior person. Henry Stanton Newton is very shrewd, which is why his company is so successful.

Thus I found myself driving along a deserted country road in Radnorshire, Mid Wales, on a beautiful May morning. It was still early, for I left home before six in order to avoid the morning rush hour. Feeling thirsty, I stopped to have some coffee from the flask I had with me. It was such a glorious day I got out of the car, removed my jacket and sat on a bank beside the road. It was so peaceful I couldn’t believe it. I had never been one for stopping to listen to birdsong, I was always too busy. This morning it burst over me like an auditory waterfall. Under the influence of its magic, my tension drained away. The coffee sat beside me forgotten as I became lost, not only the tranquillity of the particular spot but also the sheer loveliness of the gentle undulations of the countryside surrounding me. I felt a strange symbiosis and remember thinking, “I belong here.”

A bizarre thought, yet one that seemed natural sitting there listening and watching. Even on holiday I didn’t do this sort of thing. I don’t know how long I sat, but when eventually a car came past and disturbed my reverie the coffee was cold and I was a new man. The birds, the countryside and the clear air seem to have made up for endless nights without sleep. I felt invigorated. I was more confident and certain where I was going than for months. I think it must have been then I decided I wanted to stay in this magical part of the world.

I returned to my car with a light heart, wound down the windows and drove along at thirty miles an hour in order to see as much as I could. Had I not been driving so slowly I would have missed it: It was a faded sign, half hidden by foliage, “Ty Glas, Country House Hotel - One mile on the right”- On impulse, something contrary to my training, I decided to turn into the driveway. It was narrow, unmade and I drove with great care to miss the frequent potholes. I began to swear at myself for being so idiotic.

Rounding a bend I saw standing among trees, newly dressed for spring, the most delightful eighteenth century country house. It was built of local grey stone and blue smoke ascended from several of its chimneys. My nose and eyes became aware of the smoke almost simultaneously. The wood-smoke smelled so good that I breathed it in as though I would never smell its like again. Having allowed my coffee to get cold earlier, I decided to ask for coffee here. It seemed the sensible option - my accountant’s brain trying to wrest control from my impulses?