On Any Sunday. Not.

It's been a blustery but steady ride. Tea and sandwiches have been paused for, two extra hills have been needlessly climbed "just because", Yorkshire Trifle has been invented, "Dances With Wolves" has been ruined for me, the average speed has been discussed and laughed at, we've gone up the Big Hill to minimal whimpering from my ride partner, and there's been minimal gagging from me since he isn't wearing his old and worn and quite, er, revealing shorts this week.

As a reward for all this I have it in my head to stop off at the nice deli/restaurant I frequent for pre-ride coffees and post ride buns and supper ingredients once or twice a week for some nice nibbles and a beer.

We roll up and it's shut.
Noooooooooooooooo.
I forgot that the place closes at 4pm on a Sunday. It is now 5.30pm.
Cockbobbins.

David the owner and his partner are inside, cashing up for the day, he sees us and waves. I suck my cheeks in and rub my tummy for comic effect and he open the door.

"Come in"
"Are you sure?"
"Certainly"
"Can we bring our bikes in?"
"Of course"

Thank you very much, can we have a big plate of random food and two beers please?

Chairs are unstacked and a table is produced, we sit outside and two Hepworth beers and a pile of substantial and tasty meze disappear with 70-mile hungers.

The place closes at 4pm on a Sunday. It is now 6pm.

Thank you. For all the pubs and cafes I've wobbled off the bike into tired and hungry and willing to hand over all my money, and my soul, and my bike, for a sandwich or a plate of chips and they've stood arms-crossed behind the counter with that particular tone of non-negotiation - "We stopped serving two minutes ago".

Thank you.