Chapter 1

I was not a happy bunny. I had been looking forward to a weekend camping in the Lake District; as it was coming up to Easter, the office would be closed from Thursday evening until Tuesday morning. Admittedly, it would be busy, but I was pretty sure there'd be plenty of room on Coniston Water for my sixteen foot Kestrel sailing dinghy. We'd had it arranged for weeks; Jack and I had been sailing together for years, and friends for longer. But Murphy got his oar in. Jack's wife came down with something nasty (but not life-threatening) and, quite reasonably, he'd cried off to look after her and his kids. It was now Wednesday and I thought it unlikely I'd find another crew by tomorrow night. The Kestrel is a nice boat, but it does really need two bodies to manage it. And the drive from Sheffield to Coniston may be only about a hundred and forty miles, but it's still over four hours towing a boat on a trailer over single-carriageway roads; the scenery may be pretty, but you don't get to see much when you're driving ... it's boring.

"What's up, Sam? You look as though your pet dog died, or something."

I looked round. It was Anne Abbott, a colleague I'd worked with for nearly three years. We'd maintained a friendly distance for all that time; occasionally thrown into one another's company at office parties and such like, but never taking things any further. She was ... well, I'd never really thought about it. Pleasant, quite good looking, blonde hair (I prefer brunettes) carrying a pound or two too much weight, maybe, (but so what?) with a sense of humour as similar to mine as any woman's can be to a man's. She was good company; I felt a little better just hearing her voice.

"Oh, just a bit of bad luck. I was off to Cumbria for a weekend camping and sailing, but my crew has had to cry off; family problems."

"Can't you go on your own?"

"Well, yes, but the boat's a bit hard work single-handed, and besides it's not as much fun alone. I'll probably stay in town and perhaps go walking in Derbyshire."

"What boat is it?"

"It's a Kestrel dinghy."

"I know it! Narrower than a Wayfarer, same length, bigger sails!"

"You got it. How'd you know that?"

"Oh, there's a lot about me you don't know. I used to do quite a lot of dinghy sailing, but I haven't been in a boat, oh, maybe ... ten years. If you need a crew, though ... I'm at a loose end this weekend."

Suddenly, the world was a brighter place. Not only could I have my weekend with company, but Anne was definitely better looking than Jack. My mate's a great bloke, but ... he's a bloke. What's more, I hadn't had a steady girlfriend since Julie decided I was too serious ... crumbs, that'd be over a year...

"If you're serious, you're on! Pick you up four am on Friday?"

"That early?"

"Yes. It'll get us to the camp-site around eight or nine am, beat the rush, get us a site near the lake, and leave us a full day to relax."

"OK, sounds good ... but I'd better go and pretend to do some work. Did you ever hear the one about the Soviet workers?"

"No, but do tell..."

"Apparently, wages were a bit erratic in getting paid, and the saying went round, 'as long as they pretend to pay us, we'll pretend to work'"

I snorted. As I say, we had similar tastes in humour.

She left to go to her own desk, I turned back to what I was doing.

I picked her up at four am; she was ready, carrying a small rucksack, sleeping bag in a stuff-bag and a pair of hiking boots as well as wet-boots. She was rapidly rising in my estimation. Up, on time, and apparently properly equipped for the weekend. My opinion rose even further as we drove; she made a very good travelling companion. We shared similar tastes in music as well as humour. We got to Leeds before the traffic really began to build and left the motorways to pick up the A65; that took us right through the Yorkshire Dales (stopping for breakfast at a Little Chef, we both had a cooked breakfast) to the M6, which we crossed and picked up the A590, turning off at Penny Bridge, and eventually finding our way to Old Hall camp site on the banks of Coniston Water. As I predicted, despite very good weather, there was a lot of space to choose from.

We got the tent pitched before walking the mile or so to the village for fresh provisions ... and a good cup of coffee. The walk is across fields, with livestock (mainly sheep) grazing around the path; later in the year there would be spotted flycatchers near a copse of trees; today, just crows, a few jackdaws, and a robin. It is a pleasant walk, made even more enjoyable when Anne slipped her hand into mine.

"Have you read Arthur Ransome's books?" she asked.

"Swallows and Amazons?" I glanced at her ... she nodded. "All of them. In fact I've got the whole set on my shelves at home."

"It's a very special place, this," she said.

"It is," I agreed.

By the time we were back at the tent with our purchases, it was lunchtime. More so, having been awake since 'O dark thirty' as they say, so we made tea, and ate pasties, and apples, and dark chocolate fudge cake. She caught my eye as she was forking up a mouthful of the very sticky cake, and grinned;

"I like your idea of suitable provisions for a picnic!"

Anne was keen to get on the water, so as soon as we finished eating, we manhandled the Kestrel down to the edge of the lake, and emptied the clutter out of her.

"What's this?" she asked, pointing to a bundle of brown canvas.

"That? It's a boom-tent," I said. When she raised her eyebrows, I added, "You hold the boom up with the main halliard as a topping lift, hook the tent to the underside and to the sides of the boat, and you've got a tent." I pointed to a couple of blue lumps of fabric, "there's a couple of narrow air-beds that fit each side of the centre-plate casing, and two people can sleep in the boat. It is not very comfortable, though"

Her eyes gleamed. "Could we do that? Could we take some food and visit Peel Island, like the Swallows?"

