A familiar unfamiliar song renaged on the silence as an errant cloud obscured Pen-Y-Ghent; the Curlew.
Familiar enough for recognition, unfamiliar through range. At home, no curlew seranades the ‘B’ roads.
A rare treat.
I’m lost, but I can give you a precise location, as sure and fast as any GPS. I’m absent, yet present with every fibre, nerve, synapse and atom.
This cycling moment, so perfect and real stretches into infinity; the sounds, the duck egg sky, the rolling countryside that lurches like a stormy green sea. Just me, the Curlews and the cloud, that cloud that obscures my favourite hill.
What is that makes a moment perfect? Chance? Accident? A precise assembly of components and a receptive mind? All of it and none of it?
Perhaps I was thinking too much. The moment passes, a car chugs by. But fleetingly, on these wheels and these roads, everything was just….so.