Page 1 of Twisted Paths

Prologue

Nancy

Iflashmymostreassuring, ‘I’ve got everything under control’ smile at the screen. “Absolutely, David. The revised campaign assets will be with you by Friday. We’ll push the sustainability angle harder on social media. People love a good ‘save the planet’ narrative, especially when it comes with sleek graphics and a catchy tagline.”

David nods. “Perfect. I’ll loop the team in. Thanks, Nancy, you’re a lifesaver.” As always, I am distracted by the London skyline I can spot in the background.That man has one wicked office.

I nod back, all professional poise and quiet competence. Like I’m the kind of woman who has a well-curated bookshelf behind her, featuring exactly the right mix of thought-provoking non-fiction and aesthetically pleasing hardbacks. He doesn’t need to know that I’m the kind of woman who, if she stood up right now, would reveal coffee-stained pyjama bottoms and a pair of fluffy bunny slippers with one slightly floppy ear. He also doesn’t need to know that out of shot is a bookcase overflowing with smutty romance books, the covers adorned with hunky shirtless guys. He really doesn’t need to know that.

“Pleasure, as always,” I say smoothly, clicking ‘End Call’ before he can ask any more questions.

I stretch, arms reaching high above my head, and immediately regret it as my lower back twinges in protest. My body is making it abundantly clear that sitting at a desk for hours on end, fuelled by caffeine and optimism, is not a long-term fitness plan.

With a groan, I push myself up and shuffle towards the kitchen, fully aware that this short journey is the closest thing I’ve had to exercise all week. Well, that and the enthusiastic reaching I did last night for the last bag of crisps in the cupboard. Surely that counts as a stretch?

As I fill the kettle, I glance out of the window. The Dales spread out before me in a patchwork of greens and golds, rolling and endless. Despite the steady Yorkshire drizzle, they are breathtaking. Wild, rugged, the sort of landscape that belongs in period dramas where emotionally repressed men brood on hilltops.

I sigh, resting my elbows on the counter. The view never gets old. But lately, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m watching life happen from behind a glass pane. Comfortable, safe, but slightly out of reach.

I walk back to my desk, tea in hand, and settle into my chair. Instead of diving straight into work, I do what any responsible freelancer does when faced with a long to-do list. I openThe Guardianwebsite and start scrolling.

After skimming past the usual headlines, including political chaos, climate doom, and a celebrity’s questionable new haircut, something catches my eye.

Community Rambler Group Takes Off in Kent

By Sarah Ellison

A new walking group in Kent is bringing locals together one step at a time. The Stour Valley Ramblers, set up by former Londoner, Tom Kinsella, has attracted dozens of members since launching earlier this year.

“I was sick of walking on my own,” says Kinsella. “It started with just me and a couple of neighbours, but word spread, and now we have twenty to thirty people joining every weekend.”

The group meets on Saturday mornings and takes on various routes through the Kent countryside. The walks range from gentle three-mile loops to more challenging hikes. Many members say the social aspect is just as important as the exercise.

“People bring flasks of tea and homemade cake. There’s a real sense of community,” says Kinsella. “It’s a great way to get outdoors, meet new people, and enjoy nature.”

The group has proven so popular that other towns are considering setting up their own versions.

I lean back in my chair, tapping my fingers against my mug. Walking is practically a national pastime in Yorkshire. People are always out with their dogs or striding purposefully across fields in weather that makes lesser folk stay indoors. Even I venture outside occasionally, but truthfully, it is not much fun without someone to chat to or grumble at when my boots sink into unexpected bogs.

Abby would join me if she was not constantly juggling guests and her six-year-old whirlwind of a daughter. Most of my friends are also tied up with their own families at weekends. I enjoy my own company, I really do, but lately I have started to notice the silence more than I used to.

I glance at the article again, my brain already working. A rambler group in our small village.Could it actually work?

I grab my phone and scroll to Abby’s name. If anyone will give me an honest opinion, it’s my sister. She has never been one to sugarcoat things, which is both a blessing and an occasional mild irritation.

She picks up on the third ring, sounding slightly out of breath. “If this isn’t an emergency, Nancy, I’m hanging up. Layla has just spilled orange juice all over a guest’s suitcase, and I’m about to perform a miracle with a hairdryer and blind panic.”

“Well, technically, it’s not an emergency,” I say, twirling a pen between my fingers, “but it is a potentially life-changing idea.”

“Oh, fantastic,” she says flatly. “Does it involve me? Because if it does, I would like to pre-emptively say no.”

“It doesn’tdirectlyinvolve you,” I say, ignoring the loudwhooshingsound of what I assume is the aforementioned hairdryer. “I’m thinking of starting a rambler group. You know, a walking club. I just read an article about one inThe Guardian. There’s one in Kent that’s been a massive success.”

Abby snorts. “Of course there is. Kent has reliable weather and posh people who wear matching fleece jackets on purpose.”

“Yorkshire people like walking, too,” I argue. “We just look more colourful.”

“And you’re going to organise this?” she asks, sounding unconvinced. “You, who gets bored halfway through a flat-pack furniture assembly and starts drinking wine instead?”

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