They get more than their fair share of snow and ice through six months of the year. At the northwest corner of the ridge is a large wood, said to be prehistoric in origin.

 

It is densely populated with ancient trees and undergrowth. There is a single path through the woods, which extends along the bottom of the ridge, to Lower Winden. 

 

You can travel to either Winden from the north or south; there are no roads from the east or west which take you within 20 miles of the ridge. Even so, from north or south, it is a splendid journey. There are long sweeping roads uncluttered by traffic and when these travel conditions combine with sunshine, stunning vistas and breath-taking landmarks, people are enthralled by the journey.

 

But to arrive as a visitor is quite another thing.

Few people are passing through.

To move between the two villages is almost impossible because the road linking the two settlements is in various states of disrepair and decay. The one pub, The Tipsy Pig, which sits at the top of the ridge on the edge of Upper Winden, is just as inhospitable, as is the village shop at the opposite end of the main street. The pub’s dreary exterior is matched by its shabby, miserable interior. It offers no welcome to a stranger, relying on a few local folks to provide a slow but steady trade all year round.

 

It was on a cold and snowy night in midwinter when a stranger last walked into the pub. This simple event caused much murmuring among the few drinkers sharing the one room.

 

The stranger was a woman, tall with striking, flame red hair and bright eyes. She wore a deep, low fronted dark red dress, so dark it was almost as black as the night. She had no coat and no handbag, just a small leather purse pouch, hanging from the belt around her slender waist.

 

The flame haired woman greeted the landlord, who mumbled something in response, and then ordered a whisky. She paid, picked up her glass and crossed the room to sit in a high back oak chair next to the blazing fire.  Gazing around the room, the woman nodded at the customers. Some smiled weakly, muttered and then looked away again.

 

No one spoke for five minutes until the door opened and Mortimer Cobb - Mort to those who know him well - made his usual exuberant entrance. ‘Evening all,’ he said loudly. ‘It’s cold, bloody cold and I need a drink.’ He took off his scruffy coat and hung it on the wall pegs by the door. Such was the well-worn and extremely grubby state of Mort’s coat that even when it was removed from his body it retained the shape of a filled garment. It hung with a full girth and arms outstretched, as though it was draped on an invisible mannequin.

 

So far as anyone in the village can remember, Mort has always enjoyed a drink – in fact, by all accounts, he’s enjoyed drinking a lot. It would be unusual If he didn’t finish the evening on all fours, making loud grunting noises, such as those associated with a prize porker. It is his tribute, in a way, to the name of the pub. It also earns him a bit of friendly banter from villagers and, quite often, a few free drinks.

 

Mort spotted the striking woman. She smiled warmly at him. ‘Good evening.’ He looked around him and then realised she was talking to him. He nodded his head sharply and returned the greeting. ‘Evening.’ Mort was more than a little taken aback, not least by the presence of a beautiful stranger on such a night, and one so impeccably dressed.

 

And she’d said hello to him. Normally, women didn’t speak to him first – it was always Mort who muttered the first, shy greeting. He looked at the landlord, who raised an eyebrow, and glanced back at the woman. Even sitting down, it was obvious to the more slightly built Mort that she was tall.

 

He thought the dress was rather low cut for the weather conditions; it wasn’t that warm inside the pub either. Besides, he could count on one finger the number of low front dresses ever seen in Upper Winden. He could only presume that somewhere nearby, she also had a big, warm coat.

 

‘Would you have a drink with me? asked the woman.

Mort was stupefied. He looked around the room. Everyone just stared. ‘Ah, well, erm… thanks,’ he spluttered.

 

The flame haired woman stood. She towered over the slightly built Mort and looked down at him. He couldn’t guess women’s ages to save his life, but decided she was probably young enough to be his daughter. ‘Whisky?’ she asked. He looked up and noticed her bright blue eyes. He gulped slightly.

 

Whisky was not a tipple of choice for Mort. He couldn’t remember the last time he drank it – he literally couldn’t remember. It was an evening some 20 years ago, when he drank many strong beers and many whiskies. As a result, a complete day and night were missing from his life. He had never remembered a thing.

 

Just then he preferred the dark strong cask ale which was the winter favourite at the pub. But, for some strange reason, he accepted the offer, although he ordered his usual strong ale as well. He thanked the fire-haired woman and sat in an old, battered leather chair at the opposite side of the hearth.

 

They didn’t exchange words – it felt to Mort as though the silence lasted hours. But then, surprisingly, it was Mort who spoke first – after less than a minute. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘The north,’ she replied. She hesitated and then added: ‘Around and about. Sometimes the east, the south or the west.’

 

Mort didn’t understand her response but felt it easier to ignore it. ‘Just a brief visit then, is it?’ he asked.

‘I’m on a quest; a long journey to find someone,’ she replied.

