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With a decent priced bottle of Burgundy under his arm, Salmon walked up the path to The Vicarage five minutes before he was due and tentatively knocked at the door. He took a look around.
The exterior lights picked out the details. As if it had stepped straight off a chocolate box cover, the cottage was infused with everything that makes up such dreams. From the floral printed curtains, to the slightly crooked chimney stack; the little swing under the apple tree in the garden to the window-boxes stacked full of cascading geraniums; the aged oak door to the trailing path covered with white shingle, it was all so very beautiful and so very English. And standing so close, encroaching into the garden itself, the Moor. Brooding and still, its presence dominating everything in this small, i
