One does not conquer the Tasman - Horatio Hornblower

The bridge is a bastard. Whoever built the little bits on the side for punters to walk on and ride their bikes needs to be shot with a ball of their own.

The world outside your own bedroom is an amazing place. At 9am on Sunday morning, there are no fat bastards around. Even the triumvirate of bicyclists who leapt away from the Yacht Club were looking decidedly trim. "Only one souvlaki please Jim, and the medium chips" - Kimber had ordered from the Mykonos on Saturday evening. The cask of wine was reduced through constant attention (like a good gravy reduction, ready to paste).

So; Fitz can't find the internet: "It's everywhere" Larkey said, but not near the Gibbons's housing. So he went for a walk up Hartz Peak with Mo (remember the Australian comedian 'Mo'? During the 1930s I suspect - further report on that later): full report expected from Fitz and Mo on the travails to the Peak.

But your correspondent and company:

Who wrote them legs? [to quote Spike Milligan]

So it was, Westmoreland was left behind, and the army ascended to the base of the bridge. The enemy were over the rise, sheltering before their blue ray cathode ray oscilloscope machines. 

The path to glory was littered with signs of danger: "Lifeline: Do you need help?", and "DANGER 22,000 volts". The path was a metre wide. The contiguous path for heavy traffic, 40 metres wide. Our speed, 5km/hr. Theirs, 70km/hr. "You do the math" said the American President as his Bill to dismantle Obamacare was shot down by an intracontinental ballistic missile.

Up and over we arrived some quarter hour later, to find a path through the bush. The enemy knew of it, but had discounted that Western shore travellers would take it, so there were no archers, no weaponry with which to contend.

The view from the Eastern shore evidenced the risks we took:

With no opposition except each other (and as to that, some collisions were necessary to spark up and reduce fear) we followed the track south to Bellerive, around the Matric College and Yacht Club (yes, they have one too).

Having conquered the dormitory suburb, we escalated our escape plan. Back "Pronto". The sun beating into our faces (that is what the Eastern shorers say is all they have. No entertainment, no sophistication, no orchestra, no University, no culture, nothing) we took the sun with us and came to rest in Salamanca for cafe. 

There we enjoyed discussion with intelligent people, observation of the beautiful people, and planned the next Guinness, for when time permits. 

Our bodies rejuvenated with 22km of robust good wheeling, at slow averaghe of 14km/hr (but it is up hill and down dale), a maximum of 35km/hr, and 241 calories consumed (both in and out) and all (including conquering the brutal hordes) in under an hour and 35min.

Next week: or soon, To Mona including lunch.

Buenos Dias Amigos! PK