Monday morning, near Ivy Scar, on the narrow path ascending the breast of North Hill.

As I stride upwards, eyes down on the scree-filled path, my thoughts are meandering. Something makes me look up; I see two mountain bikers bearing down on me. Their speed is moderate but the hill is steep on either side; there's nowhere for me to safely escape and the loose surface of the path will prevent the bikes from stopping quickly.

A moment of panic roots me to the spot; I extend my arms to indicate that I can't see how to get safely out of the way.

The riders manage to stop, the leader a yard in front of me. I step aside to let the first rider go but I protest that this is not a safe place for them to be riding. No response from the leader so I stand squarely in mid-path and insist that the second rider discuss the issue. He refuses and politely asks me to get out of his way. I tell him that talking about it is better than me getting sour about it in the local paper. Once more he asks me to move away and suggests I adopt the second option, "you do that," he says.

I have a simple question. Day dreaming and walking on the hill are no longer safe companions. Have the Conservators done their duty in allowing us to be deprived of this one safe escape from the hurly-burly below?

John Kirton, Malvern Wells.