Lockdown, Part 31: Fantasyland

I live in a fantasy world. I am always riding along in a dream, sometimes saving people from the soon-to-be burning wreckage of a private jet, other times being a rock star, admired and loved by all and sundry, and then other times living in a house on the beach, enjoying a lazy life of looking out to sea, going for long beach walks and breathing in the sea air. If it's none of the above then it's being a successful novelist, working only when I choose and living a life of solitude in a house with a huge, overgrown garden. The central thread running though these often quite vivid fantasies is financial security and not worrying or fretting about the future, and also relaxation and not having to do anything I don't want to do; it's not worrying about pensions or retirement but simply chilling, by the sea, taking each day as it comes and being at peace with the world. In a nutshell, I need a holiday.

This week, while roaming the aisles of my local supermarket, I decided to buy a copy of The Week, a weekly news magazine, and inside I found a page entitled Best Properties on the Market, a selection eight properties and only one within my grasp, a stone cottage in Inverness-shire with six bedrooms, a share in a salmon and trout river and some 89 acres of pasture and grazings. It's in the middle of nowhere and I can see myself there just doing nothing but cycling, eating and sleeping and having visitors up from the smoke to ride with me and generally chill out. Kilmonivaig Farm, that's the name of the place, and if I sold up I could afford it, but what the hell would I do stuck up in Inverness-shire as the weather closes in? How would I make money? Well, my view is never let the practicalities get in the way of a good fantasy and besides, I'm working remotely now, I could work remotely from Inverness-shire, as long as there's WiFi.

Fields at the bottom of Hesiers Hill...

If I'm honest, I'd prefer the nine-bedroomed Clarghyll Hall in Cumbria, a grade ll listed country house steeped in 500 years of history and crying out for me to be its new owner. I'd better get a lottery ticket next week because this stately pile is currently out of my reach, which is a little depressing. The Gart in Perthshire, Scotland, is also out of my reach, but it looks amazing and I can see myself there eating venison and drinking rich, red wine. Well, alright, I've given up drinking so a vanilla chai and a hot cross bun would have to suffice.

The Rockhopper at the bottom of Hesiers Hill

It's Sunday and I've been chilling this afternoon in the back garden, enjoying the sunshine. This morning I rode what I'm calling the Sline's Oak Slogger, which saw me ride all the way to Woldingham and then hang a left and head towards the golf course and, of course, Ganger's Hill, but turning left and following The Ridge all the way to Botley Hill and onwards to Beddlestead Lane. I rarely cycle from the Clarks Lane end of Beddlestead towards Hesiers Hill and for one good reason: Hesiers Hill. It's steep and not pleasant, but today I did it. Beddlestead is peaceful and quiet, once a few yards in there's perfect silence, apart from the tweeting birds and the whirr of a Lycra Monkey's wheels. There were a few of them riding up the lane and heading to Westerham, but there were many moments when I had the road to myself and could simply chill with a warm breeze on my face and the prospect of a nasty hill at the end. I took the ascent in my stride and soon I was at the top and winding my way around the country lanes, past St. Leonard's church and round towards Warlingham Sainsbury's and home.

Looking up Hesiers Hill

Yesterday I rode the Beddlestead Beach Farm Bastard, an 18-mile ride (as opposed to today's 17-miler) so I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself. Last week I rode a total of 60 miles and I'm slowly getting back into my stride after around a week off waiting for the bike to be serviced. Hopefully, this week I'll ride more, perhaps get up to 80 miles, who knows? It all depends on the weather, but everybody's saying it's going to be warm so here's to some pleasant evening rides.

The lockdown continues, or rather it doesn't. Who knows? One minute we're told not to use public transport and work from home if we can; and now we're being given money by the Government to eat out and get back to work, using the trains and buses if need be. There's a lot of mixed messages, but the general view is that things are getting back to normality (or rather the 'new normal' of social distancing and masks and booking up to visit the local boozer). Until they find a vaccine we've just got to get on with it.

The Rockhopper has been running like a dream since Ross Cycles serviced it

I think what I need is a holiday. I need to switch off completely and spend some time staring at the sea and not thinking about anything other than whatever book I'm reading and where my next meal is coming from. But I've got to stop eating for the sake of it, out of boredom more than anything else, that sneaky bowl of cornflakes, that slice of bread and peanut butter, a late-night bowl of Alpen or a Rachel's yoghurt, it's all surplus to requirements if I'm honest and it has to stop.