I woke early once again, nervous about Pablo’s mood in the most peculiar way imaginable. I found myself worrying that some odd mental link might have led him to suspect what I had been up to in the night, but then again, he might just have heard the creaking and done some simple addition. I took a few minutes to finish loading tents and other hardware into the car, and then started the kettle going.

In the event, it was Rita who was first down, and I was oddly comforted by the way she seemed to know where everything was, and to be utterly relaxed about preparing her own breakfast.

She shot me a slightly worried look as she poured milk onto her cereal.

“Caroline?”

“Yes?”

“You and Papa? Is all good?”

I nodded, trying to make my smile seem unforced.

“I think so. Si”

“My Papa, he is, how to say, solitario? No friend, all trabajo? Work?”

Before she could say more, I heard the living room door open, so put a finger to my lips, and then he was there, with a hug and a cheek-kiss for each of us. As he poured his own cereal—like father, like daughter, it seemed—I poured as well, tea, coffee and orange juice. He sipped his coffee, then smiled at Rita before turning back to me.

“Where are we going today?”

“Right. I remembered what you said about waterbirds, so I have a couple of ideas. This is the camping one, and I have another in mind as a possibility for another day. What I need to know is what your people have planned, because you said they wanted you to go abroad”

“Yes. I am going to Hamburg next week, for a meeting with the man who made my website”

“Just you again?”

“No, with Rita. This is to be a photoshoot, simple Cuban man, with his daughter, who makes green tourism in our country, showing its beauty to other green people, international brotherhood of the proletariat naturalist. We will meet my internet friends, with a group from our Embassy, and they will take photographs of us looking through our binoculars and lament about our need to have help from our brothers in Europe because of the evil suppression of our freedom by our neighbours across the Straits of Florida”

He grinned.

“That is how they will describe it, anyway. For me, I will finally meet some friends I have not seen for too many years, and Rita will encounter one more culture. Unfortunately, there is no room for another friend to travel. We will be away two nights alone. I mean, only”

“What about the other trip you mentioned?”

“Ah, plans are still being made for that one. Now, where are we going today?”

“down to the south coast, to a campsite I know that has very good birdwatching nearby, and on the way I will stop somewhere special. You mentioned Slimbridge, if my memory is accurate”

“Not there?”

“No, but another reserve run by the same people, with an extra treat for Rita. So get ready, and have your bags by the door in half an hour, and we will be off. The camping kit is in the car ready”

Forty-five minutes later, I was on the road to Horsham and the Arun valley. Rita was away on her own plane, courtesy of my MP3 player, which left the two notional adults free to talk.

“I’ve packed a couple of self-inflating mats as well as a closed cell foam one, and there are two duvets in the boot as well, just in case”

“Where will we eat?”

“There is a little café on site, but I have my two-ring cooker with us”

“Two rings?”

“Gas rings. Plus two little stoves, so we can have a brew in the morning. Tea, coffee. Brew. We go past some supermarkets, so we can pick up some supplies on the way. There are a couple of pubs, either side of the campsite, one about a mile and three quarters away, the other a bit less. They both do food, and the walk is absolutely flat to either one. Now, shush, please. I don’t drive this far very often, and I need to concentrate. Could you dig through the CDs in the glovebox---that thing there? Find something you might like. I drive better with music”

Translated: please let me avoid difficult topics of conversation until I have no choice, or at least until I am not in charge of a car holding two people I care about. He found my Moody Blues compilation, and that was fine. I sang along where I could, and on a check in the rear-view mirror, I spotted that Rita had taken off her headphones and was nodding along to our CD. Sound taste in music, that girl. We were on the last track when we hit the outskirts of Arundel, and once it was done, I turned the player off.

“This is the extra treat for your girl, Pablo. Small town, but there is a cathedral and a huge castle, which we will drive right past. She got her camera ready?”

We did an abbreviated version of the Arundel tour, without entering any of the ‘sites’ except the WWT nature reserve, even though the thought of being rowed around the boating lake like some swooning romantic heroine did have a certain appeal. Rita was fascinated by the captive birds, Pablo wanted to spend the entire week listing gulls and ducks, and I still had a long way to drive, so I pulled them away by force of will and back to the car park. Once again, I was hearing Pablo’s words to me, apologising for not showing me anything ‘special’, when every single bird I had seen was something new. Even the dunnock singing in a bush near our car had him in raptures.

“All in? Belts on? We are rolling! Pablo, could we have ‘Bedlam Born’ on the CD please? No Maddy on that one, but the original violinist does some amazing things I think Rita will enjoy”

That album saw us past Chichester, and up to the edge of Portsmouth, and I asked Pablo what he had thought of it.

“It was mixed, but that song about the robbery, that was powerful. That guitar was so, I don’t know the right words. It made my hands clench”

“That guitar was a violin. Tuned an octave down, but still a violin”

“Really?”

“Yup. Could we have the Sibelius third next?”

