The Humber Bridge.

Our hosts, in a firm desire to support Blip, offered to take us to a viewing area for the Humber Bridge; in the true English weather's tradition, the blue skys and sunshine quicky transformed into a persistent drizzle while the wind strengthened. The blip was duly blipped even though there was little choice in either the lighting or the composition of the shot and we retired to a nearby hostelry for lunch. On the drive back, the skys brightened and the sun came out again.

It was nearly fifty years ago that I, with a couple of friends, decided on a long weekend jaunt from our home in Essex to Boggle Hole, a youth hostel in a small bay a few miles south of Whitby; it was a journey of very nearly 250 miles and involved crossing the Humber. This was  long before the bridge was built and the crossing was by ferry. On arrival at the hostel, the warden asked us where we had cycled from (I'm quite sure that he ended his question with a preposition) and we told him "Essex." His response was along the lines of, "Silly boys, I meant, 'where did you spend last night?'" On being told that we had spent the night cycling and had taken slightly less than a day to get there he commented, "Oh, you'll be real cyclists then." One of those pals still races a trike most week-ends, the other was never keen on racing in spite of being very good but is still cycling while I also manage to get out occasionally. The hostel is still there in spite of the rationalisation that has occurred in the intervening years.