Go faster forks

Two days flogging the dead horse that is Gwent, and the promise of a week in the field to come, meant I opted for a spin on the bike followed by a day of indoor chores (WRP stuff, Azores stuff, stuff stuff, stuff-stuff-stuff-stuff-stuff, etc.). The ride was basically just wide and fast, or at least, potentially fast, if you don't keep easing back to register Siskin, Bullfinch, Goldcrest, etc., and stopping to check Dipper spots. Lets just say, not exactly an adrenaline-jolt-ball-shrinker but then you don't have a cat's chance of bagging Goshawk, Crossbill or Brambling on some tight-arsed, super techy downhill or a balls-out, rip-roaring airborne speedfest on which, by the time you have worked out what "screaming road gap", "corkscrew", "dropaway" and "tabletop" actually mean, you have used your face as a brake and your abiding memories of the day out are restricted to the rhythmic throb of air ambulance rotors.

The view from the handle-bars, magic red forks showing well, knackered hydraulic disks showing (and working) very poorly indeed; oak, beech, birch and larch,... now where are those Crossbills?