Literally. I was blown off the bike. Over the top of the Yorkshire Dales the wind was – I’m guessing – 60mph. Later, off the tops, I met several people who said places had closed everywhere because they weren’t safe.
It was a spectacular ride though, 70 miles to Masham (which I now know has a more or less silent “h”). I’ve been saying it wrong all the time.
A few miles before Masham the imposing ruin of Jervaulx Abbey requires a big kink in the road. There’s a £5 honesty box, and almost no-one there. I wonder how many Cistercians there would have been here in its heyday – it’s huge.
It’s atmospheric and beautiful, and I couldn’t resist going back to the bike, parked at the gate, and getting the cello. I wondered if someone would come and stop me, but I played it for half an hour among the ruins, and felt renewed.
But then, of course, I was late getting to Masham, and what with one thing and another I didn’t get any tea before I had to go to the grandly named Town Hall to play.
Such a lovely audience, and very sympathetic to the hunger and everthing else. We had to have a slightly longer interval than planned while a very kind gentleman – who looked as though he ate them often – went to his car and brought me a local pork pie about the size of a football.
A good end to a long day.