Obviously, a perfect Sunday would start with breakfast prepared by a skilled chef, and coffee ladled out by a barista.
After that, with no obligations on the agenda, there is leisurely preparation and a long mountain bike ride in a stunning location, perhaps followed by a swim, more food, and a nap.
If there could be more coffee and baked goods at the high point of the ride that would add some polish.
But that kind of thing doesn’t always eventuate. Perhaps never, precisely as described.
On those Sundays that don’t quite work out like the fantasy above, there is still a jewel to be winkled out.
It is that golden hour before dark, late enough so nobody except a local can fit in a lap of their patch before night falls.
To add a certain piquance on the way to the outing, we pass cars loaded with bikes, all heading the other way.
The trail head is more or less deserted. The trails are completely deserted.
The light is low and golden, the temperature is about perfect, and it feels pretty close to how it was to cut some laps of the back yard after dinner in the school holidays way back then.
It doesn’t last long, but it is so good that it’s almost worth missing out on perfection to turn any old Sunday into a very good one.