Everything has its season
Maggie Rowan didnt sit on her sofa with a cuppa the moment she retired. She was one of those relentless optimists who seem to run on sunshine itself. She never complained whats there to whinge about? She married for love, had a daughter called Poppy, and then, well, the marriage fell apart. One night her husband went off on a spree, and she thought, Out of sight, out of mind. Luckily she still had friends, a job she adored, and a hankering for travel.
It was travel that quickly filled the gap left by a career. Not the packaged tours, mind you, but genuine, doityourself jaunts. Maggie learned to book hostels, plot routes on a map, and flag down rides from strangers. In her battered backpack she always kept a little notebook with the names and addresses of folk willing to offer her a nights roof anywhere in the country.
One drizzly lateautumn afternoon she set off for a tiny village in the Yorkshire Dales, famed for its ancient timber cottages. The rain had been falling since dawn, turning the narrow lanes into glistening streams. Slightly damp, Maggie trudged up to a small, intricately carved house with a high porch. She was to be let in by Arthur Pritchard, an old acquaintance of a friend, who had offered her a couple of nights shelter.
The door swung open to reveal a tall, slightly stooped man with a shock of stillthick silver hair and eyes as clear as a crisp October sky.
Come in, Maggie weve been expecting you, he said, his tone as relaxed as if greeting an old mate.
The house smelled of pine, a warm hearth, and something faintly familiar perhaps an echo of homemade 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 was as stiff as a cold roast, and Maggie felt like a guest who had overstayed the welcome. Yet when the topic drifted to travel, a spark lit up in Arthurs eyes.
Ive done a lot of wandering myself, he blurted out suddenly. Worked as a geologist. Scoured the whole of Britains rock formations.
He rose, fetched an old, dogeared map, and spread it on the table. It was scribbled with notes, route lines, and odd little symbols.
Thats your life, Maggie declared, not as a question but as a statement.
It was, he corrected softly.
The next morning the rain had finally stopped. To Maggies surprise, Arthur offered to show her the village. He didnt stick to the main road but led her down alleys known only to locals. He pointed out the house where a famous painter was born, and a derelict forge whose door still bore a rustblackened iron lock. He spoke little, but every word was precise, as if hed spent a lifetime conserving his voice.
Maggie listened, watched him, and realised she was genuinely fascinated not in the flamboyant way one is in the sunbaked squares of Barcelona or the bustling souks of Marrakech, but with a calm, lakedeep curiosity.
She was supposed to leave in two days, yet she didnt. She suggested they could alter her itinerary. Arthur nodded, neither surprised nor thrilled. The following dawn he woke her.
Lets go, he said. I want to show you something.
They walked a dewslicked path through a pine wood. The air was thick and heady. Suddenly the trees gave way, revealing a smooth lake, still as glass, reflecting the pinkgold predawn sky. It was so quiet you could hear the earth breathing.
They stood there in mute awe. No awkwardness, just a fullness the moment, the nature, the unspoken words lingering between them.
I thought my life ended after my wife passed, Arthur confessed, not looking at her. Lost any sense of purpose. Then you showed up, talking about how beautiful sunrise can be. It reminded me I still want to see it again. Thats why were here.
Maggie looked at his sturdy, workworn hands, the wrinkles creasing his eyes, the serene gaze that met hers. She didnt spew poetry; she simply placed her hand over his. Warmth met warmth.
I think Ill stay another day, if thats all right with you, she said.
He turned, and in his eyes she saw not the chilly October light but the bright, unguarded sun of summer.
Are you against it? he replied. Im for it.
On the walk back the silence between them was no longer uncomfortable; it was deep and understandable, like the lakes surface. Their hands brushed now and then, the most natural movement in the world.
Back at Arthurs cottage, without a word he began chopping wood for the fire, while Maggie found flour and a jar of honey in the pantry.
Fancy some pancakes? she shouted out the window to the yard.
A muffled chuckle somewhere between a cough and a laugh drifted back. She set to work, oddly cosy in the strangers yet warm kitchen.
Arthur popped in, washed his hands.
Smells heavenly, he said simply, and for Maggie that was the highest compliment.
She didnt stay just a day. A week flew by like that first sunrise at the lake. They talked about everything under the sun. He showed her his geological journals, sketches of cliffs and minerals. She regaled him with stories of eccentric hitchhikers and a night spent in an abandoned church in the Lake District. Laughter echoed, often, and it was astonishing how his chuckle resonated in the very centre of her chest.
But the tickets were bought again, Poppy was waiting back in Leeds, and reality knocked persistently. A couple of days before she was due to leave, Maggie sat on the porch watching Arthur mend a birdbox.
Im leaving soon, she said, testing the words.
He only nodded, not pausing his work.
I know.
That evening, midway through dinner, he set his fork down.
I have a proposition, Maggie, he said, unusually formal. Theres a littleknown fissure three hours away, a spot where rare rock formations surface. I was planning a trip there. Would you be my amateur guide?
She met his sincere eyes and understood: this was his way of asking her to stay, in a language he couldnt easily speak.
How many nights should we pack for? she asked, feigning seriousness.
As many as you like, he replied, holding her gaze. The place is wild, no hotels, just a tent.
She realized it wasnt just an invitation; it was a doorway into his world, his silence, his life.
Im free for the next two days, she smiled. Very free indeed.
The next morning they drove his trusty old bobcat along a bumpy road winding between lakes and pines. The wind whistled through the open windows, and the car smelled of pine sap, a dogs fur, and that indefinable masculine scent of tools and travel.
When they reached the edge of the fissure, perched on a sheer cliff above a turquoise river, Maggie froze. It wasnt merely a pretty picture; it was power, ancient hush, and grandeur.
Arthur stood beside her, looking not at the vista but at her.
So? he asked softly.
Im staying, Arthur, she whispered back, turning to him. For as long as youll have me.
He grinned.
Against it? he repeated, echoing their first joke. Im for it.
High above the river, beneath the cries of solitary birds, two retirees who had found each other at lifes bend embraced tightly, as if afraid to let go of this fragile, unexpected happiness. It arrived late perhaps too late for some, but exactly when it was needed.
