They sat at the kitchen table, opposite each other, just as they had a thousand times before. A pot of tea grew cool, and an open notebook lay beside it, its pages filled with uneven lines. Only this time the list was not of groceries but of place names.
Blythe ran her pen over the top line.
Brighton, she read aloud. York. Liverpool and the Lake District? Youre serious about the Lake District?
Edward shrugged, staring out the window at the rows of grey terraces beyond the glass.
Daydreaming isnt a crime. But this year, the Lake District is probably out of reach. Lets pick something nearer, something you can get to by train without changing.
His voice was calm, yet inside there was a fluttering nervousness, like the firstyear exam anxiety of youth. All their holidays had always been packaged tourstravel agency, set itinerary, transfer sign at the airport. All they had to do was pack a suitcase and remember the charger. Now they were trying to design everything themselves.
The idea struck them in winter, when friends kept flooding the group chat with pictures from Turkey: identical pools, identical loungers, identical smiles against a backdrop of a Turkish buffet. Blythe sighed then, tired of the sameness of chain hotels. Edward laughed it off, but the thought lingered. A week later he tentatively suggested, What if we did it ourselves, just in England?
At first Blythe felt embarrassed. She feared that without an agent they would mess upmix up dates, end up in the wrong town, find themselves without a roof over their heads. Then she remembered the night the hotel gave them a room without a balcony, contrary to the promise, and the managers helpless shrug. A quiet anger rose in her chest.
Fine, she said. Lets do it.
Now they sat with the notebook and a digital map of Britain on Edwards laptop.
Train, Blythe repeated. So, the south or the Midlands? Have you ever been to York?
Only in passing, on business, Edward answered. I havent seen much. They say the citys beautiful and not far at all.
He turned the laptop toward her and opened a railschedule site. Blythe leaned closer, feeling the soft warmth from the screen.
Look, Edward said. A night train. Board in the evening, arrive in the morning. Romantic, isnt it?
Romance is when the airconditioning works, Blythe snorted, then smiled.
She circled York in the notebook.
All right. City chosen. Now the lodging. You realise this is like a miniquest? she said, feeling fear blend with excitement.
Edward nodded.
Lets split up. Ill search trains, youll hunt flats. Then we compare.
He said it in the same dry tone he used when assigning tasks at work. Blythe chuckled.
Commander, got it. Just know Ill pick a place with a decent kitchen. I dont want a week of café meals.
And I dont want a basement flat, Edward replied. So look for more than just a kitchen.
They retreated to separate rooms, each with a laptop. Edwards computer sat on the coffee table in the lounge; Blythe settled in the bedroom, propping a pillow against the wall.
In half an hour Blythe already knew dozens of flats. Some boasted bright sofas and ficus plants, others had drab carpets and peeling wallpaper. She found herself scanning not only beds and kitchens but also bookshelves, mugs on tables, fridge magnetstiny snapshots of other lives.
Meanwhile Edward wrestled with ticket prices. The site kept loading and freezing, sending him back to the homepage more than once. He muttered under his breath each time it stalled. When it finally hung again, he called out,
Blythe, hows it going over there?
Im living in three flats at once, she replied from the bedroom. One of them looks like a 1990s designers nightmare.
He laughed, the tension easing a little. They reconvened at the kitchen, each with a list.
Option one, Blythe said, opening a browser tab filled with pictures. Central, a short walk to the cathedral, but the bed is narrow. Option two, a bit farther out, spacious kitchen. And a third, where the host warns partygoers, do not disturb. That wont be us.
Edward showed his findings.
I found the night train, just as we wanted. Only one hitch: return tickets on a convenient day are almost gone. Either in two days or in five.
In five, Blythe decided instantly. I dont want to sprint through the city. Better to take it slow.
Are you sure? Edward asked. Thats almost a week.
She shrugged.
Havent we earned a week? The kids are grown, work will let us. If needed Ill take two days unpaid.
He nodded. The word week suddenly felt weightya week just for the two of them, away from the routine of homeofficestore.
Then Ill book both ways, he said, feeling his heart quicken.
When he pressed pay, his hand trembled for a heartbeat. A fleeting thought of a date mistake flashed through his mind, but the transaction went through, and an email confirmation arrived. No turning back.
Did it go through? Blythe asked, peering over his shoulder.
Looks like it, he replied. Were on our way.
They exchanged a look like children who had just pulled off a secret heist without adult supervision.
That evening they chose a flat. The one with the large kitchen won. The landlady replied promptly, politely, promising to meet them at the entrance.
