I also had rather more prosaic concerns as we drove through the blinding mid-morning sunshine towards Rutland Water. It had been twenty years since I had been on a bike, and even then I wasn't what you might call proficient, nor confident: when cars approached from either direction I would jump off and wait until the road was clear again. Different scenarios flitted through my imagination, ranging from the merely embarrassing - falling off or missing a corner- to the fateful. Not to mention, of course, numb bum syndrome 3;

But Simone was bright and breezy, and her easy good humour quickly swept my concerns aside. She looked gorgeous that morning, her hair sleek and bouncy and her face lightly tanned; her normally moon-pale skin had taken on a glorious, summer-enriched, light gold hue, emphasising her superb nose, alert, lively eyes and thin, pastel lips. Her face was set in that wonderful, self-contained expression of hers which I so adored; dreamy, slightly aloof, a mellifluous smile floating on her lips as her eyes hovered above, keenly appraising every experience, draining life from every moment.

We fixed ourselves up with some rented bikes, not without difficulty as my gaucheness and unproficiency quickly came to light. I was spared the ignominy of falling off even before we had left the shop and crashing into a row of gleaming, new and expensive bikes only by the quick thinking and strong arms of the salesman, who saw me wobble and topple and grabbed me before I fell over.

"I think you should probably hire a helmet, too," he laughed, his light tone alleviating my embarrassment. We took his advice, and soon I was sporting a silver helmet which made me look like a wood nail, and Simone was bedecked in a Jackson Pollock effort, garish yellow, blue, red, white and every-other-colour splashed madly against one another; somehow, she managed to make even that look sexy. I was given rudimentary instruction in the use of the gears, which appeared to have evolved considerably from the three Sturmey Archer gears - fast, slow and uphill - to which I had been accustomed; presented by this overwhelming choice, eighteen in all and confusingly controlled by two separate mechanisms, I was briefly bewildered. I rode round the car park a few times, feverishly crashing through the gears and wobbling alarmingly into the line of oncoming traffic, until we decided I would be safer out on the trail itself.

Rutland Water is the biggest man-made lake in Western Europe, twenty-six miles in circumference. It was created in the 1970s by flooding 3000 acres of the old county of Rutland and in the process drowning the old village of Nether Hambleton. It is now, year round, a world famous bird sanctuary, in summer a colourful cavalcade of families and lovers, and in autumn an oasis of serenity in a breakneck world. A cycle track runs round the entire perimeter, with only a small section of it using the busy public carriageways, making it ideal for families or, like me, inexperienced cyclists.

We headed west from the hire shop and immediately came to a sharp incline. Still troubled by the gears, I approached it in far too high a gear and almost immediately ground to a halt; instantly I toppled over and crashed to the ground, the bike landing heavily on top of me. It must be the lowest speed bike crash in history. Simone, a few metres ahead of me, heard the commotion and turned to see me sprawled on the track, rubbing my elbow and adjusting my helmet. She rushed back towards me solicitously, and a wave of embarrassment shuddered through me.

"I'm okay," I said, "no damage. Think the picnic's okay too." Our picnic was in a rucksack on my back, and it appeared to be unscathed.

"What happened?" she asked.

"A bird flew past and startled me," I lied.

"Ah, dive-bombing sparrows, get a lot of them here," she consoled. Clearly, she didn't believe me, but was prepared to collude in my pretence to spare my feelings. "Have to watch out for the rabbits too. They hide in the undergrowth till the last minute, then jump out in front of your bike and waggle their ears at you."

"I'll look out for that," I laughed, wheeling my bike, which fortunately appeared as unscathed as me, up the hill. At the summit, I settled myself back on the saddle and said a silent prayer to the god of cyclists.

"Ready?" asked Simone.

"Go for it!"

Simone streaked off, pedalling furiously, and I trundled behind her, anxiously watching every stone and hole on the rough surface, feeling the bike move steadily faster and faster, until I was careering down the hill in her wake. The air zipped past me, making my eyes stream, whipping at my clothing and strafing my bare arms with its cool, electrifying intensity; the hedgerow flitted past, a whorling, whirling variegation, colours tumbling and clashing, merging finally into a single, streaked canvas of grey-brown; it was exhilerating, terrifying and invigorating in equal measure. Barely in control, towards the bottom of the hill I sped past the laughing Simone.

