Best Summer Ever

Matthew parked where the road gave way to gravel, the hills rising sharply on either side. The air was cooler here, carrying the earthy scent of grass and damp stone. He lingered in the stillness, his eyes on the much-folded Ordnance Survey map resting on the passenger seat.

The map was worn at the edges, creases softened and threatening to tear. The penciled loops, the faded names—it had been with him and Carol on every ride that summer. He unfolded it now, letting the familiar names spin out before him. Castleton. Edale. Hope. In the corner, her handwriting sprawled untidy but certain: Best summer ever!!

Sliding the map into his jacket pocket, Matthew stepped into the cooling air. The bike he lifted from the boot wasn’t the one from that summer, long since rusted and discarded, but its scuffed frame carried a similar weight. He adjusted the seat, tightened the straps on his helmet, and swung his leg over.

The climb bit deeper than memory had warned. He leaned into it, his breaths sharp and shallow, the pedals grinding against the slope. When the trees gave way to open sky, the landscape opened up with a quiet grandeur. He coasted to a stop, planting one foot on the ground as he steadied the bike.

Below, the Peak District stretched wide, the dry-stone walls crisscrossing the fields like the seams of a well-worn quilt. Ladybower Reservoir glimmered faintly in the distance, its surface catching the light spilling through the breaks in the clouds. He stood there, letting the view settle around him.

This was where they had always stopped. He could almost see her now, sprawled on the grass, her ponytail trailing behind her, one arm flung wide as she pointed out clouds. “It’s a ship,” she’d said, laughing when he squinted. “No, wait—a dragon!” Her hair swung with every gesture, a kind of spinning, perpetual motion, as if stillness might catch up to her.

The memory of her voice brought others with it, unspooling with the same effortless ease. He smiled faintly, recalling cold baked beans eaten straight from the can. “Better this way,” she’d said, grinning as she handed him a spoon.

He remembered the day she dared him down this hill without brakes. She’d gone first, shouting as she flew ahead, her voice carrying back to him: “Come on, Matty! Scaredy-cat!”

He’d hated the nickname then—or thought he had. She’d wielded it like a secret between them, the teasing worn smooth as river stones. He replayed it now—a challenge softened at the edges.

She’d been the reason he ventured further, rode faster, dared more. What was cause and what was effect? Had he shaped those days, or had they shaped him?

The reservoir lay still, its surface darkening as the sun dipped lower, its edges blurring into the hillside. He walked his bike to the water’s edge, leaving it propped against a tree. He crouched near the shore, brushing his hand over the grass. The stones scattered there were smooth and flat, their edges softened by years of wind and water. He picked one up, testing its weight in his palm, and flicked it toward the water. It skipped twice before disappearing, ripples spreading outward in slow, lazy arcs.

Carol had always been better at skipping stones. He could still see her standing here, her ponytail swinging as she turned to show him how to hold the rock just right. “It’s all in the wrist,” she’d said, laughing when his first few sank straight to the bottom. “Come on, Matty, you’ve got to let it spin, not splash!”

He smiled, the ache sharper now. She’d always been better at everything—or he’d needed to believe she was. Faster on her bike, louder in her laughter, braver when they ventured off the marked trails. He’d always been the one following, watching her lead, trying to keep up.

He stood slowly, the ache in his knees matching the pull in his chest. For years, he’d taken those words as shared truth. He’d had plenty of great summers since then, full of adventures and triumphs, but none with the simplicity of that one. The innocence of their youth had made it feel, unquestionably, like the best.

Matthew folded the map carefully and slid it back into his pocket. He turned toward the trail. Behind him, the reservoir held the last glimmers of daylight, the light breaking into soft ripples as it stretched across the water.