I always do the same thing when listening to that one, and that is to sing along, ‘da da dada dah’, and that tune is featured so often in the finale that it is easy to remember as well as infectious. I checked in the mirror just then, and Rita was most definitely on Planet Sib; when I looked to my left, her dad just grinned and sang the tune along with the two of us, until the shout of life and joy from the horns brought the whole thing to a close.

I pulled into a petrol station just then, and the two of them were laughing happily as I filled the car and went to pay. On my return, as I clicked in my belt, Pablo put a hand on my arm.

“Rita says that the Sibelius was like that Beethoven you sent her. It is music to dance to, to shout to the doctors”

“Why doctors?”

“To shout ‘still living’, of course. That is music of real joy, and… I must listen again. There were things in the basso, the deeper sounds, that just need more attention”

I looked at him with renewed respect, because he was absolutely right. There are two particular moments, one in the third, and another in the fifth, where Sibelius wrote some astonishingly complex sounds for the bass and cello players, and the result is as visceral as Peter Knight’s electric octave fiddle in the way they reach out and grab the listener by the hindbrain. I needed to see what Pablo had in his collection…

Of course I had the fifth along as well. It wasn’t a day for the fourth.

Round Southampton, through the edge of Totton for the big supermarket, and then past Ashurst campsite and the quicker way through Lyndhurst. Brockenhurst followed, ponies more apparent, then Lymington, and finally Lower Pennington Lane. I took care on the single track road, but I was getting impatient to be parked and pitched up.

My booking was confirmed in the little office, a suggested area to pitch up given, and I drove us round to the huge field in the south of the site, stepping out of the car to stretch my back and shoulders. I hadn’t driven that far for years.

I realised that Rita was in front of me, looking worried.

“Caroline? You are good?”

“I am just stiff, love”

I mimed it, making creaking noises, and she smiled.

“Papa and me, we make the tent!”

Oh no you don’t, girl. I knew how my tents went up, and I didn’t want them wrecked. I checked the ground for debris, and after a little debate, I decided to put them up (my mind was avoiding the word ‘erect’) side by side. The Taurus is a two pole design, really quick to set up, but the Vango uses three hoops, and is a little trickier to get right. Once they were up to my satisfaction, I threw in the three mats, taking the closed-cell one for myself and then returned to the car boot to collect my sleeping bag. When I turned around, Rita was already putting hers into the Taurus, which was not the bloody plan at all.

“Pablo? That’s my tent!”

He was actually blushing.

“Rita says no. She said other things as well”

“Such as?”

“Please, not here? We talk later?”

I shook my head, and walked over to the girl.

“Please; my tent?”

“No. Mine”

“Rita…”

She looked up into the sky for a second, then back at me, after muttering something. There was so much of her father in her..

“You, Papa? You not want?”

Oh dear god, girl, of course I bloody did, but no, I couldn’t. She hadn’t finished, though, and in a rather astonishingly precise mixture of mime and broken English, she let me know what she had heard from her father in the night. Oh shit. Not just me then.

“You want, he want, I have MP3”

It wasn’t just the language barrier: I really had no answer to her. I returned to her father, and shrugged,

“Do you snore? I have ear plugs, enough for both of us if I do”

“Is there noy enough room in her tent?”

“Theoretically. They advertise it aa a two person tent”

“Really?”

“Yup. If you both lie on your side in tight sleeping bags, with nothing else in the tent, then maybe. It’s fine for one, though”

Just like his daughter, there was the muttered imprecation, and then he started hauling bags.

“Fine. She gets her way, then. What are we eating tonight?”

A clear attempt at changing the subject, but I welcomed it.

“Get the tents ready, then I think it’s a walk. I am not going to do camp cooking after all that driving, and it’s fine. We’ll walk out the long way on the sea wall, then take the cut on the way back. Bring your binoculars”

“Walk where?”

“Chequers Inn. They do food”

“Caroline?”

“Yup?”

“How many times have you stayed here?”

“God knows!”

He was smiling again, which was more than a good thing.

“You know where all the necessary things are”

“I know where the pubs are. Same thing, really. The cut is a footpath, and years ago it was unusable, just full of nettles”

“Nettles are what?”

“Stinging plants. Urtica. Those things over there are some”

“To avoid?”

“Most definitely, but they can be eaten”

He shook his head, then went to help Rita set out her bed. Fifteen minutes later, I led them through the two little gates to the start of the track out to the sea wall, as early as I could manage as I anticipated a large number of delays as we walked. I wasn’t wrong, and my conversation with Pablo became a little repetitive at times.

“Redshank. Curlew. Black-tailed godwit. Linnet. Goldfinch. Stonechat. Mallard. Gadwall. Shelduck. Little egret”

On arrival at the actual sea wall, by the concrete pipe thing, I was pleased to see that the tide was out, although on the way in.

