Monday, July 17, 2006
Quiet Town
I took the day off on Friday to play out on my bike.
I rode from Kettlewell to Appletreewick, tracking the Wharfe for ten miles or so, then back again, not because of the quaintness of their names, but because My Little Book Of Cycling In The Dales had implied it wouldn’t be too strenuous. Ahem. If you heard me while I performed a death-defying high speed wobble in Hebden I apologise for my choice language.
It was pleasant to have a quality day out on my ownsome, just me and my rather abstract thoughts, A Free Man In Padded Shorts, but I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.
I’d promised Girlfriend I’d send her a load of texts so that she could chart my progress on Multimap from her desk at work, but I forgot there’s no signal over there.
In Grassington I bought a Craven Herald - CCTV captures bag theft suspect; Toilet closure petition; Alcoholic jailed after admitting drinking Kaliber - and hung out with the olds, who were there in force, catching some rays, sketching the rooftops, dozing off into their ice creams. It was lovely.
I thought about Leanne, and I wondered whether me and Girlfriend would ever get to live in a place like this. We’d both like to, but that’s easier said than done. I don’t know if it would make me feel less or more remote than I do already, but I suppose you never know if you don’t try.
Back in Kettlewell I made a modest contribution to the cream tea economy and did some leisurely reading up on the Pacific Northwest, fed crumbs to the birds and kept the owner from being able to lock up and go home. Served her right for putting flies in my milk.
So. A very nice, quiet little day, nothing special, but good for the heart and soul nonetheless.
I returned home, pumped full of cycling endorphins, just in time to return my apples to the fruit bowl, shower, then catch Sam making his (keenly anticipated around these parts) West Wing return. Not a bad day at all, really.
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I rode from Kettlewell to Appletreewick, tracking the Wharfe for ten miles or so, then back again, not because of the quaintness of their names, but because My Little Book Of Cycling In The Dales had implied it wouldn’t be too strenuous. Ahem. If you heard me while I performed a death-defying high speed wobble in Hebden I apologise for my choice language.
It was pleasant to have a quality day out on my ownsome, just me and my rather abstract thoughts, A Free Man In Padded Shorts, but I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.
I’d promised Girlfriend I’d send her a load of texts so that she could chart my progress on Multimap from her desk at work, but I forgot there’s no signal over there.
In Grassington I bought a Craven Herald - CCTV captures bag theft suspect; Toilet closure petition; Alcoholic jailed after admitting drinking Kaliber - and hung out with the olds, who were there in force, catching some rays, sketching the rooftops, dozing off into their ice creams. It was lovely.
I thought about Leanne, and I wondered whether me and Girlfriend would ever get to live in a place like this. We’d both like to, but that’s easier said than done. I don’t know if it would make me feel less or more remote than I do already, but I suppose you never know if you don’t try.
Back in Kettlewell I made a modest contribution to the cream tea economy and did some leisurely reading up on the Pacific Northwest, fed crumbs to the birds and kept the owner from being able to lock up and go home. Served her right for putting flies in my milk.
So. A very nice, quiet little day, nothing special, but good for the heart and soul nonetheless.
I returned home, pumped full of cycling endorphins, just in time to return my apples to the fruit bowl, shower, then catch Sam making his (keenly anticipated around these parts) West Wing return. Not a bad day at all, really.
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