Here we go on a jolly. Over the hills, through the kingdom of beach huts, land of colossal daisies and giant sea cabbages.

The autumnal day is clear, crisp and parky. The shadows are long and there is a super moon coming. The celestial mechanics clearly visible, the view of which, is unimpeded by anything over the English Channel.

Her bell tinkles as she pedals forth on the chain mail track and bumpy ribbed gritty tarmac. Tring! Tring! she trings for no obvious reason other than the joyful sound of the silver handlebar bell. “Aren’t we lucky!”, She yells as we top the hill by the coastguard hut and the vista of Bexhill in the low orange sun unfolds before us. “Aren’t we lucky!”, she yells again and again, with no obvious question mark on the sentiment.

Yes, I thought. We ARE lucky.

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