I breathed in the sharp, tangy air, the odd whiff of the lobster pots slapping me in the nostrils now and again. I grew to love that stinging smell when I was little, as it spoke of interesting creatures from the depths of the sea, the romance of stepping aboard the chugging Neptune’s Lady for a fun fishing trip to deeper waters (Great Uncle Tommy never took me potting, as it was dangerous and heavy work), and the feeling of being Home. I signed some papers, grimaced the solicitor away, unloaded my little car, parked off the road on a little snicket next to the landrover, and went in. Alone.My family home was a mere five miles up the road in Upper Windingford, but when I was in Misty Cottage, my heart felt it was truly at home. My parents died when I was in my first year of work, after leaving university, and I took a month off to stay with Great Uncle Tommy. There was only us two left of our small family unit, and we both bore our grief silently, taking comfort simply in each. Her tousled hair reminding him of leaves in the autumn, he watched her mouth as she laughed. Her bodice dark green with a tiny gold ribbon edging the whole that ribbon made him wonder if her husband had brought it from the Fair. As she bustled near the fire he watched her hips as she turned and tugged at her hem, the saffron colored skirt caught on a branch. Her easy laugh and smile as she struggled to free the skirt riveting to him. The mead and ale sang in his veins, not much for strong drink these days, he was carried on the river of warmth as it crept through his body. The men’s ribald stories and unlikely conquests filled his ears with ideas, images unbidden creeping forth under a warm eiderdown quilt of mead. One of the men told a story of a maid willing to suckle his, this kneeling, this willing mouth, and then her drinking him in, must have been a witch and needed his essence…all around laughter echoed as the jibes about her not needing too much essence since she chose him..
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