After a brief but delicious flirtation with summer, it would appear that April is determined to go out in the more familiar embrace of spring, if not winter. The morning sun that peeks over the hills may be sweet and warming, but in the shadows of the trees and the valley (most of my ride) it is bitter and chilled. My fingers tingle in the cold through merino gloves and my face burns in the air. There are positives though: through Bickleigh I tag in behind a white van and an enormous lorry and trailer that is so high it collides with the overhanging branches of a blossom heavy tree. Pink blossom cascades over me like confetti and the camera of my memory records it for posterity.
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