I settled the bedding inside the tent, then broke open a can of lager, stretched out on a rug on the grass on while I waited for Simone to return, and breathed in exaggereated lungfuls of the fresh Derbyshire air, looking around the campsite, and beyond, across the Dale, in the direction of Castleton. There is a simple beauty to the Peaks which is indefinable but tangible, which lifts one's heart, invokes a sense of wellbeing. Simone appeared after about ten minutes, swinging a plastic bag full of groceries.

"Ha!" she snorted, indicating my lager, "didn't take you long to get started, did it? I thought this walking lark was supposed to be healthy?"

"You'll not be wanting yours, then?"

"Give it here! I had the rudest woman in the post office; all but told me off for taking a loaf of bread from the shelf."

"A 'local shop, for local people', darling," I quoted from the popular TV series. "Lucky to get out alive, I'd say. She didn't see you coming back here, did she? Didn't see which is our tent? 'I know where you live...' She'll come in and get us in the night." I handed Simone her can of Stella Artois and leaned back on the rug.

"Cheers m'dear," she said, popping the ringpull and taking a hefty swig, her hand cocked jauntily on her hip. "So what's the plan of action then?"

"Well," I replied. "I thought we'd do something nice and easy today. Break you in gently. Get you into the feel of things..."

"Cut it out. You make me sound like some kind of a wuss."

"If I knew what a wuss was I'd agree."

"Let's just say if you ever call me one our friendship is over."

"Hmm, you don't know what it means either, then?"

"Not a clue. Good word though. Onomatopoeic." She paused. "Probably"

"Well then, my little wuss, what I thought we'd do," I ducked to avoid her playful slap, "is take a quick hike up Grindsbrook Clough."

"Didn't he used to manage Nottingham Forest or somebody?"

"That was his brother. Grindsbrook Clough is the start of the Pennine Way, so when you get back you can tell everyone you've walked it. Well, two miles of it anyway."

"That's probably about as much as I want to."

"You'll love it. Trust me."

And love it she did. It was a short walk, only about three miles or so, but took in some breathtaking scenery. We started on the course of the Pennine Way, strolling along the side of the valley, with the wild and craggy Golden Clough rising erratically to our right and, beyond that, the beginnings of the bleak moorland and the rocky outcrop of Ringing Roger. Gradually our path became more open, satisfyingly rough and empty, and the relative lack of walkers helped increase our impression that we were alone in the wilderness. At first the walking was easy, and Simone began to form a false impression; she was disabused of this, though, as we followed the western turn of Grindsbrook Clough and the path began to ascend quite sharply, becoming rockier and more difficult. The valley narrowed, and all around us were gritstone boulders, weird and fantastically shaped by the winds of centuries, centurions on guard in the vast, bleak landscape. As we reached the outcrop at Foxholes we paused and looked over the great expanse of moorland to the west, heathered and violet.

"God, it's huge," Simone said.

"Wonderful, isn't it? Kinder Scout is over there, to the north; these are the slopes of the lower edge. Enormous, empty moorland, beyond the control of man. Heather and grass and rocks and grouse, and nothing to find but your soul."

We turned south towards Grindslow Knoll and paused at the peak, taking in the views around us: Grindsbrook Clough to the north, up which we had just come, nestled at the base of Kinder Scout and leading back down towards Edale; westwards towards Crowden Clough, with its scarred, rocky outcrops, at once lovely and menacing; and south over the whole valley of Edale, a beautiful slice of England, glinting green and warm in the pale summer sunshine, restful, unruffled, unconcerned by time or tide.

"Tired?" I asked.

"No, but my feet are a bit sore. I wasn't expecting it to be so rocky."

"We'll head back now. A couple of lagers at the Nag's Head and a Shepherd's Pie and you'll be fighting fit for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow we do the big walk. Peveril Castle to Mam Tor."

"I can hardly wait."

"You'll love it. Trust me."

"I've heard that before, somewhere."

"And I wasn't wrong, was I?"

"No, you weren't." She threaded her arm through mine and kissed me lightly on the cheek. We took a final look over the valley and began our descent. "Thank you for this," she said. "Thank you for bringing me. It's what I needed."

