On the way from one North Yorkshire village to another there are always a few spectators by the side of the road, or occasionally in the middle of the road.
I remember one heady teenage summer I used to cruise around the moors on the back of my boyfriend’s Triumph Bonneville motorcycle. The evenings were long and balmy and we often met friends for a drink in one pub or another. We were heading over the top of the moors to Rosedale Abbey and enjoying the sweeping turns of the open road, the feeling on the wind in our faces and the thrill of motorcycling, when a sheep ran straight in front of us. I remember my knee striking the sheep, then we were bouncing through heather before coming to a sliding stop. The peaty ground and heather afforded a more forgiving landing than tarmac. A few bruises; we were lucky. The sheep trotted off into the setting sun. After straightening the front forks we were able to continue on our way too, a little slower and a little wiser.