Page 1 of Promises & Petals in Nettleford-on-the-Wold (Escape to… Nettleford-on-the-Wold #1)
H annah Lyons held her breath as the front tyre of her battered car hit a pothole. Fixing her eyes in the rear-view mirror, she watched as her little caravan bobbed precariously to the left before righting itself.
She was home. Or at least nearly there. The road into Nettleford-on-the-Wold had always been infamous for its craters, lying between two counties it had always been a running joke in the village that neither of the councils wanted to admit liability for the number of tyres ruined and car tracking displaced whilst dodging – or hitting – potholes.
Looking to the left, she caught sight of the Welcome to Nettleford-on-the-Wold sign as she passed, her stomach filling with a strange mixture of emotions.
Home. This would be the first time she’d ventured back to the cottage since her grandad had passed away four years ago and the first time she’d be staying in a house since too.
Ever since his passing, she’d been living on the go, travelling by day, sleeping in her caravan by night.
And she’d had a blast. She’d made numerous friends on the way, been welcomed into the van-life community with open arms, but it was time now.
Time to go home and put her childhood home, the cottage she’d inherited from her grandad, up for sale.
She tapped her thumbs against the steering wheel in time with the music booming from the radio.
It would be fine. With no chain, she was confident she could get the sale of the cottage wrapped up in a matter of a few months.
In fact, she only had to clear it out and sign up with an estate agent, and then she could be off again.
There would be no reason for her to have to stay in the village whilst it was on the market.
No, a couple of months at the most — that’s all she had to be here for, and then she could take to her wheels again.
She could even use the spare time she had between packing and cleaning to plan her next road trip.
She’d followed many routes in her four years, some planned, the majority not, but maybe she could use this time to forge a route taking in as many waterfalls or famous landmarks as she could across the country.
If anything, it might help to keep her distracted from the task of packing up her grandad’s life.
Two months.
Turning right off the main road through the village, Hannah dug her fingertips into the steering wheel and turned the radio down.
There it was. Her grandad’s cottage – no, her cottage now – positioned right at the end of the short close.
Hitting the brakes, she halted at the side of the road before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. She could do this.
Yes, it was the first time she’d been back to the cottage, to the village, since the night of her grandad’s funeral, but she needed to do this.
She’d left it standing empty for four whole years now, and it didn’t deserve that.
It was beautiful and would make the perfect family home for someone.
As it had when her grandad had begun caring for her since her mum had left her at four years old.
Opening her eyes, she forced herself to look at the yellow Cotswold stone cottage.
From what she could see from the front, the thatch had seen better days and the garden was horribly overgrown but the basketball hoop her grandad had hammered to the top of the wooden carport he’d built in the large front garden to the side of the cottage was still there.
The swing chair her grandad had always enjoyed a hot cup of cocoa on whilst reading her a chapter from her favourite book still sat in the same spot to the right of the sage green front door.
She smiled. Her family may have comprised only of the two of them, but she’d had a happy childhood.
He’d created a safe space for her to live, and she’d felt cherished and loved.
Over the years, her mum had flitted in and out of their lives, but thanks to her grandad, Hannah had always just accepted the situation.
The stability he’d given her had made up for the fact her mum could never offer it.
And the cottage was built on a really fantastic plot, as the estate agents would no doubt say.
Being at the end of a small close, the cottage boasted a large front garden hemmed off by a hedge and a wrought-iron gate leading to the carport and driveway down the side of the cottage.
The cottage itself, though modest in size, had many of the original features inside as well as out, such as dark wooden beams and floorboards throughout.
Hannah shifted position and looked across to the passenger seat where her rescue pup, Alfie, was sitting.
Supposedly a pedigree Lhasa Apso, Alfie sported the under-bite of a llama and the small cuteness of being an eternal puppy despite his eight or nine years of age.
Having been discovered tied to the gate at Wagging Tails Dogs’ Home down in Cornwall, Hannah had little to go on about his history or life prior to living with her in the caravan.
What she had come to learn, though, was that he had a particular penchant for bananas and blueberries but could turn from sweetness and loving to wanting to bite someone’s finger off within seconds.
Fortunately, this was where his under-bite came in handy.
With a jaw like his, the victim almost always got away with little more than a sore ego.
‘Are you ready, Alfie? Ready to see where I grew up? Ready to live in a proper house for the next couple of months?’ Hannah ruffled the fur on his head, smiling as it stayed sticking up in all directions. She’d never realised she could love as much as she loved him.
Turning his back on her, Alfie placed his paws on the window, his little head cocked to the side as though he were thinking of an appropriate answer. Or else ignoring her. Probably the latter.
‘Right, come on, let’s do this.’ Turning ahead again, Hannah pressed her foot on the accelerator. She could do this. Two months at the most in the cottage and then they’d be out on the road again.