I nodded and we headed down the path towards the village again and into the Nag's Head. The Nag's Head is a bustling, thriving pub, full of walkers in the summer months, its various rooms alive with the spirit of adventure, bristling with tales of rambling, past and present, of blisters and sprains, triumphs and disasters. Here mingle the casual ramblers, happy and relaxed, the walkers about to set off on the Pennine Way, full of determination and adrenalin, and those who have just completed the walk, tired, contented, ready for some easy home comforts. Simone and I settled into a huge wooden bench in a little alcove and thirstily set about our lagers.

"That was cool," Simone said.

"Was it what you expected?"

"Don't know. I'm not really sure what I expected. Wasn't sure if it was going to be, like, climbing and scrabbling up mountainsides, or more like just a long walk. It was sort of a mixture of the two. I really enjoyed it. I'd like to do it again."

"Just as well, really, since we are doing it again tomorrow." I raised my glass in mock salute.

The pub was surprisingly busy, considering it was only about seven in the evening, and a large contingent appeared to be Welsh. While I was queuing at the bar I asked one of them, an older man with an impressive beer-belly and a thatch of tousled, greying hair, who they were.

"We are the Prestatyn Rugby Club," he replied in a booming voice, his precise Welsh vowels ringing through the bar, "on our annual walking holiday. Do it every year: three days walking, two nights drinking and last man standing drives us home." I laughed and he introduced himself as Gareth and offered to buy our drinks, and so it was that we found ourselves in the middle of Prestatyn Rugby Club's festivities for the rest of the evening.

I returned to Simone with our drinks, and Gareth in tow.

"Don't tell me," she said witheringly. "We've only been here ten minutes, you've pulled already?"

"Simone, this is Gareth, he plays rugby."

Simone looked disdainfully at Gareth's ample belly. "Not very fast, he doesn't, I imagine."

"I'm more what you'd call the coach," he bellowed good-naturedly. "Delighted to meet you, Simone. And may I say what a beautiful young lady you are?"

"You may."

"Oh, I'll not bother. You don't need me to tell you that, do you?"

"When did you get here?" I asked.

"Eleven o'clock this morning. Had a quick sprint up to Hollins Cross and Lose Hill, and we've been in here since five."

"You'd never know," said Simone. The rugby team were, it was true, becoming more and more raucous, their good-natured banter conducted at a volume which, if replicated in the workplace, would require earplugs under Health and Safety legislation.

"You ain't heard nothing yet," replied Gareth. "Wait till we start singing."

We were hungry by this stage and while Gareth and the Prestatyn rugby team settled down for a hard night's entertainment we quickly perused the menu. I had already decided on shepherd's pie: after a day on the moors one needs something substantial, and only traditional food will do. Simone followed suit and we placed our order.

"So am I going to have to sleep in the car tonight then, while you and Gareth make mad, passionate love?" she teased.

"Behave," I replied. "I honestly don't do that sort of thing."

"Oh no? The stories you've told me over the last few weeks..."

"Well, they might have been a bit embellished, shall we say."

"No way. All the details you've gone into. You couldn't have made all that up."

"Vivid imagination, my dear, vivid imagination."

Simone snorted, not sure whether to believe me or not.

"Anyway, he's not my type."

She laughed and hit me playfully. "And what is your type, then?"

"Ah, there's a question. If you'd asked me six months ago I could have told you: tall, dark, intelligent, rich, that sort of thing. Now, I'm not sure. I don't know."

"What caused the change?"

"Oh, I don't know. Things."

Simone laughed again. "Christ, we're a right pair aren't we? Only yesterday it was you lecturing me about keeping things to myself, not sharing, bottling things up. Now you're doing it to me!"

"Touché. Okay, we'll make a pact then. Anything we ask each other, we answer honestly. Yes?"

Simone nodded uncertainly. "No secrets," she said.

"No secrets. But if, for any reason, we don't feel able to talk about it just yet, we can say so, and promise to explain later."

Simone nodded again, rather more vigorously this time.

"And the other won't probe." I continued. "No paseran."

"What?"

"No paseran," I repeated. "'You shall not pass'. Republican soldiers said it in the Spanish Civil War. When they were fighting Franco."

"Cool. No paseran, then. Unless and until invited."

"Indeed."

"I tell you what, though, it'll be a culture shock for me, opening myself up to someone else," Simone laughed.

"And me, I guess."

