Well, that was fun! Well... when I say "fun", I mean "it seems nice enough, looking back, now that I've spent a whole week doing things that are actually what normal people understand as fun, and anyway if you're going to freeze your tits off unseasonally and ride like a lead-legged lardarse with an invisible anvil in tow, then you might as well do it in the finest company." I spent most of the night only-just fending off the cold with a mantra giving thanks for the dryness, so I felt like I was probably achieving a satisfactory balance, if only I were just warm enough to kick back and contemplate the beauty of it. If you are spending most of the night being Glad About Gloves or Smug Over Snoods, then you are probably missing the point.
But my sandwich had ham AND cheese AND pickle in it; and the wonders of the bread pudding have been sung about upthread; and we had more whiskies than Milroy's; and we ate the breakfast of The Lobster Pot and, behold, it was very good. I get ideas above my station at The Lobster Pot, and start ordering flat whites and huevos revueltos like they're going out of fashion. And The Felpham Measure is consigned to the drip-tray of history. Simon, disdaining the role of his Cyrene namesake (it would have been overkill, anyway, with a plywood cross), dodged past a suffering Christ-figure and performed a mini-miracle for the lycra-clad multitude, conjuring beer for all from what seemed to be a closed pub with a puzzled cafe attached. It might have been while he was power-napping (miracles take it out of you) that the Quagga mystery was cleared up. I take no pleasure in DZ being W-R-O-N-G, obviously, but as the alternative explanation was that TMN, Wanda, Adrian and I had previously spent a lengthy afternoon in a pub garden in Brighton being wrong en masse, I will allow myself the smallest satisfaction.
News from Agent Hilda's Big Adventure filtered through to us. DZ and I were due to rendezvous with Team Hilda in The Witterings. A leisurely lunch and a puncture on their part afforded us time for a little extra rehydration, and we achieved the perfect balance - too drunk to cycle all the way to Witters but just sober enough to know as much. Two trains later we were at Bosham in glorious sunshine, at low tide. With timing of exquisite perfection we emerged onto the banks of the Chichester Channel to see Andy's Amazing Ferry waiting to take us across to Itchenor. Riding skinny tyres down the path, which, when not covered by the tide, consists of shingle covered in green slime, was a singularly peculiar and contradictory sensation, which I can only describe as seeming possessed of superhuman skill whilst having no conscious control whatever. Hitting the brakes could be disastrous, so I followed DZ's method, which was to go much too fast and make the sort of delighted-terrified noises usually reserved for fairground rides. Back on dry land, a quick spin down Piggery-Jokery Lane, and we were at Witters, and on holiday.