East Anglia

As someone who grew up in a fairly hilly area, the landscape of East Anglia is quite a contrast, as are the emotions I experience dependent upon my means of travelling through it. Today, while passing through it on a train, I was in a pleasant reverie gazing at its endless, flat vista, despite the efforts of the fat Spanish couple next to me trying to spoil it by CONSTANTLY eating NOISILY and rustling crisp packets.

It is only now that I remember the last time I travelled through it, that time on a bike. After a few hours of fairly vigorous cycling I turned to do the thirty miles or so back to my car. Into a wind I estimated at about 25mph. There is nowhere to hide from the wind in Cambs; after an hour of crawling, exhausting progress at 13mph I was near tears; after another hour I had passed through wild abuse and into the mad, staring abyss of an approaching defaillance, my end to be witnessed only by some sad looking cows and whatever ducks were flying overhead. The final 30 minutes were mercifully blanked from my memory and will only be revealed in the final moments of my life, when I lie gasping on my deathbed and wondering where it all went.

So, East Anglia. No place for the weak.