Afternoon cycle ride down to the shops. I say down, but I really mean up: this is Switzerland. We set off up the side of a steep quarry and my host, who is in her seventies, left me so far behind that I had some trouble once I reached the crest working out which side road she had darted down. She had a basket strapped to the back of her bike and rode upright in deep elegance.
I would like to think this difference in speed was entirely down to our relative fitness but I suspect a small part of it was also blind tourism. It’s pretty here, pretty and industrial, and the blue and white sky this winter has been a long time coming. A Wedgwood sky, Monica Dickens called it. Or it may have been Agatha Christie.
Yesterday evening I was prowling with my camera and heard a cheery “Hi!” from behind me as I was crossing the bridge. It was my host, bicycling to her tennis club. She waved and I waved back. Then I stood under the willows and watched her becoming a smaller and smaller pink speck between the green, seamed fields. The evening had just begun to gather and tiny insectivore bats were bombing above the water.