The sun turned up unexpectedly on Wednesday so I set out on John's bike with adventure in mind. Beccles, a quaint town I've seen three times from the window of a bus, is nine miles from Lowestoft, and even though I didn't say it aloud, that was where I wanted to go. My explorer's kit: two maps, one compass, one banana, two chocolate bars (thoughtfully provided by Fadia), one fully-charged camera, one bottle of water, sunscreen and a phone in case of disaster.
First glance at map occurred half an hour into journey. Second glance – five minutes after first glance. This is when the first stranger, an RAA English equivalent, approached with an offer of aid. I'd been spotted both times, nose in map, so he thought he'd better stop before he saw me for a third time, puzzled on another corner. He turned me around and said if I went right I couldn't go wrong.
The lanes here are narrow, wide enough for one car or a wandering bicycle. I saw horses first, fields of them and they looked at me as if to say, isn't it a nice day for a ride. If I don't return home, it's because I've been gaoled for horse theft. I briefly considered a career on a horse farm but that would have been the Maddy who got those riding lessons as a child.
I saw birds, emerald-necked pheasants fleeing from me, one unidentified rodent on an errand and a Peter Rabbit, activities unknown, its ears peaking over the hedge row.
I could smell the blossom trees arching above and the wild flowers growing in the ditch between road and field, mood-brightening whiffs that I wish I could pocket and take home with me. John tells me we are in the flattest part of England but my roads would dip and rise in time to the turn of my wheels. At one point, coming over a hill, I arrived at the motorway with its roaring cars, so I chose a bypass instead that took me over a farmer's bumpy field. I stopped under the lone tree with its shaded log and feasted on my banana. I checked the map, as much for appearance's sake as locating my position because by this time my internal compass had shut down. Back on the bike I kept encountering signs heralding, BECCLES 3 MILES, then half an hour later I'd see another BECCLES 3 MILES. Once I came across a BECCLES 4 MILES, horrid moment, and I began to imagine an ever-changing landscape where towns shifted at whim and cyclists roamed endlessly, lost in a rich green wonderland. All very nice but one must eventually eat.
I did find Beccles, and food, some three hours after I'd set out, so chained John's bike to a seat, cast an eye around to see if there were any potential bike thieves about, and set out to explore by foot. Beccles, though rather small, has, at least, six charity shops – one specifically for cats, which I found (childishly) funny but I'm sure the cats appreciate the effort. I bought a helmet for 2 pound. These aren't a legal requirement here, and it's a delicious feeling riding about with your head free, but my road safety education has obviously left its mark.
As much as I'd enjoyed the indirect ride to Beccles, I didn't fancy riding for another three hours so I pulled my map out again and waited for a local to approach me. This time my rescuer was a man gardening his plot. He gave me three names: Ellough, Hulvar, and Mutford. It so happened that I'd passed through all these places on my way, just not in the right order. Getting back took considerably less time but here ends Dad's dream of his daughter becoming a professional cyclist: a) I'd never complete the course because I'd get lost b) I'd want to stop and get something to eat c) I dislike hills immensely and d) probably most telling, I couldn't sit on a bike the next day.
We were having a sunny streak so at John's suggestion, and Dad's recommendation, the next afternoon I caught the bus to Southwold, a small village on the coast. We took roads so thin the bus sat snug on either side and every so often we'd clip the hedges or prune the trees and leaves would fall in through the open windows to carpet the bus floor and the inside of my handbag. Southwold is a very agreeable town, a place where the clocks tick more slowly, and if you fancied, you could dawdle across the road or stop for a chat in the middle: I've already picked out the cottage I'd like to move in to. The beach is lined with cheery-coloured huts that have bizarre names like Doris, the Goddess of the Wind.
John tells me these sell for forty thousand so I think I'll pass on the wind goddess and make do with the sun and sand.
I found a wonderful antique and collectibles shed behind the high street, but time constraints prevented me from lingering and stopped any rash purchases of tea sets or picnic hampers or 1930s ball gowns (I might have to go back).
Yesterday my adventuring continued, this time with John and Fadia. We drove past Southwold to a small village, Westleton, with a curious bookshop where you're advised to bang the tin with a stick if you want service. We wandered on to the village green and sat with other Saturday afternoon visitors, all of whom were feeding the ducks bread – and fresh bread too! Not even stale bread, Fadia exclaimed – much to the dismay of the sign that read, please don't feed ducks. There was a quartet of ducklings – mother absent – and one of them was a bit of an idiot and kept getting left behind while the others did a ring of the pond, but I couldn't help but worry about it and its missing mother and the possibility of a bird of prey swooping in for a light meal – which John tells me wouldn't be unlikely.
Briefly considered logistics of a duckling travel companion but I'm not good at sharing and I probably couldn't afford to feed it fresh bread daily like it's become accustomed to. Afterwards we went walking around Dunwich, where the coconut-smelling, yellow-flowering gorse bushes grow, and at one point, it was thought necessary to examine the map.
As I was sitting in bed last night, a sound out my window interrupted my reading and going to investigate – I had hopes one of those Farthing Wood animals was tapping on my window for a visit – I saw the sky light up and birds, or bats, fleeing into the night. A fireworks display just for me, or so it felt like as I stood nose flattened on the glass. The day's icing.
Tomorrow I go to Scotland. I travel first to London by bus, then at exactly 11.45pm I shall catch another bus that will deliver me to Dundee at 10.25am, Tuesday morning, if anyone wanted to know the particulars.
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