Wild Cats

You might have seen me once or twice if you happen to visit any of the lonelier cycle paths around Great Britain. I've cycled them all. Mile after mile of empty countryside – away from the cars, away from the people, and away from every other distraction of modern day life. Boring? You've got to be kidding! This is where it all happens – in the natural world, that is; and as a passionate wildlife photographer, this is all that matters to me. Pictures – snapshots of moments in nature when the rest of mankind was looking the opposite way. Producing them isn't so much a job as a way of life.

But there was one cold afternoon in February when my way of life took a completely different direction. I was in a rugged corner of Wales, high up in the mountains and cycling through a veil of mist with my camera strapped firmly to my back. I was on the verge of the scoop of a lifetime. Three days earlier a farmer had turned up white-faced and shaking at the local police station. He'd seen a cat. Not just any old cat, but a large black one about the size of a German Shepherd. It had been basking on a rock when the farmer had stumbled upon it, but disappeared in an instant, slinking off into some nearby bushes never to be seen again.

Whereas most people made a point of staying away from the notorious path, I was there within a couple of hours, my hair trailing behind me in the breeze as I glided along the track, dipping and curving into the lap of a gentle valley. I'd been on the move for about thirty minutes, and when I reached the bottom I slowed to a halt. I may be an idealist but deep down I know when the odds against me; and on this occasion it was clear that only luck could bring me what I sought.

Black, or melanistic leopards are notoriously shy creatures. They hunt only at night, and will avoid confrontation at all costs. The fabled ones that roam the British countryside live on a low profile diet of rabbits, only rarely attacking larger creatures such as horses, cows and sheep when their normal supply of food runs out. Attacks on humans are virtually unheard of – at least in the British Isles. Like most wild animals, black leopards will only stand their ground and fight if cornered or guarding a young litter. Saying that, when the mood takes them, they're capable of killing prey up to 500 kilos, and as I propped my bike against a nearby fence the thought was at the forefront of my mind.

It wasn't a burst of defeatism or of cowardice that made me stop. The truth was that I'd just had enough. The air was cold and damp, and the mist was thickening by the minute. My room for the night was already booked. It was at a nearby pub – the traditional kind with low beams, pewter mugs and a roaring log fire. And as the weather deteriorated I found myself yearning for the warmth, the company, the home cooked food and a pint of strong Welsh ale.

Shivering, I propped my bike against a nearby fence and decided to make the most of the situation by taking a couple of shots of my surroundings. Out to the west the sun was sinking down over the hillside into a foggy blaze. It was a beautiful shot, but when I turned the camera over to preview the image I was disappointed to see how dark and gloomy it had turned out. Far from being appropriate for a calendar, or picture postcard, or even glossy-paged magazine, the scene appeared more reminiscent of something out of a horror movie than anything else.

Never one to be deterred, I fumbled with a couple of buttons, hoping that by adjusting the setting the photo might at least be capable of generating some kind of income. But my fingers had become thick from the cold, and it wasn't long before the unthinkable happened and the camera fell with a sickening clatter.

"Shit!" I bent down to pick it up. Despite the heavy impact it seemed to have survived the fall. Apart from a couple of scratches to the casing, it was miraculously unscathed. I was just counting my blessings and rising to my feet again when I noticed something that made my heart skip a beat. There were markings on the fence post. I ran my fingers along them, following the deeply carved lines and the splinters that hung out from the wood. Something had been using this as a scratching post, and judging by the freshness of the marks it hadn't been all that long ago.

I deleted the picture of the sunset quickly, and set about making several snapshots of the fence post. It was better than nothing, but the possibility of there being something else out there for my hungry lens was more than enough to drive me onwards.

My camera secure again, I leapt on my bike and pedalled hard around the bend. I powered up another slope and then found myself at the top of a long and mercifully straight down run. It was the kind of straight that daredevils do with no hands, and normal circumstances I would have relished the buzz. But this evening I was searching – scanning the fields and hedgerows, my hands clamped firmly around the brakes as I crept noiselessly down the track.

