Slipping and sliding

We are engulfed by freezing fog. With our village being situated in a valley it's like being smothered in an icy soup. Poor Andy is working right up until Christmas Eve night and yesterday was the last opportunity we had for getting a few festive bits and pieces in. I raided the Red Flannel Elephant petty cash, and we headed up the hill towards Stow-on-the-Wold, where the sun was breaking through and we carefully pootled along, the only motorbike out on the roads. When the weather is nice, you can barely move for fair-weather bikers on their shiny, under-used machines, togged out in nice matching leathers and spiffy helmets. They usually ignore us, in our tatty gear, although it is considered polite to nod at other passing bikers. They would have found yesterday a bit difficult, I think.

We made it to town safely. I spent the last of my pennies on a modest amount of cheese and wine, feeling some what bemused at the amounts of consumables being crammed into overflowing trolleys - is the world coming to an end? Are the shops shutting for a month? How many crisps and chocolates is it possible to consume without bursting? Reeling slightly from the rare foray into civilization, we togged up again and set off home. Up on the Stow road, there are magnificent views across the Cotswolds, and today we were looking down into an ethereal kingdom, wreathed in mists. Unwisely, and just as the fairytales tell you not to do, we took the bike off the main road and into the back lanes...

...it was quite stunning. And quite lethal. Carefully turning a sharp corner, we hit a deep patch of icy sludge. Thanks to Andy's years of driving in adverse conditions and his presence of mind, we slowly veered into the middle of the road, falling sideways onto the freezing mud. This is otherwise known as 'dropping the bike'. The bike was alright - it was cushioned by us. Andy scrambled off, and I lay, like a fallen tin soldier, partially astride my fallen mount. It's a big Honda Varadero, and weighs more than I do. Stunned, my first thoughts were; Andy's ok, he's walking about. I'm ok, I can feel everything. Oh bugger, did the wine survive? Still on my side and under the bike, I glanced to the tank bag, where our precious bottles of wine were about to cascade out onto the unforgiving tarmac. With my right arm free, I was able to gently slide them back in, and made sure the bag was rescued before disentangling myself.

First thing to do was to haul the Honda up, and get it out of any oncoming traffic, although in the end only two other vehicles passed us, unconcerned at our plight. Andy had been stabbed by the foot pedal as we toppled over and I'd turned my weak ankle again. The rest of my body was feeling a bit crushed too. We decided that Andy would take the rest of the shopping home, and I would begin walking until he came back for me.



I had been wanting to take some photos anyway, so I was quite content to limp along, admiring the scenery, thanking God that we'd had such a lucky escape. Just as my hands were starting to freeze, I heard the familiar chuntling of our poor old jalopy, and was soon home and esconced on the sofa with tea and Chelsea buns.

Miraculously, the only real casualties were a smashed packet of Hovis cheese biscuits, one egg and Andy's nice corduroy trousers; the foot pedal not only gave him a nasty dig in the leg, it ripped the bottom part of his best trews too. I have plenty of interesting bruises, minor whiplash, and feel as if I've been trampled by baby elephants. And I'm hobbling. But both of us are safe and alive. Really, it could have been a lot worse.

We might have lost the wine.