"Of everyone who works here, mine's probably the youngest bike, and it's thirteen years old," announced my bearded, sixty-something bike mechanic with pride. The shop is a tiny cavern, the interior of which resembles a backyard shed more than it does a slick commercial operation. The workshop is central and the bike bits and pieces for sale are peripheral. The blokes who work there are the types that you see cycling in all weather, without a single lycra garment, on ancient steel treadlies from back in the day when the frames weren't aluminium and as thick as a log, and the paintwork is muted by design or fading. I like this place. I hereby proclaim it the Perfect Bike Shop and anyone who wants to know which it is, drop me a line. I was so sick of bike shops staffed by young mountain biking blokes who are surly and rude to anyone who doesn't know (and drop) brand names, and spend weekends conquering mountains. I'm very pleased to have found an alternative.