Chapter Eight
Dales and Doubts
Eva woke to the sound of paper sliding under her door. Not the violent shove of a pizza menu or the aggressive thwack of a noise complaint she was used to back home, but a gentle whisper of movement that somehow managed to be more intrusive for its politeness.
She stumbled out of bed, her feet finding the perpetually cold floor, and picked up the folded note. The handwriting was Florence’s—neat, no-nonsense cursive that looked like the standard to teach penmanship lessons.
“Fantastic,” she muttered, heading for the shower.
By 8.55 a.m., she was downstairs in her thick cable-knit cardigan she’d bought in London, jeans, and the only ‘sensible’ shoes she’d brought—a pair of ankle boots that were more fashionable than functional but would have to do.
Florence was at her usual post in the dining room, arranging the breakfast buffet with military precision.
“Ah, good, you’re ready,” Florence said, not looking up from the perfectly aligned croissants.
“Quiet morning,” Eva observed carefully.
“Oh, it’s always peaceful this time of year,” Florence said, her tone determinedly bright.
“People busy with their Christmas shopping, you know. January will pick up. Always does.” She moved a jam pot three millimetres to the left.
“Besides, gives me more time to look after my special guests properly, doesn’t it? ”
Eva suspected ‘special guests’ meant ‘only guest’, but didn’t say so.
“Charlie will be here any moment. I told him he needs to stop by Kilnsey to get fresh milk from the vending machine. You absolutely must see it—it’s one of Yorkshire’s hidden treasures.”
“A milk vending machine?” Eva’s voice rose with unexpected delight. “Like, actual fresh milk? Straight from cows? In a vending machine?”
“Everything’s a treasure if you look at it the right way,” Florence said cryptically. “Besides, Charlie needs to get out more. All he does is work on those maps and brood. You’ll be good company for him.”
“I don’t think Charlie wants—”
The front door opened, cutting off her protest. Charlie stood in the doorway, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.
He wore a thick green jumper that had seen better decades and jeans with suspicious stains that could have been ink or mud or both.
Tilly bounded in ahead of him, tail wagging enthusiastically at the sight of Eva.
“Morning,” he said to the air somewhere over Eva’s left shoulder.
“Charlie!” Florence bustled over. “Perfect timing. You’ll take the scenic route, won’t you? And stop at—”
“The milk machine, yes, you’ve mentioned it seventeen times,” Charlie interrupted. He glanced at Eva, taking in her outfit. “You’re not bringing a rain jacket?”
“It’s not supposed to rain,” Eva said, gesturing at the relatively clear morning sky visible through the window.
Charlie gave her a look that suggested she’d just announced plans to wrestle a bear. “It’s Yorkshire. It’s always supposed to rain.”
“I’ll be fine,” Eva said confidently. “The weather app says partly cloudy.”
“The weather app,” Charlie repeated, still not looking at her. “Right. Are you coming?”
Eva grabbed her coat and bag, giving Florence a look that said I’m doing this for you, not him. Florence just smiled serenely and made shooing motions towards the door.
Charlie’s Land Rover was exactly what Eva expected—ancient, mud-splattered, and held together by what appeared to be equal parts rust and stubbornness. The inside smelled of wet dog, old leather, and something earthy that might have been peat or just accumulated Yorkshire.
“Sorry about the …” Charlie gestured vaguely at the interior as Eva climbed in. “I don’t usually have passengers. Human ones, anyway.”
Tilly had already claimed the middle seat, her warm weight pressed against Eva’s thigh. The dog looked up at her with liquid brown eyes that seemed to say Don’t mind him, he’s always like this.
“It’s fine,” Eva said, buckling herself in with a seat belt that might have been original to the vehicle. “I appreciate you taking me. I know Florence probably strong-armed you into it.”
Charlie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Florence has her ways,” he said carefully. “She seems to think I need more … social interaction.”
“And I’m social interaction?”
“Apparently.” He started the engine, which coughed to life with the enthusiasm of someone forced to work on their day off. “She also genuinely believes you need to see a milk vending machine, so I’m not sure how much we should trust her judgement.”
Despite herself, Eva smiled. “Maybe she knows something we don’t.”
“Florence usually does,” Charlie admitted, pulling out into the narrow street. “It’s tremendously annoying.”
They drove in silence through York’s morning streets, the city still waking up around them.
