text: T’was naught but great misfortune that led my carriage’s wheel to shatter just short of journey’s end. The long ride from Essex to the Whitlingham estate had been long and fraught with all manner of discomforts, leaving one quite longing for an evening of soaking in warmth of a wonderful lavender tub. Alas, such wonderful fantasies turned to bitter longing as we struck a gastly rut but mere miles from the gates. I cared little to spend such a villainous autumn evening shivering beneath my jacket until a labourer could be found to repair the carriage, thus I made a bold decision to wander hence and find a tavern for the night. My coachman told me of a village a mile past - a whole mile! I thought to myself - and we resolved to meet again upon the morn to resume our journey. As I began my long foray into the twilight, I found myself wondering whether that crafty coachman would relieve me of my belongings in the small hours, or whether I would return to no carriage at all. My legs, as sturdy as they are when we engage in a good hunt, were not built for such long distances afoot, thus my soles were worn and blistered by the time the twinkling lamplights of a small township came into view. Night had fully fallen, casting a dark shadow and bitter chill across the green fields and hedgeways. As I pulled my jacket tighter around myself, I was appalled by the state of travelwear. Was that a rip in my fine cuffs? A scuff on my boots! Such trials as this would make for fine retelling the next I travelled to the London clubs, but I must say, I was presently rather unkeen on the whole affair. I found a small tavern, a shabby inn named the Candle and Canton , and inquired about a lodging for the night. “Not ‘ere gov”, said the barkeep, rubbing his meaty hands together, “I’m flooded with a party off the highway. But, I hear old Sampson there has a spare bed to share. Why not make an inquiry?” He gestured across to where an older gentleman sat nursing a rough flagon of watery beer. He struck me as a weary fellow, with dark shadows under cold grey eyes, under thickset and bushy brows. His hair was matted, his lime-green tunic barethread and holed in parts, but what struck me most were his shoes. Despite being the image of rural peasantry, truly unlike my normal acquaintances, the old chap wore the most striking set of crimson riding boots. They were high to the knee of rich leather, bound with delicate black thread stitching and a sturdy sole. In all my years had I never seen such a wondrous set as those there on the feet of a tumbled-down fellow. Perhaps then it was my wandering gaze that drew his eye, or perhaps he’d simply heard the barkeep’s booming tones across the floor. Nevertheless, his eyes set about micheviously twinkling as he appraised my clothing. “Ye wanting a bed, eh?”, cackled the old man. He seemed to grow with excitement. As his eyes thawed, never before had I seen such an intese, yet gleeful, stare. “Ha! Old Sampson will give ye shelter if ye ask him of it. Never leave a lad of finery out in the cold, that’s what I say! What be yer name, sir?” “Gideon”, I managed to stutter, quite caught off by his sudden change. Before I took all leave of my sense of etiquette, I added, “at your service, master Sampson. Your offer is most kind, though I’d hate to intrude...” “Ye be a strange sight in these parts, master Gideon. Where ye be a-going to, huh?” I told him of my errands, and of the company expecting me at Whitlingham Hall. I didn’t care for the man’s questioning, or how he seemed to appraise me like I was a particularly fine mare at the races. “All these folks of leisure and wealth, yet never do they come of down to chat with us humbler folk. Y’er a rare one you are, master Gideon”. He finished up his drink - a foul smelling concoction that reeked of a violently strong liquor - and reached for an old wooden cane propped against the wall. “Let us not delay young master, let us not indeed! The night is drawing long and we best be getting you comfortable. You shall stay with me this eventide! Come now, come along!” I shot many desperate looks about me, for someone - anyone - to offer me an opportunity to excuse myself, yet I felt the hope dimmed as I caught upon stony faces. I felt a deep unease in my stomach at being left alone with this man, yet it simply wasn’t done to refuse such an offer of hospitality. Unless I quite fancied a night in the warmest nearby ditch I could find, I would need to accept with whatever grace and humility I could muster. I faced Sampson with a thin smile. “Lead ahead, good sir. I shall accept your generous offer”. The old man grinned a crooked smile. I followed him from that small tavern, and together, we wound through the village. My spent feet hurried to keep up with the quick clip-clap of the man’s cane on the cobbles. Sampson was spritely despite his age, as if taken by new purpose. As we walked, my eyes returned to his exceptional boots. How had Sampson - unable or unwilling to patch even the clothes on his back - come by such a fine and marvellous