See? Blythe said, closing her laptop. Not as scary as it seemed.
Its only the beginning, Edward warned. Theres still the city plan, what to see, where to eat
Tomorrow, she waved him off. Ive had my fill of foreign carpets for today.
The next morning they sat again at the kitchen table, now with a city map spread out. Blythe traced the centre with her pen.
Heres the cathedral, the riverbank, the mosque. From the flat to the cathedral is a twentyminute walk.
Twenty minutes if you dont photograph every doorway, Edward noted.
Ill photograph every second one, she retorted. Compromise.
They began listing sights. Blythe reached for museums and cobbled lanes; Edward scrolled for good cafés and greasyspoon diners.
Isnt it odd we think about food first? Edward asked.
Its just age, Blythe laughed. We used to think about nightclubs.
The list grew. At some point Blythe realized she was weary. It felt like they were overengineering the triptoo many items, too many expectations.
Listen, she said. Lets not schedule every minute. Lets leave a couple of days to see how it goes.
Edward stared, surprised.
Thats you? The person who plans a grocery run down to the brand of tea?
Grocery runs, yes, she admitted. But I dont want a checklist glued to our backs. I just want to wander.
He thought for a moment, then nodded.
All right. A few free days. Well mark them as asithappens.
They crossed off several items, and the air seemed easier to breathe.
A week later, three days before departure, the first serious hiccup appeared.
That evening Blythe rechecked the flats booking confirmation. She opened the landlords email, read it again, and froze.
Edward, she called. Come here.
He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and came over.
Whats wrong?
Look, she pointed at the screen. I think I entered the wrong dates. We arrive the night of the fifth, but the flat is only booked from the evening of the sixth. So we have a halfday gap.
Which means well be stuck in limbo, Edward finished for her.
Panic rose in Blythes chest. She imagined sleeping on a bench at the station, endless texts to the landlord, extra fees.
Im an idiot, she sighed. I doublechecked.
Youre not an idiot, Edward said calmly, though his stomach clenched. Just a mistake. Well write to the landlady, ask if we can check in in the morning.
And if she says no? Blythe asked.
Then well find a luggage locker, roam the city until evening. Not the end of the world.
She nodded, hands still trembling. Edward sat beside her, opened his laptop, and together they drafted a polite message, careful not to sound demanding. In the end Blythe slipped in a smiley, something she rarely did.
Half an hour later the landlady replied that the previous guests were leaving a day early, so they could indeed check in that morning, just to let her know the exact time.
Relief washed over Blythe; she rested her forehead against Edwards shoulder.
I already pictured us sleeping on a station bench, she whispered.
That would have been an interesting experience, he joked. But lets avoid it.
Both laughed, and the tension melted. What had seemed a catastrophe now turned into a story they would later recount.
On the day of departure they arrived at the station an hour early, because Edward, fearing traffic, had urged Blythe to leave the house sooner than necessary. They ended up sitting on a bench in the waiting hall, watching strangers.
Look, Blythe murmured, pointing. That couple with the huge suitcase, surely heading to the seaside.
That man with the backpack is on a business trip, Edward added.
They invented backstories for the strangers, a pastime they had enjoyed in their youth. The activity brought back a lightness they hadnt felt in ages.
When boarding was announced, they rose and headed to the platform. Inside the carriage it was warm but tidy. Their seats were together by the window. Edward deftly stowed the suitcase on the overhead rack, Blythe spread a blanket and a magazine over the seat.
Well, she said as the train pulled away, officially our adventure begins.
He looked out at the slowly receding platform, at the commuters with their bags, at the guard in his blue coat.
Officially, he agreed.
The journey passed without drama. They sipped tea from plastic cups, listened to fellow passengers chatter, tried to nap to the rhythmic clatter of wheels. As the train neared the city, Blythes excitement rose again. Soon they would disembark at an unfamiliar platform, meet the landlady, sort the transport, all without the safety net of a tour bus.
The station was bustling. People hurried out, some greeted relatives with bouquets. The landlady texted that she was waiting at the main entrance. Edward opened his navigation app but got lost in the arrows.
Wait, Blythe said, lets follow the signs, not the phone.
They emerged onto a large glass façade that opened onto a square. The landlady, a sprightly woman in her fifties with brisk speech, waved them over. On the walk to the flat she mentioned the nearest grocery, the bus stop, the neighbours.
The flat exceeded the pictures: bright, a spacious kitchen looking onto a small courtyard where a couple of cars were parked and a set of childrens swings swayed gently.
Im thrilled, Blythe exclaimed as the landlady left. Look at that stove! I could bake pies all day.
