As I'd like you all to spend a bit of time on your work for the Group Story, I'm setting a shorter challenge in the number of words this time.

I want you to read the attached story and to try to summarise what message is trying to say in up to 15 words. If you go over 15, it's not vital, but they must be justified and not more than 20 words in all. If you can do it in 10 well-chosen ones, so much the better.

I don't want a summary of the story, but create from the story a saying, a theme, perhaps a dreadful warning or a spirited encouragement, but get the message of the story over in a few succinct words.

Will I get a gender split in the responses, I wonder?

Send your entries to Ann, please, by Alpha Day 9 (February 23rd).

A couple of dozen miles or so of shoreline with its sea beyond and land behind captivated him. It drew him to watch the surf drowning the rocks, and to wait for them to reappear as the wave’s force was spent. It claimed his attention when ships fought their way westwards against heavy seas. It fascinated him to watch the small boats making their trips to the lobster pots. It presented him with an unequalled spectacle when yachts with coloured spinnakers billowed as they raced for the turn.

The cliff walk, that part of the South West Coast Path on the Roseland peninsula in Cornwall, was his idea of perfection. Sadly, though, Paul and the coast path only shared holidays and some weekends.

Paul was a highly qualified car engineer. Not just a car mechanic, nor even a fitter. He was a designer. Automobile design and Paul were a perfect fit. His brain would work over designs for the latest project, devise ways to meet the specifications for performance. He immersed himself in calculations, in performance measures, in optimum torque, in wind tunnel use. He loved his work.

So Paul loved his work and he loved Roseland. The only problem was that his work was in the Midlands. There was nowhere near Cornwall that could offer that type of work. And, of course, there is only one Roseland.

A couple of years ago he decided to buy a small place in Roseland. He still came here every holiday and those weekends when he could manage it. No-one could have a greater attachment to Roseland. There was no room in his life for romance of a more conventional kind: he wanted none and he sought none.

When arriving in Cornwall, his first desire was always the same: to walk the Roseland coast path that runs from Portscatho to St Anthony Head. That walk was a must, especially in the late autumn days with cobalt blue skies, a keen westerly and scudding clouds.

It was a Saturday morning in early November, and from the top of the cliffs he watched the sea breaking on the shore; he watched the foam cascading down the rocks which defied it; and he watched the shags and cormorants diving and drying their wings. He thrilled at seeing the long expanse of Towan beach yet rarely with more than two or three people, often with dogs, spread over the whole mile. As ever, he peered down at the cove at the southern end to see if there were any seals. He felt a few spots of rain in the wind as he reached Killigerran Head, and he could see white horses breaking in the unsheltered sea.

Before the path turned westwards he decided to pause for ten minutes on the bench, enjoying the wonderful solitude and natural beauty while looking towards the Nare headland. No-one else ever stopped there in the late autumn.

Except on this Saturday morning. As he neared the bench he saw a girl sitting there, huddled with elbows on knees and hands partially covering her face.

Paul debated whether to continue along the coast path that passed behind the bench, but decided that he wouldn’t be put off his usual break.

“Mind if I sit here?”

There was no answer, though the girl did edge slightly further towards the end of the bench. Paul looked at the scene, and then glanced sideways. He saw, above the girl’s fingers, some of the spots of rain on her face.

Watching the wheeling gulls, he relished the clean air, blown over 3,000 miles of the Atlantic. It was different, so very different, from the Midlands. It was a world away. He glanced again at the girl, and suddenly realised that the spots were tears, not raindrops.

Suddenly, Paul was in difficulty. Only this last week, he was faced with a crucial decision to scrap an engine design and write off two million pounds of his company’s research effort. He decided to take a short leave and come here away from all decision-making and to relax. A good walk followed by a pint and a pasty at The Plume of Feathers had immense appeal. Now suddenly here he was on the first morning of a week’s holiday, wondering whether he should concern himself with his own life and ignore the girl, or offer her some kindly words of comfort.

He carefully avoided a decision, making instead a comment that could be ignored, or accepted as a conversation opener, dependent on the listener. “It’s a very beautiful place on a morning like this. Who could want to be anywhere else?”

There was a longish pause, followed by a sob that shook her body. She lowered her hands from her face, and said rather querulously, “You’ve got a kind understanding face. Can I talk to you?”

He could now see her tear-stained face. He could see that she was dressed in casual walking clothes, though with stout shoes rather than boots.

Paul could deal with the power of an engine and make it respond to the lightest of manipulations, but he was out of his depth in dealing with people and their behaviour patterns. He could only say “Yes, of course,” as gently as he could.

Her lip quivered. “I’m on my own,” she said tremulously.

“That’s patently obvious,” he thought, but waited for something further.

“Wayne’s left me. He’s gone.”

Paul managed a sympathetic nod.

Her mood changed suddenly into one of anger. She looked straight at Paul, and now without hesitation, the whole explanation flowed. “We came here last week because I think it’s so wonderful, and I wanted to show Wayne how beautiful it was … and how we can enjoy things of real value, the sea and the sky and birds and the fresh open air ... and after we walked along this coast on the first day, all he wanted to do was to go into towns and shops and into bars and listen to heavy metal bands on CDs.” She paused for breath. “He wanted football matches, but the nearest league side is Plymouth Argyle, and that’s only Second Division. So he went to London first thing so he could see Chelsea.”

Then a big sob shook her body. “He said he wasn’t coming back. Ever.”

“What did you say?” Paul couldn’t think of anything else.

