The Queens Head - Newton Regis

With France a fading memory, the cold, wet roads of North Warwickshire made an unwelcome return to our cycling schedule for the beer ride. I was running late and opted to meet the peloton at Clifton Campville, it was an impressive turn out. Norman, Baz, Paul from across the road, Pete, Ian on his Brompton, another chap I hadn't seen before and Ken. We cycled up to Thorpe Constantine, then across the usually busy Ashby Road to Seckington and from there an easy saunter to Newton Regis.

The duck pond - Newton Regis

Newton was the northernmost village in Warwickshire when it became a Royal Manor of King Henry II in 1159. It was privileged to take the title of 'Regis' and the estate was granted to Geoffrey Savage and his heirs. Like many villages Newton Regis has lost its range of 'trades' - a century ago there was a shoemaker, a tailor, carpenters, wheelwrights, bakers, butchers and a grocer - all with apprentices. Today all are long gone. and the village dozes around its duck pond with the Queens Head sitting slightly back from the road.

It seems a pleasant enough pub, low, beamed ceilings, a fireplace, locals dotted around the tables and a few people eating. There was an interesting poster advertising 'Pie Night' and also a Quiz Evening.
Beer was just OK - nothing special really and not a great choice. We opted for Timothy Taylor 'Landlord'.

The Queens Head

I brought back some pieces of stone that I'd gathered from around the Tom Simpson Memorial on Mont Ventoux - I handed these out to those who were interested and Gary and I told our tale. There was another rider there who met us at the pub - We see him rarely, maybe once or twice a year, but he too had ridden up the Ventoux. In fact he has ridden up most of the Alpine mountains, and completed the fabled 'Marmotte' Sportive - probably the hardest bike ride in Europe or even the World. The route is 174Km and features over 5180metre of climbing over the Col du Glandon, Col du Telegraphe, Col du Galibiers and then finishes on top of the most famous Tour de France climb, Alpe d'Huez. Oh, and he's also climbed the Matterhorn and been up the foothills of Everest. Suddenly our efforts seemed unimpressive.

After three pints and a bag of crisps we were on our way home. The light was fading by now and with a long ride ahead, lights were needed. I split off from the main group and made my way home via Austrey, up the sharp uphill stretch past the radio mast towards Appleby Magna and then out to Snarestone, Shackerstone, Congerstone and home, I made it back well before midnight which was pleasing - and I certainly slept well that night.

Can it be done?.....

Today sees the start of the Tour de France and this year could see a piece of history being written. Bradley Wiggins has a realistic chance of becoming Britain's first Tour winner.

After victories in the Paris-Nice, The Tour de Romandie and the Criterium du Dauphine stage races this year, Wiggins appears to be on top form. Plus he's a time trial specialist - and there is around 100km of time trialling in this years Tour - the omens are good - if he can avoid crashes he must be in with a great chance.

Really looking forward to seeing how it all turns out!

Good luck Brad and the Sky team!!!

A week in Provence.... part 5

It's the light really, the endless hot-bright sunlight - that's what I'll remember most about this trip. The Provencal light is intense, a blessing, a beneficience. People stare out of their windows from lonely rooms or perched on quiet balconies and are baptised by an almost celestial light. Light is a solid thing here, an emotion, the sunlight blesses all and everything equally and the vines reward those who are happy to sit and wait, and the olive and cherry trees too. The sun scrubs the land here, bleaching it and drying it, creating clean, flat panes - it is the unequivocal good. And yet there's still plenty of green, faded, muted and understated compared to our rich meadows but green nevertheless.