"Slow down," she cried, "but gently 3;"

Frankly, I had no intention of slowing down. I knew if I touched the brakes I would send myself head first over the front wheel, so I continued, hands throttling the handlebars and face fixed in a grin of sheer terror. I hurtled on grimly and lost my footing on the pedals; without me, they circled erratically on their own, painfully knocking my shins with each rotation, and I swung my feet up and out to avoid them. Think of Paul Newman in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but not so cool: that was me, cannoning down the hill. Fortunately, it was bottoming out and we were approaching a mild incline again; unfortunately, at the bottom it went round a sharp corner, which necessitated steering, a manoeuvre I had been spared until now.

I'm not really sure what happened next. I pressed the brakes, closed my eyes, and felt the back wheel slide sideways away from me; for a few, terrifying moments I skidded towards the bend in the track, heading straight for the hedge beyond it; by now I was completely out of control and simply waiting for the inevitable crash into the onrushing greenery. I braked again, and once more the back wheel slid away from me; the bike turned ninety degrees and skidded to a halt inches from the edge of the track, facing perfectly in the direction of the corner as though ready to continue, and I slammed my foot onto the track to steady myself. Standing once more on solid ground, I stared in disbelief at the ten yard long skid mark I had just made, my heart pounding and body trembling.

Simone screeched to a halt beside me, laughing uproariously. "You're a madwoman!" she cried. "Mad! I've never seen anyone do a handbrake turn on a bike before, and certainly not with their feet stuck in mid-air! Crazy woman!" Well, I wasn't going to tell her it was unintentional, so I grinned nonchalantly.

"It's all coming back to me," I replied.

"Coming back to you? What were you before, a trick cyclist?"

My heart was racing and my hands were shaking, but I pressed on. We had a relatively flat section for the next couple of miles, and we continued uneventfully. Simone took the lead, and I followed, admiring the neat way she cycled, her back tyre following perfectly in the tracks of the front; by contrast, mine weaved erratically, forming crazed arabesques on the sandy surface. She pedalled hard and made swift progress; I struggled to keep up, my thighs creaking and aching as I trailed behind her. The wind billowed in her tee-shirt, ballooning it and turning her into a Michelin woman; then it would subside and the shirt would gather once more around her slim frame, crinkled along the back and sticking to her skin with the sweat from her exertion. She was so graceful, so elegant, it was a delight to sit and watch her.

After about an hour and a half we came to Normanton Tower. This was a remnant from the previous inhabitation of the area, a semi-submerged church at the edge of the Water; only the tower remained above water, an eery, haunting and beautiful reminder of the past. We had worked up a hunger, so stopped to have our picnic. Simone had a rug in her rucksack, which she unfolded and lay on the grass at the edge of the track, and I unloaded the food from the chillbag in my rucksack. Finally, I produced a bottle of still cool chardonnay and a bottle opener. Simone laughed.

"D'you think that's sensible, since we're cycling?"

"Hah," I replied. "The way I cycle it can't make me any more unsteady. It'll probably have the opposite effect: make me cycle in a perfect, straight line 3;" I popped the cork and poured it into two plastic beakers. "Cheers, my dear,"

"Cheers," she said, raising her beaker and knocking it against mine. "What have we got then?" I unwrapped some chicken drumsticks and a quiche, some garlic mushrooms, blue cheese pasta and vegetable rice, and laid them on the rug between us, handing Simone a plastic plate. We worked our way through it, chatting and chomping in equal measure, the crisp, steady lapping of Rutland Water providing a calming backdrop for our afternoon idyll. I felt as relaxed, and as happy, as I had in years. I loved watching Simone eat: she would select something and hold it aloft like a trophy, before nibbling at it and then resuming her outstretched pose, fingers pincered around the food; when each piece was finished she would delicately lick her fingers, then her lips and pause for a moment while she chose her next item. She was so neat, so unfussy, and she appeared to be enjoying herself immensely.

"What a spread," she remarked. "I'd have done a few mouldy sandwiches; this is really classy."

"D'you do much cooking?" I asked.

"No, not much, really. Spag bol, curry sauces from a jar, that sort of thing. Never had much time to learn."

"I love it," I said.

"Really? I'm surprised. I wouldn't have taken you for a cook."

"No? Why not?"

"Don't know. Sounds a bit domestic, somehow. I can't imagine you having time for it, with your lifestyle."

