The Hill (Part 8)

There have been many occasions I would imagine, occurring at various stages of the eleven mile climb from the bus stop overlooking the village green at the bottom (whose views down the valley, and proximity to the pub across the road from whose bar you can see the bus arrive, make it one of the nicest places anywhere to wait for a bus, which is just as well considering how long you might be waiting for one) to the junction at the top where the road takes you either south back down to the valley you just left or away west to the next one, when folks, myself included, must have wondered whether it was such a good idea to do this ride today but there are also occasions when you just seem to hook up to some imaginary bike tow, shout up ahead for them to start the pretend winding gear and just sit back and wheel up the hill as if someone turned the whole fellside to slope the other way, when the weather is not too hot, not too cold, not to windy, not too wet, and the snow and ice and biting north easterly of just a few recent months ago seem like distant memories of another country altogether and then you wonder what you could ever even have been worried about.

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