"Okay, I want to start this." She settled herself excitedly in her seat, her left leg swung under her right, facing me earnestly. "How many guys have you really slept with?"

I was somewhat taken aback: I hadn't expected such immediacy, nor such a forward question. I had proposed the honesty policy, however, so I couldn't renege on it.

"Three," I replied.

"Three!" Simone snorted. "Three! Come off it, you must have told me about at least a dozen."

"Like I said, a vivid imagination."

"No kidding?" Simone went silent for a moment, taking in this revelation. "So why? Why tell me all those stories?"

I shrugged my shoulders uncomfortably. Why had I done it? To be interesting, to fit in with the young things, to convince myself I wasn't some old frump who'd run past her time. Fear. That was the reason. Fear of a body showing its age, fear of a life half over but barely lived, fear of contempt, fear of blank looks where once I had turned heads, fear of it all being over before I'd allowed it to begin. Fear of fate, fear of growing old. Invent a past to create a future.

"I didn't want to seem like some droopy old maid," I replied.

"I'd never have thought of you like that."

"No?"

"No. God, no. You're beautiful, you're young, you've got more life in you than most of the girls in my year at uni. It'd never cross my mind to think of you as an old maid."

I wasn't sure whether I believed her or not, but they were the words I wanted to hear. "Well, when you get to my age..."

"Oh don't give me that 'when you get to my age' schtick please. Give me a break."

"Sorry," I smiled. "Sounded like an old maid there, didn't I?"

"Just for an instant, yes," she chided with a grin. "Granny."

"Wuss."

Food arrived in time to stop us scratching at each other's eyes, and we laid into it hungrily. Now that Simone and I had been detached from our personal tête-á-tête, I was suddenly conscious that our rugby chums had grown considerably louder, and there was a deal of discordant singing at one of the tables in the opposite corner to us. And I was also aware that looming over us, once more, was the rotund and jocund form of Gareth.

"Can I get you lovely ladies another drink?" he asked. He was a pleasant enough man, very hospitable and not in the least pushy, but to be honest I could have done without him. The whole intention of this trip was to get Simone alone, and becoming embroiled in the activities of Prestatyn Rugby Club on tour was not part of the plan. Before I could decline, however, Simone interjected.

"Half of lager please. Kronenbourg."

"And for me, please," I added. Oh well, I thought, if I'm not going to get her to myself I may as well join in the fun. Gareth disappeared to the bar and quickly returned with our drinks, settling himself down at our table. The group opposite were in full voice by now, singing a combination of sentimental ballads and grossly, but hilariously, offensive rugby songs. A particular favourite with the team was The Granny Song, the singer of which got an earsplitting yell of approval when he announced it. To the tune of Delilah, it chronicled the depths of depravity to which a young man is driven:

"My how I defiled her,
Roped and groped and riled her
Eighty-four, an octogenarian whore,
Forgive me, wee granny, I just couldn't take any more."

That pretty much set the tone for the next couple of hours, as drink took its toll and the rugby club got coarser and louder, drunker and wilder. They had taken over a complete room of the pub, and apart from us the rest of the customers had vacated it for the relative calm of the other rooms. The Prestatyn rugby team were free, then, to do much as they pleased, and the players took it in turn to lead the ensemble in song. Gareth, when it came to his turn, announced, to great cheers, that he was going to sing "The Musicman".

"Oh, I know this," said Simone. "This is fun."

"It's a children's song," I replied, confused.

"Probably not this version, Margaret."

Gareth began singing, in a very fine tenor, "I am the music man, I come from down your way, and I can play"; and the congregation answered "what can you play?" Gareth sang in reply "I can play the viola," and was answered "how does it go?" Suddenly, he launched into an impersonation of Julian Lloyd Webber, who was a cellist, I thought, but never mind, and sang "vio-vio-vio-la, vio-la, vio-la, vio-vio-vio-la, vio-vio-la."

That set the scene for the song, as each person in turn became the musicman, playing a variety of instruments: piccolo, German Horn, piano and so on; and then, naturally, given that this was a rugby club, it started to depart from reality, beginning with "The Dambusters," accompanied by the entire group running around the room with their hands clasped to their eyes like goggles, pretending they were flying a plane and humming the tune to The Dambusters. "I can sing like Grace Kelly" was followed by "holy shit, the brakes don't work, the brakes don't work, the brakes don't work" and the tone became progressively baser from there, encompassing the Pope, Michael Jackson and sundry other luminaries. Finally, as Gareth sang "I can play the big blue whale," Simone grabbed me.