We took a day trip to Avignon to wonder at the Palace of the Popes and walk 'sur le pont' - it's a bustling, cosmopolitan city housed in a big medieval village. The atmosphere is thick with history and adventure and there were lots of accordion players. Ah, now I remember what France is famous for. The most stressful thing in the entire world is to be shut in a room with a questing French accordionist. I watched a great gypsy accordionist press his way through the tables of tourists. He circled a hapless Japanese couple. They shrank in terror and numb incomprehension as his nut brown, oiled face, with its slick black pate and golden grin, loomed over them. He winked a terrifyingly dull eye that rolled back in his head and with one fluid movement, too fast to decipher, he was among them with Sweet Georgia Brown. It was calculated, a virtuoso performance. Piercing notes of psychotic dexterity, wringing screaming tremolos and monumental vibratos from every riff. The air was filled with sentimentality. There is no known defence against an adult male gypsy accordionist in an enclosed space: in the streets of Avignon there is no one to save you.

Paul & Gaz in the Gorge

We decided we'd have another ride before coming home. Gary had heard about a 'Gorge' - we found quite a few on the map and decided we'd give the nearest one a try. We saddled up just outside Sault heading in a vague direction towards Bedoin. There was maybe few kilometres of uphill but then the most enchanting drop down through The Gorge of Nesque. Probably 20km of exhilerating, twisting descent with craggy precipitous rocks to one side and a deep, deep drop on the other. This is exceptional landscape, a wild canyon with tunnels carved through rock and the heady scent of lavender filling the air. The gnarled peaks may be small in size, but in presence and spirit they are huge. They dominate the local landscape and constantly draw the eye. The contrast of their hard cragginess with the flat fertile lands of the valley makes a visual delight. Though in reality their form is fixed, the rocks are tricky shape-shifters, their profiles altering almost unrecognisably when viewed from different places on the road and their colours, billowing towers of rose and apricot changing with the light and shade. The whole thing makes you wonder what God might have managed if he hadn't rushed to get the job done in a week. Nature is natural here - meticulous and endlessly captivating.

With our mood and spirits leavened we made our way slowly back to Bedoin and the promise of another alfresco dining masterpiece. I have to say that the most enjoyable food of the entire trip was the simple, rustic fare we prepared ourselves and eat, sitting in the warm evening sun, at the villa. Olives, sun-dried tomatoes, bread, garlic, ham, cheese - simple, unprocessed, wholesome food. It was much more edyfying than some of the 'restaurant' offerings we saw, of which the laminated menu sheets told the dull story.

We had a great time in the south of France - I don't often feel the need to return to places i've visited on holiday, except for a few, rare exceptions - Provence may be one of those.

A week in Provence.... part 4 - Mont Ventoux

Like all great journeys, trysts, campaigns and fresh starts, our task on Sunday morning began at dawn. I didn't sleep well. I had woken a couple of times through the night. In the end I got up, dressed and went outside to check over the bike. The weather drifted out of the sky like paint dripped into a glass of water, opaque filigree swathes and fretted blots whitening out the miraculous landscape. The mountain, Mont Ventoux was just there, beside me, staring down, a 6,273ft lump, its peak hidden by a veil of nebulous vapour. I wouldn’t fancy going up in a car - let alone on a bike. - it is shocking, stupendous, formidable. and confrontational - it just stands there, towering upwards, the king of all it surveys. In the early morning dawn there is a ghostly feel, clicking cicadas and a feint sound of traffic. I feel a slight keening apprehension that sends a shiver through me. As the light grows stronger the thick creamy clouds that lie peacefully over the mountain begin to fade. The peak begins to show and sharpen, the radio mast catches the sun and radiates like a bright white beacon.

Gary appears. His bike has a flat tyre - a bad omen maybe? Quickly it is fixed and we check our supplies. Three water bottles each, one on the bike and two each in the car. We will be followed up the mountain by our 'support team' for the ride. Their job is to take photos, shout encouragement, carry spare parts and water bottles, and offer a quick exit should we fail.

About to start

At 9.00am we make our way down the track to the main road, pushing our bikes over the rough, broken ground. Like new recruits going up the line to the Somme we have no idea what really lies ahead - but riding this mountain is obligatory for any serious student of the alchemy of suffering on a bicycle.

