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Winter escape to the Lakes
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It's the week before Christmas and you've finally found the courage to fly over from the States - you were nervous but you couldn't resist me any longer, you needed to be with me.

We've rented a small stone cottage in the Lake District. Where the mountains rise above the silvery moons of lakes, and they have ancient names from ancient peoples that sound like poetry: Blencathra; Helvellyn; Beda; Esk; loughrigg; Scafell. Dry stone walls tumble across fields and the stone and slate of the village houses are something primitive and otherworldly.

We walk back through a frozen world from the eternally-collapsing pub, where we have drunk warm mugs of mulled wine, and the steam rising from the cups filled our giddy bodies. You're wrapped up like a baby in a blanket, with scarf and hat and gloves and the biggest, woolliest, warmest jumper I could find for you. The sleeves hang over your hands and the thick folds at the neck half cover your smile.

But still you shiver as we walk, so I put my arm around you and pull you close and our footsteps fall into rhythm as we walk through the black night, seeing only the inky shapes of the fell tops around us and guided only by the receding light of the pub and the welcoming glow from the window of our little cottage growing nearer.

Perhaps at this point, a first little perfect snowflake dances down from the dark and lands on your face, making you wrinkle your nose. I laugh quietly to myself to see you looking so adorable. We walk a little faster as two, three, more flakes settle on our coats and the temperature drops. And soon I am fumbling with the big iron key that lifts the latch to let us in.

We kick off our boots and leave the coats and scarves by the door. The room is bare, except a couple of armchairs. The floor like in all these cottages is cold stone, but the room is gently warmed by the dying embers of a log fire in the hearth that dominates the room. I haul a log from the basket and it catches, throwing flickering red and orange light across the room. I pull the chairs up closer to the fire and you sit down. You are quiet. The wine and the flames have made you reflective, peaceful, a little drowsy.

I potter around for a minute, putting an old kettle on the hob in the kitchen to make coffee. While the water simmers I go to fetch something from the bedroom but as I open the door, cold air rushes around me. The room is freezing. You still sit by the fire, warming up nicely, until you feel your cheeks glowing in the heat.

You hear me stumbling in the adjoining room, swearing quietly to myself, tripping again and you wonder vaguely what I'm up to. "Silly boy," you think to yourself with a grin.

At that moment I almost fall into the room, dragging with me the mattress off our bed, which bends and bursts through the low doorway. I'm grinning to myself, another one of my hair-brained schemes which distract me every day. I lay the mattress down in front of the fire and see the inquisitive look in your eyes, which I answer: "my princess does not sleep in the cold."

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10 months ago