Home again, home again, clippety-clop

I left Bury this morning, a little trail of shiny purple and silver stars in my wake. Passing Newmarket I was quite astonished to see enormous fields dedicated solely to the galloping of horses in just a narrow margin at the perimeter. What happens in the middle part? It made me think of golf and grouse shooting and how the landed gentry seem to feel that they are entitled to waste all the space on their leisure activities. Ghastly! I hope their trousers catch fire.

I arrived home in Chatham with plenty of time to discover that my bicycle's front tire really was in a hopeless state and to do something about it, which was a good thing.

It's not just that I have returned from a brilliant and uplifting trip, but I sense that Chatham really does have a slight feeling of sadness about it. I suppose it is nothing more than greater poverty and less space.

Having said that, this house is having none of it! Look! Even a bed for Santa's cat, or any other homeless moggy.