We cycle down to Bedoin, already there are cyclists buzzing around, warming up, meeting friends, sitting drinking coffee. We pass a large group all with numbers attached to their bikes, some sort of race perhaps, they look fit. I shout to Gary that they will be passing us soon. The first few kilometres are relatively easy, a 2-3% gradient past vineyards and green fields. Then the road gradually ramps upwards, still reasonably comfortable though, I resist the urge to shout to Gary that this is okay... somewhere within me I can feel something is about to change. We swing left to Les Baux and Sainte Columbe there is a sudden steep section, this feels more like it - we're on the mountain now, there is the distinct clunk of gears shifting, chains scraping to find the teeth of larger cogs, we've slowed down now and the road is distinctively upwards. As far as cycling goes and mountains in particular, this is the great, grey daddy of mountains, the last Alpine mountain ridge before the Rhone plain and one of the toughest climbs in France. It dominates the landscape and constantly draws the eye. The road twists and turns in gradual curves we push up to each corner only to be faced with further, relentless, uphill road. There can be no talking now, every frantic breath falls short of its intended purpose, it's hot, we're sweating, pressing and pushing ever upwards. The gradient is 9 and 10% for the next 9 kilometres or so - there is nothing we could have done in England to prepare for this - it is unforgiving, relentless torture.

Through the tree section

After about 12K we stop - We both have mouths like the Kalahari desert and find it impossible to drink while desperately trying to breath and keep the bikes moving. My ears have popped a couple of times with the altitude and the small wooded glade with a couple of picnic benches on the right seems like a good place to take a breather. Gary is somewhere behind - by the time he reaches me I have regained some composure - he approaches me with glazed fish-like eyes, the bilious green hue of his complexion and the waxed sheen of his brow testament to the effort so far. We take on some water and then something strange happened. I suddenly felt incredibly dizzy. I sat down at one of the picnic benches, I was light-headed, my face felt clammy, I felt cold.... for a moment I thought I would pass out. I checked my pulse, it was fine, low if anything and my breathing was okay. But I was convinced this was the end of the ride for me - I wouldn't risk continuing feeling like this - in my mind I could see the grainy black and white footage of Tom Simpson crawling up the Ventoux in July 1967 - he died on this mountain. Mountains command respect. Take mountains seriously - if you don’t they will take you. That is serious.

Then, within a couple of minutes I felt okay again, the dizziness had passed, I sat for a few minutes longer and sipped at my water bottle. I decided I'd carry on and see how I felt back on the road. The team car was with us now and help was close if I needed it. So onwards and further upwards. Getting the bike moving again on these gradients is tricky - it requires effort and energy, clipping in to pedal cleats adds to the problem and causes frustration and anxiety - but we managed. Now the climbing continued, brutal and unremitting, the heat and thin air combining to make the effort harder still, every pedal turn is a slow struggle by now and we teeter as each revolution threatens to be the last. I see the team car up ahead but don't feel like stopping - I have a rhythm, its slow, but I feel like carrying on. Gary stops and is approached by a rider who turns out to be German, Gary offered a salutory "How are you doing?" to which the German replied "F**king mountain..."

The Dutchman

The silver-bright sun was fierce now, upwards we climbed through conifer groves balmy with resin and sun-roasted pine cones. It was extraordinary just how many cyclists, walkers and runners were out there that day. There were also a fair number of motorcylists and we saw a procession of old 60's Mini's - looking like an outtake from The Italian Job. There was a Dutch guy who seemed to be climbing up at about the same speed as me, except he was riding a contraption that looked like a big scooter combined with a stepping machine - he had a number on his shirt so I suspect he was one of the group we saw way back in Bedoin. It looked hard work on his 'stepper' each of his thigh muscles looked like a baby hippopotamus stuffed into his shorts.

