Page 15 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure

Chapter Twelve

A tticus drove Winnie through the gates of the campsite, where a barrier prevented them from going further.

Parking in a nearby space, he told Ness to stay while he went to check in.

Reaching for his folder and placing his hat firmly, he strode toward a doorway marked ‘Reception’.

Behind a long counter, a woman wearing square-framed glasses, with dark black hair cut into a helmet style, studied a computer.

Atticus stepped forward. ‘Good evening, er… Buenas noches.’

‘Sí?’ The woman’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.

‘Do you speak English?’ Atticus asked.

‘Sí,’ she replied.

‘Then I’d like to check in.’

‘Passport.’ The woman held out her hand.

Atticus reached into his folder and waited while she confirmed his passport details. Making no eye contact, she stood and handed him two sheets of paper.

‘Pitch number thirteen. Read these rules. The barrier has Automatic Number Plate Recognition. Study the map and follow the road,’ she said briskly. A phone rang, and, turning away, she answered the call and began to speak rapidly in Spanish.

Atticus was baffled as he walked back to Winnie. Welcome to Spain! he thought as he cranked up the engine and drove slowly toward the barrier.

A little while later, he drove past the reception area for the fourth time. Atticus stopped and, in frustration, stared at the printed map again. ‘I’m struggling to work this out,’ he muttered to Ness. ‘I’ve no idea where our pitch is.’

Reluctant to return and ask the woman for further directions, he was about to get out and walk around the site when a woman knocked on the window.

‘Are you lost, dear?’ she asked.

Grateful to hear a friendly English voice, Atticus wound the window down. ‘Yes, I’ve just arrived and can’t find my pitch.’

The middle-aged woman’s skin was the colour of a conker, and she was dressed in a lime-green kaftan, her vibrant orange hair piled into a top knot.

‘Let me help. I don’t expect you’ll get much assistance from our friendly receptionist.’ She walked to the passenger side of Winnie and, to Atticus’s surprise, opened the door.

‘I’m Cheryl,’ she announced as she climbed in.

She placed a huge carrier bag, clanking with bottles, on the seat and looked around.

‘Oh, this is lovely – a vintage camper. What do you call her? ’

‘Winnie,’ Atticus said.

‘Winne the Westfalia,’ she nodded, then stared at Atticus. ‘And you must be the Rhinestone Cowboy?’

Conscious of his old Stetson hat and comfortable hide boots, gifted from Mary following her holiday to Dallas, Atticus was bemused.

The bandana knotted around his neck was for comfort, and the leather waistcoat an extra layer over his checked cotton shirt.

He hadn’t considered the outfit he’d chosen to travel in to be anything other than practical. It must be the hat , Atticus thought.

‘I’m Atticus, and my dog is called Ness,’ he said.

‘Pleased to meet you, Atticus.’ Ness placed her head on Cheryl’s shoulder and sniffed.

‘Sorry about Ness,’ Atticus said.

‘I like dogs,’ Cheryl replied, tickling Ness’s chin. ‘There are a lot on the site; she’ll soon settle in.’

‘So, do you know where pitch thirteen is?’

‘Yes, of course, they remove the plaque because folk think its unlucky,’ Cheryl grinned. ‘Fire Winnie up and take the third turning on the left.’

They moved slowly past spacious hardstanding pitches, separated by hedges and trees, where motorhomes and caravans were carefully positioned to maximise space.

Awnings of all shapes and sizes created additional living spaces and were adorned with colourful lights, garden ornaments, and outdoor seating.

Pet owners strolled with their furry companions, pausing to stare at the bright yellow camper.

Upon recognising the woman in the passenger seat, they held up their hands and waved.

A man called out, ‘ Goedeavond! ’

‘They’re a friendly lot,’ Cheryl said, ‘especially the Dutch.’ She waved at the man. ‘Now look, we’re here, the last pitch on the left.’ She pointed to an ample empty space. ‘Number thirteen, lucky for you because you’re near the shower block, and me and Ruby are right around the corner.’

‘Well, thanks for your help,’ Atticus said.

‘I’m not done yet. Let me get out, and I’ll guide you back. You need to be parked over the drain, next to the water and electricity posts, which you’ll never see at this time of night.’