The girl looked at him. “Nothing at the time.” She stood up. “But I can say it now. I can say it to anyone who doesn’t like Roseland.” She raised her arms and shouted, “Good riddance!!” And she said it with all the force that she could muster. Then, in a completely transformed way, she added, “I’ll really enjoy the second week without him.” She seemed quite composed, if still angry. Paul rose, intending to walk along towards St Anthony. The girl asked, “Can I walk with you?”

“It’ll be a pleasure.” Paul wasn’t at all sure about the pleasure as he enjoyed his solitude, but at least she obviously enjoyed Roseland, too.

She told him her name was Kim, but more interestingly, she told him bits about the history of Roseland, and where the peregrines usually nested. Turning back at St Anthony Head and walking back alongside the Percuil river, Paul suggested that they meet for an evening meal at the Plume of Feathers. Although on reflection, he wasn’t entirely sure that he’d done the right thing in diluting his solitary appreciation of Roseland, he might at least learn more about it in conversation with her.

However, evening held a further surprise for him. Kim arrived at the Plume at seven, in an obviously agitated state.

“Oh, Paul, “ she said, “something terrible’s happened.” She looked almost as upset as in the morning.

Paul looked at her and asked gently, “What, Kim?”

“Wayne didn’t pay for the second week like he promised. He told me not to bring credit cards, because he’d see to everything. Now I’ve got nowhere to stay, and no cash apart from a pound or two.”

Paul nodded, “and it’s Saturday evening.” After a few moments, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ve got a spare bed, and you can use that until this can be sorted out.”

Kim gave him a simple smile, “Thank you, Paul.” She put her hand over his. “That’s really nice of you.”

“Tell you what,” he suggested, “Forget about everything but enjoying this meal. I recommend the lasagne with wedges, followed by their treacle tart.”

Her smile widened a little. “I’ll settle for that, then.” They chatted about conventional country things, while Paul carefully avoided any unnecessary references to boyfriends and her working life as well as his own.

After the meal, Paul drove Kim to the Bread and Breakfast establishment.

“You wait in the car, Paul,” she said. “I don’t want any complications. I won’t be long.” She went around the back of the house and reappeared quickly with her suitcase, saying that the landlady had got it ready for her to take inside the back door. “I think she was pleased to see the back of me,” she said.

As they arrived at his holiday home, Kim looked round, and exclaimed, “This is brilliant.” She noted the Scandinavian-type construction and the well-equipped kitchen end of the living area.

He made coffee, and they settled down to watch the television news. He suggested that she turned in early because she’d had such a long and exhausting day.

On Sunday morning, despite the lateness of dawn, the sun rose brilliantly over Gerrans Bay in a golden sky fronted by dabs of purple cloud, and Paul heard a gentle knock on the bedroom door. “Oh, what now?” he wondered, but said loudly, “Come in!”

Kim entered with a tray and coffee, and some biscuits. The sun caught her face as she passed the window.

“You’re up early,” he hauled himself up in bed.

“It’s a super morning. I can’t waste this weather.”

He saw the biscuits. “Where did you get all this?”

“In the kitchen and the fridge.”

“But the biscuits?”

“The biscuits were in my luggage. I bought them as a special treat for Wayne, but as he was so horrible, I didn’t give him any. I hope you like them.”

“Actually, they’re my favourites as well.” He smiled at her.

She looked at the clock on the dressing table. “It’s nearly half-past seven. I see you’ve got bacon in the fridge. Bacon and eggs at, say, ten past eight?”

He was quite unused to anyone looking after him except in the clinical impersonal way of hotels. This was a new experience, and he rather liked it.

As she turned and left the room, Kim asked him, “And have you got anywhere in mind to walk today? If not, how about walking to St Just, then along the coast path to St Mawes?”

As he showered he pondered. He didn’t make advance decisions on holiday. That was the whole point of them. But looking at it another way, Kim was ensuring that he didn’t even have to decide where to walk.

A plate of sizzling bacon and eggs was duly produced, followed by crisp brown toast and marmalade. He looked at Kim as she busied herself washing the dishes and realised that here was someone who also loved Roseland.

Carefully choosing his words, he politely asked, “Do you want to stay here longer?”

“For the rest of the week?” she questioned, eyebrows raised.

Paul nodded, but asked, “And you have to go back to your job then?”

“No,” relied Kim, and after a short hesitation said, “I gave it up before I came on holiday with Wayne. I’ve only got my personal possessions in the flat I share. Nothing to keep me there,”

“So you’d like to stay?”

This time there was no hesitation. “It’s very kind of you,” she replied, “and yes, I’d like to, if it’s no bother.”

As they approached St. Mawes along the coast path, she cast a sidelong look at Paul, and wondered why he’d never noticed her before, because she’d watched his lone figure walking the path more than a few times and seen him entering his cottage. With a certain amount of satisfaction, she had confirmed that, even though he was several years older than her, he had considerable potential as a life partner and her attempts to make his acquaintance were certainly justified.

They paused and looked down at several anglers by the sandy beach below the Castle as they walked back to the centre of the little town.

She watched a fisherwoman casting her hook, but Paul was looking at a larger powered yacht passing further out. If he’d not noticed the fisherwoman then she knew he was unlikely to doubt the existence of Wayne.

Turning towards her, he said, with a great deal of feeling, “If I ever met that Wayne, I’d really tell him what I thought of him.”

“Put him at the back of your mind; forget him,” she replied, “I’m sure that you’ll never see him. He doesn’t belong here.”

Paul looked out again at the yacht, and agreed. “No,” he echoed, “He doesn’t belong here. Roseland isn’t the place for beer and football, for selfish and deceitful behaviour. He’s best forgotten.”

The fisherwoman landed a handsome fish which gave up without much of a struggle, while Kim gave an almost audible sigh of relief.

Creations of the imagination are best forgotten.