As I soldiered on I spotted a curve to the left up ahead, the apex looked like it flattened out for about 6 feet - I decided to stop for a drink, figuring that I would at least be able to get started again. Of course it wasn't flat at all, just less steep, I snorted and cursed as my feet slipped off the cleats and I struggled to regain momentum. Just around the corner though was a welcome sight - We pass out of the tree-lined wooded area and approach The Chalet Reynard, at about 1400 metres high. This is a ski resort and the ski lift is open at this time of year taking mountain bikers up the mountain and enabling them to hurtle down again. It was tempting to think of hitching a lift. We stopped at the cafe for a well earned break, Coffee, then another - Gary had 6 spoons of sugar in his "For energy". They were selling some good quality cycling clothing in the shop and we decided we'd perhaps drive back on another day to buy something to remind us of what this climb had been like.

The Chalet Reynard - a welcome rest!

There were a group of walkers making there way up to the summit, one of them shouted over "No doping" - Gary replied "Have you got anything?" We all laughed. It's understandable why cycle racing has for so long been a sport that has relied on stimulants. When I think that a Tour de France rider would ride up this mountain in just over an hour, having already climbed one or two equally tough mountains, and then do the same again tomorrow and the next day.... 21 days in total for The Tour, how else could they do it?

I felt gruesome, dogged by a chilling sense that i’m not going to make it - I remembered reading that many great climbers ride the mountains quickly - because the sooner they reach the summit, the sooner the agony stops. But the thing about riding a mountain like this, the main thing, is that it seems to take forever. We set off again with about 6 or 7 kilometres to go to the summit - the road is immediately steep. We're soon puffing and panting again, this is by far the longest continually rising road I have ever seen. I just have to keep pressing on the pedals, romancing about what the rider in a long, lone break must feel like.  By now we are reaching into physical and mental reserves that we didn't know existed. We're riding on the edge, on the limit of what we are capable of - there's a great feeling of eventual euphoria and impending collapse. The road just seems to go on and on - marked with yellow and black snow poles. It is stark up here now, the landscape is littered with a moonscape of bright, white limestone. It is an unremitting, gut-wrenching, demoralising slog.

The Simpson memorial

And then, perched up on the slope to our right, just off the road, is something I knew we'd see. A granite monument on which is cut, in relief, a polished image of a cyclist hunched over his bike riding at speed. This is the permanent memorial to Tom Simpson who famously lost his life at this spot on 13th July 1967. I stop and climb the steps for a closer look - there are two or three cyclists there and I take photo's using their phones and camera's, there is no need for conversation, I have no idea what nationality they were. Scattered in front and around the memorial is a wrack of dried flowers, various club badges, bits of tyre - like exotic flotsam washed up on a rising tide.

Gary joins me and we toil on exhaustedly, entering the existential phenomenon know to most cyclists: The 'what possessed me to do this' syndrome. The sun is burning and yet it feels cool up high, my wheels won't move... are my brakes binding? The air is thin, not enough oxygen, every particle of my body is being stretched, pounded, pushed and shoved along these last kilometres. I feel like I could be overtaken by snails, it nearly finishes me, it is cruel to a power beyond rational grasp, I desperately cling on, literally clinging on.....

Gary on the final push

At last I see the radio mast and station ahead - just a few more bends to go, I hope my tortured lungs and feeble legs will hold out - surely they will... slowly I edged upwards by now slightly exhilerated by the sheer adventure of it culminating in a fantastic salvo of strength and buoyant energy. And then at last I'm at the summit - and with it a most palpable feeling of relief. I feel grateful that the end has come it is incredible that so many kilometres took so long to disappear under our wheels - but now we’re at the line where up turns to down. Gary is behind me - I am sure I could hear him before I saw him, the clacking wheezing sound of a broken accordion heralding his arrival. But here we were - we'd done it! - and when at last we reached the top all time slips away into an airy vastness as we survey the valley below. It is a transcendent experience, a link between physical and mental triumph and a wonderous exaltation of the spirits.

