Friday evening is so much more exciting than Saturday evening, because it’s the edge between work and play.

Gill calls: she and Carmen are getting off the train at Glynde – do I want to join them in the Trevor Arms? It’s a lovely evening, and I set off up Chapel Street (the hardest part of the walk for the computer-bowed). I gasp up to the Golf Club and onto the overgrown knoll to look over the town, back-lit by the sun, and then left along the path. It’s a golden evening, and I’m alone with the sheep, bleating piteously (the sheep, that is), and I descend down and across, past the dew pond towards Oxteddle Bottom.

Then through Caburn Bottom, and up the steep path onto the ridge that leads to the summit on the right. The paragliders hang like surprised eyes, and slide behind the edge of the hill fort. As I get to the ridge’s brow, the sun behind me makes me a hundred-foot shadow, and the fields to my right are salmon-pink. Then singing, shirt flapping, I’m clumping downhill towards Glynde, thinking of drinks in the Trevor Arms, and of this perfect Friday evening.

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