Crime in the countryside. It’s a growing problem. But I never expected to be the victim of a vicious mugging in the charming bucolic idyll that is rural Worcestershire. It wouldn’t happen in my beloved Warwickshire, of course.
So I’m out for a lovely pedal in gorgeous Spring sunshine, minding my own business, enjoying the silence and solitude of the single-track lanes around the Bentleys, when without premonition or warning – BANG!
There’s a blow to the top of my head which nearly has me off my bike. Whatever it is glances down and away to the right, on the periphery of my vision. Expecting to see (and hear) half a tree crunching into the road, not only does the silence endure as I swerve backwards and forwards from verge to verge, but the object, whatever it is, begins a slow, gentle climb in a sweeping curve from right to left across my field of vision, just before it hits the tarmac.
‘Curious’, I think. And as my senses begin to focus, I see a huge, stunningly beautiful buzzard, gracefully taking off into the wild blue wotsit.
A buzzard. I’ve just been mugged by a friggin’ buzzard.
And however great my surprise and confusion, it’s doubtless nothing compared with that of the poor bird. Imagine the disappointment of this monarch of the skies, when it realises the plump and tasty morsel it had lined up for its lunch turns out to be a fat ‘b*****d that is way beyond the capacity of physics for it to carry off.
It’s a good job I’m wearing my cycling helmet. A lacerated scalp would be way too much excitement for this poor old knacker, especially with a wisdom tooth extraction to come on Monday, followed by a night out with Blues on Tour the next day for a fraternal and friendly natter with those lovely Millwall fans at the New Den.
There’s only so much excitement an old boy can take …
Nigel Roberts: To Belarus and Beyond 