“The Solent. That hillier bit over there is the Isle of Wight, and that lighthouse is on our side, by a fortress. Those white things are called The Needles. Rita?”

“Yes?”

“That is an island. You want to go there in a boat?”

“Papa?”

I was shuddering a little at the cost, it being allegedly the second most expensive ferry crossing in the world, mile for mile, but sod it. This was their trip, and I owed them a treat. Pablo was scanning the mudflats, but still listening, and as he brought his bins up to his eyes, he replied.

“Caroline?”

“Si? Yes?”

“What would that involve?”

“We get up early, drive back into Lymington, just over—ah! See the ferry?”

One was just setting off for the island, and he nodded before returning to his scan of the brown slime.

“We take one of those to Yarmouth, which is behind that white lighthouse, and we drive to a few places; I know some nature reserves there. Then we catch the ferry back to Portsmouth, which is something to see”

Suddenly, I was laughing, and it was a moment before I could get the words out.

“Pablo?”

“Yes? Something is funny?”

“Portsmouth is one of our main naval bases. Are you sure you aren’t really a spy?”

He turned to me, deadpan.

“No, I am no spy. But Rita, she is an officer in our state security. Her assignment is to investigate American fast food menus. She is a dedicated worker. Now, what are those?”

“Dunlin. Oh, and there’s a greenshank!”

As we turned left to follow the top of the sea wall, Rita was singing something in Spanish, softly but happily, and with a few more ticks for her father, including an avocet, we left the sea defences for the narrow lane that led to the pub, where we ate some proper pub grub, and made plans for the morning while not exactly stinting on the drink. I did my best to slow down, but while not drunk, two of us were definitely feeling sleepy as we made our way back to the tents by way of the cut. When I said ‘two’, I meant me and Rita, who was yawning over the sticky toffee pudding I had suggested for her. Pablo still seemed switched on, especially when we heard a tawny owl calling in the darkness. I had a headtorch with me, so we were able to walk safely, but Rita almost needed our help to get into her bag. We zipped up her tent, and then simply stood for a while, each with our own thoughts.

“Caroline?”

“Yes?”

“Please; you go to your bed first. Change, get comfortable. I have my night things here, and I must to the men’s rest room”

I nodded, and crawled into my, our tent, stripping everything off before pulling on a thigh length nighty, wavering for a few minutes over whether I needed knickers before deciding to leave them in my luggage. I settled into my sleeping bag after unfastening the inner door once again, and just as I was deciding that yes, the duvet would be a nice addition to my bag to keep off the rapidly chilling night air, Pablo was back. He came into the tent feet first, in shorts and T-shirt, closing the outer zip as he did so, and then the inner. He slipped into his own bag, and I passed him the edge of the quilt.

“Can you pull this across? I think it’s going to be chilly tonight”

“Of course”

We lay in the darkness, both of us on our backs, the inches between us seeming like a rift valley, until he muttered something and turned to face me. His voice was a whisper, and as he spoke, I wondered if Rita was asleep, or plugged into my MP3, as she had suggested.

“Caroline?”

“Yes, Pablo?”

“I cannot do this”

My mood crashed, ready to burn, but he hadn’t finished speaking.

“Like this, close. Please forgive, but this is not the alcohol”

He kissed me, as gently as before, pulling back again to say more.

“This is me, the man, yes?”

He kissed me once again, and my courage emerged from hiding. Sod gentleness: I put my hand on the back of his head, pulled it closer, and did my very best to snog him properly. I wasn’t exactly in practice, not actually having snogged anyone before, but he responded, until once more pulling away, breathing deeply, resting on an arm by the side of my head. I reached for his hand, and he linked his fingers with mine, before I managed to get my other hand to the zip of my sleeping bag, pulling it down. More courage came from somewhere, and I found his own zip, and let go of his hand to squirm onto my side, reaching for his waist and pulling him closer as the kissing continued. His hand was stroking my cheek, and…

The courage was still there, and I didn’t care where it came from, or whether it was the alcohol, because I wanted this man so much. I let go of his waist to take his hand once more, and when I placed it on my breast, I felt him moan into my mouth. He took his hand away, and slid it under my nighty, his palm rough on my nipple, and so I reached down, mad thoughts of the Fourth Plinth in my mind, but my first act was to push those bloody shorts out of the way before… Oh god, so hot in my hand.

I had no lube. Why would I ever carry any? I wanted him inside me, to find out if it all worked, and then I had a thought. I pushed his face away from mine, murmuring that I needed a towel. Once I had it underneath me, I opened the other thing I had remembered.

The next morning, I was first up, really needing the ladies’ for more than one reason. When I returned, Pablo was up, so I simply snogged him properly, not caring if anyone saw, and then we shook Rita out of bed for bacon sandwiches, on crap white bed with a smear of low-calorie butter substitute.

We didn’t tell her why there was a scoop of it missing, but she had obviously guessed what had happened, and sang all the way to the ferry terminal.