The weather had been sublime this week, and they both felt sorry for Kelly, holed up in some city hotel, choked with traffic fumes and angry commuters. Johnny had spent his fair share of time in London when he was a young subaltern, looking for a break from gruelling exercises in Wales. He’d grown up near Lincoln but hadn’t been back for years. Army postings had taken him all over the world, so he couldn’t say he belonged anywhere really. Until he came here. This was the first time he’d felt he could stay somewhere for ever, and now he had even more reason to. Kelly Porter had got under his skin and he didn’t want that to change. It wasn’t that he wanted to marry again, but he liked the idea of being with her for a long time to come. It felt right.

He dressed and walked into town, where he’d arranged to meet Graeme. He’d offered to drive to Keswick, but Graeme said he was happy to come over to Pooley Bridge, which was less crowded with tourists, though they were getting to the time of year when that would all change. For two crazy months, the whole county was choked with millions of visitors, all trying to eat at the same time, buy ice cream at the same time, and board a steamer at the same time. It was manic and often led to episodes of what might be termed nowadays ‘holiday rage’. He and Kelly avoided the hot spots during peak season, and they weren’t short of hideaways. If you knew where to look, it was easy to find a deserted waterfall, a silent dale or a hidden tarn. But nothing beat winter, when the visitors were fewer and the skies clearer.

Graeme was sitting with a young woman when Johnny walked into the pub.

‘This is Tilly Knight – Tilly, this is my pal Johnny Frietze. He works for the mountain rescue round here. Tilly’s on holiday from London and I’m showing her around.’

Johnny shook Tilly’s hand and went to order a pint. He was off duty for the rest of the day. He was a little disappointed; he had been looking forward to catching up with Graeme alone: they usually talked about the army, ex-wives, their love of the outdoors, and their advancing age. They both turned fifty next year.

He went back to the table and sat down.

‘You know the Allerdale place on Derwent Water?’ Graeme asked him.

‘Of course. Didn’t old Lord Allerdale die recently?’

‘He did. The place has now been taken over by his grandson, who wants to turn it into some posh hotel, and he’s asked me to manage the project.’