It was foggy here yesterday, and frosty, and the sun didn’t cut through till the afternoon. I wrapped up warm and went out on my bike on the Monsal Trail.
It was cold and I felt as if I was working inordinately hard, but I pushed on and got to my favourite turning spot, stopped, and had a think for ten minutes while I looked at the limestone cliffs opposite, and the river below, and saw a heron fly downstream.
I struggled to cycle home, even though it’s downhill for most of the way: I felt limp and weak and hot, as if I’d been suddenly struck down with flu, and all I could think about as I battled on was a slice of bread spread with butter and golden syrup.
I am going to get a new bike. This one is like Sally’s in PLOTTING FOR GROWN-UPS – old and cronky with broken mudguards held on by plastic ties. Which pretty much describes how I felt when I got home and flopped on the sofa, and Dave said, “You look as if you might die.”
I am rereading The Secret Garden. It’s a good book to read in the winter. It’s full of hope, renewal and The Spring. This morning it moved me to tears.
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