Nothing like it, is there?

When I first travelled transcontinentally (1992), I remember so well, so vividly the green fields swimming into view as the Jumbo jet pierced the cotton wool canopy of cloud. San Franciso had been nice, Auckland alluring and Hawaii exotic. But those green muddy fields, the patchwork tapestry of hedgerow, that slightly grey sky?……that was home and home to mountain bike trails, steep fell running climbs and long days in the hills and me. My home.

Coming back from a meeting in the Home Counties on Friday I got that feeling, that sense, all over again. Here, shimmering under an all too frequently absent sun, drifting into view beyond the enduring towers of the Severn bridge(s), was home and home to cyclo-cross trails, rolling undulations of Jurassic coast and long days in the saddle and me and my family. Our home.

The only change in 23 years being how I choose to cart my aching muscles over that luminous green landscape and who I cart it over with.

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