There are people out there, aliens, sadists, inhuman who will ride this terrain none stop for maybe 100 hours - I am in no haste to join them - if I am to suffer a serious bodily and mental abuse on the bike then I also insist on ample social recovery time. In this case that will involve wine and cheese. Talking about a route is a bit like talking about sex. Fanciful, prone to exaggeration and a long way from the real thing. This was a vicious, nasty ride. The mountain eats away at you like a rash, the gradients worm their way relentlessly up between your lungs and your sense of humour. This knocked the stuffing out of us. We needed wine to quell the latent agony.


Now it was all over, in a foaming lather of sweat, tears and schmaltz we hugged each other and surveyed the view. Gary summed it up "That was the hardest thing I've ever done"

a view from the top

Made it!!

Well done!!!

A week in Provence.... part 3

We woke to warmth and sun and an amazing rooftop view from the bedroom window. The arrangement for breakfast was for us to meet up at a street cafe for croissants and strong coffee. It was Saturday, market day in Beaune. I went out for an early morning stroll taking photographs and relishing the quiet warmth of a new day. But after 20 minutes my battery ran out and I contented myself with just walking and looking.

Beaune is an ancient and historic town on a plain by the hills of the Cote d'Or, with features remaining from the pre-Roman and Roman eras, through the medieval and renaissance periods and up to recent history and modern times. It is a walled city, with about half of the battlements, ramparts, and the moat, having survived and in good condition, and the central "old town" is extensive. Historically Beaune is intimately connected with the Dukes of Burgundy. There is a comprehensive "traditional" shopping area clustered around the central square with a focus on gourmet food, fashion, and wine. The Saturday market is perfectly French - there are major fine food stalls supplying a broad selection of products and specialties from Burgundy and the surrounding regions. For example, Bresse chickens, cheeses, bread and pastries, mustards, small goods, spices, produce of every variety as well as seasonal specialties such as truffles. I had enjoyed Raymond Blanc's TV programme 'The Very Hungry Frenchman' on TV earlier this year - he visited Beaune and I remembered him showing us an exceptional cheese shop - I made a mental note to seek it out later.

Breakfast in Beaune

We sat at a pavement table, in mellow sunshine overlooking the bustling scene. Hundreds of market stalls covered the centre of the village, roads were closed and people busied themselves searching out various delights. The French really have us beat at markets, in England a market is seen as cheap and cheerful, in France the produce is as good or better than in the shops. In France there is a gastronomic landscape wandered and enjoyed by all, in Britain we prefer to draw the curtains, open a book and never leave the room. Everything looks delicious and tempting, fresh and loved. it's a pity we can't do more to encourage the same attitude over here. After breakfast we wandered the streets in avaricious awe marvelling at the casual incoussiance of the French - this is pretty much an everyday occurrence for them. We bought cheese, bread, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, pickled garlic, mustards and saucisson - the plan was to have a picnic when we reached our destination later in the afternoon.

Bread stall - Beaune market

First sight of Mont Ventoux

We set off for Bedoin just before lunch. 241 miles to drive in warm sunshine. A straightforward trip on more toll roads through rolling green countryside. We noticed there were lots of cars loaded with bikes, we saw every conceivable marriage: BMX bikes mixed with road bikes, Mountain bikes and tourers, Kids bikes with grown up counter parts. We travelled through Lyon, or more precisely underneath it. No need for ring roads or by-passes - simply dig a tunnel under the city - job done. We passed over and alongside the Rhone river - a wide flowing expanse like molten steel snaking below aquamarine hills, Cote de Rhone terroir now as the light grew ever brighter and the sun hotter.

