While we're all waiting for Series 8 to premier, I wanted to revisit the earlier days of DM. This takes place right after the events of the TV movie "On The Edge" but just before the start of S3E1 ("The Apple Doesn't Fall"/"Tick Tock"). I played around with the timeline a bit because I wanted to introduce P.C. Penhale into my story a little earlier than he shows up in the actual show.

It's kind of a prequel to my story "Louisa Glasson and the Green Mermaid" and a sequel my (M rated) story "Erotophobia," but you don't really need to be familiar with either one to follow the action.

I'm indebted to Alfred Hitchcock and Daphne Du Maurier, as well as William Shakespeare and another TV show set in a quirky Cornish village "Wild West," and probably a bunch of other people and shows, and of course Buffalo Pictures and the cast, writers, and crew of DM.

Disclaimer: All characters, places, and situations of Doc Martin are owned by Buffalo Pictures and I would never dream of infringing on any rights of the owners, producers, or anyone else connected with the show.

Chapter 1: A Favour for a Friend

Saturday Morning (Early August)

Martin Ellingham stepped out onto the stone terrace in front of his home, with a cup of espresso in hand. He took a leisurely sip and surveyed the scene before him. Out over the ocean a nearly full moon was slipping beneath the dark horizon. A final few stars were fading out with the growing daylight. He tried to spot any constellations, without success. He knew many of them from when he was a child, spending summers and holidays here, but he could barely remember their names now.

Down at the harbour, sea birds waited as the tide moved out. As the slow sea pulled at the shore and withdrew, over and over, leaving a strip of seaweed and detritus, the birds raced back and forth upon the beach, feeding on whatever they could find. He used to know their names too, so long ago, but as with the constellations he hadn't given thought to such things in years.

Some fishermen were already preparing their boats for the workday, but most of the village below his vantage point still slept. A few lights were lit here and there for those who rose early even on a Saturday, but the windows of a certain cottage across the harbour, to which his eye was drawn as if to the brightest star in his sky, remained dark.

It had been unseasonably chilly for the time of year, but the wind had changed overnight and it felt like summer again. The sea breeze was gentle, the leaves were still green, and the songbirds were out in force. In particular, he recognized the melodious song of what he thought might be a nightingale. The rising sun behind him cast a glow across the rooftops below, a radiance that started out rosy and was slowly changing to soft gold. The dew had been heavy, and the grass was silver in the early light.

No ringing phones, no rumbling traffic, no barking dogs, no gossipy malingerers. This was his favourite part of the day, when the idiot chatter of life had not yet awoken and the world was still at peace.

He took another sip of espresso and lifted a strip of lightly buttered toast from the saucer to take a bite.

Suddenly a swiftly moving shadow fell over him and he flung his arm up in surprise just in time for a seagull to snatch the toast from his hand and make a quick getaway. He waved both arms in panic and disgust, spilling the coffee on his silk tie. "Filthy creature!"

Martin stalked back into the house, deposited cup and saucer in the sink and doused them with rubbing alcohol before giving them a thorough scrubbing in hot water, just in case the revolting bird had touched them. Then he scrubbed his hands as well and went upstairs to change his tie.

Now wearing the stern expression that was the customary face he showed to the world, he went out to his car, a dented and rusted Ford sedan on loan from the local garage while his silver Lexus was being repaired, and put his medical bag in the boot.

He drove out to Dinnabroad Farm, parked the old Ford among some equally dented and rusted vehicles and made his way among tents and animal pens to where a group of farmers were waiting in a field beside where a big wheel and a carousel were being set up.

"Glad you could join us this year, Doc. We really value your discerning eye," said one of them, a man he recognized as having treated for asthma several times.

"Hm. It's not by choice I assure you," he replied. "I'm only doing it as a favour… for a friend."

He followed them under a banner that read "Bodmin Fair's Seventh Annual Farmer-Pig Lookalike Competition: Best Pair of Twins Wins." Under the banner a sign read: "Are You A Double or a Doubtful?"

Martin was doubtful of the very premise of the event, determining which farmer-and-pig pair most resembled each other. These men were around their animals so much they formed an unhealthy, delusional attachment to them, he thought. Still, he remembered his promise and steeled himself to the task.

As a crowd of gawkers gathered round, a dozen pairs of men and swine lined up, with numbered badges. Martin was given a clipboard on which to make notes. He looked at the first pair, a ginger bearded man and a completely black pig, wearing matching cowboy hats and sheriff's stars. "What's this? Your ridiculous costume doesn't make you resemble this animal in the least!"

"Nothing in the rules says you can't enhance your look with a few props, Doc," the man said. "You got to look beyond the superficial. Me and Boris here share the adventuresome spirit of the Old West in our hearts." The crowd clapped approvingly.

With a dismissive grunt, Martin moved on down the line. There were men and beasts sharing fake moustaches, wigs, sunglasses, even Hawaiian shirts. As he forced himself to make an effort to study each pair he was surprised to begin to see an unexpected resemblance beyond the silly fancy dress. Some of the men had pink stubbly swine-like skin, or dark sunken eyes, or heavy jowls. One had a lock of hair flopping into his face like a pig's ear. Then he came to the end of the line, to a man and pig unadorned with any props.

Martin was not given to flights of imagination but he was startled to see the man had all the porcine traits – the stubbly skin, sunken eyes, jowls, and floppy hair – plus an exaggeratedly upturned nose that aimed his hairy nostrils outward, very much like that of the pig beside him. He wore a white T-shirt with grey spots like his pig's spots but it was hardly necessary, as his pale liver-spotted skin already resembled the animal's coat. Man and pig looked at him expectantly, and Martin wasn't sure if the pig's eyes showed an unusual intelligence for its species or if the man's were comparatively dull for his own.

This was where the prize clearly belonged. He looked down at his clipboard. "Erm, the winner is… Mr. Hugh Hogh and his Gloucester Old Spot sow… er, Choogy-Pig."

The partisans in the crowd cheered or groaned, according to who their favourites were, and Mr. Hogh was presented with a trophy topped with a silver pig, and a bottle of whiskey.

"Thanks Doc," the unappealing winner said. "You ever come round Hogh Farm I'll get you some nice pork chops. Not from my Choogy though!"

"No thank you. Er… you know that can be corrected with rhinoplasty surgery."

"What can be?" Hogh looked at him in perfect innocence.

"Ah, never mind."

"Stick around Doc, they're bringing the heavy horses out now and the pony and dog show is about to start, you don't want to miss that," the farmer with asthma said. Martin wrinkled his nose at the thought. The fairgrounds were beginning to fill up with people, and the cacophony of the carousel and the odour of doughnuts, pasties, and candy floss was beginning to overwhelm him.

As the farmers slapped Mr. Hogh on the back Martin took the opportunity to slip away to attend to his next favour.

To be continued...