Page 29 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure

Chapter Twenty-One

S unday at Solma Vacaciones was always a busy day.

Spanish families, vacationing for the weekend, were out in force by the chalets, where tables overflowing with food were shaded by pretty umbrellas lining the pathways.

At the same time, children of all ages raced about on scooters and bikes and played games, their shouts and giggles loud as they ran around the garden area with boundless energy.

In her chalet, Cheryl was ready to head off to the poolside party.

She wore her baby-pink tankini under a voluminous silvery kaftan, and her eyes shone as Ruby emerged carrying a beach bag with books, suncream, and snacks.

‘You look the dog’s doodahs,’ Cheryl said and gave Ruby a peck on the cheek.

Ruby, in white shorts and a black vest, reached for a cap and placed it on her head. ‘Have you seen Atticus?’ she asked.

‘He just called to say he’s on his way.’ Cheryl dangled car keys and stepped onto the decking. ‘He’s here now,’ she smiled as Atticus approached.

Wearing pale chinos and a short-sleeved shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders, Atticus, in new leather deck shoes, walked towards them with Ness by his side.

‘My, don’t you look smart,’ Cheryl said, studying both from top-to-toe. ‘I like Ness’s bandana,’ she added.

‘How are you feeling?’ Ruby asked.

‘Truthfully?’ Atticus said, scratching his chin. ‘Nervous,’ he admitted, his voice tinged with apprehension.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Ruby assured him and patted his arm. ‘Remember to keep the conversation light and enjoy it.’

‘Okay.’

‘Drive carefully.’ Cheryl smiled and leaned in to kiss Atticus on the cheek. ‘If you get back early, come to the pool party,’ she added.

Minutes later, Atticus sat behind the wheel of the Fiat. The top was down, and the sun was hot as he drove slowly through the site.

On his way to the pool party, Erik stopped when he saw Atticus. ‘Enjoy your date!’ he called out. Campers sitting in the sunshine raised their hands as Atticus went past, each with a friendly greeting. They were a tight-knit community and enjoyed exchanging friendly banter.

‘You’ve still got it!’

‘Smooth operator!’

‘Charm her off her feet!’

‘Go get ’ em, tiger!’

Atticus shook his head as he heard their comments. ‘Nothing gets past these folk,’ he said, and thought of Cheryl and Ruby’s gossip grapevine.

But as the road stretched ahead and the sun shone brightly, Atticus knew he couldn’t be annoyed.

Everyone seemed to have his best interests at heart, and it was impossible for him to feel down or sad in a place where the atmosphere was so cheerful.

In this enclosed bubble, problems felt far away, along with the world’s troubles.

Atticus knew that these people had lived lives that may have been difficult, after all, everyone had problems to overcome.

But here, they rewarded themselves with the little things that gave pleasure in later life.

‘And why not?’ he asked Ness. ‘At our age, it’s now or never and all about making the most of what we have left.’

He thought of his Instagram account. Atticus was staggered by the number of followers he had amassed, but after reading the comments and realising that his photos might inspire others of his age group to follow suit and have an adventure, he was keen to add more.

Turning off the main road, Atticus drove carefully along a track until he came to the beach.

A row of ancient cottages, their walls weathered by the salty sea air, came into view, and he thought of the generations of fishermen who’d lived there.

Not unlike that of a sheep farmer on the Cumbrian fells, their coastal life must have been relatively simple.

The cottages were rustic, built of sturdy stone and weather-beaten wood. Rusting metal blinds covered many doorways, and paint-peeling wooden shutters were secured with heavy padlocks.

Atticus checked his watch. He was early but decided to find Britta’s cottage to avoid being late. He parked the Fiat, and Ness hopped out.

Britta had told him that she lived in a cottage named Casita del Mar. The Cottage by the Sea . But as Atticus searched along the row, he wondered if he’d got it wrong. These buildings looked derelict. Surely no one lived here.

He considered going to the café and asking there.

Stepping onto the sand, Atticus kept the cottages on his right while Ness ran towards the sea.

From this side, he saw that the row was separated by wooden rails and trellis.

To his surprise, each cottage seemed to have its own personality, some decorated with fishing nets or weathered buoys, with driftwood and seashells alongside planters of ornamental grasses.