As we enter the Vaucluse region of Provence our momentum increases as our expectations rise. Look right or left and it's vines.... and olive groves.... and cypress trees. There are honey coloured stone-built houses dotted around, all with narrow windows and blue-painted shutters to protect against the heat of summer and the cold of winter. The landscape is dry and dusty, streaked with yellow ochre and raw sienna. And then, suddenly, we spot it; directly ahead, rising up from the earth like a vivid, monstrous souffle. It is preposterously large, tearing into the blue sky, vast and aloof, its naked summit white as monumental alabaster, the bloodless white of death and topped by a radio mast that looks like a steeple or possibly a lighthouse. It is far away but dominates the horizon - from now on I am barely able to avert my gaze, I feel transfixed, hypnotised. This is Mont Ventoux. It looks to be impossible, beyond me, but I have to keep such thoughts at bay - I know it will be hard and steep.

The villa

We arrive in Bedoin, a sleepy Provencal village with a a collection of terrace cafes along a single main street shaded by giant plane trees. The church of Saint Antonin sits high above the village, built in a spanish style but with a wrought iron campanile typical of the region. Compact houses cluster up the steep side streets, there are boulangeries, restaurants and a couple of supermarkets and Mont Ventoux, ever watchful, towers to the North-East.
We follow the instructions to our 'villa' for the week, past more fields of vines and cherry trees, finally turning onto a rough unmade track to our destination. It is a restored 'mas' with a large open plan lounge with cool limestone floors, a kitchen, three bedrooms all with ensuite facilities, a garden terrace with a large table and chairs and a small swimming pool. There are olive trees in the garden and a good view of the mountain. We unload, unpack and open a bottle of wine. The travelling is over. Next will be cycling up the mountain.

al fresco supper

villa - lounge area

villa ` bedroom

A week in Provence.... part 2

And so it had begun, our journey to Provence in the South of France was underway and, so far, no real problems. Friday started much as Thursday had finished, dry but windy. Surprisingly for me I managed a really good nights sleep. Usually I wake early for the first few days away, not this time, I awoke feeling good and raring to get moving. After breakfast we checked out and with much joie de vivre made the short journey to the Eurotunnel terminal. It must be said that this facility is one of complete and thorough efficiency. And it is huge. All roads seem to lead here and the traffic congregated as we edged closer towards its jaws. There was a series of twisting roads and a collection of small roundabouts that just seemed to slow things down, then we were sort of there, crossing lanes, filtering through various traffic management systems - no real problem, I suppose I was expecting to simply drive into a gaping hole somewhere. Then there was a hiccup, as we approached yet another sign directing us toward departures it was clear that the overhead nature of its construction would not allow Gary's 'team car' to pass underneath - we watched him veer off with a sudden swing to the left - and he dissapeared for a while. I had visions of him being strip searched just around the corner, his carbon tubes sawn through in a vain search for illicit substances..... but no, a few hundred yards later he was back, but on a separate road running parallel to the one we were on.

Checking in was remarkably simple, as we approached the machine it already knew who we were, we were offered two options - one was for the crossing we had booked and the other for one we hadn't. The one we hadn't was at an earlier time, we decided to stick to what we knew, so did Gary. John didn't. Maybe the sun blinded him for a moment, or the effect of an early breakfast and the fresh air had left him confused? John opted for the earlier crossing and accordingly headed straight through to the train and under the sea. We should have done the same really but there was no time to confer. Anyway, he was only about 15 minutes in front. Finally we were hearded onto the train like a long line of mechanised cattle. A man walked along the parked line "Window down, First Gear, Handbrake on" he repeated, over and over, we listened as his voice gradually faded as he walked the long line.

The journey was remarkably smooth and quick - by the time we'd had a look at the newspaper it seemed we were there. Gary commented later that he was a bit disappointed with the journey. He had expected to be able see fish swimming around through the windows, like a drive-thru Sealife Centre.

