Champagne or sleep by Mandy Huggins

Maria had never liked camping. To her it was an alien world of pointless discomfort and acres of mud. She also knew that wherever you pitched your tent, at sunrise you would be surrounded by bleating ewes entangling their cloven hooves in your guy ropes.

However, when Ted took Maria on a camping trip for their first anniversary she had kept quiet and stoically faced the damp and inconvenience without a murmur. After all, he had planned it all as a surprise, they didn’t have much money back then, and love and passion had won the day over packet soup and lack of sleep.

But this was too much. For their tenth anniversary Ted had meticulously planned a reprisal of their trip.  Maria knew he was planning something, but she had secretly hoped for a romantic meal and a hotel suite in a swanky country hotel. She had envisaged them relaxing together in a huge roll top bath, brimming with bubbles and rose petals, sipping chilled champagne.

She was about to protest, but seeing the hopeful smile on his face, and how proud he was that he had planned something without her help, she just didn’t have the heart.

After all, hope springs eternal. ‘How bad can it be?’ she thought.

So there they were, on their way to spend a night under canvas in God's own County on the North York Moors. They set out under a grey sky, teasing them with the occasional splash of optimistic blue, and by the time they turned off the main road near Kirkbymoorside it was a rare and perfect summer's day.

In winter the moors are wild and lonely, and farmhouses huddle close to the hillsides, always anticipating bleak winds and harsh frosts. But now there was sweet honeysuckle climbing cottage walls, the 'pee-wit' call of the lapwing, and the warm smell of heather as they climbed higher onto the moors. The heather blazed purple as far as the eye could see, punctuated by the tiny dots of grazing sheep.

Ted checked the map, and found one of the pannier tracks of flat stones that criss-cross the moors, which monks used to use to travel between their abbeys and farms. As they followed one of the high paths, they heard the long whistle of a steam train in the dale below, snaking its way between Grosmont and Pickering.

They followed a wide track leading into the forest. Coiled bracken fronds were slowly unfurling, revealing their pale green fragility, and the air was filled with the heady resin scent of pine and spruce. As they emerged from the trees Ted pointed out his chosen camping spot. A small foss tumbled into a wide pool surrounded by flat ground, and at its head there was a natural ledge with an endless view of moor and sky.

With the tent pitched, the salmon cooking on the barbeque, and a bottle of white wine chilling in the stream, Maria had to admit that camping suddenly didn't look so bad. 

Dusk arrived in shades of rose, and a lone stag appeared for a moment at the edge of the trees. He saw them, or caught their scent, and stood, perfectly poised, silhouetted against the sky.

When the night turned black, they lay in the heather side by side, watching a sky flooded with stars. Maria couldn’t remember a more beautiful day. She reached for Ted’s hand, and she could feel him smiling in the dark.

“I was worried you would hate this”, he said. “I know camping’s not really your thing. But we had such a great time when we came before and I often think of that trip. Sometimes life just moves too fast and I thought we should slow down for a minute, together, and remember what life is really all about”.

Maria laughed. “I admit that I didn’t want to come”, she said. “But I’m so glad we did. It’s perfect”.

It was a wrench to leave the galaxies behind, but the fresh air had tired them both out and Maria suggested that they climbed into their sleeping bag. She lay with her her head on Ted’s chest in the still darkness, and just as she was nodding off, he whispered to her.

“I’ve booked us into the bridal suite at The Grange for tomorrow night.” 

Maria grinned. “I’d rather stay up here if it’s ok with you”.

Luckily there were no sheep to count, and her last waking thought was that the tent should have a roof window for stargazing.

She was awake at first light, to the sound of rustling and a tug at one of the guy ropes. A plaintive call from across the stream provoked a loud bleat just to the left of her head. She peered out of the tent, and two demonic yellow eyes met hers. 

“Ted”, she whispered, “what time is check-in at the Grange?”