Page 25 of My Kind of Happy

Chapter Eight

According to the satnav, Barnaby was about half an hour away from home. Not far, but before I’d had Scamp, I hadn’t really been into walking so I didn’t know the Derbyshire Dales well. But by the time I’d negotiated tight bends and up and down hills I was already a teeny bit in love with it. Scamp behaved himself perfectly and after turning a few circles on the passenger seat, settled down for a nap while I enjoyed the scenery.

I passed the village sign informing me I’d reached Barnaby and my heart skipped with delight; whoever had written the article in the Derbyshire Bugle was right. It was love at first sight; the village was charming the pants off me.

Everywhere was in bloom: trees were covered in pink blossom, cottage gardens were brimming with tulips, daffodils and grape hyacinths, and the village green was dotted with clouds of bluebells and cowslips. I slowed down after passing a little school and edged carefully down the main street which was partially blocked by parked cars outside the church. In my peripheral vision I was aware of a row of shops opposite. The Lemon Tree Café and its famous Italian delicacies were probably over there, but I carried on until I found a space to park, intending to take Scamp for a walk before eating anything else.

Once Scamp had completed his full range of yoga stretches, I attached him to his lead and we set off. A signpost ahead promising a riverside walk drew me towards it and before long, we were passing through a wooden kissing gate and underneath a canopy of hawthorn blossom. A small patch of woodland stretched ahead of us; new growth swished in the slight breeze and filtered sunlight made a fluttering mosaic on the ground. I stuck to the fairly dry path, but Scamp, his tail waving like a furry flag, tore from left to right, hoovering up the delicious smells of damp earth and brittle sticks and clumps of wild garlic. Overhead an orchestra of birds serenaded us with the sound of springtime and I breathed in deeply, feeling incredibly smug with my spur-of-the-moment excursion.

We emerged from the trees and joined a towpath bordered each side with swathes of long grass sprinkled with dandelions, one side of which sloped down towards the river. We walked past a hotel where people were sitting out on the terrace enjoying drinks in the sunshine. Off to the side, as if awaiting a wedding party, was a large white marquee decked out with bunting. In front of the hotel was a small wooden jetty where a row of brightly painted narrowboats were lined up end to end.

‘England’s green and pleasant land, eh, Scamp,’ I said, remembering Laura’s words. I picked up a stick and flung it as far as I could. ‘We approve, don’t we?’

I smiled, watching him delve into the tufty grass after his stick. I honestly couldn’t think of a single thing I’d rather be doing right now than this. This unexpected expedition might well earn a place on my happy list.

Because I was happy.

Doing this simple thing with the dog had made me happy. It seemed so straightforward, too easy almost, but it felt as if there was a shift in the burden of sadness I’d been under and light was beginning to find its way through, like the sunlight through the trees. Perhaps it was just timing; perhaps I’d have been feeling better by now without coming across those words of wisdom from Freddie. I’d never know. But that letter felt like a lucky charm, a talisman to live my life by.

The weather was warm for the time of year and I was beginning to feel the sting of sun on my pale face. Scamp had begun to pant and was eyeing up the river longingly. I had no idea if he could swim or not and had no desire to find out just at the moment.

I called him over and clipped on his lead. ‘Let’s head back and get you a drink. Perhaps that dog-friendly café will have a bowl full of water for you. And then we can explore the village.’

We retraced our steps and were soon back at the car. I collected my bag and shook out a lump of dried liver from a tub for Scamp. I’d parked a couple of hundred metres or so away from the village green and I could see it in the distance. Small groups of people were clustered together posing for photographs, others were milling about chatting while children played around their parents’ legs. Even from my position, I could see that the number of cars near the entrance to the church had swelled to almost gridlock proportions. The church bells began to ring and people sprang into action, gathering little ones, adjusting buttonholes and straightening hats.

It had to be a wedding, and what a perfect day for it. I stowed the dog treats back in my bag and we set off towards the church. With any luck I’d get a glimpse of the bride and I was interested to see the wedding flowers. We’d made all sorts of wedding arrangements at the Wisteria Cottage flower school: bridesmaids’ bouquets, garlands, table decorations and even the pièce de resistance – the moongate. If I managed to get close enough, I’d take some photos and send them to Harriet.

‘Come on, Scamp,’ I said, picking up my pace, ‘let’s try and find somewhere to lurk before the bride arrives.’

There was a beautiful ancient lychgate at the entrance to the churchyard and a floral swag made from various types of narcissi had been wound around one of the old oak beams. I took my phone out to take a few pictures quickly and had just managed to zoom in on a gorgeous detail of twisted willow and variegated ivy when Scamp’s tail began flapping against my leg, alerting me to the presence of someone else.

I turned to find myself face to face with a man with unruly brown hair and amused eyes. He was dressed in a suit and holding a professional-looking camera.

‘I’d get yourself seated inside, if I were you.’ He nodded towards the road. ‘Here comes the bride.’

Sure enough an old-fashioned cream Rolls Royce was creeping at a snail’s pace towards us.

‘I’m not a guest,’ I said.

He grinned. ‘I’m not a photographer either, so wish me luck.’

Odd, I thought, watching as the man leaned into the road as the wedding car came to a halt. He snapped away at the bride who waved and smiled from the back seat. Next to her, an older man, the father of the bride presumably, looked beside himself with pride.

The driver opened the bride’s door and the man who claimed not to be a photographer squatted down and took some more pictures. The bride was on the opposite side of the car to me so I couldn’t see much other than an awful lot of ivory lace veil, but I could hear her laughing and saying that she couldn’t move in her dress and had anyone got a winch.

Aware that Scamp and I looked rather conspicuous standing there like lemons, I opened the lychgate and slipped inside the church grounds out of view. There was a sudden clatter and yell behind me and I turned to see a long-legged dog with a bow around its neck hurtling towards us and a small boy in hot pursuit trying to catch the end of the dog’s trailing lead. Scamp raised his eyebrows and bounced on the spot at the prospect of a new playmate.

‘Catch Hugo for me please!’ shouted the boy.

Hugo, tongue wagging, made a beeline for us. He looked delighted with himself for breaking free from church. As he and Scamp began the ancient ritual of bottom-sniffing I grabbed the end of Hugo’s lead and held on to it tightly.

‘Good boy,’ I crooned to the dog who looked like a cross between a spaniel and a Labrador and had the most gorgeous fluffy ears.

‘That was close,’ said the little boy, pretending to wipe his brow with relief. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He took the lead from me then glanced up and saw the wedding car. ‘Yikes, Mummy’s arrived. I’d better get back in there. Come on Hugo, we’ve got a job to do. Bye!’