The days are, finally, lengthening. That seemed as good an excuse as any to drag the Ural from under its cover and clack-zag though the staggered web of lanes to Bibury.
At this time of year the coach loads of travel-myopic, Bath-Stonehenge-Bibury-Shakespeare n’ Stratford-inna-day tourists are still tucked up and posting acid on TripAdvisor. Instead, Bibury was free for the ducks, the cold and huddled bundles of legged scarves, hats and Barbours. And motorcyclists. Two of us.
Keith was riding an old favourite of mine. A patinated K75RT sat at the kerb, a few feet away from him as his eyes tracked the ripples in the river moving past. Busy with his thoughts. Continue reading