Battling the Artic winds that threatened to knock us from our steeds,
Helen and I bravely made our way across the car park towards Pole
Hill, in a vain attempt to shake the cold from our bones.
We managed a steady climb, past the golf course, stopping briefly on
the bend to wipe our noses, then turned into the forest. The ground
beneath our wheels was wonderfully crunchy and with joy in our hearts,
we continued our journey, Christmas cheer and the promise of a
cappuccino and the end of our pilgrimage filling the air.
A robin cocked his head as we passed by we were both filled with
immense humbleness at the raw beauty that nature holds.
And then it all went wrong. I got cold, Helen got the hump and it
turned into the shortest ride in history.
We didn't even have a mince pie.
But we did have a lovely cuppa.
And a nice chat.
I think she's forgiven me...