My right side ached. No visible bruising but hurting all the same. I’d fallen earlier in the day, my trusty steed disappearing from beneath me on compacted snow. Ending prostrate in the road. First such fall in well over two years. A slightly less than gentle reminder not to get complacent.
First day back on the road for the final push back home to Somerset. Torn at first between busier but gritted roads and quieter but more treacherous lanes. But a brief spell on an A-road towards Wellingborough quickly resolved the dilemma.
Progress had, inevitably, been slow. Or at least slower than I’d have liked. Compounded by a wrong turn amongst the myriad of minor roads I’d sought to follow. Eventually reaching Daventry, thirty or so miles short of my target. Little more than an hour of daylight remaining.
Damp, penetrating cold. Sinister fog. Just one glimmer. Unexpected encounter with my parents. Welcome cup of coffee and a chocolate bar. Quite a surprise, although perhaps it shouldn’t have been. As my Dad said, they’d flown five thousand miles to Phoenix, Arizona, to see me. Could hardly miss the chance on their own doorstep.
I’d spread the maps out on the bed. Looking for inspiration. Had to reach Taunton by Friday night, ready to ride over to BBC Somerset’s studio the next morning. Outskirts of Bristol Thursday evening. My plan to head over to Abergavenney looking increasingly untenable. Now just too far in limited daylight. Pity. Best curry house I’d ever found. Then an idea…
