Emily-18 and Free

Chapter 1

Cornwall, Summer, 1991.

18 and Free: One Girl’s Solo Travels Around Britain

Devon & Cornwall – Summary

Devon is best taken slowly. The main roads will get you where you’re going, but it’s the smaller ones that make the journey worthwhile, long stretches of quiet countryside, with sudden glimpses of the sea. Basically, don’t rush it.

Cornwall feels tighter, wilder in places, with roads that seem to belong to another time. It’s easy to stay longer than you meant to. Following the coast is always rewarding, especially late in the day when the light starts to soften.

A favourite stop: a small pub just outside St Ives, the Coach and Horses, low beams, uneven floors, and a view of the water if you get there early enough. Great food and real ales too.

Best advice for Devon and Cornwall: A good map helps. A fixed plan doesn’t. And don’t get involved in the jam versus cream first debate; they take it very seriously down here.- - - - - -

“So where are you off to next, dear?”

Doris stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the morning rush. She ran the B&B where Emily had spent her final week and had taken a growing interest in her plans.

“The Cotswolds,” said Emily, closing the notebook she’d worked on the night before. It would need tightening, but she felt quietly pleased with it.

“Such a lovely place. You’ll have a wonderful time. We’ll miss you here. Will you come back and see us when you’re famous?”

Emily smiled. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be famous, but I’ll come back.”

“Safe journey, dear,” Doris said, already turning away.

In truth, Emily wasn’t sure she would return to the B&B. Her budget had dwindled faster than planned, mostly because she stayed too long in places she liked. The B&B had been exactly what Emily needed, clean, friendly, and cheap.

Don’t linger. See more. Keep moving.

Emily left just after ten, the morning already warm enough to have the windows down. The Red Beetle squeezed between the thick green hedgerows of the narrow lane that brushed the car if she strayed too close.

The main road was wider and faster, pulling her into a steady stream of traffic through a couple of small towns. A long stretch of noisy and uncomfortable motorway followed. The Beetle’s engine settled into an unhappy drone as lorries pushed past. She turned off at the first chance.

Within minutes, the roads narrowed again, the air lighter, the landscape opening into fields and low stone walls with woodland in the distance. The car seemed to prefer it, and so did she.

A dog-eared old Atlas lay open on the passenger seat. It was the same one they’d used for family holidays around Britain for as long as Emily could remember. She had fond memories of being her father’s backseat co-pilot and navigating their way to their destination. Her father had given it to her for luck, along with his old Golf Ball typewriter, so she could write her notes up when she returned home.

At a junction she pulled over, flipped the Atlas to the right page, traced the route with her finger, then set off again as R.E.M.’s Losing My Religion drifted out through the radio. It seemed to be on constantly that summer.

A mile later, the engine coughed. Emily eased off the accelerator. It settled for a bit, then spluttered again.

“Come on baby… keep going…”

The car jerked, hesitated, then picked up again. She drove on, listening carefully. The next splutter came sooner and harder. The engine all but stopped. She guided the Beetle onto the verge and let it roll to a stop. The engine idled roughly, then faltered again.

Emily sat for a moment longer before pushing the door open. The quiet hit her immediately, no traffic, no voices, just the faint movement of wind through the hedgerows.

She walked to the back of the Beetle and lifted the lid, staring down at the engine, hoping something obvious might present itself. It didn’t.

“Right,” she muttered.

Fields stretched away on one side of the road, while a thick line of trees pressed close on the other. Then she heard a dull, rhythmic thud deep from within the trees.

Someone was there.

Emily hesitated, then followed the sound along a narrow track into the woods.

She slowed as she reached the edge of a small clearing. A man stood with his back to her, feet planted firmly, his body moving with the rhythm of the axe. Each swing landed cleanly into the trunk of a half-cut tree.

The light shone through the canopy, catching him like a spotlight on a stage. He wore only jeans and boots, his bare back slick with sweat. His movements were controlled and practised, the muscles across his shoulders tightening and releasing with every strike.

He lifted the axe again and brought it down with another solid thud. Emily felt something shift inside her, sudden and physical. Heat spread between her legs before she could resist it, a pulsing warmth that made her thighs press together instinctively as her focus narrowed entirely on him.

She just stood there watching. Eventually the rhythm broke. He reached for a bottle at his feet and took a long drink, water slipping from his mouth and down across his chest.

The ache inside her sharpened immediately. She became acutely aware of her own breathing, the damp heat gathering beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Then he glanced towards the edge of the clearing.

She froze.

Sunlight filtered through the trees behind her, outlining her body through the fabric of her dress in soft silhouette. For a moment, he simply stared. Then the axe lowered slowly in his hand.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing a red hood?” he asked dryly. “Is there a wolf back there somewhere I should know about?”