By the third windmill, I had stopped counting properly. There was a heron on the opposite bank, and it seemed rude to hurry past.
I started beside the canal while the water was still holding a pale copy of the sky. The path ran between the bank and a line of small gardens. Somewhere behind a hedge, someone was moving crockery. It was that quiet sort of morning when a bicycle freewheel sounds unnecessarily pleased with itself.
The first pair of mills stood close enough together to fit in the same glance. Further along, each one had a little stretch of canal to itself. I counted eight before the path bent away from the water, although one had spent most of the morning hiding behind a willow. I gave it the benefit of the doubt.
The wind joins in
Out in the open, the breeze became a proper headwind. There were no hills to explain my slow progress, so I blamed the air. The reeds leaned towards me. A row of ducks appeared to be moving faster than the bicycle, with much less visible effort. I dropped a gear and watched the canal instead of the distance.
The outward stretch was mostly smooth cycle path, with a short brick section through a village. I took a small loop around the fields before rejoining the water. From there the mills looked like dark pencil marks against the brightening sky. Their sails changed position so slowly that I kept wondering whether I had imagined it.
Lunch can wait
There was a café at the lock, with three outdoor tables and a view of the gates. I ordered coffee and a thick slice of apple cake. A boat waited below the lock while the water rose by inches. It made an excellent companion: neither of us had any immediate plans.
On the return, the same wind that had argued with me all morning gave the bike a generous push. I rolled past the gardens, recognised the hedge and heard a radio through an open window. The whole loop came to about forty-two kilometres. I was home before lunch, carrying a slightly squashed piece of cake for later.