Exiting the train and getting on to the roads we needed was as circuitous as it was in England. Various roundabouts and roads that seemed to take us round in circles. But soon we were where we needed to be - in Calais heading for Beaune and hopefully avoiding the Peripherique around Paris. We had a journey of 375 miles in front of us. We'd lost an hour simply by crossing the Channel - we needed to get moving. If you've never tried it, driving in France is okay - the idea of being on the 'right' quickly becomes normal, and moving the wrong way around roundabouts etc is easier than you might think, plus there is generally less traffic on the roads over there. Soon we approached our first Toll Booth - there's lots of these in France - most of the main 'motorways' are Tolls. We went through, took our ticket and moved on, Gary was few cars behind and we assumed he would soon catch up. After about 20 miles there was still no sign of Gary - I decided to give him a call. This was the first problem of the trip. As he drove into the Toll gates, he had, quite understandably, been concentrating on which one to go into, making sure he was lined up so that Val could get the ticket out of the machine etc - he simply didn't notice the height restriction. So he hit it, knocking it off its hinges and causing a minor tailback in that lane. Thankfully there was very little damage, his bikes were undamaged but the roof rack system ended up a little bent. He hung the sign back up, did a few roadside repairs to the roof rack and then he was back on his way.

The Abbaye

The remainder of the journey was, thankfully, event free. Soon we were travelling through the countryside of one of the key wine centres of France. We were navigating by vineyards; Gevrey Chambertin, Nuits saint Georges, Beaujolais et al... Beaune is the wine capital of Burgundy and is surrounded by some of the World's most famous wine villages, the town is rich in historical and architectural heritage and we were booked at the magnificent Abbaye de Maizieres - www.hotelabbayedemaizieres.com - right in the centre.

The Abbaye is a 12th century former Cistercian Abbey, it is superbly atmospheric and decorated with antique furniture. The reception and dining area are contained within a vaulted cellar, a dark, brooding space with candles and tapestries. Our bedroom was up a tower, I counted 94 steps to the bed - it was like climbing the steps to a bell-tower. We enjoyed a few bottles of wine and a meal in the evening, L'escargots and Beef Bourginon and then we enjoyed a short wander into the town, just metres from the door.

We're definitely here now - real France. Bring it on.

Wine at the Abbaye

In the restaurant

A week in Provence.... part 1

Travel is a good thing. A brilliant, inspiring, heart-filling, head expanding, great thing. Almost everyone is better off for it, both the visitor and the visited. More fear and unhappiness in this world comes from insularity and closed doors than by openness and crowds. The greatest inventions of the age are jet engines and international airports. Except if you’re me. I don’t do travel - more specifically I won’t fly - so I should say, I will travel - but only on the surface. Of course I’m aware that the sand is running through the glass and the road still stretches ahead. So many places, so many people - and I won’t get to see most of it. And somewhere, over the horizon, my days will stop and I wonder if my final regret, with shrunken shank, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything, won’t be not enough sex or caviar, or fine wine, it won’t be not enough cheese or laughter - it will be that I didn’t get to see The Northern Lights or Timbukto or The Taj Mahal, that I haven’t been to the Atacama desert or met the Nagas of Nagaland, I never saw the monkey puzzle forests of Chile. It might be places that I regret.

And so it was that Kate and I set off, in the car, loaded to the gunwales, or, more relevantly, the upper edges of the rear windows. No surprise that it was raining, tipping down in fact as we made our way down the M1. I felt sorry for the bikes anchored on the back, I'd spent a day fettling and polishing, it seemed a waste. We went over the Dartford Bridge and the sky brightened - yes it actually stopped raining. By the time we reached Folkestone it was sunny but blowing a gale. Folkestone is a strange place, a synonym for passing souls and disregarded things, it’s a never-never land of inanimate objects. Lost sunglasses, the lens cap you can never find, your mother’s pashmina, the girl you stood up on a blind date — they’re all in Folkestone. Our hotel for the night nestled alongside a small shabby retail park, which in turn nestled against a small shabby industrial park. The hotel receptionist was one of the best I've every met. Friendly, smiley, possibly gay and totally concerned about our journey and making our stay as pleasant as possible. The room was good enough, muted tones and contemporary prints like the boardroom of a provincial accountants. We adjourned to the pub next door. It was packed, we struggled to find a seat and when we did the queue at the bar was at least 20 minutes. But no matter - this was it, we were on holiday, heading for the south of France, Provence, sun... wine.... truffles.... lavender... cheese.... and the great grey daddy of all mountains, Mont Ventoux.