"Toilet break," she said, heading for the door.

"What was that all about?" I asked when we were ensconced in the miniscule toilets.

"You'll see when we get back," she laughed. When we returned, the floor was awash with beer and the walls were dripping.

"What the hell?"

"The big blue whale," explained Simone. "The action for it is to take a mouthful of drink, tip your head back and spout it out like a whale."

"Simone," yelled Gareth as we gingerly wiped our seats and sat down again. He came over to us, grinning. "Time to calm things down a bit, the boys are getting too excited," he said. "Will either of you ladies do a turn for us?" Not a bloody chance, I thought, not a chance. Simone was showing the effects of the alcohol more than me, though, and readily agreed. She disappeared to our car and collected her fiddle, returning breathlessly a couple of minutes later. A loud cheer went up when the rugby team saw her appear with the fiddle under her arm, and Gareth rapped on the table to attract everybody's attention.

"Lady and gentlemen, I give you.... Simone!"

Instantly, she broke into some spirited reels, and within minutes the pub was alive, with people clapping and dancing wildly around Simone. She stood, stock still beside me, seemingly oblivious of the tumult around her, careless of the frenzy she had whipped up.That wonderful, dreamy, faraway look crossed her face, as it always did when she played, and she disappeared into her own private world of music. She scorched through The Geese in the Bog and The Connaughtman's Rambles, and then, glancing down at me and winking, started on my favourite, The Otter's Holt. I'd never heard her play it on the fiddle before, only the flute, and I was entranced as she stormed through it, her bow fiery and alive as it snapped out the three ringing D chords which start the third phase. By now, virtually the whole pub had congregated around the entrance to our room, people craning to get a view, fighting to get past. I was so proud of her, so proud of my Simone, knowing that she could command a gathering so easily, could stamp her personality on any group, no matter how drunk or how loud. This was the Simone I knew and loved, the Simone with the sparky, bubbly confidence, free, alert and alive. It may have just been a fancy of mine, but as I watched her perform her impromptu set the worries and strains which had bedevilled her for the past week seemed to slip from her, her stance regaining its wonted poise and control, her face breaking into a dazzling smile, a sense of sheer enjoyment emanating from every feature, dominating every gesture. Whatever demons were wrestling with her were summarily dispatched, and it was a dynamic Simone who finally wound to a halt, a few minutes later, with an expansive, final flourish of her bow, to be greeted by tumultuous cheering. She smiled and affected a mini bow, and then resumed her seat beside me, breathless and laughing.

"More," they shouted. "More, more, more." There was no let-up, and they began clapping and stamping their feet, louder and louder, faster and faster, until virtually the whole pub was clapping in time, cheering her on, willing her to play again. Resignedly, smiling, she stood up.

"Okay, okay," she shouted, waving her hands in the air. "Okay, one more." There was a loud cheer. "I'm going to sing you a song this time, though, and my friend Margaret is going to help me." I stared at her, ashen-faced, shaking my head. "It's a bit of a sad song, but never mind. It's called 'I wonder what is keeping my true love this night.' Not a catchy title, I'll grant you, but it's a lovely melody." She looked down at me. "You can do the third verse, okay?" And without giving me the chance to refuse, she began singing.

"I wonder what is keeping my true love this night, I wonder what is keeping him out of my sight." It was the song I had sung to the Jenny Dangs that night at the lock-in at the Arts Centre, only Simone sang it much, much better than I ever could, imbuing it with a resonance, a plaintive longing that I could never match with my feeble voice. Where moments earlier there had been a cacophony of noise there was now silence, an almost eery stillness enveloping the room. I was aware of rising panic within me, as Simone completed the first verse and began the second. She had told me to sing the third, the verse sung by the man, in which he belittles the love he had affected to feel for the woman. Simone was singing so wonderfully and I knew I would ruin it the instant I opened my mouth and unleashed my crow's rasp of a voice. Simone sang on inexorably, though, and with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach I rose to my feet.