Grabbing the heavy, clanking carrier, Cheryl slammed Winnie’s door shut, then indicated with her hands and bellowed instructions. As he gratefully manoeuvred into position, Atticus wondered if she worked at the site – Cheryl was clearly used to directing new arrivals.

‘Steady as you go!’ she called out, slapping Winnie’s rear when she was happy with the position. ‘That’ll do nicely,’ she said as Atticus and Ness joined her and stood together to study his parking skills.

‘That’s great, I’ll get settled,’ Atticus began. ‘Thanks again for all your help.’

‘It’s too dark to set up now, and I expect you’ve had a long journey.’ Cheryl gave Atticus no choice. Thrusting the carrier into his free hand and taking his elbow, she began to guide him away. ‘Ruby and I are having a barbecue with a few friends, so you and Ness must come and join us.’

‘But I can’t possibly…’ Atticus lurched under the weight of a dozen heavy bottles, chinking in his hand .

‘Nonsense. You must be hungry, and there are no strangers here. Everyone helps each other.’ Cheryl brushed aside his protests.

‘I’d better lock up,’ he began.

‘Oh, everything is as safe as houses.’ Cheryl flapped her hand and, linking his free arm, they set off with Ness in tow.

Atticus stared at vacationers sitting outside under awnings. The evening was still warm, and most were dressed casually in shorts, sandals, and T-shirts, sipping drinks as they chatted and watched the world go by.

Cheryl appeared to know everyone.

‘Good evening, Heinrich, say hello to Helga for me!’ she called out to an elderly man who sat beside a vast motorhome.

Atticus’s jaw dropped. The vehicle was the size of a double-decker bus!

‘Hello Stefan, mind how you go with the Soberano!’ Cheryl nodded to a half-empty bottle on the table, where a dark-skinned man sat with a cat on his knee.

Turning to Atticus, she whispered, ‘He doesn’t know what day it is after a few glasses of brandy and thinks the pussy is his reincarnated wife.

Best to steer clear at this time of night if you want to avoid a seance. ’

She turned a corner, and to Atticus’s surprise, two rows of wooden chalets lined a central path ahead of them.

Spreading out from the balcony of the first chalet, a noisy group was gathered.

Many were standing, but most were sitting on lightweight, portable chairs.

The area was lit with rainbow-coloured fairy lights and lanterns, and a delicious savoury aroma drifted through the still night air.

A voice from behind a barbecue called out, ‘She’s back from her supermarket sweep and she’s got the sangria and found a cowboy!’

Cheers went up, and relieved of the carrier, Atticus found a pint glass being thrust into his hand. A tall man with skin the colour of night held out a jug of wine and began to pour.

‘What is this drink?’ Atticus asked as he tasted the sweet red liquid, which had slices of orange, apple, and pineapple floating on top.

‘Sangria, my friend,’ the man said with a heavy Dutch accent. ‘A Spanish drink.’

‘It’s very nice,’ Atticus said. After the drive, he was thirsty, and the sangria tasted like refreshing lemonade.

‘You must have more.’ The man refilled Atticus’s glass. ‘I’m Erik from Holland, by the way,’ he said with a half-smile, before moving away.

Atticus thought Erik had a striking look. Athletic and handsome, with perfect teeth and a smooth bald head, he was the kind of person who naturally attracted attention.

Looking around for Ness, Atticus spotted her sitting by the barbecue.

As though appearing in an obedience class at Crufts, the old dog, her eyes fixed on the grilled sausages, was on her best behaviour.

She rolled over on cue, played dead, thumped her tail, then held up a paw to shake several hands, soon finding herself rewarded.

Knowing that he’d likely be cleaning up after the greedy dog all night, Atticus stepped in. Clipping a lead to her collar, he pulled Ness to one side.

Cheryl, with an arm around the barbecue chef, turned when she saw him. ‘Here he is,’ she smiled. ‘Atticus, our new neighbour.’

The person with Cheryl, wearing a polo shirt and shorts, had cropped hair, grey at the sides, and a nose and ears pierced with studs and rings. A snake tattoo coiled around their neck, and more tattoos featuring animals continued along well-muscled arms and legs.

