On Christmas day some few years ago, fuelled by a good deal of roast beef and a bottle of vintage port, I struck out on a country walk over the verdant hills stretching out from the door of the little English country cottage I was staying in for the holiday. In truth, it was not much colder without than within. I walked through woodlands dripping in holly and mistletoe, over pastures and meadows, down meandering country lanes, invigorated by the fresh air, the deep colours of the overcast winter’s day, and the ever-moving memory of “Walking in the Air”, which had played on the small radio in the kitchen that morning.
There was quiet sense of drama in the air that became a little less quiet as it started to pour. In a colder climate, the precipitation might have become a charming winter snow, but as it was I soon found myself soaked through, miles from home, in a field that was rapidly turning into a bog.
And then, as if emerging from the pages of every romance novel ever written, my beloved appeared over the hill. We ran together towards home, where at last he lifted me up in his arms and delivered me to the fireside with a glass of Domaine du Pegau. Needless to say—for what other way could such a story end?—we were married two years later.