CATS TOR by Chris Cottom (2nd place, Prompt Jun22)

It’s raining when we arrive at our holiday cottage. This, of course, is my fault.

‘We’re going abroad next year,’ Zoe says. ‘Factor 50 and a couple of Ken Folletts.’

‘That’ll depend on my bonus.’

‘It’s you being so cheerful, Mike, that’s been such an endearing part of the last twenty-seven years.’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Second only to your pedantry.’

At least I’ve tried: a Peak District barn conversion, teasingly advertised as romantic.

But the storm clears. The outside one, anyway.

‘We can try the hot-tub before Strictly,’ I say in my best Daniel Craig voice, popping a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge.

‘Don’t get any ideas,’ Zoe says, delving into the welcome basket for a taster-sized Bakewell pudding.

~

‘What do you fancy today?’ I say in the morning, over our ‘farmhouse’ toast and home-made zesty orange marmalade. ‘A languid look round Buxton? Pub lunch with the Sunday Times?’

Zoe holds up a book she’s found, amusingly titled More Peak District – Outstanding Circular Walks.

‘The Goyt Valley and Cats Tor. Seven miles.’

‘Seven miles! I need to consult my knees.’

‘Man up! We need to get beach-body-ready for next year.’

I’m pushing fifty, from the wrong side. I’m unlikely to feature in any trunks-only ‘hunk of the month’ montage from Majorca or wherever Zoe has in mind.

‘I thought you were the one who wanted to chill,’ I say.

‘Might as well make the most of the place now we’re here. Get your boots on.’

‘Why’s it called Cats Tor?’

‘How do I know? Tor just means hill, I think. And it’s not far from the Cat n Fiddle pub. It’s quite famous.’

‘Pub? That sounds interesting.’

‘It closed down.’

~

We’re a couple of miles along the wooded valley, the reservoir to our right, when the clouds darken from floorcloth grey to undertaker black. My boots are already peaty brown. The off-track shortcut had been like walking on a sponge.

‘Better turn back,’ I say, as it starts spitting.

But Zoe’s zipping up her salmon-pink waterproof, wrestling her chestnut hair into a ponytail, and pulling it through the back of her jaunty baseball cap. She still turns plenty of heads, including mine. There’s a massive bath at the cottage and, with luck, the Prosecco won’t stay another night in the fridge.

‘Left here,’ she says, flapping her transparent map case. ‘Errwood Hall. It’s only a ruin.’

‘Bit like me.’

‘Ha ha. Built for a Catholic family. Demolished in the thirties.’

The drizzle morphs unequivocally into rain.

‘Maybe there’ll be somewhere to shelter at the hall.’

There isn’t.

‘We’re not halfway yet,’ I say, checking the app on my phone. ‘Shouldn’t we abandon?’

‘You’re the one who suggested the Peak District,’ Zoe says, striding past some rhododendrons. ‘What does the word Peak suggest?’

We slog up a narrow path, bracken on either side, one behind the other, waterproofed from head to heel. Allegedly waterproofed.

Tucked into the hillside after about a mile, beside a copse of pine trees, is a tiny stone building with a conical roof, like a honeypot.

‘Shepherd’s hut,’ I say.

‘It’s a shrine,’ Zoe says. ‘There’s a cross on the top.’

It’s barely six foot across. The door’s unlocked, and about four foot high.

‘A shrine to limbo dancers,’ I say.

A little table holds a vase of fresh flowers, a pair of flickering tea lights either side of a wooden cross, and the order of service for the funeral of a woman who’d died in 2009. Behind it, on the wall, is a faded colour print of the Madonna and Child. On the windowsill there’s a shrink-wrapped pack of B&Q tea lights and an orange disposable lighter.

We sit on the floor facing each other, legs crooked and dripping, and eat our sandwiches of Dovedale cheese and locally sourced organic chutney. The rain streams down two tiddly windows, one either side.

Zoe sniffs.

‘Lavender,’ she says. ‘The tea lights are scented. Lovely.’

Her face is still wet and her hair’s dripping and ratty. When I angle my calves against hers, she doesn’t move them away.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

She looks up from her guidebook.

‘What for?’

‘Oh, all this. The rain. The fact that we couldn’t afford somewhere hot.’

She leans forward and rubs her fingers on the back of my hand.

‘That’s alright. We’ll do that next year. We’ll find the money somehow. Anyway, this is interesting.’

She turns back to the book.

‘“The Spanish Shrine was built in 1889 in memory of a Spanish governess at Errwood Hall, Dona Maria Dolores de … Ybarguen.” Only in her forties when she died.’

On a rickety three-legged stool straight out of Tess of the d’Urbervilles is a hardbacked exercise book. Zoe reaches for it and starts reading.

“We pray for Auntie Evie, and a successful operation. Sophie and Kevin.

“May the love of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you always. From Mandy.

“In loving memory of Kelly.”

She rifles back a few pages.

‘Look at the top one here,’ she says, passing the book over.

It says, “I pray for a husband.”

‘I’m going to write something,’ Zoe says, scrambling to her feet. ‘And light a candle.’

When we emerge, the worst of the weather appears to have passed. Zoe’s very quiet as we climb on up to Cats Tor while the clouds scuffle with the sun. As we reach the top of the ridge, the rain surrenders and we gaze across forty miles of Cheshire Plain. Sunlight catches the radio telescope at Jodrell Bank, as if it’s flashing a message to the sky, like ‘jolly decent of you to stop raining’.

‘What did you put,’ I say, ‘in the book?’

Zoe takes my hand.

‘I wrote, “Thank you for this special place”.’

She squeezes my hand and looks up at me, her eyes wet.

‘And thank you for bringing us here.’