I’m aware that some eagerly anticipated experiences turn out to be about as enjoyable as discovering a verruca. But not this one. ‘Have you been to the Trough of Bowland before?’ Matt asks as we dart along winding lanes with sunlight sparkling through the trees. ‘I visited it for a wedding five years ago. My friend Grace got married in a place called the Inn at Whitewell.’ ‘Well, someone recommended the pub we’re heading to but I’ve no idea if it’ll be any good.’ ‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely.’ He reaches over the gear stick and touches my hand, making my chest flutter. No man has ever had the capacity to do this to me. Not ever. The physical effect of Matt’s skin against mine is sometimes enough to leave me speechless. ‘Here we are,’ he says, removing his hand and changing gear as he pulls into a car park. We’re going for our walk first, to build up an appetite for dinner, so set off over rolling fells and stunning moorland.
