Sheep dot the hillsides like scattered fluffy cotton balls, while ancient stone walls weave through the landscape with precision that puts modern construction to shame.
The scent of diesel and excitement mingles with the faint aroma of packed lunches and whatever cologne half the passengers bathed in this morning.
Okay, so I wasn’t expecting to bump into Dr. Jazz Stone on my way to grab a quick smoothie. Just like I wasn’t expecting to bump into Bess and Nettie at the Blue Water Café afterward—although let’s be honest, I would have called out a search party if I hadn’t found those two within sniffing distance of the breakfast buffet by eight A.M.
We quickly stocked up on chocolate-stuffed croissants that were so rich they practically came with their own trust fund, Belgian waffle towers drowning in strawberries and whipped cream, a Spanish omelet that deserves its own spontaneous applause, glazed crullers with edible rainbow sprinkles, smoked salmon bagels which were a siren song all on their own too strong for me to resist, artisanal cheese platters arranged like museum exhibits, miniaturequiches that burst with flavor like tiny explosions of creamy culinary perfection, wrapped in a buttery pastry, and bacon so perfectly crispy it tastes like I’ve died and gone to smokey heaven.
Then we hightailed it to the main dining room where we gobbled down lobster and chive omelets that made angels sing soprano and French toast stuffed with strawberry mascarpone that could convert the Keto crowd to the church of carbohydrates, before boarding a bus along with Wes and heading out on a two-and-a-half-hour drive through the most ridiculously gorgeous English countryside this side of a romance novel cover.
And I certainly wasn’t expecting to see Claudette and her husband Mark climb off the bus along with us once we arrived at our otherworldly destination—the one and only Stonehenge. But I was hoping.
“Would you look at this place?” Nettie gawks at the stone wonder rising before us like ancient giants frozen mid-conversation about really important prehistoric topics.
Stonehenge sprawls across the Salisbury Plain like a prehistoric puzzle someone forgot to finish, its massive trilithons reaching toward pewter skies with the confidence of monuments that have outlasted empires and will probably outlast us all. The trilithons are two massive vertical stones topped by a horizontal one and they loom over us like a giant stone doorway to nowhere.
The enormous sarsen stones stand in their eternal circle like silent bouncers who have worked the same club for thousands of years, while smaller bluestones huddle between them like children seeking protection from their granite elders.
The whole site pulses with an energy that makes your eyes hungry to take it all in and your phone battery mysteriously drain faster than usual after snaping nonstop pictures.
“Nettie Butterworth,” Bess threatens with the authority of a bestie who’s witnessed enough destruction to qualify for disaster relief training. “You steer clear of those stones. I don’t want them falling like dominoes now that Hurricane Nettie has made landfall. Work your destructive black magic somewhere else—preferably somewhere that doesn’t have UNESCO protection and internationalnews coverage.”
“I resent that accusation,” Nettie huffs with wounded dignity that would impress an acting coach. “I’ve never knocked over anything that couldn’t be replaced with a credit card and a sincere apology. Plus, insurance coverage.”
This may be true, but let’s just say she’s tested the limits of her credit cards and the patience of just about every nationality this world has to offer.
“What about that chandelier in Monaco?” Bess reminds her.
“That was an accident involving champagne and questionable architectural choices,” Nettie defends herself. “I was merely testing the structural integrity of the ceiling fixtures.”
“And the fountain in Rome?”
“Gravity malfunction. Completely beyond my control.”
“The entire display of Waterford crystal in Dublin?”
“Mass hysteria among glassware. I was just an innocent bystander holding a very enthusiastic umbrella.”
Elodie sidles up to us like a serpent in designer boots, and I gasp at her sudden appearance. “Were you on the bus with us all along? I didn’t see you anywhere during the ride.”
My South African bestie looks as if she’s ready to seduce ancient monuments as her blonde hair catches the English sunlight like spun gold, her ruby red lips could probably be seen from the gates of Hell, and her skintight leather outfit suggests she’s ready to either explore historical sites or star in a very classy adult film.
“That’s because I was in the back row canoodling with a happy-to-see-me looker whose blue eyes could arrest every woman here and probably half the men, too,” she purrs, adjusting her coat with the satisfied expression of a fashionista who collects both billionaires and one-night stands.
“You mean the man from the other night?” I ask, shocked that Elodie is going back for seconds when she usually treats men like a tasting menu—one bite and move on to the next course before anyone gets emotional attachments or phone numbers—and possibly names.
“That cad?” She winks with the kind of mischief that usually precedes international incidents. “You know I’m not a double-dipper, not when there are so many eligible bachelors aroundwaiting to be gobbled up like Christmas cookies fresh from the oven.”
I thought so.
Wes steps up and shakes his head with an expression that suggests he’s either contemplating early retirement or possibly a career change to lighthouse keeping, where there are fewer people and significantly less drama. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear a single syllable of this conversation. You know how Royal Lineage feels about employees mingling with guests in that particular manner.”
“It sure didn’t stop you from trying to land Trixie horizontal,” Nettie points out, and both Elodie and Bess are quick to agree.
I sort of agree, too.
“Face it, Captain, you’ve been chasing her since day one,” Elodie adds with a wink. “Though I’ll give you credit for persistence in the face of matrimonial obstacles.”
We all share a laugh—sans Wes, that is.
