The Road to Bridlington

The other night, not using the light 

I stubbed my toe on a frame

Now it’s interesting hues, of purples and blues

But pedalling feels just the same

An early start might be the best part

Of a day we expect to be grand

Into a stiff breeze, through avenues of trees

We soon arrive in Sunk Island

Billiard table mat, pancake flat

Hardly sets the scene quite frankly

An egret wheels over vast fields

Where deer just stare at us blankly 

A Patrington good tiding welcomes East Riding

Which is strange as we’re headed north 

Then something savoury from the bakery

Before we again venture forth

We talk of the charm of an Afrikaans farm

The wife making pasties at bedtime

Shame there’s nothing on paper to remember that caper

In the days long before Ride’n’Rhyme

There’s a sign for Spurn, and as we turn

To miss it feels a real shame

An interesting excursion but a long diversion 

And I doubt I’ll be this way again 

It’s odd to boast of a ride round the coast

When we finally reach shore at Withernsea

We’re seventy miles in and just have to grin

At the blue of the grey North Sea

At Mr Moo’s it’s hard to choose 

So I indulge a teenage whim

Although it’s Monday I have the Sundae

Which puts at risk my swim

My sinews are straining, my stomach complaining 

On those last few miles of our way

But we’re soon in line for a dip in the brine

A great end to a brilliant day.

Whitby