pair? I simply had to ask. “I say, Sampson, your boots are most exceptional. How came you to acquire such a pair?” “Thank ye lad. Found them in a field, would you believe”. I did not. “Really?”, I asked. “Is true, young master. Musta fallen from some wagon passin’ by. Ol’ Sampson didn’t have a pair at the time, see, so he hoped they wouldn’t mind meself putting them to good use”. The further from the village and its flickering lanterns we travelled, the rougher and narrower the trackway became. We wound this way and that until I was quite sure I’d be lost without Sampson to guide me. I shivered in the frosty night air, jumping with fright as a fox barked somewhere nearby. By contrast, Sampson seemed as comfortable as if walking on a bright summer day. Presently, as we rounded a cluster of beeches, I heard the gentle splash-splash of a brook. We picked our way along its edge until a glimmer of flickering lights appeared ahead of us. What emerged from the darkness was a battered old water mill. In its day, it would have been a delightful two-story structure of half-timber and stone with its sturdy water-wheel rotating gently in the current. Now the mill slumped towards the river like a drunk, gnarled wooden beams leaning at odd angles and the wheel turned no more. Dark ivy snaked across the walls, I dare say holding the stonework together better than any mortar did. The door was a crooked oaken slab, the hovel’s windows shattered and repaired with scraps of soiled rags. I felt my stomach drop. Surely, this couldn’t be our destination. “Welcome sir”, said Sampson with a flourish of his cap, “to my most ‘umble of abodes. She ain’t much sir, but she’s done right by me and she’ll do right by you”. The unpleasant, sour mingling of unwashed flesh and fish greeted me as I stepped through the door. Straining against the impulse to gag, my eyes strained to make out the strange twisting shapes cast by the dancing candles tied from the rafters. It was as if someone attempted to bring their life into the bones of a long deceased creature. The house was a single stretching room filled to bursting with all manner of old and cobwebbed machinery from the mill’s days of activity. Here and there, pieces of furniture had been squeezed into the clearer spaces of the floor. There, on one side of the room, was a table and set of chairs squeezed in a small alcove formed by a grind-wheel and a large cog. A wooden cot rested on a higher wooden platform above a pile of old barrels. The air tasted bitter of iron and rust and mold. Sampson set his cane against wall and clapped his hands together. “Come this way master Gideon. Careful now, mind those gears there. Strip the skin from yer shin at the sligh’est touch, they will. Come now, sir, let us show you to yer lodgings” Never before, and never again, will I see such a man, who walks with the assistance of a cane, spring about a room of ancient and silent machinery with the grace of a boy several decades his senior. He danced about the room, tugging blankets from unsuspecting corners, laughing all the while, and assembled them into a corner that I assumed would become my bed. It certainly lacked the comfort I was used to, yet to have a pillow of duck and eiderdown seemed quite unlikely indeed in this place. I kept my eyes fixed on Sampson all the while. The more his antics defied my expectations, the harder it became to shift the growing gnawing sensation deep in my chest. I jumped as suddenly Sampson cried out. He threw his arms in the air, “the fish!” he groaned. “Yer call yerself an ‘ost, Sampson you goose. Beggin’ yer pardon sir, I’ve shown the most terrible of manners. Wait here, get yeself all comfy like. Yes, sir, like that, let me pull out a chair for you. That’s it. Make yerself at ‘ome, and I’ll be back shortly with our supper”. I found myself bundled into one of the two chairs by the fire, before the old man headed out through the door once more. I was alone in a stranger’s house. Invited indeed, but not at home. I was deeply troubled by my surroundings. The shadows seemed to draw closer, as if each contained some hidden miscreance looming over me. I knew not the way back to the village, not even how to find my broken carriage again. I was truly alone. Alone but for Sampson. Sampson! The old fellow had done me no harm, yet I felt a great unease from his manner. So quick to draw a gentleman of good standing to such a remote location. I again found myself dwelling on his shining red boots - those boots that stood apart from all I knew about him like an urchin at the races. He was hiding something, of that I was sure. What else was he hiding? I rose slowly, careful not to make a sound lest Sampson overhear. Though it might have been the rudest crime of etiquette, I simply had to know what else the old man was hiding from me. I began to explore the shadowy mill, clinging to the darkness like a common thief. I searched through alcoves, behind the husks of machinery and behind piles of barrels, looking for - no , knowing - that some secret lay hidden here. My