my usual late sunday start, amused and informed by eddie mair on broadcasting house on bbc radio 4 – i sallie forth to seek adventure, inner peace, and nostalgia that is not my own.
first stop, via farnham and gomshall and dorking to see the motorcycles on box hill, a hillock in east sussex with an outstanding 20 mile view south, where motorcyclists have come every sunday for years on end, to climb the hill – at least, before the national trust bought it – and to socialise at ryka’s cafe. i accidentally order a too-large burger and a too-small milkshake, and chat pleasantly with a slick but diminutive estate agent from croydon and his pretty pretty ladyfriend, out on their goldwing. he has a yellow r1150gs in his garage and is selling it, but i am not tempted. something about his manner makes me wonder if he’s reading my mind – or reading my face – so i choose to remain polite but slightly distant.
i leave after perhaps 90 minutes of gawping appreciatively at other peoples’ hardware, and answering “yes really, it is a 125, i’ve been to scotland twice on it.” several times over.
next order of the day: to play a game of poohsticks on pooh bridge.
some two miles up the left-hand fork lies a right-hand turning into the deep green wood where an enchanted parking-place may be found. the other people initially worry me, but it seems a happy place – perhaps the laughter of the children (and the adults) manages to wash away such awkwardness which is detected by the observant – fragments of shattered car-windows which grace the leaf-mould, and the take your valuables with you signs. a premonition makes me pick up a stick amongst the leaf-mould. a friendly stick, short and squat. following the twisty path, i carve with my boot the occasional “X” into the dirt, a reference on how to get back to the bike and not get lost. perhaps 200 yards, a road. perhaps another 50, a bend into a farm track. perhaps a quarter mile roughly downhill, the bridge, amongst woodland. the stream is dredged wide under the bridge, a sturdy construction in wood and steel bolts, and pinches down-from and up-to its natural width some 30 yards in each direction. the bridge is… occupied. and occupied. mothers clucking disapproval – mostly towards their husbands who have regressed into naughty little boys who nip twigs off branches rather than hunting them – or better yet, demonstrating the foresight to bring some with them on the walk. the children chirrup: …each voice punctuated regularly by the distant drop of an acorn. this continues for some time. finally feeling alone, i release the stumpy twig and dash in my hurried silence to the bridge’s other parapet. time passes. i hark to the rub-a-dub bubbling sound of the gurgling stream below. time passes. there! there! but no – i am alone on the bridge! unable to decide therefore whether i have won or lost, i settle the matter to my satisfaction, conducting an existentialist argument as to whether any stick dropped into the stream can truly remain the same stick, and thereby i ponder the nature of wisdom. certainly i win the argument. i walk, back, slowly, heavily, up the dusty path, through the weaving trees, stooping and stopping to divest my body-armour, drink in the calm, cool green, and watch the sacrifical parents be herded by their toddlers, up and down, up and down. i erase my crosses as i walk, and my mind is at ease. back at my bike park – one where cars are allowed, too – i find that my black and orange looming presence does not repel toddlers, but indeed attracts them, as if i were an enormous tigger clad in kevlar and cordura. bike! bike! big red shiny bike! bike! from more than one piping voice, and honda? is that italian? on, no, japanese. yes, i’ve heard of their motorcars, rather good, aren’t they? from one sage and onion grandmother. i wave them cheerily into their volvos and SUVs, and tigger gets kitted-up. onwards to grayshott, via east grinstead, crawley, haslemere! i reflect that i have spent most of my day riding into the sun – southeast by morning, south at noon, and southwest in the evening; i must plan something entirely opposite in order to save my eyesight, even with my darkest shades. the 50 mile trip takes longer than i think, but that’s ok, because the person i had hoped to be having tea with was not at home anyway; i head home, feeling slightly the worse for wear, and arrive home after a round-trip of perhaps 160 miles. not too bad, but a lot of stop/start takes it out of my upper-body strength. dinner – devilled prawns – and another attempt, again deferred, to meet up with jon. shower, tv, and soon bedwards. i’ve had my peace for the week, alas, but i am happy – (insert your favourite ruskin quotation here) i look forwards to a monday and tuesday of writing a datacentre security specification.
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