Pentradle Way

Things I saw today:
1. What had to be the world's largest bumble bee. Seriously it was about the size of two two-pence coins.
2. A shiny, chrome-effect smart car. It was flashy and the perfect picture of fashionable, small mechanics. I assumed it's owner was Italian, as it seemed the next logical step up from a scooter.
3. A man talking to his friend as they were walking, who had what I could only call an unnecessarily loud voice. I felt my middle-class affrontage rise is ugly head and I wanted to blurt out 'Shhh sir, please be quiet, I'm trying to eat my lunch in relative peace.' but don't worry,I did not.

And now for another short one: 

Tall wildflowers and weeds blocked the path to the last house on Pentradle Way, but there was something arresting about the place that meant one couldn’t help but stop and contemplate its mysteries for a little while.

Polly stood at the rusted garden gate and pondered, as she often did on quiet walks such as these, why such a beautiful home would remain unclaimed and empty for so long. Pentradle Way was a large stretch of country road that extended miles, twisting outwards both South and North from her current position. This was one of the few remaining crumbling country piles that was relatively isolated, situated in its own neighbourless plot. The oddly formal Georgian frontage was coloured and softened with age, its once groomed gardens now wild and rampant, but there was still something rather gentile, delicate, and almost wistful about it. As if it would sigh if you stepped through the front door.

Polly called to her dog, Barley, and turned as if to go. Something came over her however, and rather than returning back to the sleepy village about a mile further down the hill, she hopped over the small garden wall and waded through the acre of greenery to the porch. Despite the shade from the ivy, the sunlight had bleached the door a silvery grey and the damp had swollen the wood making it incredibly stiff to open.  Attempting a karate-like kick would only damage herself she felt, so Polly reversed into it and launched a successful attack with a combined hip and shoulder action which was surely going to leave her bruised, but otherwise uninjured.

The door creaked on its hinges somewhat ominously, shedding the hazy summer sunbeams into a long-forgotten hallway. Flurries of curled up leaves scattered every which way across a surprisingly expansive terracotta and white tiled floor. It stretched towards a pale wooden dresser to the right, accompanied by a faded, moth eaten green loveseat. The leather was twisted and curling at the corners, worn by the grooves of a familiar occupant. Some smell lingered in the air, a combination of dust and roses, sweet and perhaps a little melancholy. Polly looked up the white, painted stairs which curved away out of sight. A pair of old lacy curtains billowed in the breeze from a broken window.

Polly took a step forward then motioned for Barley to follow her, but the dog whimpered and started dancing from side to side, discomforted and eager to be away. With a sigh she turned back, letting the door swing to behind her, and followed Barley back to the lane. She jumped back over the fence and squished her wellingtons into the wet mud rather satisfactorily. A giggle burst forth from her lips and found a faint echo, carried softly on the breeze from somewhere behind her. She looked back towards the house, but no one was there. Just a twitch of curtains by the window caught her eye, a pale smudge behind the glass and what might have been a hand raised in greeting. She squinted but it didn’t become any clearer. Lifting her arm a little, Polly waved in that general direction, well it would be rude not to, then she called to Barley once again and continued towards home, still wondering what secrets such a lovely house could have known.