Librería Samer Atenea
Librería Aciertas (Toledo)
Kálamo Books
Librería Perelló (Valencia)
Librería Elías (Asturias)
Donde los libros
Librería Kolima (Madrid)
Librería Proteo (Málaga)
Like most children, I used to keep a diary full of mundane happenings, which seemed so important at the time but are now lost forever.By the time I was a teenager, the futility of these little jottings became obvious, and I dropped the habit. After all, even though it was wartime, there were other things to do-nights out with the boys from the company, a vague interest in the female species and a large interest in consuming many pints of whatever ghastly brew was available in the local hostelries. Cycling was the thing in those days. One’s most treasured possession was a highly polished cycle kept in the peak of condition by much elbow grease. This was your mobile release from the dull suburbs to the open country. Petrol was nonexistent for the private motorist and, in any case, those could afford a car. Later, when the war was over and a small basic ration was available, some of my friends did manage to purchase motorbikes. The post war years saw the roads to the West Country packed with intrepid motorcyclists, all in their protective gear, basing down the twisty roads to the places that had been denied to us for all those wearisome war years.By this time, I was going steady with Beryl, and partly through parental pressure, I never did own a motorbike. My parents thought that riding a motorbike was tantamount to signing your own death warrant. Perhaps, they were right. Anyway, I stuck to my cycle. In 1944, I had my first holiday away from my parents, and Beryl and I cycled the 110 miles to Wells in Somerset. This, in memory, is one of the most precious weeks in all my life. The weather was fine and hot. We cycled all over the place, fell in love with the noble beauty of Wells Cathedral, visited Cheddar before the motor coach invasion commenced, and enjoyed a week of sheer bliss. On the way home, I remember resting in a field near Westbury in Wiltshire, and suddenly, the tears streamed down my face my throat felt as if it would choke. My wise little Beryl knew what was wrong; it was the thought of leaving the blessed peace of Somerset and the end of our first wonderful joyous holiday together. Many glorious holidays have come since. The first all those years ago is still remembered with a clarity that transcends time.What’s all this got to do with a diary? Patience. All will be revealed in this book.- Gerry Dyer
