“How did you ride up from Atherton?” she asked. I paused. Contemplating my response. “Slowly” I said. Deliberately. After the gentle, almost imperceptible inclines of the previous day, a tough, sustained climb up to over three thousand feet. Flowing descent. Then a sharp final pull into the village of Herberton.
Ascribed the “historical” moniker in the tourist literature, Herberton does have genuine charm. Wooden clad shops, corrugated iron roofs, tasteful pastel shades. Post Office, small library, pharmacy, family butchers. Quaint. But part of the fabric of everyday life. Regular stream of locals popping in. Obligatory 4×4’s looking a bit out of place.
The town purports to have a museum devoted to spies and secret cameras. Couldn’t find it. Presumably a discrete affair. Admittance granted only to those who quietly utter “The geese have already flown south from Karingrad“. Fronted by a very respectable looking woman. Distinguished only by her ordinariness.
Only clues to her double existence a few dusty tomes on Russian politics, hidden amongst her extensive collection of horticultural books. Or perhaps a small glass paperweight. Paltry reward for decades of service. Her frequent trips abroad lost amongst the cake baking and charitable good causes. Or so I imagine.