‘Good evening,’ Atticus said and held out his hand.

‘Hello, I’m pleased to meet you.’

Atticus tried not to wince as the hand crunched his own.

‘This is my Ruby,’ Cheryl said and planted a kiss, narrowly missing a nose ring.

‘Oh, hi, er, hello…’ Atticus shook Ruby’s hand.

‘How long are you here for?’ Ruby asked. She picked up a fork and tossed chunks of steak on a hot grill, alongside marinated chicken and fat juicy sausages.

‘I’m not sure, a few weeks at least.’ Atticus stared at the food and realised that his stomach was rumbling. It seemed a long time since his bread and cheese picnic.

‘Travelling alone?’ Ruby carefully turned the browning meat.

‘Yes, despite my family thinking I’m out of my mind.’

‘Your family doesn’t approve?’ Cheryl was curious.

‘My son, Mungo, thinks that an old codger like me shouldn’t stray far from home, and this trip in a vintage camper is crazy. ’

‘A crazy cowboy.’ Cheryl smiled. ‘Does your son think you’re spending his inheritance?’

Atticus grinned at Cheryl’s directness and decided that he liked her. ‘He thinks that an old man like me isn’t safe to be travelling on his own.’

‘What tosh, eh Ruby?’ Cheryl nudged Ruby’s arm again. ‘You’re never too old to set another goal or dream a new dream.’

‘Or take a nap halfway through both,’ Ruby laughed.

‘He thinks I’m old enough to know better than gadding about in a foreign country,’ Atticus said.

‘Ah, but you’re young enough to know better!’ Cheryl observed.

‘You look hungry,’ Ruby said, and taking a plate, loaded it with meat and handed it to Atticus. Spearing a cold sausage, she winked at Ness, who gobbled the offering before Atticus had time to tug her back.

‘Help yourself to salads and sides.’ Ruby waved her fork in the direction of a loaded table, where Atticus could see other guests tucking in.

‘You must let me contribute to this,’ he said, his mouth watering as he contemplated the delicious meal.

‘Nah, don’t be daft,’ Ruby said, giving him a gentle fist bump. ‘We’ll all be round at yours tomorrow,’ she added with a grin.

Atticus gulped. He hadn’t expected to make new friends so early on in his holiday and wondered how on earth he would cope with Winnie’s basic cooking facilities if a crowd turned up.

‘Only joking,’ Ruby laughed. ‘Don’t look so terrified.’

Erik returned and seeing Atticus’s empty glass, slapped him on the back and reached out to refill it. ‘Drink up, enjoy!’

The thirst-quenching sangria was delicious. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Atticus said. He gripped his plate and meandered over to the table, where Cheryl pulled out a chair for him.

Someone had picked up a guitar and begun to play, and Atticus noticed several ukuleles lined up by the decking.

‘Park yourself down here, next to me,’ Cheryl said. ‘Then tell us all about yourself. We haven’t had a new face on the site for a while, and everyone wants to get to know you.’

‘Yah!’ a woman called out, followed by calls of ‘Ja bitte!’ and ‘Willkommen!’

‘They’re all happy to meet you,’ Cheryl said, piling tangy bean salad on her plate and patting Atticus’s arm. ‘You’ll soon get to know us,’ she smiled. ‘Nights like this are called speed-dating the neighbourhood.’

Atticus had never heard of speed-dating and had no idea what Cheryl meant.

He wondered if it was some sort of ‘gossip grapevine’ – an expression Clara used for keeping up with things in the village.

But as the night wore on and he continued to down glasses of sangria, while Erik circled with brandy, Atticus soon got to know everyone.

Several people picked up their ukuleles and began to play, and someone produced a drum. It turned into an international singsong, and delighted to be included, Atticus joined in whenever he could.

Falling fully clothed into bed hours later, his head was spinning as he gave Ness a tipsy grin and nestled her into his arm. ‘That’s what you call fast-tracking friendship…’ Atticus muttered. ‘I think I’m going to like it here.’

In moments, Atticus Arnott, the Cumbrian Cowboy, was out for the count as he fell into a deep and delightful sleep.