“The Field of Dreams,” said Crisp my aged companion as we sat at breakfast. “Mary Mixingbowl, medieval witch, set up the field for young lovers. How quaint.”
She put down the brochure and looked into the distance, which was nothing more than the other side of the B&B dining room.
“I had dreams once,” she said, “it involved a handsome man called Ivor Been. I doted on his every word, and before long he was all I thought about. Then he moved on and became Ivor Gone.”
“How old were you then?”
“Oh, just a teenager, love was new and exciting, I thought he’d notice me but, he ran off and married Madge Sponger, the poor sod, she turned out to be a real handful.”
Crisp was silent for a moment, before announcing, the Field of Dreams would be our day out.
“It’s never too late to dream,” she said.