I swear I am dying, my legs screaming at me with every step.
Curse that second glass of wine and curse Steve from Accounts with his buttery voice and model good looks.
There I was, imagining training sweating it out in the gym with him every weekend as I signed on the dotted line, handing over eighty quid of my hard-earned dosh. I spent six weeks begging colleagues to sponsor me and for what? Blistered feet and an achy back. And what’s more, Steve was too busy for pre-event training. TOO BUSY!!
And then, he pulled out with an Achilles tendon injury. You can’t make this shit up. Never again. Not over my dead body, which is looking more likely than I care to admit…
I haven’t seen another soul in hours, and can’t help wondering if the event organisers and marshals have cleared up and gone home? Maybe they collected up the signs too, assuming I’d dropped out halfway around the trail. Or maybe I’ve missed an obvious turning? The track up ahead does look like the road less travelled. I switch on my mobile phone, no signal.
For a moment, I consider turning around, but having not seen a peep of civilisation since I started, it makes sense to trundle onward. You can’t walk that far in England without crossing a road, can you? At this stage, the sea would be a blessing, although, even with my limited geographical knowledge, I’m quite sure the Peak District is nowhere near the sea. I’m more likely to stumble onto a housing estate.
With only the dappled golds and reds of sunset for guidance, I fight my way through an almost impenetrable wood, knitted and twisted branches stretching out to snag on my clothes. The air is moist and heavy with mould spores, bitter and rancid as if one species has strangled the other in its quest for light. My damp clothes hang limp from my body as the canopy finally thins out and stars illuminate the night sky.
A few yards ahead, I stumble across an old wooden sign. I reach up to pull free the lichen growing across the white letters. Peering closer I can just make out the words Pennine Way. I was hoping for McDonalds to be honest, or 24hr Tesco; anything but the expanse of mute-grey moorland stretching out to the horizon., a warm orange haze of lights in the far, far distance. I’m doomed.
Lights to my left make me squint. There are two. My breath catches with a wave of hope. Headlights! I part run and part stagger along the stony path to the adjoining road and wave down the vehicle. The person swerves and slams on their brakes.
‘Jes’ love, I could have hit you!’ he shouts.
I rush over to the drivers window, my legs shake with relief and probably adrenaline from nearly being run down. ‘Sorry, any chance of a lift into town please?’
‘Yeah sure love, but I’ve gotta do a job first in the next village.’
‘Ok.’ I attempt a grin although the result must have been more frightening than friendly from the grimace I receive in return. Or maybe it’s because I look like I have just stepped out of a horror movie, and am sure I don’t smell any better.
He leans over to open the passenger door and I climb in beside him. ‘What yer doing out here so late on your own?’ he asks.
‘I got lost.’
‘I can see that.’ His eyes sparkle in the moonlight. He is ruggedly handsome. ‘Where’ve you come from?’
‘London.’ Realising too late he means where I started my walk.
‘Yeah you are definitely lost.’ He roars with laughter, and it’s infectious. I slump into the seat and laugh until I’m crying.
We stop for half an hour outside a customer’s house. I stay in the car, eyes closed and mouth open, catching flies. When he finally wakes me, we’re outside my hotel The Pennines Inn. I snigger at the tacky neon sign with it’s missing letters.
‘I’ve always thought it’s a great name for an inn,’ he chuckles. ‘Pub down the road does better food if you’re interested?’
I am starving and seeing as he hasn’t already chopped me into little pieces, I can’t see any reason to say no. ‘Yeah sure. Just give me ten minutes to freshen up.’
We spend the night in the pub laughing and drinking before Keith escorts me back to my hotel. ‘Fancy a walk tomorrow?’
‘No way!’ I laugh. ‘Never again!’
‘How about lunch instead?’
I moved to the Lake District three months later. Keith and I own a cottage just off the Pennine Way. I’m now an avid walker and so are our three children.
When people ask how we meet, I tell them that I got lost on an organised event but found a husband instead.
Thanks Steve!
This piece was inspired by the above photo prompt at Creative Writing Ink
Copyright © 2019 Lottie McKnight. All rights reserved.