Back in the old days, nipping out for a newspaper offered only two choices. Turn left and walk two minutes to the corner shop which risked getting there after they’d sold out, or turn right and walk three minutes to the proper newsagents which never ran out of papers and had a nice smiley newsagent to boot. Up here in the country, we also have two choices: drive seven miles to the nearest Big Town and the Monster Tesco, or cycle six miles to the nearest garage. It would be nice not to have to drive to Tescos every single day, if we can help it so, the weather being fine, we decided this morning to try the latter.
It started off okay – bucking the topographic trend it was noticeably downhill or level for most of the way, although there were enough hills to keep it interesting. It took us thirty minutes (or rather it took me thirty minutes, and the other half filled in the extra time waiting for me to catch up by watching for dipper). Most of the cars* decided to steer round us rather than over us although there was one 4×4 driver who decided that, off-roading capacity or no off-roading capacity, it was the cyclist who should go up on the muddy verge rather than her pristine All-Terrain Global Warmer. We got there with my face now matching my fetching pink shirt and I scraped the worst of the bugs from my teeth and went into the garage.
Where they had run out of papers.
So Tescos it was, then.