The niggling anxiety of riding in the dark a long way from home knowing daylight is hours away countered by the comfort of familiarity with the hidden landscape, an invisible hand gently placed on my shoulder, you know this place, you’ve done this enough times. Quiet recognition of a bend in the road, a slight ascent here, that crossroads there. Fence posts flicker past, strobing white lines, a Rothko-esque distinction between land and wet sky across the plain. Startled by a barn owl ghosting across my path. The warm light of a bakery readying for the arrival of day. Climbing away from the river autumn leaf fall reveals a reflected image of streetlamps in a dense dark void through the middle of town below. Under my tyres acorns and chestnut cases scrunch and crackle like far away fireworks. A cockerel crows and a drizzle muted church bell somewhere distant. Light enters the day slowly, muffled by cloud. Harvest season, naked patterned fields, the smell of damp earth, piles of beets and flint. The glow of a PMU bar down a side street. Coffee amongst locals trying their luck with scratch cards. Horse racing on a silent television hanging from the wall.