Generally speaking, nostalgia is a waste of time. Nothing is ever again going to be as good as when we were young. Realities are simply different today. So I Reserve St Stephen's Day for Cycling Nostalgia.
It's 17 miles cross-country over broken fields, thorny hedges without gates, across streams that qualify as trencherous rivers with your bike held above your head, through farmyards knee-deep in liquified pig dung, to reach this magical headland, and you need someone with a car who knows how to find the Devil's Whirlpool past Dunworley to bring you back because night will fall soon after you reach there, so I haven't been there again for nigh on thirty years, and it is highly unlikely I shall be back. We'll resist the temptation to wonder whether I will still cut such a muscular profile... On another occasion, we took turns holding everyone's ankles so they could hang over the edge to watch the seals playing on the rocks at the foot of the sheer cliff.
What, or where, or who with, is your moment of nostalgia, now that I've set you off?