For the next day and a half, the Turner's green MG meandered its way south from Cologne, deep into the countryside, towards West Germany's most south-westerly tip. Inspired by the things which Shelagh had listed in the campsite near Aachen, Patrick had decided to spend a couple of days in the heart of the Black Forest.
They pitched the tent at a campsite situated in a forest clearing, set back from the road, at the edge of a tiny hamlet. As they walked into the hamlet to stock up on food, its timber framed houses, with their crisply painted white walls, red tiled roofs and flower boxes, framed by the pine forest, a gently flowing river and the mountains on the horizon took their breath away; its simple beauty was a perfect beauty.
The dense forest, like it did the hamlet, enveloped the site. The stillness and the quiet gave Patrick the impression that he was a thousand miles away from the rest of the world. "Here," he thought that evening, as they sat round their campfire finishing off their mugs of pre-bed Horlicks, "I can think. I can heal."
A beautiful Saturday dawned for their first full day in the Black Forest. Beams of golden sun illuminated the clearing, there was not a cloud in the sky, and a pleasantly cooling breeze was ruffling through the ancient fir trees. The Turners spent that beautiful morning walking through the forest. Patrick and Shelagh walked hand in hand, as they had done on that winding road in France, whilst Timothy ran on ahead, darting between the trees, jumping over fallen logs and rolling down banks.
They followed a fast-flowing river for a mile or so, before it cascaded down into a deep ravine. After scrambling their way down a path which snaked down the ravine parallel to the waterfall they stood at the bottom, the waterfall's spray creating a gentle mist around them. After a few moments watching the waterfall, Timothy, who was now taking his turn to carry his sister, scampered ahead again, and Patrick and Shelagh found themselves stood alone, in the mist. They as they looked at each other, both knew that the other was remembering the first time they stood together in such a scene.
"I wanted to do this so much last time," Patrick said quietly, "but it didn't feel right. Now," he leant closer, "it feels so right."
He kissed her, tenderly at first, then more deeply and passionately than he had ever done before. Hands roamed everywhere, neither knew how long it lasted, neither wanted it to end. They both gasped as they finally broke their embrace, but their eyes remained focused, locked together.
"I wanted to do it last time too," Shelagh replied after a moment.
"What?" Patrick replied. "Really?"
"I was so pleased to see you, and I wanted to thank you for finding me. I put my cases down, wanting to reach out to you, I wanted to kiss you but I was too scared. And I was frightened of my own reaction if you returned the kiss. I thought if I had shied away, it would never happen again. And that was something I could not dare think about."
"I'm glad we waited for each other."
"Come on you two!" Timothy's voice came through the mist.
"We're coming," they replied.
In the next village they stopped at a coffee house. There were a series of wooden tables with colourful parasols outside, and the Turner's sat down in the shade, protected from the now very warm midday sun. The waitress came out and Patrick ordered for everyone in careful, but correct, German.
"What was the final thing you ordered?" Shelagh asked when the waitress had returned inside, "I worked out zwei Kaffee mit milch and ein limonade, but drei what?"
"Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte," Patrick replied as fast as he could, grinning.
"Oh good!" piped up Timothy.
"And what is a shwartsvarlder-whatever-it-was-you-said?"
"Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte translates literally as Black Forest cherry cake," Patrick replied, "it is a chocolate cake filled with whipped cream and cherries, which looks something like that," he finished, his eyes widening as he saw the waitress coming out of the coffee house door with a large round tray.
The waitress served the Turners their drinks and cake. The slices of Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte must have stood six inches high, the chocolate sponge was rich and dark, the cream light and fluffy, and the Kirsch-soaked cherries burst in their mouths, it was unlike any cake they had ever tasted.
"We better not tell Sister Monica Joan about this," Shelagh giggled, licking cream off her fork.
"She'll probably insist on someone coming here to collect one whenever she fancies a slice," Timothy mused, a dead-pan expression on his face.
Patrick and Shelagh tried, and failed, to suppress snorts of laughter.
"Perhaps we could find Mrs. B. a recipe," Patrick said, still laughing at Timothy, "it will save the travel expenses!"
While they were sat eating and drinking, a group of boys had started a football match on the other side of the street. The youngest was no more than nine, the oldest a year or two older than Timothy. A few of them noticed the family sat at the table outside the coffee house. One of the older boys stopped the game, picked up the ball, walked over to them and said to Timothy.
"Hallo! Mein Name ist Gregor. Möchtest du spielen?"
He raised the ball which he had in his hand and looked at Timothy expectantly. Timothy looked at his parents, with a look combining fear and confusion.
"I don't know what he is saying," Timothy whispered.
Shelagh looked at her son blankly, and looked over to Patrick who was clearly concentrating, thinking something through.
"He said his name is Gregor and he wants to know if you want to play with them," Patrick answered after a moment. "Do you want to?"
"Yes I think so" Timothy replied.
"In that case say 'Hallo! Mein Name ist Timothy. Ich möchte bitte spielen. Danke!'" Timothy looked at him nervously. "Go on," Patrick continued, "it's not like you to be shy!"
Timothy took a deep breath. "Ha-low, mine nar-mer isst Timothy" he began "Ick mukter bit-ter, speelen. Dan-kar."
Gregor smiled at Timothy and the two boys ran over to where the rest of the group were waiting to resume their game. Shelagh and Patrick watched the boys playing for a few minutes, before Shelagh noticed that there were tears in the corners of Patrick's eyes. She took his hand and said.
"Are you alright?"
Patrick looked at her and smiled. "All the time I was in Europe last time, England and Germany were enemies, fighting against each other. Killing each other! But now," he paused and returned to watching the game, "there is peace, a peace which enables scenes like this to occur. This is the peace we fought for, played out before my eyes. And it's beautiful."
Shelagh continued to stroke his hand.
"This trip was designed to help heal the wounds of my past" Patrick continued, a solitary tear meandering down his cheek. Shelagh wiped it away with the back of her hand. "I have felt those wounds begin to heal, and this," he waved an arm towards the game, "this is an ideal remedy."
"GOAL!" Patrick and Shelagh's attention was suddenly turned back to the game, where Timothy was running away from the makeshift goalposts, celebrating as though he had scored the winning goal in the FA Cup final. His new friends ran after him, cheering and patting him on the back. Patrick and Shelagh joined in the applause.
"Well done Timothy!" Shelagh called.
Patrick felt his wife's arm curl round his back.
"I'm glad you're beginning to feel better."
He kissed the top of Shelagh's head. He stared wistfully back towards the game, and then out into the forest behind the boys.
"There are some things which I still need to face, fears I need to confront, but I'm, on the right road, now."
"You've always been on the right road darling," Shelagh said, a small smile curling on her lips, "but just occasionally you have stalled along the route. But now you are coasting, coasting towards your destination."
Patrick tried desperately to find words to express how he felt about what Shelagh had said, but, try as he might, he could not form a sentence. He looked into her eyes, and knew that she understood.
"YES!"
Timothy had scored another goal.
"Both of us seem to be on target today." Patrick thought, watching his son bound around the street, "but I just need to hit the back of the net."