35. Gypsy’s Retreat

35. Gypsy’s Retreat

A Chapter by Peter Rogerson



Gypsy Griswolde had never actually been a gypsy, though for an exciting few months after university he had become a wild young thing with long greasy locks and a yen for the big wide world together with a Master’s Degree in psychology. He had toured the county (not going out of it for no better reason than because he didn’t have to) in a tiny motor home that somehow had evaded being on any official database since he had bought it for nearly nothing from a scrapyard.

Then he had met two strangers. Rosalind was the first and she taught him so much about the human body, particularly his own human body that he thought me might spend the remainder of his days shaking with excitement. The second, and via the good offices of Rosalind, he met his God, and he swore from that moment on that the meeting with God had absolutely nothing to do with the exotic herbs he had taken to smoking in an old clay pipe. And the first thing God taught him was there’s no thing on this Earth more important than sex unless it’s thinking deep and meaningful thoughts

Rosalind had been and was until she passed away in her eighties a special beauty with a brain the size of a dozen planets. She could see things that few others could, deep things in the spirits of men, and what she saw in Gypsy’s spirit gave her a constant stream orgasms that made her gasp and scream whenever his spirit moved.

It was inevitable that they would meet, fall in love and share the most wonderful of lives together.

They met under a tree a dozen miles outside the village of Swanspottle. They were near that village because that’s where they were and they were under that tree because it was raining and the tiny motor home was parked in a public house car-park two miles away where Gypsy had left it in order to take a walk in the sun. His skills at most things were beyond reproach, but when it came to meteorology his talents left a great deal to be desired because the sun went away and the rain began.

He was sitting with is back against the tree and watching a particularly fascinating trail of black ants moving house when his concentration was broken by a voice. It was a female voice, it was a pure voice and it was what he later described as the sexiest of all voices.

Excuse me,” said the voice, “do you mind if I join you under this tree, or is it all yours?”

All ownership is theft, so you may willingly join me,” he told the voice. “I’m Gypsy, by the way, and having the time of my life learning about life by watching these ants.”

And I’m Rosalind,” she told him, and she sat down next to him, not too close because she didn’t want him to think she was in any way forward but close enough to indicate friendliness.

Rosalind,” he repeated, “that’s just got to be the very best of names. Yes. Rosalind. I could love the woman who bears that name forever.”

You mean you could love me?” she asked, with a laugh in her voice, and he looked at her for the very first time. And what he saw decided him because as well as having the most perfect voice she had the most perfect face on the most perfect head that was perched on the most perfect body. In fact everything was so perfect it made him swallow and sigh and gasp and whisper “Rosalind...” in the sort of breathy voice that was made of seduction.

Gypsy,” she replied, and giggled.

And what a giggle! It contained all sorts of levels. On the surface it indicated humour, a joke appreciated, that kind of thing, but underneath it was a chorus of caring, humility, love. And deepest down, so deep he could barely hear it, was the most distinctive symphony of lust.

I think,” he said, “that I love you. Are you married?”

She shook her head. “Of course not!” she said, “I’ve only just found you and we haven’t had time to do anything as beautiful as getting married.”

Then we must do it,” he told her in all seriousness.

First,” she said, shyly, “we ought to make sure that we’re compatible. Do you believe in a higher power? One that is compatible with every day of the week and not just Sundays?”

Of course I do,” he told her.

And how about sex? Is that something you might feel is important?”

Vitally,” he assured her.

Then,” she said, “we’ll need a home and I know just the place.”

You do?” he asked.

There’s a building that nobody uses and nobody even wants,” she told him, “left over from the olden days when they got rid of monasteries. We can have that, I dared say, because it’s going begging.”

I know the very place!” he grinned, “and I know what we’ll call it. It can be our retreat from the awfulness that is the world. It can be known as Our Retreat.”

No,” she said with a glittering smile, “not Our Retreat but Gypsy’s Retreat! And we’ll invite like-minded people to share our paradise. And we’ll have loads of children, boys and girls, and bring them up the right way, to be honourable and honest and loving...”

Gypsy’s Retreat. I like that,” smiled Gypsy, “I’m so glad I bumped into you, Rosalind.”

Then let’s do it now,” she said, “let’s prepare life for our first child now! After all, it’s what our bodies are for! The future, love, hope, worshipping.”

And that was the start of Gypsy’s Revenge, under that tree in the rain, with the two young people living the life they had chosen together. After they had made love a few times They went to the place she tad mentioned and over days and weeks and months rebuilt parts of it so that they could live in it. It became theirs through usage and because nobody else came that way and challenged them for it, that’s the way it remained.

That had all been years ago and their retreat, based for the sake of inclement weather in what had been a derelict remnant of an ancient monastery that nobody wanted to claim. Over the years the ethos had changed from being adventurous, even wild and somewhat promiscuous, until it was seen as a holy establishment for the furthering of faith. And it was still known as Gypsy’s Retreat.

And it was to that place that Jeremiah Pyke chose to go for his retreat, where he hoped to rebuild his faith before returning to his living as a clergyman and facing the world as a godly man. He had learned of its existence in a dream, and when it turned out that his dream was perfectly true in every respect, he knew he’d done the right thing.

Gypsy Griswolde was a truly ancient man by the time that Pyke, with the blessing of his Bishop who was only too pleased to see the back of him, settled in for a stint of spiritual refreshment at the Gypsy Retreat. He somewhat reluctantly left the love of his life in the hands of the Reverend Susan Delight who had been only too pleased to put in a stint at the church because retirement was already hanging heavily on her. She was, after all, a woman of action.

And Susan Pyke was delighted with her company.

© Peter Rogerson 11.09.20

© 2020 Peter Rogerson

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Added on September 11, 2020
Last Updated on September 11, 2020
Tags: freedom, thought, faith



Peter Rogerson
Peter Rogerson

Forest Town, Nottinghamshire, United Kingdom

I am 77 years old, but as a single dad with four children that I had sole responsibility for I found myself driving insanity away by writing. At first it was short stories (all lost now, unfortunately.. more..


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