by Lucy Appleby
Diana sat contentedly at the kitchen table, enjoying the relaxing feeling of warmth that seeped through her body following a bout of riotous lovemaking. And while her sated partner lay sleeping upstairs, Diana sipped from a cup of coffee long since grown cold as she cast her mind back to the day she found this remote place. She had literally stumbled upon it by accident one afternoon. On her way to see a friend in Buxton, she had a sudden impulse to detour along the scenic roads up and down the undulating hills. She drove through numerous little villages, past farms and grazing pastures and arrived eventually at a small hamlet consisting of a row of cottages. At the end of the row was a pub, 'The Green Man', its namesake staring out from the ancient hand painted sign, features blurring into leaves peering outward from behind a mottled screen of vines and leaves. She pulled up, smiling to herself; how reassuringly British to find a pub hidden away in this rural backwater. It did look inviting though, with its white walls sheathed by the thick vines of an ancient wisteria, sunshine yellow paintwork on the windows and door, and a small well manicured beer garden round the side, gaily decked with green wrought-iron tables, big shady green parasols and cushioned chairs. A stocky dark-haired man sauntered out from the beer garden. He carried a tray on which stood a lone empty glass. Glancing in her direction he grinned and gave a friendly wave. She waved back, then drove away, resisting the temptation to pop in for a long cool drink.
Continuing on the road past the pub she noticed a For Sale sign in the hedgerow, with an arrow pointing further ahead. Nonchalantly curious, she carried on the road for a mile or so, driving through a canopy of trees, their branches entwined to form an arch above the single track road. At the point the road became rough shale and began its ascent, she could see the house in the distance, perched in a fold of the hill. Greystones. It welcomed her from its elevated position, mullioned windows winking in the sunlight, and solid blocks of grey stone sparkling as they caught the light.
She drove up to the house. The For Sale sign hanging over the garden wall had another sign slapped across it saying Vacant Possession. It wasn't as though she was contemplating buying a house, never mind one in the middle of nowhere - but there was something about this place that called to her. There would be no harm in having a closer look. So, with mounting excitement, she paused in front of a pair of heavy metal wrought-iron gates. They were beautifully sculpted featuring forged scrolls and delicate leaves. Jumping out of the car, she unfastened the catch and pushed the gates open. The expanse of drive beyond beckoned. She walked up the garden path. Whoever had lived here before had maintained the garden well. It was full of mature shrubs and trees, with the flowers of late spring in the herbaceous borders blooming in bold groups of vibrant colours, indicative of thoughtful planting. A multitude of flower heads shook beneath a gentle breeze, conveying hundreds of bobbing curtseys. At the end of the path was a wooden porch, painted white, and enhanced by the simple use of trellis in the side panels through which the buds of clematis were starting to bloom. A standard iron cresting gave the porch a fretted roof-line, its intricacy softened by the climbing sun-seeking tendrils of pink clematis.
The large oak front door had a brass letterbox and an iron door knocker in the shape of a lions head. She peeped through the slit of the letterbox which revealed a spacious white walled entrance hall with a carpet the colour of a rich claret, which extended up the staircase at the end of the hall. The interior was bright as the sun streaming in from the open doors of the downstairs rooms dispelled any gloom. Snapping the letter box shut, she moved to the left front window, perched on the low stone sill and peeked in through the glass. The room within was charming in its rustic simplicity, graced by a big open fireplace and high mantel shelf. She gradually made her way round to the back of the house, peering through the windows, delighting in the old soot-blackened fireplaces and oak beams set into slightly wonky walls. It was all so lovely, quaint and oozing with character. Empty and waiting, the rooms beckoned to her.
The house was built in an inverted T shape, with a large kitchen jutting out at the back. Someone had obviously spent a great deal of money on fitting out the kitchen. It was tastefully done with a traditional feel to the white walls, light oak units and granite work surfaces. There was a modern cooking range set back into the chimney breast, and a scrubbed pine refectory table abandoned by the previous incumbents had pride of place in the centre of the room. Sunlight filtered in from the side windows, and the room was light and airy.
Behind her, the back garden was an eclectic colourful mix of flower beds, apple trees, a sun terrace, and an overgrown vegetable patch adjacent to a somewhat tumble down yet charming glasshouse. A blackbird perched on the roof of the old potting shed regarded her fearlessly and sang a melodious welcome. And where the garden ended formally by a stone wall, beyond it spread the wild expanse of fields, copses, woods and rolling hills, and the silver waters of the stream which ribboned its course through the lush green valleys.
A creature of impulse, she made two calls. The first to the estate agents whose number was plastered on the For Sale sign. It was a quiet day for them - they would send someone round in half an hour with the keys so she could gain access to the property and look round the interior. The second call was to her friend Penny in Buxton, telling her she would be a few hours later than planned, and promising to tell her all about the reason for her delay when she eventually arrived.
The estate agent turned up as promised - a portly, balding and extremely affable middle aged man with a beakish nose on which was perched a pair of little round framed spectacles; they gave him a learned and owlish look.
"Ah - Mrs Lewis. Good day to you." He beamed and extended his hand. "And what a lovely day it is too. I would much rather be up here than stuck in the stuffy office. Arthur Barker. Nice to meet you." His pudgy fingers grasped hers as he shook her hand with unfeigned enthusiasm.
"Thank you for coming out at such short notice. I really appreciate it. And do please call me Diana."
"No bother at all, Diana. I can't tell you how pleased I am to find someone interested in this place. Goodness knows why it wasn't snapped up weeks ago - maybe it's a bit too far off the beaten track for most people."
"I like off the beaten track," she smiled. "It's part of the appeal. And anyway, how far are we from Buxton? 12 miles or so? It's the best of both worlds."
"Indeed it is. Let's have a look inside, shall we." Mr Barker produced an old elongated iron key from the pocket of his tweed jacket. Turning the key in the lock, he opened the front door.
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