Methos had always believed that simple pleasures were best.
A bottle of wine, a loaf of fresh bread. Sitting on the porch holding the hand of the one you loved as the long summer twilight lengthened into dark. Listening in companionable silence as the frogs and crickets began their night song. Taking a deep breath, inhaling the delicate scent of flowers, warmed by the sun, releasing their perfume into the dark. And the simplest pleasure of all: claiming the lips of your lover with your own, reminding them night was beginning, and the hours before morning were meant for pleasure.