CIRCLE OF FIFE
When you’ve got your mind set on driving to Spain to escape your kitchen renovation only for the new quarantine controls to put a brake to your journey before you leave the outskirts of Hartlepool. Just like that time in the late Seventies when I was heading to Greece with a couple of Sunderland Poly friends in an old Land Rover that conked out two miles North of Darlo. We continued our journey on a £28 return coach to Athens. The trip took 3 days but I was lucky to be seated next to an elderly Greek woman who fed me all sorts of delicious homemade snacks.
But that’s a story for another day.
This time, hampered by the virus restrictions, I decided to head for my second favourite British Summer destination, Fife in Scotland. My first choice would have been Edinburgh during the Fringe but, just as every single festival in the land, the most famous one in the world had been cancelled due to the Coronavirus. My first Summer in the UK, that of 1976, one of the hottest on record, I spent most of it around Princes Street Gardens and the Royal Mile, totally in awe of all the street acts that filled the Scottish capital.
Sadly, this year, the streets did not ring to the sound of the thousands of artists and foreign visitors that usually flock up North. However, many Brits decided to rediscover local holiday spots. The A1 was jam-packed with cars, caravans and campervans heading up to Scotland.
I took my bike with me intending to use my staycation to visit many of the beautiful seaside villages around the Fife coast. One such place is Anstruther which I had visited a couple of times in the past. A sleepy marina that always becomes very busy on sunny days but then returns to its quiet slumber after the day-trippers have departed. After my first night in a local hotel, I squeezed my overfed body into some bright Lycra gear and headed out of Anstruther on my way to St. Andrews. My new app took me approximately two miles on my cycling expedition when I noticed the front wheel wobbling from side to side. I got off the bike and after careful inspection, I found that the wheel was buckled. With no idea how it had happened, I carefully cycled back to the hotel, shoe-horned my body out of the Lycra and decided to try to get the wheel fixed. The nearest bike place was in Kirkcaldy over 20 miles away. On arrival, I unhooked the bike from its rack and carried it to the first-floor repair shop. My begging and pleading did not impress the repairer. “Two weeks, if you leave it with us.”
Adamant that my cycle tour would still go ahead, I decided to head for Dundee, 30 miles away. Having perfected the art of begging and pleading, this time I was successful.
Thirty minutes later, I walked out of the shop with a beaming smile behind my face mask. It was already around 3 o’clock. I reluctantly drove to St. Andrews, got on my bike and cycled 500 yds to a coffee shop for a well-earned coffee and a gigantic slice of carrot cake.
The next day, I drove down to Northumberland.
TO BE CONTINUED…
