Page 4 of The Christmas Fayre on Holly Field

What was it that old fella had called him just now? A tree hugger?

Owen Loxton chuckled quietly to himself. He’d been called worse, and the old guy had a point. Owen had never tied himself to a tree as such, but he had been known to protest vigorously about one being felled. These days, though, he did most of his protesting via a keyboard. He supposed he could be called a keyboard warrior, although he wasn’t too keen on the term’s negative connotations. He had paid his dues in the past and had earned his stripes, so to speak, when it came to protesting, and he had nothing to prove and everything to gain by using the powers of the internet to try to achieve effective environmental change.

Today he was in a little village at the southern end of the Snowdonia mountain range, his van parked on the edge of a small green. He had taken the opportunity to hand out a couple of leaflets to passers-by before diving into a cafe for a very late lunch, in the hope that if he had something substantial now, he would only need a bowl of porridge for supper later.

Owen wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here, but he had seen the sign for Foxmore and had decided to take a look. Besides, he was hungry, and he’d also fancied stretching his legs.

So far, he liked what he saw. The village was nestled in a wide glacial valley, with woodland cloaking its slopes and a river cutting through it. The tops of the hills were hidden by lowering autumn mists and he wondered whether there was any decent hiking in the area.

The village itself was pretty, consisting of a green with a Celtic cross in the centre, an old Norman church, a picturesque pub, and narrow streets leading off it which were lined with stone and slate terraced cottages.

There seemed to be a nice selection of independent shops, too. As he had driven slowly along the main street, he had spotted a butcher, a baker, a shop selling knick-knacks, an antique shop and – his heart had lifted when he’d seen it – an eco-refill shop. Ideally, he would love to see one of those on every high street, but there was some way to go before that happened. He was also pleased to see a cafe, as he had been driving since early morning and his stomach was starting to think that his throat had been cut.

The cafe was busy but there was a free table in the corner and Owen slipped into a chair with a contented sigh. He much preferred independent eateries like this to the national chains which tended to dominate most high streets, and picking up a menu, he scanned it hungrily.

The air was redolent with the aroma of coffee, and he was embarrassed when his stomach rumbled rather loudly.

A giggle made him look up to find a waitress standing next to his table, pad and pencil poised.

‘I take it you’re hungry?’ she asked, smiling.

‘Very. What do you recommend?’

‘The specials are always good.’ She pointed at a chalkboard on the wall behind the counter.

Owen peered past her to read it, but before he got to the end of the list of dishes, his eyes returned to her face.

He wouldn’t describe her as beautiful, but she was arresting. There was something about her that made every other person in the cafe fade into the background.

Or was it just that he’d been without female company for too long?

No, that wasn’t it. There was definitely something about her: navy eyes, sun-kissed skin and a smile so bright that it put the sun to shame. Reflexively, he checked out her left hand and saw she wasn’t wearing a ring on her third finger – although that didn’t necessarily mean she wasn’t in a relationship.

He glanced at her face again, and her smile dimmed, a wary expression creeping into her eyes.

Damn! He was staring, wasn’t he? And it was incredibly rude of him.

To cover his faux pas, he said, ‘Have we met before?’ Not exactly original, but he was relieved when her smile returned.

‘I don’t think so. I’d have remembered you.’ Her eyes widened and she winced. ‘I mean, I’m good with faces,’ she explained hastily.

‘I’m hopeless,’ he said, trying to put her at her ease. He guessed she must have meant what she said – he was no oil painting and he knew it, so he didn’t for one minute think his face was memorable because of his looks.

She smiled politely, and he realised she was waiting to take his order.

‘Sorry.’ He looked at the chalkboard again and picked the first vegan dish his gaze came to rest on. ‘I’ll have the chickpea stew, please, and a tea. Do you have herbal?’

‘Of course.’ She reeled off a selection and he chose camomile.

‘Oh, and could I have some water?’ he asked. ‘Tap, preferably.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Certainly.’

‘I just don’t believe in all that plastic-bottled stuff,’ he said, wondering why he felt the need to explain. He didn’t usually bother.

‘Good for you.’ She was about to retreat to the counter when she said, ‘I saw you handing leaflets out earlier.’

‘Er, yeah.’ He cleared his throat as he prepared to explain. He would have given her one of them but he had handed them all out: although, no doubt he would find most of them stuffed in the nearest bin. ‘We’re trying to lobby the Welsh Assembly Government to close all open-cast coal mines in the country. If enough pressure is exerted then maybe, just maybe, we’ll be heard.’

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