All had an expansive terrace area and steps leading down to the beach.

Halfway along, bunting fluttered from the framework of a pastel-painted cottage, where lanterns were strung along old wooden beams. Standing beside an easel, with sun-kissed blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, Britta gazed at a canvas.

Atticus saw that her dress – a soft, floaty fabric – wrapped gently around her slim frame, accentuating her curves. The delicate fabric fell lightly across long legs, the skin, a golden hue, suggesting days spent under the warm embrace of the sun.

He was mesmerised. There was a sense of raw beauty about Britta that belied her years.

Bathed in the glow of the late afternoon sun, with her gaze fixed on her work, she carried herself with the vitality of a much younger woman.

As he stared, Atticus felt a forgotten desire stir.

A feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Suddenly, turning from the canvas and showing no surprise at his presence, Britta looked directly at Atticus. In that moment, their eyes met, and both began to smile.

In the distance, the waves rolled towards the shore, and the sky was a perfect blue.

Atticus felt a profound connection, as though he had a fleeting glimpse of something magical happening – like the promise of a new beginning, a spark of romance in the air.

It was a feeling he couldn’t ignore, one that told him this was more than just a casual date.

Ness began to bark and pounded along the beach.

‘You’re early,’ Britta called out. ‘Please, let me welcome you to Casita del Mar.’

Any nerves he’d felt suddenly vanished, and with confidence, Atticus strode across the sand and climbed the steps as Ness skidded to a halt beside him. ‘The dog?’ he asked, reaching for Ness’s collar.

‘Oh, she’s fine. I have water for her,’ Britta said, moving away from the easel and placing a dish on the floor of the terrace. Ness began to drink thirstily, then, as though she’d been there a thousand times before, lay down on a rug and closed her eyes.

‘This is lovely,’ Atticus said, admiring the comfortable outdoor seating where cushions were scattered haphazardly over a sofa-like swing, suspended by thick ropes from the ceiling.

A brick-built oven doubled as a barbecue, alongside two rattan chairs and a table tucked under the trellis.

Atticus imagined relaxing there, having a bite to eat while admiring the glorious view.

Britta’s easel stood in the middle of the terrace.

‘May I?’ he asked.

Britta shrugged. ‘Yes, of course, it’s not very good.’

The canvas she was working on depicted soft washes of watercolour that blended into shades of sand and sea.

Atticus could see that it was the view from Britta’s cottage.

The landscape rose in the middle ground, curving into the bay, revealing a village of whitewashed houses with terracotta roofs.

In the distance, the buildings of Santa Pola perched along a rocky promontory.

‘I think it’s excellent,’ he said. ‘It must be wonderful to create something so beautiful.’

‘Your comment is kind,’ Britta replied. ‘But it’s not finished, and I seem to have lost my mojo.’

‘What do you mean?’ Atticus asked.

‘I haven’t painted for some time; the inspiration seems to have deserted me.’ Britta sighed.

‘Maybe you’re overthinking it?’

Britta gave a small laugh. ‘I think if I stare at the canvas anymore, I’ll end up throwing it in the sea.’

‘No, never do that. Perhaps you need to put it to one side for a while.’

Britta changed the subject. ‘Would you like a glass of lemonade? I made it this morning.’

‘Yes, I’d love some.’

She moved into the cottage, but Atticus hesitated to follow.

‘Come through,’ Britta called out, ‘glasses are on the shelf.’ She waved a hand in the direction of a kitchen and then disappeared through a door to a cellar.

As Atticus looked around, he was amazed.

Far from being a derelict wreck, as observed from the track side of the cottage, the interior was sophisticated.

Modern elegance met coastal charm as natural light filtered through open windows.

Spacious, with oversized sofas and armchairs, it was decorated in neutral shades of soft ivory, sandy beige, and muted blues.

Cushions and throws added splashes of vibrant colour.

The floor was polished marble, covered in pretty rugs, and carefully placed mirrors reflected light, adding to the sense of space.

The focal point was a fireplace with a wood-burning stove, surrounded by custom-built shelving filled with books and decorative objects.

But it was the artwork on the walls that caught Atticus’s eye.