foot clunked against something hard and heavy on the bare stone floor. I looked down. A large metal ring. A ring attached to a trapdoor. I almost found myself wishing my instincts had not been so correct. I pried open the trapdoor, carefully, carefully lifting the heavy wooden boards until it was wide enough to slip into. Bracing myself and offering a silent apology to my dear launderer, I crept down the hatchway. Beyond the trapdoor was a set of stairs. The light was almost blinding after so long in the dingy candlelight upstairs. Lanterns hug from shepards hooks on each way, revealing before me... my goodness! A hoard. A loot hoard. Piled around the space, as large as the mill above, were items of all manner, shape and size. I saw wicker baskets, ceramic pots, an old chaise lounge with a red wine stain, three rugs with intricate and careful designs, a dozen wonderful ballgowns, a bathtub cracked and chipped with a thousand holes, travelling trunks, crystalware, butler’s jackets and bellboys shoes, teapots and shoes... my goodness so many shoes! From galloshes and slippers to boots and dancing flats, there seemed to be dozens, no, hundreds, of them! “Ah, ye weren’t meant to see this, young master”. I whipped about, finding myself face-to-face with Sampson. He stood plainly before me, a large fish in his hands, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion. My mind raced. How had he acquired all this? My suspicions rose tenfold in that moment, and I found myself turning angrily on the old man. “See here, sir. I shouldn’t be ungrateful for your gracious offer of shelter this night, but I should say I find this... this ... to be very unexpected indeed and I should jolly well like you to answer my questions. Who you are, where did this come from and what do you intend to do with me?” Sampson’s face dropped. He regarded me as if I had struck him, his eyes wide and lip quivering as the fish trembled in his hands. His energy seemed to sap away, his shoulders hunching so that he seemed smaller than before, lending me the impression of simple old man. An old man I’d just turned on. Who held a fish he intended to cook for me. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I’d committed the most greivous sin and spat in the face of his hospitality. Here was a man, who’d done naught to me but kindness, and here was I, challenging him on his motives in his home he’d offered to me for the night without any question of payment. A low sob escaped Sampson’s mouth. He slowly fell to his knees and let the fish fall to the cold stone floor. “Oh, young master Gideon. Beggin’ yer pardon sir, but I don’t mean no ill to you, not at all sir. I....”, he stumbled over his own words as he choked back his tears, “its just me out here sir, just me. I’m an honest man, I am, and a lonely one. I’m sorry that I gave yerself cause for doubting meself”. I took a step towards him and offered him a hand. Sampson looked up at me with those grey eyes, took my hand and pulled me into a tight embrace. To my utmost surprise, I did not flinch or attempt to pull away. I put my arms around him. It mattered not that he was unwashed, or that he might stain or crumple my clothing. We stood there, all notions of class or rank forgotten. We broke apart. “Thank ye, young master. Ye’re a rare one”. “Please, master Sampson, I should be the one apologising and seeking your forgiveness. I was wrong to make such gastly assumptions of you”. I looked down at his shiny crimson boots, and across to the collection amassed behind him. “Perhaps this was in a field too?” Sampson nooded. “Used to be a time when the old Whitlingham family from yonder estate would just leave their unwanted goods out in the fields. I just collect it, I do. Some things I find a new home for, others I give away to those in need or use to fix up the mill. Some of them”, he gestured to his boots, a mischievous smile creeping back onto his face “well, sometimes there’s no harm in keepin’ sommit fer meself”. I found myself laughing. Sampson joined in. “Good fellow”, I said, “you are a strange, but wonderful individual. Please allow me to start again”. I took a step back, and bowed low. “My name is Gideon, and may I trouble you for your hospitality this night?”. Sampson’s face lit up with the biggest grim. “Ye be very welcome, master Gideon, very welcome indeed sir! Come upstairs, what is mine is yours!”. We climbed up into the mill once more. Sampson cooked his fish over the roaring fire. For the first time in many years, the mill was flooded in its light; a beacon amidst the dark night beyond its slumping walls. Sampson came alive once more, never once needing his cane nor losing the boyish grin on his face. I must confess, I slept most excellently that night. The next morning, Sampson and I walked the short trail back to the village. It was my turn to lead him to where my carriage awaited us and usher him inside. I gave the call to the coachman, and once again, we were off. It was past time, I thought, that the Whitlinghams met the man with the red boots.