the adventures of trin part-time time traveller

As I get to know Spring better I find myself intrigued by his lifestyle and bizarre sense of dress.
I have visited his little Cottage several times now. Mainly under the cloak of night when darkness hides the Villages secrets.
However this Saturday I was surprised to be finally invited there in daylight. Was I finally being accepted? Or maybe just primed for the test ahead I am surely to face?
The Village is nestled in the bowels of the Cotswolds. It's streets wind and pulsate like your average small intestine. There is the occasional escape of gas from the roads. Spring knew them well. He avoided the rouge springs and gaseous exchanges that go to make the sickly air the Villagers breath.
We stopped outside his cottage right by a vast bush of stinging nettles. There was a tussle as I insisted he moved the car. Finally three kicks later he moved and limped onto the path to his front door.
I stopped and scanned the area. The local Pub sat like a huge carbuncle on the landscape. It's weird trees with branches like Knuckles surrounded it.
You could feel the sexual tension in the air. I felt eyes watching me from net curtained windows. A group of mangy cats sat staring at me with dead black eyes.
Suddenly two words (or maybe three) appeared in my head "The Wickerman"
Was I being groomed for the annual Village Sacrifice, or maybe just to mind the Bric-a-Brac stall at the Village fair in July?
I turned to walk into the garden gate when I was stopped by two young guys on Cycles.
Both had the most tight lycra cycle shorts on. The first one with legs as fit as horses and calves to die for spoke
"Hello sweet woman (ok I made that bit up) we're lost. Any Idea where Bath is?"
In an instant Spring was by my side (bastard)
His voice swung in the sweet May air as he directed them through lanes and narrow cycle paths whilst I took in the gorgeous view.
As they cycled off I realised they were heading not towards the exit route but rather a dark little dust track behind the pub.
I felt my heart jump with fear as the classic film "American Werewolf in London" washed over me and I realised I'd never see those strong firm thighs ever again.