My lifestyle was a great deal quieter than Simone took it to be, of course. Not wishing to seem to her like a middle-aged frump, I tended to embellish details, and even completely fabricate some incidents. Only the other night I had regaled her with a completely spurious tale of the IT man and me one lunchtime. The reality was that he was a fat, balding, sweaty and smelly oaf who continually leered at me and asked me out on a date. Somehow, I managed to turn this into a steamy afternoon session of cunnilingus in the office. I worried that I might be overdoing the depiction of my louche lifestyle, but I knew that Simone and the Jenny Dangs were from a different generation and I didn't want to come across as stuffy and dowdy.

"Well," I said, "you've got to take a rest from rogering some time 3;"

"Yeah, right," said Simone, a faraway look on her face.

"It's very relaxing. My idea of perfect happiness is peeling and chopping an onion. Quite the most relaxing thing I know."

"No! It makes you cry 3;"

"You get used to it."

"You never get used to crying, Margaret."

That was such an odd thing to say, so melancholy. Suddenly, Simone looked strangely vulnerable; where previously she had had a dreamy expression, she now stared introspectively at the grass. You never get used to crying 3;

"Oh you haven't had time for tears yet," I replied brightly. "You're too young for that." Damn, there I went, mentioning age again.

"Yeah, whatever." The mood had changed. Simone had gone silent and a pregnant air hung around us. I was confused, not sure what had happened.

"Nice chicken, this," I said, trying to change the subject. Simone seemed to snap out of her reverie, and gave me a bright, beaming smile. Instantly, she looked like herself again.

"Yes, it is. Thank you for preparing all this. It's lovely." I shrugged, jokingly.

"Nothing to it, my dear. Knocked it up in half an hour." I sipped my wine and stretched out on the rug. Something strange had just passed between us, but I didn't understand what it was. It was, though, clearly something which neither of us wished to pursue, so I let it lie. Still, it troubled me; it hinted at some disquiet in my beloved Simone's disposition, and I felt alarmed for her sake.

"Is your knee alright?" she asked, pointing at a graze where I had fallen earlier. Truth to tell, now that we had stopped it was beginning to stiffen up and ache.

"Yeah, I'll live. Getting a bit stiff, though."

"You need a massage."

"Ooh, yes please, that'll fix it." Simone reached out and placed her cool hand on my lower thigh, just above the knee, and began to knead gently. "Mmm, perfect," I murmured and lay on my back. Simone laughed and continued to stroke and rub my thigh for a moment. The touch of her hand, soft and gentle, was exquisite, and a tremor of excitement ruffled through me. "Pity I didn't land on my bum." Simone laughed again and playfully slapped my shoulder.

"Cheeky."

"What, my bum? Yes it is a bit. Need to go on a diet." She giggled again, her tinkling laughter trilling into the air and enlivening all around it. Simone stretched out beside me, her feet overhanging the rug and scuffing at the blades of grass below it. She wore pale blue shorts, and my eyes were drawn to her creamy-soft thighs, her skin the texture of soft wax, beautifully smooth and with a nap of gossamer fine hairs, translucent in the afternoon sunshine. The shorts had ridden up between her thighs into a vee pointing towards her crotch, and the fabric lay tight against her, revealing the contours of her body. Lying on her side and leaning on her arm, the shape of her hip was exaggerated, creating a wonderful, undulating, flowing form from her shoulder to her knee. She was so beautiful, so radiant she almost made me want to cry.

"What?" she asked, a curious smile on her face.

"What what?" I replied, blankly.

"You were gone then. Just staring. What were you thinking of?"

"Oh 3; Life, love, romance." There was silence. Simone played with a blade of grass, rolling it between her fingers, attempting to tie it into a knot.

"The first exists, the last two are myths," she replied.

"Cynic. Have you never been in love?"

"Once."

"Yeah? And what happened?"

"Oh, you know, stuff. Life intervened." She clammed up again, tossing the grass away and picking up a piece of quiche, her look slipping off towards the top of Normanton Tower. It was becoming obvious that Simone was deeply reticent about revealing any intimate details about herself. She scarcely even talked about her family. Generally, she would adroitly change the subject; otherwise she would simply turn mute. "It's lovely here," she said at length.

"Mmm, it is. I find it a bit melancholy, but in a nice sort of way. Like, things change, but they continue. Nobody lives here anymore, nobody uses the church, nobody prays or does ordinary, day-to-day things, but it's still a friendly spot, somewhere people still come to relax, to be happy."

