I’d been a bit unsure leaving Halse. It’d stopped there to join my parents for lunch in the village pub before the final few miles back home to Fitzhead. There’d been a warming coffee, and security for my trusty steed in the indoor skittle alley. Of course, I knew a way to go. Done it enough times. Problem was it’d bring me in from the wrong direction. Wanted to retrace the route I’d taken two and a half years earlier when I’d ridden out.
There was another way. A longer affair. Bringing me to a small grassy knoll at a staggered cross roads above Fitzhead. There I’d wait for the nod to ride down into the village. Fairly confident I’d taken the right road from Halse. But not entirely certain. Not for a while. My fault. Just because I might have been expected to know didn’t mean I actually did. Hoping pride wouldn’t be my downfall at the very end.
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