The last two bike trips I’ve taken have been bedevilled by punctures. Heading to Chichester, my back tyre went. I whipped out my spare, fitted it with difficulty, and rode on, only to be brought up short fifty yards later with the same tyre sinking beneath me. Gadzooks, I had forgotten to search for the offending hole maker! I found it easily enough – a twisted safety pin hanging out of the tyre – and whipped the wheel off for a second time. On this occasion, a repair was called for. Searching through my repair baggy I found the contents of three tubes of glue had completely evaporated away. Not a drop was to be squeezed out of them. I thought dismally of the long trudge into town, pushing the bike. Luckily, after a frantic delve, I found another, unopened tube, and was able to effect a prompt mend.

Yesterday, heading over to Patching, having taken a wrong turning and wasted much time slithering around in some muddy bog, I got a front puncture. Again, I replaced the tube. Minutes later, the rear tyre went. Exasperated, I heaved the wheel off, mended both punctures, put the wheel back on again, and was about to ride off when my travelling companion pointed out that I had forgotten to check for whatever had made the hole. She was absolutely right; so off came the wheel again, out came the typre, and I discovered a massive thorn embedded in the tread. Pulling this out was the matter of a moment; putting everything back together took rather longer, considering the appalling design of the gear changing mechanism that everyone knows has been designed by someone who’s never ridden a ride anyway, never mind changed a wheel.

All this time, I was immersed in another tract of boggy terrain that, in addition to getting itself on everything I touched, smelled like the outflow from a large septic tank. Smeared with this ordure, smelling like a goat already from my exertions, we set off for the upteenth time.

It was a glorious day, though, and the bluebell woods had to be seen to be believed. Interestingly, as we approached them I spied a lone walker with a familiar looking hat on his head. As I passed, I turned and said “A Tilly, I presume”, to which he nodded affirmation and added “I have three more of them at home!” I waved mine gaily, said “Snap!”, and rode on.

Later, after eating a meal at Jacques, I spent an hour getting nowhere with his computer. Luckily, Liv and Jul came over to pick us and our bikes up, and within a matter of moments the problem had been sorted by Liv. What’s truly amazing is not that he knew what to do but that he can ever have imagined in his wildest dreams I would.