I'd only travelled a couple of metres when I saw it. Something black was moving in the distance. Partly shielded by the mist, I could only tell that it was large, had four legs and was making its way up the hill at a much quicker pace than I was travelling down it. Once again my heart leapt. So far it was all happening too easily, but this latest development also carried with it a degree of danger. Cycling back up the hill was out of the question. It was steep enough to have to get off and push, and judging by the speed at which this creature was moving, if I did that it would be on me in seconds. Taking a deep breath, I settled on the only course of action – I was going to have to keep going and somehow try to hurtle past.

As I shifted my bike into top gear a crazy idea flashed through my mind. It would be a motion shot and may not even come out all that clearly, but there was a small chance that if my aim was steady enough, I might just be able to get the photo of a lifetime. I reached behind for the camera and nearly lost my balance as the gears jolted into place. Taking a deep breath I tried again, and this time managed to retrieve it, pressing the on-switch and holding on to it in a death grip as I pedalled harder and gathered speed.

The creature was now running. A couple more seconds and I'd be close enough to take the shot. I positioned the camera, my eyes scanning quickly from the display screen to the road ahead, waiting for the moment. And then suddenly the creature started to bark. I cursed. It was a dog. A great big bloody dog, no doubt from the farmhouse up ahead.

I squeezed lightly on the brakes as my sense of urgency faded. In a way I was relieved, but the pangs of disappointment were still there. I'd chased the dream and missed it by a mile, and now I had several more to cover just to be guaranteed of a bed for the night. There were times, I thought to myself quietly, when my perseverance was as much a pain in the arse as a blessing.

The dog had now reached my bike and was growling around the front wheel as he ran alongside it. I was still freewheeling at quite a speed, and as I swerved to avoid the cavorting animal I felt my back wheel beginning to skid across the road. Sensing the impending disaster the dog backed off, but it was far too late for me. The bike was out of control and I slid on for several more metres before hitting a large stone and careering over the handlebars, only to land with a thud in a nearby hedge.

I wasn't badly hurt, just scratched and slightly shaken, but the air had left my lungs, and when I groaned my voice was several octaves lower than normal. A cow in a nearby field returned the greeting with a low moo, but the irony was completely lost on me. Disentangling myself from the brambles and twigs, I rose unsteadily to my feet and cast eyes on the ruined bike. The front wheel had buckled almost at a ninety degree angle, and the chain hung uselessly from the frame like an expensive necklace on a whore. Satisfied that he'd had some kind of result, the dog flopped down alongside me and gave a playful bark. For all my love of animals, I could have kicked him to kingdom come at that moment in time.

I turned around and tried to get my bearings. The farmhouse was just metres away, and although it seemed to be in darkness, a small spire of smoke was rising from the chimney. Night was descending fast and with it the thick mountain fog. I was at least five miles from my B&B, and with my bike as it was I'd be lucky to make it back before closing. My options weren't all that plentiful, so I headed for the building like a delirious sailor drawn to the lighthouse.

It was a small stone building, typical of any farmhouse in the area, with small white window frames and a neatly-kept front lawn. It would have been completely unremarkable if not for the fountain in the middle of the garden path. It wasn't big, but it was certainly showy. Its centrepiece was a voluptuous Venus-type figure, a vivid red trail of nasturtium covering her body as she sprawled on her plinth, the water spraying up between her legs and cascading into the pool below. I stopped in amazement. At the time I put it down to the bumpiness of the ride, but as I passed the sculpture I felt something stir between my legs that couldn't have been less suited to the moment.

I rang the bell and waited. A door opened, then closed. A light flicked on, shooting its beam through the gaps around the edges of the front door. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps. They were purposeful and clicked hard against what sounded like a marble floor. The beams of light were briefly eclipsed by a moving shadow, and then the door was opened.

It was a woman. She was wearing a figure-hugging black dress, and as she stood in the open air my senses were bombarded by the rich, sweet smell of her perfume. She seemed to be in her late thirties, but the confidence she exuded made my guessing game a bit of a stab in the dark. Striking rather than pretty, she was the kind of woman who turned heads in the street with her high cheekbones, steel-blue gaze and the wavy dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders in defiant abandon.

