"Paul Hamlyn-White stopped dead in his tracks. He stared fixedly at the creature in front of him, trying to work out why it had not run off as he approached like the others had done. The creature stood its ground as Paul grappled with his inadequate memory banks: he was sure there was something about cows, if only he could remember. Then he saw the horns. A quiver of fright ran through his body. This was a bull.

A detailed examination of the creature's expression told him that it was not pleased. Furthermore, Paul was fairly certain that he was the object of its displeasure. With only a couple of metres of rough moorland between them, he looked around to see where he could run. Behind him were the other club members. They seemed to be waiting some way off - if only he had been using his eyes and brain instead of trying to get down the hill first. But it was too late to think of that now. He had to do something.

The decision was made. Quietly, carefully, he edged backwards, trying not to move too quickly and smiling blandly back at the bull. The bike, which had been fine for the descent, was not making things any easier now. The bull was watching his movements intently. Paul was sure it was about to charge at him, but the distance increased and the bull didn't come.

When he had put ten metres between them, Paul turned around and ran back to the others as fast as his legs would carry him. How they laughed to see his face, as white as a Persil sheet.

By this time Simon and Michael had arrived on the scene. Simon, usually unafraid in the most terrifying situations, studied the situation carefully and recommended that we give the creature a wide berth. The club carefully swung away from the track and passed the bull at least 15 metres to its right. As Michael looked back he was relieved to see the herbivore still in its previous position, contenting itself to watch the antics of South Dartmoor CTC in quiet amusement. The crisis was over.

As he began to relax at last, Paul contemplated the events that had led him here. He recalled the long, hard climb past Skerraton, a hill that few of the club members had climbed before. He thought of the names he had called Michael when the track route to Lambsdown was announced. He remembered the feeling of exhilaration he had experienced when he emerged onto the open moor, the evening sun casting long, mysterious shadows from the grassy hillocks at his feet. And he remembered the final descent towards Cross Furzes.

Yes, this had been an evening to remember. He decided he was in no fit state to join the others at the Crofters Cafe. That would have to wait until another day."