“I think I am lost,” I muttered to the lady filling the doorway.
She laughed softly, kindly, and parted to the side as to give me entrance, saying:
“Of course, do come in. We get them all the time, those people who lose their way in the wood.”
I walked into the cabin, looking around the polished wood floors, and framed paintings. There was a rather ‘inside-bigger-than-out’ effect that the rooms had, and, somehow, if I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have imagined this to be a woodcutter-slash-huntsman’s place of living.
Danish Pastry Woman led me to a sitting room containing a large flat-screen TV, two soft chairs, a plush sofa and a wide, oval coffee table with a woven fur rug below it.
“Do sit down. I’ll get for you a map of the woods, okay. Do you want the tea or some other beverage?”
Her English was perfect, if a little old-fashioned and stilted in pronunciation.
“Just tea, thanks, with one teaspoon of sugar, please.”
It took the woman two minutes to gather the milky tea and a map of the surroundings; she plodded, rather than walked but most of her lack of speed was from the fact that she would not take her eyes off me. It was as though she was scrutinising me.