A vibrant sunset brightened one corner, while a morning mist over the shoreline gave an ethereal glow in another. A brightly coloured beach scene depicted swimmers and surfers catching waves, and tumultuous dark clouds hovered over a stormy sea on a canvas above the fire.

Atticus turned to see Britta as she reappeared. Barefoot and softly padding towards the kitchen, she held a bowl. Opening the door to a small fridge, she reached for a jug and, finding two glasses, added ice from the bowl and began to pour.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Atticus said. ‘ You asked me to find glasses.’

‘It’s okay,’ Britta said, placing the fresh lemonade in his hand. ‘Welcome.’

Atticus sipped the drink and wasn’t surprised to find it tasted delicious. ‘You’re very talented,’ he said. ‘And you have a lovely home.’

‘It’s not how it looks from outside, eh?’

‘No, I have to admit that the exterior is deceiving.’

‘Most of these cottages have been in families for generations and are used in the summer months, then locked up all winter,’ Britta began to explain. ‘The exteriors are deliberately shabby. It puts intruders off.’

‘But the inside is wonderful,’ Atticus said, his eyes raking around the room.

‘Yes, there is a cellar of the same size, with a comfortable space, a bathroom, a larder, and storage.’

‘And upstairs?’

‘Two bedrooms and another bathroom.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘For a year,’ Britta said, ‘but it’s not mine. I rent it.’

‘I see. You’ve made it homely, and the owner must be delighted.’

‘He never visits.’ She shrugged. ‘He lives in Madrid, and his family isn’t interested in the property.

They are wealthy, and this area isn’t upmarket enough for their taste.

They have villas further south in La Manga and Marbella.

’ Britta reached for the jug and refreshed his glass.

‘But I think the cottage is quite special.’

‘So do I,’ Atticus agreed. He wanted to tell Britta that he thought she was special too, but, instead, he followed her to the terrace .

‘In the summer, the beach is busy, and the weather is very hot.’ Britta stared out at the coastline. ‘I like it,’ she added.

‘And the winter?’

‘The Spanish say it is cold in this area, but the temperature is perfect for me. I swim every day.’

‘Goodness, it must be warm.’

‘It can be.’

‘But you are Dutch,’ Atticus said. ‘What brought you to Spain?’

‘Are we going out to eat?’ Britta asked. ‘If so, I need to change.’

Atticus sensed that Britta had avoided his question and, hoping he hadn’t upset her, quickly said, ‘Yes, there is a restaurant in Guardamar that has been recommended, but please, there is no need to change; you look lovely.’

‘You’re kind,’ she smiled. ‘Okay, but perhaps I should find some sandals.’

Atticus helped Britta carry her easel into the lounge, and she locked the cottage.

Moments later, they were heading along the beach track that led to the main road. As they drove past, Atticus commented on the multiple motorhomes parked in the wide laybys.

‘Is it always so busy?’ he asked.

‘Yes, mostly with Germans who are touring for the winter months. It’s a well-known place, and they stay for a few days because it is free.’

‘No charge at all? ’

‘What would they be paying for? There’s only a tarmac space and a nearby beach – no facilities.’

‘Why would anyone park an expensive vehicle in a layby when there are sites with facilities nearby?’

‘Not all the vehicles are expensive,’ Britta added. ‘Some are quite modest and old.’

Atticus began to chuckle. ‘Like me,’ he said. ‘I must introduce you to Winnie; she’s modest and old, too.’

Britta spun around. ‘Winnie? Your wife?’ she asked.

‘Oh, goodness, no. I’m a widower, and Winnie is my camper van. She’s an old VW Westfalia with several decades under her bonnet,’ he said.

Britta laughed. ‘Winnie sounds wonderful. I want to meet her.’

‘I hope that you will,’ Atticus said.

She wants to meet Winnie! He resisted the urge to reach out and take Britta’s hand.

Arriving in Guardamar, Atticus carefully parked where Ruby had advised, then hurried to open the passenger door. He clipped a lead on Ness’s collar and indicated that the restaurant was just over the road, by the beach. As they began to walk, Britta took his arm.

Suddenly, Atticus felt ten feet tall. The sun shone, the sky was blue, and he was out with a beautiful woman! Cumbria and the lonely fells felt a long way off.