"I'm really sorry to bother you at this time of night..." I started, "I was wondering if I could use your phone. You see, I wrecked my bike and I don't think I'm going to make it back to the Owain Glyndwr before nightfall."

Her eyes fell onto the sorry contraption and then moved back to me, working their way along my calves, my thighs, my hips, my chest and then finally settling on my face. For a split second her expression gained something slightly predatory, but it melted away almost as suddenly as it appeared.

"Yes, of course, child. You must come inside at once! Just look at you! You must be freezing!" Her voice had the timbre of soft velvet, but there was an edge for it, something dangerously firm that made me catch my breath. She opened the door a little wider and ushered me inside. As she reached over to bolt it behind me, she placed a smooth hand on my shoulder. It was an unconscious gesture, but as I glanced at those long, elegant fingers and crimson nails, my heart began to beat wildly.

At the point where I thought my ribcage would shatter, the hand vanished and she stepped back to scrutinise me once more. Not satisfied with the view she was getting, she took a quick walk around me, stopping only when she was positioned directly behind. I glanced nervously over my shoulder, only to see her fixated on the back of my lycra shorts, a smile beginning to spread across her face.

For the first time in years I suddenly felt very vulnerable in my lycra shorts. I'd cycled long enough to know that I had nothing to be ashamed of as far as my figure was concerned. I was toned and had the firm buttocks of a sprinter. But something told me that this woman wasn't just admiring me from an athletic perspective.

"Don't worry – I won't be staying," I ventured, painfully aware of the dirt and the scratches across my legs. "I just need the number of a breakdown service, then I'll leave you to it..." But the woman didn't seem to be listening to a word. Instead, I watched in disbelief as she reached towards my vulnerable butt, manicured fingers outstretched.

The slowness of her movement gave me just enough time to anticipate the pressure of her touch, but not for one second did I imagine how warm and how tender it would be. As she trailed a single finger up and down my bare skin she gave a low laugh.

"As I thought," she said, removing her hand with a wry smile on her face. "You've ripped your shorts, darling."

I clasped a hand around my right buttock and noticed with horror that it was half exposed, the lycra hanging away in a large strip. As my fingers came into contact with more and more exposed flesh, I began cursing myself for not wearing something a little more respectable than the skimpy white thong I'd chosen.

The woman saw my expression and immediately broke out into a louder laugh that rang around the empty hallway several seconds after she'd stopped

"Such a sweet, expressive face!" she applauded, and I felt my cheeks growing red. "Come, come – there's no need to be shy. There's only me in the house, and we're both women, so you have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all..." she added as her eyes travelled up my legs again.

I turned around quickly just in time to see her tongue slide across her perfect white teeth.

"Can I use your phone?" I repeated, beginning to feel awkward under the intensity of her gaze.

"You may, but I hardly think you'll find your knight in shining armour at this time of day. Come – allow me to offer you a drink. You're shaking, girl. Whatever were you thinking coming out on a night such as this?"

She was right about my shaking, but somehow I didn't have the nerve to tell her it had only begun when I set foot through her door.

"I was looking for the cat." It was about all my husky voice could muster.

"I see..." She raised a single eyebrow and I noticed the corners of her lips curve up in faint amusement. "And is it a regular habit of yours to go chasing through the mountains after household pets?"

"No – it's actually a leopard. A black leopard. A local farmer saw one on the track, and there were scratch marks on the posts so I decided to follow. Then I got sent over the handlebars by your dog."

The woman frowned as she listened, then gave a snort that bordered on contempt. "An interesting story. But of course," her voice softened "you must be terribly shaken, you poor thing. And I don't think that you're local, either. Am I correct?"

"I'm from south Wales. I've lived in London these past five years, though." Embarrassingly my eyes were drawn to the dark line of her cleavage that disappeared into her dress. I'd hoped she wouldn't notice, or at least have the grace not to comment, but when she spoke again her voice was a lot sterner –

"If you're looking for a name tag, I'm afraid you won't find one. For your interest, my name is Eliza Banfield. I doubt very much whether you'll have heard of me - I prefer to keep myself to myself. With your cosmopolitan experiences I expect you'll know that there's not usually much of a welcome in the hillsides for my type."

