"It's this way", he said. "Take my hand". She did, noticing for not the first time her hand was buried.
"Up here. Close your eyes". She laughed silently.
In the clearing, in the mud, he brought her to a water-logged, dilapidated fence, over-sized for his grandfather's grandfather's ghostly horse and carriage that hauled a flimsy hope chest.
"Now", he whispered. Now she opened her eyes. And before her a wondrous vista for miles.
"This will be ours", he promised. "Dublin beyond the gate". She looked down and playfully twisted her left foot in the mud. "Ours"?
"If you will be mine". He looked to the horizon of rolling green fields and fertile farm land. She did not look.
"I will". He looked at her and her eyes were flooded. "Yes".
photo: The Peak District, wedged between Sheffield, Manchester and Derby.