3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers by Wilkie Martin Page B

grab a beer or something.’
    ‘The nearest pub is in Blackcastle. It’s about eight miles due east of here. You can’t miss it.’
    ‘OK … Which way is east?’
    ‘Over there.’ He pointed. ‘Roughly opposite to where the sun went down. Of course, to get there you’ll have to cross Dead Man’s Bluff.’
    ‘I might give it a miss tonight.’
    ‘Suit yourself.’
    As soon as we’d washed up in cold water and stacked the plates to drip dry, he retired into the tent.
    Wrapping my jacket around me, I lay on the flat rock, gazing at the stars. I’d never seen such abundance. Hobbes had once tried to teach me about them, displaying a vast theoretical and practical knowledge, but astronomy was way over my head. I could, at least, recognise the moon, half of which was rising, making the mountains shine with a pale, silvery light. Once or twice I noticed the flickering silhouettes of bats and, faraway, an owl screeched, emphasising the quietness and the isolation and filling me with a sense of melancholy and loneliness that was almost exhilarating. Sprawled, relaxed, contemplating the cosmos, I thought deep thoughts and pondered much on the meaning of life, until Dregs started licking himself. The mood shattered, I relieved myself in a gorse bush and decided to turn in. Anyway, I was starting to feel cold.
    Hobbes, fast asleep, didn’t stir as I snuggled into my pile of rugs. I was sure the ground was too hard and rocky and the rugs nowhere near thick enough to allow me to sleep, especially as Dregs had decided to lie on my feet.
    When I awoke it was morning, and Hobbes and Dregs were already up. It took me a while to join them, because my back was rigid and my neck stiff and besides, it was warm where I was. Yet I had to move sometime, so, with a sigh, I crawled out into bright daylight and got to my feet, grunting good morning, stretching and yawning. Hobbes, having made a fire from old bits of gorse, was filleting several large trout.
    ‘Where did you get those from?’ I asked.
    ‘Over there.’ He pointed down the valley to the pool.
    ‘Great. How did you catch them?’
    ‘With difficulty, because they didn’t want to be caught. I think they were nervous of the heron.’
    When he started frying them, along with a handful of green leaves he’d found, the air was filled with delicious scents; they tasted even better. Fresh fish cooked and eaten in fresh air really piqued the appetite.
    ‘I could get used to this,’ I said, stuffing the last bit into my mouth.
    ‘Yes. This is good living. There’s plenty to eat around here and I doubt I’ll have much trouble at this time of year. It’s not so good in the depths of winter, though.’
    ‘We won’t be here that long, will we?’
    ‘No. At least, I hope not, but it is October and the weather up here can change within minutes. Still, it should stay warm and sunny for the next few days. After that, I’m not so sure.’ He sniffed the air and glanced at the sky. ‘We’ll see.’
    ‘Do you think bad weather’s on the way?’
    ‘Maybe, but let’s enjoy the good stuff while we can.’
    Having never gone camping in really bad weather before, I wasn’t much looking forward to the prospect, but Hobbes didn’t concern himself with future problems that might not even arise. It struck me as a good way of living, one that I wished I could follow. Unfortunately, I had a tendency to worry, despite having learned that the worrying about a dreaded event was often far worse than the event itself. This wasn’t always the case, for I had another tendency to drop myself into messes far deeper than I’d anticipated.
    After we’d eaten and I’d scrubbed the dishes, I asked a foolish question.
    ‘What do we do about washing ourselves?’
    The pool was cool and clear and, once the shock of being thrown into it had passed, refreshing.
    The next two days were glorious. We’d turn in as the light faded and wake early. I made it to the top of Beacon Peak, where I sat