One of the things I like about being my age is that I am much less concerned with what people think of me. I used to be so self conscious and now I hardly worry at all.
I am back at the information centre to use the Internet but the staff continue talking to each other and I got the impression they are hoping I will walk straight back out again.
I wonder if they saw me coming and decided a red eyed, limp haired, less than fresh woman who is remembered for getting emotional over not getting a little peace, is worth avoiding. I am not surprised when they keep their distance. I think the staff assume I am still fragile and don’t want to upset me again. It’s a bonus because I get so much more done than I did on my last visit.
On my way home, I am proud of myself. I have to use the lowest of low gears that most people reserve for an iron man event, but I stay on the bike longer and cycle up some of the shorter inclines. I lurch along, bent under the weight of a backpack full to bursting with a few essential groceries, and a shopping bag slung beneath the cross bar of my too big boys bike. It keeps getting in the way as I pedal giving me a bandy look, with my knees out wide.
There are no footpaths here on the country road and the edge of the road is a slippery scary place. I stick as close as I can to the edge and cars tend to give me a wide berth.
I do my best to look competent and in control as I walk up the hills so people won’t stop and ask if I want a lift and I love the downhill runs. I pick up a bit of speed and the wind in my hair reminds me ever so slightly of being on my motorbike. It is a small thrill, especially as there is an element of risk. I have the world’s noisiest bike brakes and they sound quite similar to truck engine breaks. I am reluctant to use them in a built up area. If I have to stop in a hurry, I might just have to jump ship and let the bike go.
I get home just as the sun fades into its usual beautiful golden orange glow along the horizon.
Taking off the backpack is like removing an anvil from my shoulders. I feel so light as I spend the last of the daylight feeding the dog and the pony and, as it hasn’t rained since I arrived, giving the garden a really good soaking.
That night it rains … and rains … all night, and all the next day. Isn’t that what always happens when you water the garden?