"What I like about it is that nature is reclaiming its own. Even if it is with the help of man, seeing as it's a man-made lake, I like the idea of civilisations crumbling, the planet taking over again, things returning to their natural state."

"Gaia," I said.

"Yes, absolutely. I love Gaia. It's a wonderful philosophy. Mother Earth, stronger than all of us put together, as old as time. She's indulging us, tolerating us."

"She'll outlive us all," I concurred.

"Yes, that's it exactly," she replied, rising up and sitting before me, suddenly animated. "I'm glad you think that, too. It's why I can't be bothered with all this 'save the planet' stuff. The bloody planet doesn't need saving. It's been here for billions of years, it'll see us off quite happily, just like it did the dinosaurs. And something else'll come along, ants or apes, or whatever, and form new civilisations, find new ways of messing up. And the planet'll see them off too. It always will."

"Yes 3;" Simone was unstoppable.

"When people bang on about needing to save the planet, they're not talking about the planet at all. What they mean is we have to save our civilisation. Totally different thing. One's altruistic, the other's self-seeking."

I thought that was a bit harsh.

"Well," I interjected, "I wouldn't go that far. Misguided, maybe. But trying to save our civilisation isn't such a terrible thing, it's not 'self-seeking' necessarily. It's about more than that. It's about preserving the beauty of the world: not just 'civilisation', but nature, everything around us. Here," I continued, gesturing at the Water. "That's worth preserving. It's worth fighting for."

"Fine, as long as nobody pretends they're doing it for the planet's sake. It's all for our sake, so we can enjoy it, so we can continue our nice, easy lifestyle. None of those so-called eco-warriers are in the least bit interested in the planet, just their enjoyment of it."

"Well, most eco-warriers aren't interested in anything much except protesting. Every generation has its cause. In mine it was nuclear war, now it's the environment. In twenty years time it'll be something else. People grow out of it, new generations find new things to annoy them."

"But that's so bloody fickle." I had never seen Simone so earnest. Somehow, I felt I had seen a new Simone today. It seemed to me that she had momentarily dropped a guard which had previously been so effective I hadn't even registered it was there: beneath the calm exterior, I thought I could sense some hitherto unnoticed vulnerability. Of course, my heart melted further.

"People change..."

"They sell out."

"No, it isn't selling out. Their priorities change. Things which were important to you become less so. New things start to worry you."

"Selfish things, mostly. A bigger car, a better holiday." This was difficult. Simone was charged with youthful idealism and I had to be careful not to come across as the complacent, selfish, middle-aged philistine that she and her generation railed against.

"Not only that. It's not all Mammon. There's families too. People have children, their outlooks change, nature takes over: the instinct to protect, make their lives better than yours."

Simone went silent again. "What about you?" she asked. "Ever been married?"

"No," I replied. "Never felt the inclination."

"And have you ever been in love?"

"Oh yes. Lots of times, I thought. But now I know: only once." It was my turn to play distractedly with a blade of grass. "Once and forever."

"Once and forever?" she laughed. "Fantastic. That sounds so intense. So is this still going on then? D'you mind me asking?"

Yes, I did, just then.

"No I don't," I replied. "Is it still going on? Well, yes definitely. Like I say, once and forever 3;"

"So will I get to meet him?"

My heart was pounding, a cold sweat had settled on my brow. A welter of emotions churned through me: terror, excitement, anticipation, dread, love. Mostly love. All of it love, in fact; love in its manifold guises. I wanted to tell her. Looking into her pale blue eyes, staring at me earnestly, I wanted to take her hands in mine, bend forward and kiss her on the lips; wanted to enfold her in my grasp, wanted to whisper to her the truth; the truth, that I loved her, once and forever, that I worshipped her, adored her, needed her.

"No," I replied, trying to inject levity into my voice, "it's an unrequited love."

Simone stared at me, trying to work out whether or not I was serious. I smiled wanly, my stomach lurching, panic rising in my breast.

"I see," she said, finally deciding I was earnest. "Does he know how you feel?" I was struggling to hold back the tears, struggling to conceal the depth of my emotions.

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, do something about it," she replied, her youthful rationality breaking the problem down into simple terms.

"I'm trying."

On to next story: Simone's diary, July 12th