All things have their season, they say, and I have often thought of Eleanor Whitakers later years as a testament to that belief. When she retired, she did not sit idle. Eleanor was one of those indefatigable optimists who seemed to draw energy straight from the sun itself. She never complained about life; after all, what was there to complain of? She had married for love, brought up a daughter, Lucy, and even after her husband wandered off and they divorced, she kept her spirits bright. Friends, a beloved craft, and wanderlust filled the spaces she now found.
It was wanderlust that claimed the newly empty hours. Not the guided tours of travel agencies, but true, selfplanned journeys. Eleanor learned how to book hostels, plot routes on a map, and flag down passing cars. In the battered leather satchel she always carried lay a notebook filled with the names and addresses of kind souls willing to offer a nights shelter anywhere across the country.
One misty lateautumn she set off for a tiny village in the Cotswolds, famed for its ancient timber cottages. Rain had been falling since dawn, turning the narrow lanes into shimmering streams. Slightly damp, Eleanor arrived at a modest, intricately carved house with a high porch. There she was to be received by Arthur Hargreaves, an old friend of her late companion, who had agreed to take the stranger in for a couple of nights.
The door opened to reveal a tall, slightly stooped man with a head of silver hair still thick enough to hide a few black strands, and eyes as clear as an autumn sky.
Come in, Eleanor, he said calmly, as if greeting an old acquaintance.
The house smelled of pine, a warm hearth, and something faintly familiarperhaps apple jam. Arthur was a man of few words. He handed her a large, fluffy towel without a comment, set a kettle on the table, and slipped away, leaving her to warm herself by the fire.
That evening they sat over tea. Conversation did not flow easily; Arthur was reserved, and Eleanor felt like a guest who had lingered too long. Yet when the topic turned to travel, a spark lit in his eyes.
I have roamed a great deal myself, he said suddenly. I was a geologist. Ive trekked across the whole of England.
He rose and laid an old, wellworn map before her. It was scrawled with notes, route lines, and curious symbols.
This is your life, Eleanor observed, not as a question but as a quiet statement.
It was, Arthur corrected softly.
The next morning the rain ceased. To Eleanors surprise, Arthur offered to show her the village. He led her not down the main streets but through hidden alleys known only to locals. He pointed out the cottage where a famous painter had been born, and a derelict forge whose door still bore a rustblackened lock. He spoke little, but each word was measured, as if he guarded his voice.
Eleanor listened, watched, and realized she was profoundly engagednot with the sundrenched squares of Italy nor the bustling bazaars of the East, but with a quieter, deeper fascination, like the still water of a forest lake.
She was due to leave in two days, yet she stayed. She suggested they could alter her route. Arthur nodded, showing neither surprise nor delight. The following dawn he roused her.
Lets go, he said. Ill show you one place.
They walked a dewy pine path in a fir wood. The air was thick and heady. Suddenly the trees opened, revealing a smooth lake that lay as still as a polished mirror. The predawn sky reflected in pink and gold. It was so quiet that one could hear the earth breathing.
They stood in silence. It was not an awkward hush but a fullnessa fullness of the moment, of nature, of words unspoken that lingered between them.
After my wife passed, I thought life had ended, Arthur said without looking at her. I stopped finding meaning in anything. Then you arrived and spoke of how beautiful sunrise could be. I remembered what it meant to want to see that again. Thats why we are here now.
Eleanor looked at his strong, workworn hands, the gentle lines around his eyes, the calm steady gaze. She said nothing grand, only slipped her hand over his, feeling the warmth meet hers.
I think Ill linger a day longer, if you dont mind, she said.
He turned to her, and in his eyes she saw not the cool of autumn but the bright, summer sun.
Do I mind? he replied. Im all for it.
They walked back, and the silence between them had changedno longer uneasy, but deep and understandable, like the surface of that lake. Their hands brushed now and then, the most natural gesture in the world.
At the cottage Arthur, without asking, began chopping wood for the fire, while Eleanor found flour and a jar of honey on the kitchen shelf.
Fancy some pancakes? she called out the window.
From the shed came a sound somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. She set to work, feeling surprisingly cosy in that unfamiliar yet warm kitchen.
Arthur came in, washed his hands.
It smells like heaven, he said simply, and for Eleanor that was the highest praise she could receive.
She did not stay just a day. A week passed as swiftly as that earlymorning lake moment. They talked about everything under the sun. Arthur showed her his geological journals, sketches of rocks and minerals. She recounted the eccentric hitchhikers shed met and the night she spent in an abandoned chapel in a northern village. They laughedmuch laughter. It was a marvel to find a man whose laughter echoed in the very chambers of ones own heart.
Yet tickets were bought again, Lucy awaited her mother in the city, and reality pressed its reminder. A couple of days before she was to depart, Eleanor sat on the porch watching Arthur mend a birdhouse.
Im leaving soon, she said, as if testing the words for strength.
He only nodded, his eyes never leaving his work.
I know, he replied.
That evening, amid dinner, he set down his fork unexpectedly.
I have a matter to discuss, Eleanor, he said with an uncharacteristic formality. Theres a littleknown fissure three hours away, a spot where unique rock formations surface. I was planning to explore it would you keep me company as an amateur guide?
She met his most honest eyes and understood his request without the need for further wordsa plea to stay.
How many nights should we pack for? she asked, feigning seriousness.
As many as you wish, he answered, holding her gaze. The place is wild, there are no innsjust a tent.
She saw that it was more than an invitation; it was a doorway into his world, his silence, his life.
Im free for the next two days, she smiled. Plenty free.
The next morning they set off in his battered old Mini, rattling over a rough track that wound between lakes and firs. The wind howled through the open windows, and the car carried the scent of pine, a mutts fur, and the evermale perfume of tools and road.
When they reached the edge of the fissure, a sheer drop overlooking a turquoise river, Eleanor stopped. It was not merely a pretty picture; it was power, centuriesold silence, and grandeur.
He stood beside her, looking not at the vista but at her.
How does it feel? he asked softly.
Im staying, Arthur, she whispered, turning to him. For as long as youll have me, if you dont mind.
He smiled.
Do I mind? he repeated their first jest. Im all for it.
High above the river, beneath the cries of solitary birds, two retirees who had found each other at lifes crossroads embraced as tightly as if they feared letting go of this new, fragile, extraordinary happiness. It arrived latefar later than any had expectedbut precisely when it was needed.
