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Carnivore Chickens The stone steps relayed the fact the rain had been replaced by a misty drizzle. Throughout the night we had had no visitors of any kind. I slept uninterrupted until the new day dawned. I might even say it had been dead quiet. Since it was still raining we decided to wait. From the overgrown nature of the graveyard it appeared the occupants didn't get many visitors and would like for us to stay and chat for as long as possible. I looked out and read the headstone of Edward Fish. I imagined he must be well pleased with the weather. We stuffed our sleeping bags and sat on them while eating peanut butter sandwiches with Mrs. Fairhead's delicious raspberry jam. The sun poked out. I sat in a ray trying to warm up. Inside, the vestibule was cold; outside was windy. A woman arrived through the cemetery's back gate and proceeded to trim the newer graves in the back corner. Repacking my bike I noticed the rear tire I had been pumping up every other day had gone completely flat. Rolling our bikes to the church yard gate Sharon changed it. At times like that, I was grateful for women's lib. I gave her my many patched flat proof self-healing tube and my new made in Holland tire with the fancy reflective strip. While Sharon changed my tire I pumped up the just removed tube to the size of a tractor tire and still couldn't locate the puncture. Sharon noticed how large I had pumped the tube and admonished me that was probably not very good for it. I had exploded a tube one time, but I had it pumped up to the size of a small hot air balloon. It meant that I didn't have to patch it. I didn't understand Britain's so-called bike paths. Some ran for a block, which was fine if one was only going a block. But for us it was more dangerous to cross two lanes of traffic to get on a bike path that went a block and then cross two lanes of traffic again to continue on the main road. Some bike paths were single lane with such a ratty surface that a mountain bike would have had a hard time. I sat on the grass while Sharon went into the grocery store. I noticed quite a few people rode bikes to get groceries. One who had not was an old woman with tension bandages wrapped around her ankles, struggling to walk in oversized slippers. She barely made it to her car, then rested her weight against the side of the rust bucket. She used the car to balance herself as she limped to the driver's door. Gak. She was going to drive? Well, she was in no condition to walk. She laboriously lowered herself into the seat. And put on her seat belt. The rattletrap started first crank, she engaged forward gear and expertly drove away. Sharon returned with a carton of cream filled donuts. I enjoyed a quick snack before packing away any of the groceries. She had also bought some taco chips and eagerly tore open the bag. Tasting one she grimaced. "Cheese flavoured. I hate cheese flavoured." "That's what it says on the bag," I told her. "Remember we're in a country where we can read labels now if we're so inclined." "I'm so used to not reading labels anymore I still haven't starting doing it." I realized it would take awhile. On the carton of eggs it read: "These chickens were fed a vegetarian diet." No kidding. I couldn't recall the last time I heard a hen say: "Boy, what I'd do for a nice juicy steak right now." We stopped at a pharmacy in Lowestoft. Sharon went in to get more Pyralvex for my lips and to enquire about tick bites. The pharmacist told her to put spirits on it to remove it. It was too late for that. Sharon had felt an itch on her ankle when we were staying in the forest in the Netherlands and had scratched it. She showed me what she had scratched off and it looked like a teeny wood tick. Examining it closely, I thought it still had its head attached. The day after, forgetting all about the tick bite, Sharon complained that her shoes -- which hadn't bothered her before -- were rubbing her heel raw. In Lowestoft she showed me the area around her ankle where she said her shoe was rubbing. It was a ghastly puffy purply-red affair. While showing me she suddenly realized that was where the tick had been. The pharmacist didn't seem too worried about it "as long as the head was intact." But Sharon hadn't shown her ankle to the pharmacist. They were out of Pyralvex too. At the edge of town we entered a park dedicated to lost Royal Navy men during the second World War. "The Great One" as a little old woman referred to it. Names encircled the tall column with a gold sailing vessel perched on top. Cannons overlooked the sea. There were scads of pink rhododendrons. And pigeons. I had noticed a correlation between monuments and pigeons. Sharon made sub sandwiches, appropriate I thought for a Naval park. On a country road we passed through a flat open area known as The Broads. It had nothing to do with women. It was an area of peat bogs and estuaries. Canals were lined with boats. There were windmills too. It reminded me more of Holland than England. We set up in woods near Reedham's ferry. A slug was still on our fly. "Well, it was wet enough," Sharon observed. |
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