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Shame.
I liked dinosaurs.
An odd thing for a twenty-eight-year-old woman to say, but still. There were some fascinations you simply didn’t grow out of.
Personally, I didn’t trust anyone who didn’t like dinosaurs.
I hadn’t brought my laptop with me, and it was a decision I was greatly regretting. This place was bustling with inspiration, and I peeked inside my bag to see if I had a notebook.
Of course I did.
A pen would be another matter, though.
Thankfully, there was no shortage of shops on the square, so I busied my way around them until I found one with pens. After procuring one or, uh, three, I followed my nose—and my belly—to the most adorable little café next to the museum.
It had both indoor and outdoor seating, and I opted to take an empty table outside. The earlier dark cloud had cleared, leaving behind a hot sun, but there was a gentle breeze drifting off the river that counteracted it, and the parasol umbrellas cast some welcome shade over the tables.
I took a seat and accepted the menu from the young girl who’d shown me to my table. I ordered some water and browsed the food on offer while she got my drink for me, and I settled on a BLT sandwich with a small side of chips.
With the order out of the way, I pulled out my notebook and pen and started writing. I wanted to capture as much of the area as I could while my brain was still whirring, so I got down to it before my creativity went on hiatus again.
The words flowed. It was effortless. I hadn’t written like this in so long, not even this morning. Maybe it was the fresh air, or it was the fact I was handwriting instead of typing, but it was oh so easy to describe Windermere.
I wasn’t sure I’d even scratched the surface of how lovely the village was. I wanted to explore every nook and cranny, but I knew that was better saved for a day when the words didn’t want to come.
If there was something left to discover, there was something to write about.
I kept writing, even as I ate. It was strangely peaceful here, even with all the people milling about the square and the groups around me who were eating lunch as I was. The chatter was nothing more than a low hum, occasionally broken by a louder laugh or a child’s cry.
I didn’t expect it to be this comforting.
I’d forgotten how much fun it was to people watch. Wherever I went in London it was all the same to me; tourists with wide eyes full of wonder, runners and cyclists tearing across the parks, businesspeople rushing back and forth. Or maybe I was doing my people watching in the wrong places, because this was so much better.
Or I was just falling in love with the easy pace of the countryside all over again.
Hmm.
Maybe I just needed to move.
Wow. Talk about romanticising the place.
“Ellie!” Esme’s bright voice cut through my reverie, and I looked in the direction of her voice.
She was flanked by three women who looked to be the same age as her. One wore tan cigarette trousers with a floral blouse and carried an air of la-di-dah about her. The second was dressed in a polka-dot dress and low heels, and the third woman allowed her white hair to fall about her shoulders in thick curls, and it contrasted beautifully with her scarlet cardigan.
“Esme.” I smiled. “It’s lovely to see you.”
The woman in the polka-dot dress stepped forwards. “Are you—oh, my goodness. You’re Ellie Aarons, aren’t you? The author?”
Ah.
This had to be the book club.
There went my peace and quiet.
I put down my pen and got up, smiling at her. “Guilty as charged.”
The white-haired woman stepped towards me excitedly and grabbed my hands. “Oh, I just love your books. You know, we didn’t believe Esme when she said you were staying on the estate. Why wouldyoube here?”