Eva tried not to stare at the way Charlie’s hands moved on the steering wheel—confident, careful, with the same precision he probably used on his maps.
Tilly dozed between them, occasionally sighing with deep canine contentment.
As they left the city behind, the roads narrowed dramatically. Eva found herself pressing against the door as stone walls seemed to close in on both sides.
“Are these roads built for actual cars?” she gasped as Charlie swerved slightly to avoid an approaching delivery van, the vehicles passing with what seemed like mere inches between them. “How do you not have accidents every ten feet?”
Charlie navigated the tight spaces with relaxed confidence. “You get used to it. The roads were designed for horse carts, not Land Rovers. Some are a thousand years old.”
“And what’s with all the walls of bushes?” Eva asked, gesturing at the dense greenery lining both sides of the lane, occasionally brushing against the Land Rover. “It’s like driving through a very narrow green tunnel.”
“Hedgerows,” Charlie corrected. “They’re living fences, basically. Some are hundreds of years old—they mark ancient property lines, parish boundaries. Did you know there are enough hedgerows in England to wrap around the world ten times?”
“That’s … fascinating,” Eva admitted, her death grip on the arm rest relaxing slightly. “They’re beautiful.”
They drove for what felt like hours. Eva was unsure of what to say or how to present herself. Usually, she would tell someone exactly what they wanted to hear. But for some reason, in England, or maybe, around Charlie, she didn’t want to do that anymore.
“So,” Eva said when the silence became too heavy, “what exactly makes this milk vending machine so special?”
“It’s fresh milk,” Charlie stated simply, as if this explained everything. When Eva’s blank look persisted, he added, “Straight from the farm. You put your pound in, or credit card, whatever, place your bottle and fresh milk comes out. Still warm sometimes.”
“That’s actually kind of amazing,” Eva said. “Very un-American. We like our milk to travel at least a thousand miles and have a shelf life of several weeks.”
“Explains a lot about your cheese, you know it’s not meant to come out of a can.” Charlie muttered.
“Hey! We have excellent cheese in America.”
“You have orange cheese. That’s not the same thing.”
“Wisconsin would like a word with you.”
“Wisconsin can take it up with Wensleydale.”
Eva found herself grinning. Grumpy Charlie was actually kind of fun when he wasn’t actively trying to make her feel like a culturally insensitive tourist.
As the city gradually gave way to countryside, dry stone walls replaced shop fronts, and sheep replaced pedestrians. The landscape opened up like a book, each hill and valley a new chapter. Morning mist clung to the hollows, and the weak winter sun painted everything in shades of pearl and silver.
Eva couldn’t help but imagine Mr Darcy striding out of the mist, making his way across the moors towards Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. Though knowing her luck lately, she’d probably get Collins instead.
“It’s beautiful,” Eva breathed, pressing her face closer to the window.
“Wait until you see the Dales proper,” Charlie said, and there was something in his voice—pride, maybe, or possession. “This is just the preview.”
They stopped at Kilnsey, where the promised milk vending machine sat like a small technological miracle next to a traditional stone barn.
Charlie demonstrated the process with the seriousness of someone explaining nuclear physics, while Eva tried not to laugh at the absurdity of getting a tourism lesson about fresh milk.
“You try,” he said, handing her a glass bottle that he’d produced from somewhere in the Land Rover’s cluttered back.
Eva inserted her pound, placed the bottle, and watched in genuine delight as fresh milk poured out. “This is the best thing I’ve seen in England,” she declared.
“Better than the Tower of London?”
“Infinitely. The Tower of London doesn’t give you fresh milk.”
“Fair point,” Charlie conceded. “Though that would improve the tourist experience considerably.”
They continued north, the landscape growing more dramatic with each mile.
The Dales unfolded around them—vast moorlands stretching to the horizon, limestone cliffs catching the light, valleys carved by ancient rivers.
It was beautiful in a way that made Eva’s chest tight, like the landscape was too big for her heart to hold.
Charlie pulled into a small car park beside a weathered sign marking a public footpath. “Come on,” he said, “you can’t see the Dales properly from the car.”
They set off along a well-marked trail, Tilly racing ahead then circling back, her tail a constant flag of joy.
The path wound along a river, following the water between ancient trees and younger saplings.
The water moved swiftly, dark and mysterious, catching occasional glints of sunlight that broke through the cloud cover.
“What about tea time?” Eva asked, remembering Florence’s comment about British traditions. “Is that as sacred as they say?”