I'm not sure if I'm having a mid-life crisis or a nervous breakdown, but either way, having been presented with the task to travel to Basingstoke this weekend I decided to undertake the journey on a bicycle, via the canal.
If you've never heard of Basingstoke, which is likely, it is a small city in Hampshire; if you've never heard of Hampshire, it is one of the six home counties which border London; if you've never heard of London you're a fucking idiot.
The ride, my computer informed me, would be approximately 25 miles, and, because the canal tow path isn't the most buttock-friendly of surfaces, could take me a good few hours to complete - especially when factoring in photograph, fag, and, of course, public house stops into the equation.
From the outset I found myself submerged in autumnal beauty - the canal still and serene, the bracken turning through its shades, and the bracing October air crisp and fresh.
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Shipwrecked: but alas, this old barge was still being used - by ducks...
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