Every blog must have a viewpoint, and this is mine. There is even a sign which says viewpoint although as is so often the case you have to cross the road and walk a few metres up the hill to actually get the best view. Sometimes I do in fact stop here and look at the view. When I am old, whenever that might be, I will drive up here and sit next to my car in a folding chair of a tasteful floral design reading the paper and drinking warm tea from the lid of my thermos flask. I will probably not do this in late December in a gale force wind in a gap between the downpours of rain and sleet because I won’t be so desperate for daylight then but I could not stop coming here altogether. I come up here when it is cold and windy and I have not got the get up and go to get up and go very far, I come here when it’s dark because I could ride this road with my eyes closed anyway, I come here when I’m working and just need to get out of doors, I come here when I’ve tinkered with something on the bike and don’t want far to walk back if my new handlebar tape makes both the wheels fall off, I come here on a late summer afternoon when I’ve already been for a ride in the morning but don’t know when it will next be warm enough to go out without a coat on, I come here early in the morning if there is something that although less important than riding my bike I probably should go to so people don’t think I am obsessed. Every time the view is different. Many times the view is absent. Folks have been looking at the view long before me, long even before there was a sign advising them to look at the view. On the road over the moor I would not be surprised to encounter a coach and horses driven by a man in a long coat and tall hat. What I am more likely to encounter is lost teenagers with green painted faces and automatic weapons who miss their mams, the fell rescue team on a weeknight exercise to practice looking for lost MTBers and surly ewes congregating on the lane as the tarmac radiates the last of the day’s heat back to the sky where it came from a few hours before. One day I will meet that coachman, and the ghosts of everyone who travelled this road across the moor because with the number of times I’ve ridden this way I will be one of them and some future blogger who has stopped to take this picture is going to write about how they were sure they heard a flapping rain jacket, a clunking gear change and a voice softly coaxing the sheep to get off the f***g road but when they turned around there was just the wind and the grass and a bidon sprung by a pothole from the bottle cage of a bike that wasn’t there.


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