**The Road to the Heart: A Journey Filled with Encounters and Memories**
Summer in the sleepy town of Willowbrook was relentless. The heat clung to everything, and I sprawled across the sofa under the whirring fan, desperate for relief. The telly droned on in the background, but I paid no mind—until the phone shattered my blissful drowsiness. On the other end was Emma, my childhood friend, whom I hadn’t seen in ages.
“Hello! How’ve you been?” Her voice bubbled with excitement.
“Roasting like a Sunday roast,” I groaned. “It’s 40 degrees out here—can’t breathe.”
“Same here, but the river and woods keep us sane. Fancy a visit? I’ve missed you!”
“Missed you too,” I sighed. “Maybe next week?”
We chattered about grandchildren and life’s little dramas before saying goodbye. But the thought of travelling in this heat—switching buses, sweating like a sprout in a steamer—made me shudder. Yet, how could I say no to someone I’d known since we were knee-high to a grasshopper? My last visit was three years ago. “Miss you. Come and see me!”—words like that were rare these days. So I steeled myself: “To the countryside, the back of beyond, to Devon!” That was where my journey led.
I decided on a surprise—no call, no warning—just turn up and say, “Ta-da!” The next day, I endured four hours on a coach to the nearest town, dashed to the ticket counter, and secured my seat to Emma’s village. A nagging fear whispered: *What if it’s full?* An hour standing in a sweaty tin can with petrol fumes and strangers’ elbows? But luck smiled—I clutched my ticket like a winning lottery scratchcard. Only three hours of waiting at the bus station left.
At last, the crowd shifted. Heat-weary passengers shuffled toward the stop. I eyed them—one woman stood out. Slim, in oversized sunglasses, a crisp white blouse, and linen trousers, topped with a floppy sunhat, she wheeled a sleek suitcase. She looked ready for the Costa del Sol, not the Devon countryside. *Lost, surely.*
Then, barging through like a bulldozer, came a stout woman in her sixties—floral dress, faded headscarf, arms laden with bulging bags. “Mind yer backs!” she bellowed, plowing straight into “Miss Fancy-Pants,” who stood firm as a cliff. I held my breath—this was going to be good. City slicker vs country matron—a verbal joust was imminent.
But then the bus arrived—a coughing relic that belonged in a museum. The crowd surged inside. Clutching my ticket, I squeezed into my miraculously unclaimed seat—right behind the feuding pair. The sturdy woman had “Miss Fancy-Pants” pinned to the window. Defeated, the latter fidgeted with her hat, balancing it on her knees until the brim jabbed her neighbour. Back on her head it went. The passengers snickered in approval.
The bus creaked into motion. A lad beside me nodded off in his headphones, but the stout woman fidgeted. Clearly, there’d been an earlier altercation, and she was itching for round two. Muttering about “city folk,” she jostled, elbowing the suitcase. The heat cranked up the tension. Sweat poured as she whipped off her headscarf, tucking greying strands behind her ears.
Then—the hat turned, revealing a sharp profile and subtle makeup.
“Still as mad as a hatter, Tubby,” the chic woman drawled.
The bus might as well have hit a pothole.
“*What?!*” the stout one roared, quivering like a jelly. “*I’m* Tubby?!”
She flung her arms wide, appealing to the heavens. “You hear this nonsense?!”
“Take those glasses off,” she demanded.
I braced for fisticuffs. Passengers froze. Slowly, the glasses lowered. The stout woman gasped—then lunged for a hug.
“Everyone! It’s my Lizzie—Breezy!” she cried. “We shared a desk for ten years in Exeter! Lizzie Hawthorn! Blimey, thirty years on? How’d you recognise me?”
“That habit of yours, Nora Wilkins,” Lizzie grinned. “Always tucking your hair behind your ears when you’re cross. I’m off to your spa—doctor’s orders.”
“The spa? Brilliant! I’m head chef there—everyone knows me!” Nora beamed. “Still light on your feet?”
“Retired, but I teach dance,” Lizzie said, adjusting the hat I’d handed back.
The pair settled into fond reminiscing.
“We’ll find the lot—I’ve got me laptop,” Lizzie promised.
“Laptop?” Nora cackled. “You’ll be lucky to get Wi-Fi! My daughter-in-law, Emma, balances hers on a chair like a tightrope act just to get a bar. But we’ll manage—spa’s seven floors, signal’s decent. Listen, Lizzie, stay with me tonight? We’ll gab, feast—I’ve got shortbread and clotted cream.”
Fields, cows, duck ponds blurred past. The bus groaned to stops, shedding passengers. I peered out, pitying the ancient vehicle, while snippets floated over:
“We’ve gone grey, Nora,” Lizzie sighed.
“Speak for yourself, posh bird!” Nora roared. “But aye, time flies. My lot are always skint—your kids spoil you.”
“Mine ‘gift’ me their cast-offs,” Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Daughter brings lotions in English—can’t tell if it’s for hair or floors. Nearly went bald!”
“Three grandkids,” Nora bragged.
“Two here. Think we’ll see great-grands?”
“‘Course we will, Lizzie!” Nora boomed. “Oh—there’s my cottage! Blue shutters, see?”
“Mrs Wilkins—off you pop!” the driver called, nudging the back door open.
“Cheers, Dave!” Nora hefted her bags. “Come on, Lizzie!”
I watched them stumble out, drop their bags, and cling to each other, shoulders shaking. My throat tightened.
Fifteen minutes later, I hopped off by a familiar fence. Hidden behind a lilac bush, I spied Emma—in her eternal trackies—digging in the flowerbed. I dialled her number, grinning as she fished out her phone.
“Hello?” she chirped.
“Emma, change of plans—can’t make it,” I fibbed.
“Oh, rotten luck! Miss you!”
I cracked. “Then open the gate!”
She froze, squinting at the empty path. “Joking again?”
“Maybe!” I stepped out.
“You’re here!” she yelped, still holding the phone.
I dropped my bags and pulled her close. Her eyes—same warm hazel, just a little faded—glittered. Our shoulders shook. Hearts thudded in time.
