‘I HAD been walking alone through the meadows and gorges of Umbria for a week when I found the hostel. It was part of a romanesque former monastery on the edge of a hilltop village. Perfect, I thought, for a couple of nights’ R&R.
That first night, I shared the kitchen with a group of six girls.
They saw my pathetic effort of packet soup and bread, and took me to their collective bosom, inviting me to join them at their long table, heaping my plate with their aromatic lasagne, filling my glass with Nobile di Montepulciano. They told me they had all met up on an art-history course in Florence and were taking a break, using the hostel as a base to see the country. I told them about my lone walk and that I was heading towards the west coast. They looked wistful and impressed.
They were an eclectic mix: Consuela was from Brazil, Deirdre and Siobhan from Dublin, Mariette from Holland, Lucille from Detroit. And where Jamila came from, I really can’t remember, but I do remember her huge nut-brown eyes.
The next day, I walked through olive fields and vegetable allotments to a farm that sold cheese, wine and olive oil. That evening, I contributed my purchases to the collective meal, and sat once again in the rustic stone-walled kitchen of the old monastery, the only guy with six vivacious girls.
We had eaten the first course when someone suggested the blindfold game. They jumped at the idea. Soon there were seven slips of paper in a hat – only one permitted the holder to remain unblindfolded. The idea was to go and hide from the one sighted person, but to do it blind from the start. My eyes were effectively masked by a pair of firmly tied tights. I felt my way gingerly up the stairs, along a corridor, trying to find my dormitory.
Eventually, I felt my way into a room. Was it mine? I’ll never know. When I got behind the door, I found someone there already. I rebounded lightly off a warm body. She suppressed a giggle. I said nothing, listening, because footsteps outside moved along the corridor. I didn’t move. Or rather, I did, closer to my blind companion. Who was it? I had no idea. I put my hand up to feel her blindfold. And then, somehow, it was not the collective bosom but an individual bosom and then... it wasn’t just the bosom. The footsteps had moved away.
Naturally, in that situation, there behind the door, next to the wall, pressed up against this lovely, warm and responsive girl, a certain physical consequence was apparent to both of us. We didn’t hold back. The passion of the moment meant that we were not very quiet. Unforgettable moments. When my unknown lover slipped away from me, I tugged at my well-tied blindfold. But she had gone.
Back in the kitchen, I sat down at the table. The six girls were all there. All chattering, pouring wine, throwing back their heads and pealing with laughter at stories of who had hidden where. I studied them. Not one gave me a meaningful look. They all smiled, bland and carefree. They asked where had I hidden. Nobody had found me. Not true. One of them had. I’ll never know who it was. It could have been any one of them. It’s an unsolved mystery I rather like to preserve.’