Were here to relax, not bake pies, Edward reminded.
Cooking is my idea of relaxation, she replied.
They unpacked, poured tea, and stepped out for a walk. The first day unfolded in a pleasant chaos. They consulted the map several times, sometimes went the wrong way, argued over the best route to the riverbank. Edward wanted the bus; Blythe preferred to walk.
We chose this flat to be close to everything, she reminded. So we can walk.
My feet are already protesting, he complained.
Eventually they walked, pausing at a small park bench for icecream, listening to a street musician. Edward found himself enjoying the unhurried rhythm.
On the third day another snag appeared. They intended to visit a countryside abbey, had checked the train timetable, but at the station learned the service was cancelled due to engineering works.
I told you wed mess up without an agent, Blythe sighed, staring at the board.
It wasnt the agent, Edward replied. The train was cancelled, not us missing it.
She looked disappointed. He thought it was the perfect moment for a planB.
Look, he said, pulling out his phone. Theres a small pier nearby with a river cruise. Not an abbey, but still scenic.
Are you sure we wont get lost buying tickets? she asked.
Even if we do, thatll be part of our mess, our adventure, he answered.
She laughed.
Our mess, she repeated. Alright, lead the way.
They found the ticket office, bought passes, waited for the modest boat with plastic chairs on deck. The wind teased Blythes hair as the town receded, showing a different angle of the river.
Edward watched the water and realised this was what he had missed on previous trips: not a tightly scheduled tour bus, but the freedom to change course, to stumble, to discover something new.
Back at the flat that evening they talked over tea.
You know, Blythe said, today I caught myself not waiting for anyone to tell me where to go. Im walking on my own.
How does it feel? Edward asked.
Scary, she admitted. But exciting.
The remaining days flew by. They saw a lot, but not everything on the list. Some spots stayed untouched. On the final night Blythe pulled out the notebook where they had first scribbled their ideas.
Look, she said, pointing. We never got to this place, and this one.
So what? Edward shrugged. Means we have a reason to return.
She ran her finger over the lines.
Or we could pick another city, she mused. We still have so many options.
The journey home was calm. In the train they felt like seasoned travellers, knowing where to stash luggage, how to brew tea without burning it, how to fold jackets without creasing them.
When they stepped back into their own flat, everything seemed slightly offkilter, as if the walls had been nudged a fraction. Blythe turned on the kettle, Edward arranged his things.
Back to normal life? he asked, sitting at the table.
Was it ever normal? she teased.
He thought for a moment.
It was different. But Ive been thinkingwe could do this every year.
What? she asked.
Plan everything ourselves. City, route, accommodation. No agencies, no preset itineraries. Mistakes, cancelled trains, all of it ours.
Blythe poured tea for both of them, set the mugs opposite each other.
Every year? she repeated. Are you serious?
Why not? Edward shrugged. The kids are grown, work can be arranged. We pulled it off once; we can do it again.
She looked at him, seeing only steadiness, no bravado. Suddenly it clicked they really had managed.
Then lets do it, she said. This year we were in York. Next year maybe Penzance, or Lincoln, or even a coastal town with no allinclusive resorts.
Sure, he agreed. Just not right this instant; I still need to digest what we just lived through.
They laughed, a tired but warm laugh.
A few days later, when routine began to pull them back, Blythe opened the same notebook, turned to a clean page, and wrote at the top: Ideas for next year. She didnt spell out any plans, just listed city names shed heard from friends, seen on TV, read about in books, leaving space to add dates, routes, addresses later.
Edward slipped into the kitchen, saw the notebook, and smiled.
Already planning? he asked.
Just gathering options, she replied. Well decide together.
He sat down, took a pen, added another name. Then paused, added an unexpected one.
You really want to go there? Blythe asked, surprised.
I dont know, he admitted. But its nice to know we can at least think about it. Well see.
She nodded. Inside, she felt a hallway stretching forward, not a corridor of identical hotel doors but a road where you could turn, stop, turn back.
That evening they lounged on the sofa, watching the news. Reports flickered from different corners of the country a new bridge opening, a festival in a market town, an old lane being restored.
Look, Blythe said, pointing. That could be us.
We cant see everything, Edward noted.
Then well choose, she answered.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. They sat in silence, the announcers voice in the background, each already mapping routes that would later clash over their kitchen table, sparring over where to go next.
Somewhere in a cupboard lay their suitcase,As the suitcase sat patiently in the cupboard, the faint hum of a future journey whispered its promise into the quiet night.
