MANY years ago, no country fair or fete was complete without a substantial collection of bizarre games, such as a cigarette smoking race, a lady carrying event or my personal favourite, the slow bicycle race.

This involved riding a sit up and beg bicycle, with basket on the front, as slowly as possible round a grassy circuit without actually coming to a halt, or allowing one’s feet to touch the ground.

Following my recent return to the saddle in a bid to gain some retirement fitness, I reckon I would be a contender for honours should the tradition ever be revived.

I ventured out on a 10-mile ride last week, and as I neared the end, I received warm applause from the Rington’s Tea man who opined that seeing me cycling up towards him put him in mind of the Tour of Britain coming through the district – with the film being run backwards.

I bear more resemblance to Christopher Biggins than Bradley Wiggins now I have shaved off my sideburns, but there is something quite magical about riding a bike in the countryside.

The bike has been confined to the back of the garage for some time now, but a recent visit to a well man clinic generated much tutting and head shaking from the nurse in charge, indicating that my sedentary lifestyle had left my body in a pretty poor state.

When I tunneled through to the machine, it was covered in dust and cobwebs, and the tyres were completely flat.

I was confident I would be able to blow them up using an electric pump via the car’s cigarette lighter slot, but alas, the fittings were incompatible.

I therefore had to spend an exhausting 20 minutes inflating them by hand, using the absurdly tiny pump supplied with the bike, but finally, I was ready for the road as the portliest pedaller of all.

Grunting along up hills at little less than walking pace, or shooting down them at a giddying rate, allowed me the time to drink in the glories of the North Tyne, with lapwings tumbling dramatically earthwards in their breathtaking courtship skydance, the hauntingly mournful wail of the curlew, and the flickering flight of the first swallows of summer.

I watched lambs stotting round the fields, bounding around pointlessly, and as I do every year, wondered how something as adorable could metamorphose into something as amiably dopy as a sheep.

I do prefer them on a plate, smothered in mint sauce, surrounded by new potatoes and peas, but they are so endearing at this stage of their short lives.

Their mothers looked on dolefully, several with starlings perched on their backs, keeping their feet warm and eating parasites at the same time, while hanging round with evil intent were a murder of crows, just waiting to plunge their beaks into an ovine eye given half a chance.

I was scolded by a red squirrel for invading his domain as I trundled on through ancient woodland and breathed in the scent of late daffodils and early bluebells, almost, but not quite, masking the aroma of the dead badger quietly decomposing on the other side of the road.

I also spotted primroses and violets peeking shyly from the undergrowth.

My wonky knee and hip stood up to the test of being back in the saddle for the first time in many years remarkably well, and I could feel the exercise doing me good.

I did not feel the need to clad myself from head to toe in figure-hugging Lycra, and ride down the white line in the middle of the road, a condition which appears to affect many cyclists.

I did not shout abuse at anyone, or make a single threatening gesture, although I did feel quite cross with those folk who every year insist that Northumberland County Council has not spread a single shovelful of grit in wintry weather.

It had, and it was lying in thick and treacherous windrows at the side of the road, threatening my equilibrium with every turn of the pedal.

I don’t think I held up too many vehicles heading up the North Tyne, and was only once aware of a vehicle slowing down behind me as I laboured up the strength-sapping Boe Rigg bank.

When the vehicle did breeze past on a straighter stretch of road, I realised it was a police van, full of the sort of kindly constables which seem to be in woefully short supply these days.