“Let’s go with charming,” I say, slowing the car as we pull off near a quiet lay-by overlooking the valley. “Tragic is only if the sandwiches are soggy.”
Rain drums steadily on the roof, soft and constant. She looks at me, eyes bright, a little uncertain but not unhappy.
“So,” she says after a moment, “where exactly are we going for this grand car picnic of yours?”
I nod towards the windscreen. “See that building up there, at the top of the hill?”
She squints through the rain. “The one that looks like it’s about to be blown off the edge of the world?”
“That’s the one,” I say, grinning. “Britain’s highest pub. Tan Hill Inn. Jon took me there last time I visited. The views are brilliant when the weather’s not trying to kill you.”
She laughs softly. “And we’re goingthere?”
“Not quite,” I say. “There’s a lay-by just before the pub. Good view of the hills, decent bit of shelter from the wind if we park right. We can sit in the back, eat our sandwiches, and pretend we’re on some daring expedition.”
She gives me a look that’s half disbelief, half amusement. “A daring expedition involving egg mayonnaise?”
I gasp in mock outrage. “How dare you. Do I look like the sort of man who brings such a common sandwich?”
Her mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “Alright then, enlighten me. What culinary masterpiece have you prepared?”
I tap the steering wheel, pretending to think. “My own creation. A finely tuned balance of flavours, years in themaking. Lettuce, salami, Gouda, peppers, and a hint of mayonnaise—all on a baguette.”
She blinks at me, then laughs. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“It’s a work of art,” I say solemnly. “The perfect sandwich. Not too soggy, not too dry, never falls apart mid-bite. I’ve survived whole expeditions on this recipe.”
“I’m sure you have,” she says, grinning now. “Sounds very tactical.”
“Absolutely. You’ve got to keep morale high in the field.”
Her laughter fills the car, light and genuine. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you’re ridiculous,” she giggles.
“Ridiculously prepared,” I correct her. “Now, brace yourself for sandwich perfection.”
Rain streaks the windows, wind sweeping across the Dales outside. She gazes at the rolling hills and smiles, that small, quiet smile that always catches me off guard.
It might be pouring, it might be freezing, but somehow, it already feels like the best picnic I’ve ever had.
After another ten minutes of driving, we reach the top of the hill. The rain hasn’t let up, but even through the drizzle, the landscape unfolds like something from an old painting—endless, rugged, and quietly magnificent.
I pull into the lay-by, angle the car so the front faces the road and the boot opens out towards the valley. The wipers squeak one last time before I cut the engine. The sudden silence makes the patter of rain against the glass sound louder, almost like drum roll.
Eve twists in her seat, looking through the back window. Her breath catches. “Oh,” she says softly.
That one syllable says enough.
I glance over my shoulder. Beyond the misted glass, the hills stretch away, dark stone walls carving through the fields like crooked seams.
“Told you,” I murmur. “Yorkshire never disappoints.”
She glances back at me, her eyes bright with that quiet spark I’ve started to recognise, the one that appears when something catches her off guard in a good way.
We both unbuckle and start the awkward crawl into the back. There’s laughter, a couple of bumps, a mutteredsorryfrom her when she elbows me, and then we collapse in a heap on the camping mats.
“Smooth entrance,” she says between small bursts of laughter.
“Graceful as ever,” I reply, leaning back against the pillows I’d stolen.