I smiled politely, but knew exactly what she meant. Her cut-glass English accent would have been the equivalent of a red rag to a bull in this rural area. It had too much of a patronising ring – too much of a throwback to the colonial past, when although the people were spared, the culture and language fell victim to extermination squads consisting of people just like Eliza Banfield. It was brave of her to even to consider living here.

"And what may I call you?"

"Beth – Beth is fine."

"Very well, Beth. My drawing room is this way." She breezed past and led me through a maze of corridors to a large oak-panelled door.

When she opened it, I was relieved to see a log fire burning in the hearth. But it was the only source of light in the room, its orange patterns dancing across the floorboards in a demonic pattern. Through the glow I spotted an old-fashioned writing desk in one corner, and on every wall rows and rows of books. A dark leather sofa stood in the opposite end of the room, and to the side of it a small drinks cabinet. What struck me most about the furniture was that it seemed to belong to a bygone age.

"Make yourself comfortable," said Eliza, gesturing towards the sofa. I lowered myself down awkwardly. There were still pieces of twig and leaves in my hair, and during the course of the skid my body had become caked in dust. I probably looked a sight, and for no apparent reason I started feeling very self-conscious.

Eliza poured a generous slug of whisky into a tumbler and handed it over to me. She didn't drink any herself, and simply watched as I took a small sip and felt the fire burning down to my stomach.

"I have a telephone directory, if that would be of any assistance to you." Eliza handed over a pristine copy of the local phone book, and I turned immediately to the tow truck services, scanning for one near enough to respond to my SOS. There was only one – an E.W. Williams and Son, Emergency Breakdown and Recovery, no job too small or remote. I locked my finger over the number and suddenly a phone appeared before my eyes.

Eliza still hadn't sat down. Instead, she was standing over me, watching, waiting and biding her time. Her face was expressionless, but I got the impression there was a lot more going on in her mind than she'd ever be willing to share. It scared me and excited me at the same time.

I dialled the number and waited patiently through the rings.

"Hello?"

"Hi, I was wondering if you could help me. I'm a cyclist, and I've had an accident with my bike."

"Hello?"

The line was crackly, and I was forced to repeat my line several more times before the message sunk in through the static.

"Oh. Where are you, bach?"

"Ummm... I – I don't know exactly..." I turned to Eliza for guidance.

"You're just the other side of the Devil's Ridge. He should know exactly where it is."

I repeated the location with a slight shudder, and was met with silence. "Hello? Are you still there?"

"Yes..." This time the voice was slightly hesitant. "That's the Banfield Estate, isn't it?"

"Yes. Are you able to come and pick me up?"

"Well... it's not that easy, you see, love. That's right the other side of the mountain, you know – and there's one hell of a fog. Is it urgent?"

Why the hell else would I be calling an emergency breakdown service if it weren't? Under normal circumstances, I probably would have sworn and hung up on him by now. But these weren't normal circumstances, and being my only chance of getting home, I had no intention of offending him now.

"Yes, it is."

"Oh... Well, how's about if I'm there with you first thing tomorrow, love? How's that sound to you?

Truthfully, it sounded as though I'd dialled the wrong number and ended up speaking with the village idiot. But with Eliza leaning over my shoulder, her warm breath grazing against my neck, I stifled the urge to tell him so and simply put the phone down.

"No luck, darling?" she crooned softly into my ear.

I shook my head.

"What a terrible shame. Of course, you're more than welcome to stay here for the night if you've no other way of getting home."

I looked at Eliza and noticed a slightly cruel cut to her face. It had to be the lighting, but again I found myself feeling uneasy.

"I suppose I'd better walk, but thanks anyway."

She gave a dismissive laugh, and then ripped open the curtains to display the fog, which had now descended into something straight out of a Dickens novel.

"I hardly think so, Beth," she said, watching my reaction with amusement, "In fact, I doubt whether you'd be able to reach the bottom of the drive in this weather without encounter some unfortunate mishap. There are some steep drops to the side of the path."