Lunch at The Haven
Posted on Wednesday 26 December 2007 by Nick Bloom
Like many, I rely on the radio wake me most days. The inane pomposity of presenters rises to a crescendo with the strange fervour marks sports reporters. But Sunday is often an exception. I lie content listening to those rabid guardians of our morality, the religous minority, most eloquently reveal their own malignity. And try to catch a weather report.
Mist. Heavy mist. But no mention of fog (I have no idea if there is some technical difference). At least this means no rain. As I descend over Hampstead Heath oncoming cars have their lights on., but into the centre of town the warmth of commerce clears the air. Only Hyde Park remains illusory, forbidding.
At Victoria their are just seven of us. A slow train, loud with recorded announcements, to Ifield - the edge of unloved Crawley. Zips are zipped, flaps adjusted, cleats clipped. Into the lanes. The roads are quiet. Mist muffles, as does snow, but few motorists pass us. Rather we come upon other cyclists, alone and in groups, equally determined, LED’s blinking ineffectually behind. The roads roll gently, but nothing to affect the rhythm. The descents are taken with less pace than caution. Those who have to wear glasses constantly wiped, the others had abandoned any eyewear and peered through moist lashes. After one long drop there are but three of us, the others waiting as a flat is fixed. We pace to and fro, noticing cold feet when stopped. Down the hill they come, and we speed on. As we cross water there is ice by the verge, a frozen pond, the brume increases, yet patchy. A signpost, a last lane, we are at The Haven. It is.
Perhaps for a we linger too long, satisfied but slack. Yet the skies have cleared, and as we crack back there is a chance to see the Surrey finery, palpable House and Garden. Faced with the prospect of short day and a long cold wait at the staion, we detour up towards Horley. Immediately the mist returns. A patch of traffic, suddenly, on the edge of Gatwick, then gone. A last dash through the whiteness, and the town appears, a sad centre uncheered by frugal decoration. The loop was timed well, the train rolls in and we return, with more speed and less volume, to Victoria.