 

‘Who?’ asked Mort. He was by nature, rather direct and blunt when he felt inclined.

‘

It’s destiny in a way,’ she replied. ‘I’ll know the person when I meet the person.’ She looked at him carefully. ‘I think I’m very close.’ She bought Mort another whisky and he bought another ale.

​

​This was repeated three times and each time the woman also ordered herself a whisky. Mort began to feel more and more relaxed. He noticed though that she didn’t seem to get intoxicated. In the approaching haze that was his evening state,

​

Mort thought it seemed very, very odd indeed. They sat mostly in silence. She occasionally asked him questions about his life on the ridge – ordinary questions, never prying on a personal level.

 

Suddenly, Mort got up from his seat and took to all fours to begin his cabaret act. It’s perhaps of interest to note, that no-one in either village is exactly sure why and how Mort first started impersonating a tipsy pig. Perhaps it’s been going on too long for anyone to care anymore; the beginnings have melted into folklore and several alcoholic hazes.

​

But what we do know is that he usually reacted when egged on by someone. The woman was not egging him; she was a stranger, and no-one had ever set eyes on her before. In fact, no-one in the room had egged him on that evening. There wasn’t even the smallest mention of his usual antics. Before Mort could break into his first snort and snuffling movement, the stranger spoke. ‘Now then Mortimer. Why don’t you do it different for once?’

 

Mortimer froze and looked up at her. He looked puzzled. He couldn’t recall her asking him his name... ‘How did you know my name,’ he asked, his voice distinctly slurred.

 

The woman shrugged. ‘I just know it.’ She looked sad for a moment. ‘As I said, why don’t you do something else, something completely different.’

 

‘Different. How does you mean, different?’ he asked. She was leaning forward, her elbows rested on her knees. Mort feasted on the view he now had of her cleavage. Mort loved cleavage. He began to salivate.

​

‘Well, they say you do the same thing every time. You just get down on all fours and snuffle and snort, snort, and snuffle.’ She smiled down at him, squeezing her arms closer together; her cleavage heaved towards him. Her red hair fell across her cheeks. Mort looked up at her chest and then smiled back.

 

Mort looked around the room. ‘What’s she on about? How can I be different?’ he asked. No-one spoke; a couple of men shrugged. Everyone simply watched the young flame haired woman and Mort.

 

The stranger tucked her hair behind her ears and looked thoughtful. ‘Have you ever wondered why you do what you do?’ Have you ever wondered how your life would be if you did things differently or, even, different things?’

 

Mort, still on all fours, stared at her. ‘I just does it, it’s just to mess about. I don’t mean no harm by it.’

 

Suddenly he felt angry. ‘If you didn’t want me to do it, why give me all that drink?’

 

The woman leaned back in her chair. ‘Oh Mortimer, my dear Mortimer. Why accept the drink if it makes you do this, and why does the drink mean you have to demean yourself at all? Do you really want to be the pub fool and the village idiot?’

 

Mort looked hurt. ‘What do you mean? I ain’t no idiot. I know what I’m doing.’ He pulled himself onto his knees. ‘I’m just pretending to be an old porker.’

​

She held up a hand. ‘Please, please, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just don’t want to see you playing the role of a porker.’

 

Some of the customers glanced in the woman’s direction. Some exchanged quiet comments. Mort was aware that everyone was listening and watching. The woman stood up. ‘Shall we go for a walk.’

 

Mort looked nonplussed. He pulled himself up and stood facing her. She was still seated.

‘A walk. Where?’ He surprised. ‘Bloody chilly night for a walk. Where we going?’

 

The woman stood up. ‘You’ll find out.’ She smiled warmly at him.

 

Mort looked around the room again. This time his face was animated. He had the look of a small boy about to go on a wonderful day out; about to get a life changing treat as well by all accounts. He had an air of “look at me you lot” – I’m a winner.

​

The consensus in Upper Winden is that Mort is around 60 years old. He’s earned his living as an odd job man for 45 years so and has spent much of that time outdoors, working all year round and in all conditions. So, he’s very weather beaten and a little well-worn around the edges.

 

But at this moment, Mortimer Cobb had a spring in his step. He didn’t bother emptying his glass. He was at the door having grabbed his coat and ready to go before the woman moved an inch.

 

When she caught up with him, they stepped outside. It was biting cold, and the wind swirled the snow in the air and around in circles on the ground.

 

It was pitch black – there are no streetlights in either village – and the street appeared completely deserted.

 

‘Ain’t you got a coat?’ asked Mort.

She shook her head. ‘This way.’ She turned to walk down the main street towards the other end of the village. It was where Mort lived.

 

‘You’ll catch your death.’ He looked cold and concerned.

 

‘Stay close.’ She held out an arm and took Mort’s hand in hers. ‘Then we’ll both keep warm.’