"For I can love lightly, and I can love strong, I can love the old love till the new love comes on," I sang, barely conscious of what I was doing. The room had disappeared into a molten mass, nothing discernible, nothing distinct, nothing real, as my terror guided me through the ordeal: I was alone with my fears. I couldn't hear a note I was singing, and had no idea whether I was in tune, or in tempo, or even if I was singing the correct words. "I only said I loved you for to give your heart's ease, and when I'm not with you I'll love whom I please," I continued, reaching the end of my verse, and with a huge sigh of relief I sat back in my chair. It was only then that I realised that, throughout, Simone had been accompanying me with her fiddle.

She carried on, her voice soaring to perfection when she hit my favourite line, "I'm sorry and tormented for the love of my dear", and falling breathily towards the sad, fatalistic conclusion: "your love it lies so lightly as the dew on the thorn, that's there in the evening and away with the dawn." And once more she gripped her fiddle to her shoulder and eased into a gentle, meandering, melancholy melody, sadly sweet and floating across the room in a final, rueful sweep.

She sat down and again we were engulfed by a wave of cheering and foot-stamping. Simone rose to her feet and did another brief bow, dragging me up and forcing me to do likewise, but she refused to play any more.

"I need a drink," she cried, "my glass is empty. I need a drink, no more, no more." As she sat down again, to the good-natured boos of the disappointed throng, Gareth re-appeared, the answer to our prayers, with two halfs of lager.

"Now, being Welsh, I thought I knew a bit about singing, but that was just lovely. Just lovely," he said admiringly. "Both of you, I mean. Voices like angels."

"Okay, don't overdo it," I laughed, and thanked him for the drink. It was getting late by now, and at the conclusion of Simone's brief spot many people began to drift off. Suddenly, a wash of fatigue blew over me, and we agreed it was time for bed. We finished our drinks and began saying goodbye to the Prestatyn rugby team, thanking them for their entertainment and enduring their beery, leery kisses.

Gareth came to say farewell. "We move to Bakewell tomorrow, so I shan't see you again. We come here every year, though, same week. Third week in July. Come back next year and give us another tune and a song."

Laughing, we promised we would and headed out into the chill of the evening, striking out towards the nearby campsite.

"That was marvellous," Simone said, gripping my arm and threading hers between it and my body. "I really enjoyed that. Best fun I've had in ages. Thank you."

"And thank you," I replied. "It's been a wonderful day."

We were too tired to sit out, so quickly and quietly we got ready for bed. It had grown quite cold, and we each wore baggy tee shirts as we settled ourselves into our sleeping bags. We lay side by side almost, but not quite, touching, and as I turned to face her I could feel her breath, soft and dewy, on my cheek. It was dark, but I could see the profile of her face, and I felt a calm joy that, finally, I was lying beside the woman of my dreams.

"That was the first time I've ever sung in public," said Simone. "Played instruments hundreds of times, but I've never had the courage to sing before."

I was amazed. I had assumed she sung regularly, and couldn't believe that anyone with her poise and self-belief would lack the courage to stand up and sing. She gave no indication of being beset by nerves when she sang; quite the reverse, she had seemed in total command of everything around her.

"I didn't realise. You'd never have known," I replied. "I was really nervous. But I've been trying to pluck up the courage to do it for ages, so this seemed an ideal chance. They were all so drunk I figured if I made an arse of it no-one would remember, anyway. And having you helping me on the third verse was really important too. You sing so well, you make it look so easy." "Well, I'll tell you something else, then. It was my first time in public, too. Apart from that time in the Arts Centre."

"No! Really? But you're so calm when you sing, so confident. I just thought you'd done it loads of times, in, like, folk clubs or something." I was staggered that Simone had thought I had appeared confident, when in fact I had been a terrified wreck: I must be better, I thought ruefully, at hiding my emotions than I realised.

"Absolutely not. Never done anything like it in my life."

"You're full of surprises, Margaret. I thought you were fantastic in there. I thought you sang beautifully. I wish I could sing like that. Such passion, such depth. It sounded from the heart."

I had no idea what to say, so I said nothing. It was beyond belief that Simone could compare her angel's voice with mine, or aspire to sing like me.

"D'you mind if I ask you one more thing?" she asked.

"No."

"Tell me about your unrequited love. Your once and forever."

I longed to tell her, but this wasn't the time. I knew it wasn't. Sadly, I turned onto my back.

"No paseran."

On to next story: Mam Tor