Holidays didn’t really suit him.   He didn’t mind taking time off, not really, and sometimes he thought of a place he’d like to go, somewhere he’d heard of, in a song or a book or something, sometimes even a travel supplement in the paper.   On those occasions when the impulse had lasted long enough he’d even booked himself onto a plane, into a place to stay.   Once, when the cost represented too large a proportion of his earnings to simply let go, he’d actually gone.   The other times he’d pleaded a sick grandmother – they were both dead so it wasn’t necessary to touch wood and hope – and even got some of his money back.
Now he knew better.   This time he’d come just a bit away, back to near where he’d grown up, but not with the intention of returning there, not visiting his childhood, no. There was just a place he wanted to go to, one he’d never had the courage to go to when he was a kid.   Now he was grown-up – fully grown at least – he was going to go there.
A ... well 'castle' was the best description, un-English, several stories tall and turreted, like a Scottish version of a French chateau.   Apparently inaccessible, surrounded by dense trees.   He had spent the night in a pub from which it could be seen and the next morning he collected the requested packed lunch and set off in the cool.   
By midday, when it was much warmer, he was walking up the drive, looking up at its blank, black windows, knowing that it was empty, hollow inside and that it had been thus for decades.   Wondering if it had been a good idea to come:  some dreams are best left unvisited.
So it was with the sense of another dream unvisited that he saw someone suddenly appear from around the corner, someone he recognised, and when he got closer he knew.   He knew also that this holiday would last longer than the usual twenty four hours.
'Susannah Elphinstone’ he said, sweat chilling on his skin, ‘it’s been years ...’


Thursday, The plot thickens: It’s been years, but there you were