Green in the hedgerow. Brambles, berries. Dampness in the air. Arabesque tangles. They reach out, touch me as I peddle on through. Rain sprays from the silvery wheels, the black treads of my tyres. I wobble to miss puddles. With each revolution I lose the print and ink that's stained my thinking. The oxygen clears the brain: the sound of the spray, the tyres spreading the rain. I peddle on. The purpose of my journey recedes. I pass the green with the house on the corner. The house with the tall windows and white frames. An arched door. I can never see this house, the old schoolhouse, without remembering how I first arrived there. The bus parked on the green. Another autumn time. Jimmy. Running on Special Brew and weed. He was a sharp guy. Last year I saw the hearse that carried his coffin when I was upstairs, fiddling with the cuffs of my sleeves. My journey still continuing. It's easy to forget the years. I'm peddling along and it all comes back. Half a life time gone and underneath it all, I'm still much the same. Approach another landmark. A redbrick chapel with grey windows. Smell of the lavender bushes in the parking bay.