"Why, yes, if you like. It'll be a beat down the lake against this Southerly breeze, but..."

We got the mast stepped, and the sails bent on, filled a flask with boiling water and packed food (and a couple of bottles of nice wine) in the boat along with sleeping bags and a picnic blanket and spare clothes in water-proof bags, donned buoyancy aids, and set off.

She was a very good crew. There was a decent breeze, though not enough to get the boat planing, but she worked quite hard, and very effectively. After an hour, I asked her if she'd like to take the helm, which she did, proving to be as good at the tiller as she was as crew. How had I not noticed this girl before?

I suppose it's about four miles from the camp site to Peel Island. It was a beat all the way, so we probably covered more like six miles, of course. When we got there, there were some children clambering about on the rocks, and kayaks in the 'Secret Harbour', so we kept going, returning at nearly six o'clock, by which time they were gone. With the southerly wind, I dropped the mainsail, and we sailed into harbour under foresail alone, furling it just before the fore-foot crunched on the gravel of the landing.

Always leave a tidy boat! We stowed the mainsail on the boom with reefing lines as tiers, and rigged the boom tent, before mooring her fore-and-aft, facing out and floating, not aground on the landing, before unloading food, picnic blanket, and wine. I watched her as we worked, as I had watched her as we sailed. The best word I could think of to describe the way she moved was 'graceful'; she moved like a dancer, or a gymnast; purposefully, precisely, neatly, economically ... and gracefully. How could I not have noticed her before?

Peel Island is quite small. Ransome enthusiasts would know it as one of the settings for his children's stories, though it's not really big enough for all the things that happen in his books on 'Wild Cat Island'. It's about thirty yards long, and fifteen wide, with steep, rocky sides, and just two places where it's easy to land from a boat. Clamber up the rocks, and you find a clearing, covered with leaf mould from the surrounding small trees. There, we laid out our picnic blanket. The cloud cover, with a southerly breeze, meant it was a pleasantly mild evening. The cloud cover meant it was dark by the time we were eating (we were glad of the little, hissing gas lantern), being outdoors, having spent the afternoon sailing, and the company, meant that a simple meal of bread, cheese and pickle, washed down with red wine and followed by shortbread and tea ... felt, at least to me, like a feast. We tidied the food into the plastic box and set it aside, then, somehow, I was on my back on the blanket, with my left arm wrapped around her shoulders. She was on her side, with her left arm on my chest and the hand cupping my shoulder.

"Sam..."

Do you know that tone of voice? Sort of pensive? Because the person who's speaking isn't at all sure that what they want to say is going to be well received? And, usually, it's the last thing you want to hear?

"Uh huh."

"Do you like me?"

There you go, as I said. At least, in this instance, I could be honest.

"Yes, Anne, I do. Very much. In fact, I've been kicking myself, wondering how I could have worked with you for three years and not noticed you."

"Good, because there's something I want to do."

"Er, right..." what's coming now?

"I, er, brought the sleeping bags up from the boat ... would you get them out?" She pointed behind me.

We both stood, and I shook the bags out of their stuff-bags onto the blanket. I looked round, just in time to see her unhook her bra and slip out of her knickers. She began to dance in the weak gleam of the lantern; there was no music, but that hardly mattered. I couldn't call her sylph-like, she was too solid. I was wrong about something else, too — there wasn't an ounce of excess fat anywhere. I'd always thought of dryads as being slim, too ... but never again. Here was a true dryad, wholly in tune with the place; but also wholly feminine. To my eyes, suddenly the epitome of perfect womanhood. I don't know how long she danced; I just know that long before she finished, I was captivated, hooked, completely lost in love, with a woman I'd hardly noticed two days previously.

She finished her dance and I began to come round somewhat, but I hadn't completely recovered when she pressed her lips against mine before saying...

"Your choice, Sam ... would you like me to dress, and we'll go and sleep in the boat? Or shall you undress while I zip these bags together, and we'll sleep together here? I've had a fantasy for years, of dancing naked in a clearing in some woods; I still have a fantasy of camping on Wildcat Island, and, now, of sleeping with you..."

What would you do? I really hate to disappoint, and here was a gorgeous, naked, young woman practically begging me to sleep with her. I began, rapidly, to strip out of my clothes. Both of us collected our things and stuffed them in the sleeping bags at each side, sliding in together. (It wouldn't do to wake up in the morning and have to dress in dew-soaked clothing).

Words are inadequate ... but I must try. We kissed; and I felt as though I'd never been kissed before, and that I never wanted to stop. Our hands glided over each other, caressing, stroking, squeezing, raising goose-flesh. My hands palmed those lovely, neat, firm breasts, the nipples hard against me; her hand enclosing my manhood, then she was pulling me on top of her, guiding me into her, and we were together, one flesh; it was how we were meant to be. We were moving together on a rising tide of passion; my whole world was her body and mine, and the connection ... physical, emotional and spiritual, between us. She cried out, and her vagina squeezed and spasmed around my penis, triggering my own orgasm ... She wrapped herself around me, refusing to let me withdraw. I rolled so that she was on top of me, we kissed some more...

"I love you..." she whispered.

We slept, still joined.