Martin, I thought, must’ve had a few bad experiences with cyclists. Sharing his obvious frustrations very diplomatically, just as I sought to reassure him that I at least sought not to impede others on the road. Fortunately, the conversation soon moved on to koalas. Previously a fairly emotive subject, tonight the only point of contention was that they were just that. Koalas. Not koala bears.
I’d reached a small town close to Campbelltown, a little to the south of Sydney, at dusk. Slow but steady progress through the western suburbs. Half expecting a quiet evening staying with Debbie and Steve, relatives of Dewi who, back in North Wales, had trained me as a cycle mechanic. Instead, a rather more rapturous affair, joined by their friends for a homely dinner. Curious names. "Mrs DDS".
Cyclists they might not be, but a firm grasp of what would go down well after a day’s ride Debbie certainly had. Rich, homemade lasagne, garlic bread. And alcoholic ginger beer. Lashings of it. A fine return to the road.
