After but a few days off our bikes in London I had already longed to hit the road again. Still unsure of what I am addicted to. Is it the movement, the excitement of meeting people or the chemicals my body produces? Whatever it is, my want had faded this day. What cut my desire to move? Could it be that the sky was gray and cold? That huge amounts of precipitation were falling from it? Or was it Susannah's comfortable little cottage in Lewes? Susannah didn't make it any easier to leave. As we were making final preparation for departure she uttered softly, \"naaaappp\"
as though invoking a post hypnotic suggestion. Several times we almost fell to her hospitality, but at just before three we set off. Not before I managed to demonstrate, yet again, my propensity to have accidents. Our bicycles had been stored high up in Susannah and Jonathon's yard under tarps. I uncovered mine and untangled it from the vines that had wrapped themselves around the wheels. I made it down the first flight of cement stairs safely resting for a few moments at the second level of the garden. The second flight was more narrow, constructed of brick and had slender steps.
One side of the stair was bordered by a structure in the neighbor's yard and the other by a retaining wall and then the kitchen of the house. Three steps down my right foot lost traction and then the left. I let go of the bike and surfed the wild staircase on my left hip the bike left propped between the retaining wall and the little structure. A huge strawberry began to form on my upper leg as we rode off towards Dingleden to see Susy's mom. Again we felt menaced by britannotraffic leaving Lewes. So much so that as rain began to fall more heavily we pushed on instead of turning back, not wanting to re-experience Lewes' uninviting roads.
The pathways became quieter as we pressed on towards Kent. It seemed that as the roads became quieter they became correspondingly hillier. Our chests heaved pumping up the steep inclines past green pastures, under wooded canopies and through charming little villages. One feature of British country roads is their startlingly poor drainage. Water and mud flooded the roads leaving us covered with dirt and water. Both Andy and I had read Bill Bryson's \"Lost Continent\" during our break. It was surprisingly accurate in its portrayal of the brits. Just like his book we found that asking directions yielded long responses that were virtually unintelligible and relayed more unrelated information than assistance.
If there are two or more British people present when instructions were given each person dutifully gave their version and told about how their cousin or brother always gets lost just past the \"little pub along the great hedgerow near Big Fluffing while on their way to see the cinema in Cheesebury.\" The last yards were the most challenging. A huge lake had formed on a low point of Ann's unpaved driveway. I envisioned Andy falling in and becoming covered with mud. *(This would titillate one of our readers who wrote us during our break. He wanted to know if we had rescued a man from mud or quicksand along the way and if we had pictures.
I wrote back asking if he had a fetish, and if so, to send a picture. His answer was \"yes\". He included a photo of himself knee deep in mud wearing a speedo.)* Unfortunately for our reader, Andy safely made the crossing. Knocking on the front door we were confronted with oh-so-calm Ann uncharacteristically worried. She anticipated that we would arrive earlier. So did we, but we had stopped frequently to warm up. After soiling Ann with our hugs hello Andy went directly to the bath while Ann and I caught up over a glass of red wine. We'd stayed an afternoon there the year before following Susannah's wedding to Jonathan.
That day the sun had beamed and I had napped in the sun. This day I bundled myself in my fleece riding gear and listened to the sheep bleat \"goodnight.\" After washing up we enjoyed the feast that Ann unfurled for us. Her hospitality was phenomenal.