Then Gary and Val arrived - he has opted to carry his bikes on a Thule roof-rack system, three bikes sitting on top of his car gives it the look of a team vehicle in a stage race. He got parked and quickly joined us for something to eat in the pub. John and Jane arrived at about 8.30 - John used his disabled badge to full effect, abandoning his car just outside the pub door - just as well, last orders for food was looming up.

Today was Thursday, we planned to tackle the mountain ride on Sunday, get it over with so that we can relax a bit. But at this stage the last thing on my mind as I drifted, fitfully, to sleep was what it would be like going up there into the heavens.

Jubilee ride.....

Pity about the weather for this 60th jubilee celebration. Our village is thoroughly decked out and resplendent with an array of red white and blue bunting, flags, banners, posters and royal paraphernalia. We braved the rain and walked to the church to look at the display of royal memorabilia and various historic photographs and bric-a-brac. There was a particularly interesting scrapbook that was made by the local WI in 1965, a collection of press cuttings, photographs and handwritten notes together with various pieces of old packaging, wallpaper, soft furnishing fabrics and other bits and pieces. It was very....English.

We watched on TV as the flotilla moved slowly up the Thames, the pageant laid out for the world to see - we are good at this sort of occassion - and despite the bad weather I thought the event was a great success.

But with France and The Ventoux looming up fast, I needed to get some miles in on the bike. I decided one last long ride would be in order, and then I will ease off for the rest of the week and get my kit and bikes in order ready for the journey. This morning was much brighter than yesterday, plenty of blue in the sky, easily enough to make a pair of trousers for a sailor as my Grandma used to say. I headed out towards Ashby de la Zouch via the hardest route I could think of. Steepish hills to Odstone and Newton Burgoland, then up to Swepstone and the main road from there to the Ashby turn. Underneath the busy A42 and up past the golf club into Ashby town centre, the main road is closed for a fair, part of the Jubilee celebrations I guess. Just then my attention is grabbed by something stirring in the car park; next to the recycling bins. They are releasing the beast. The Morris Men.

They trot like ponies, bells on their black clogs, wearing hanging baskets of flowers and feathers on their heads. They are led by a meaty man with a whip, they have a muscular, purposeful swagger and a physical, masculine dance. For all its promise of seed planting, fertility and harvest, morris dancing is indisputably the least sexy jigging in the world. Nobody could accuse these men of overt displays of vanity or showmanship. Their vast stomachs held in by sweaty nylon shirts like warm mozzarellas. They have all the stamina and grace of a concrete breeze block, with beards that look like badly eaten shredded wheat.

I press on, heading out towards Ticknall via Smisby. Suddenly I am faced with a  beguilingly, bucolic scene, the lane climbs gently upwards and the road is dry but the verge to the right is damp, ferns flourish and the grass is lush - there are dog violets and probably frogs - these lanes seem untroubled by traffic, apart from a distant tractor it is birdsong that keeps me company. I traverse a series of rises and dips, pedalling steadily into a slight headwind. I'm in no rush - I'm on my own, I don't have to push myself to keep up with Gary today, he's having a lie-in, but he'll be out on these same roads later.

There's a violent drop now, steep and harsh, twisting and turning towards Ticknall village. the bike shakes and rattles over the rough tarmac as my speed quickly reaches 35mph and more. As I pass through the village I notice a great beer tent and bacon-butty get together of the families of round-vowelled, clotted faced ruralists. There's no recession in Ticknall - it is the sort of place that carries on unhindered by any downturns, the vicar posts the mowing rota onto the church notice board - the grass rolls smoothly over the verges - there's a display of potted plants for sale with an honesty box alongside. All around is another sacred space, the place where all who have prayed within the walls of the church, over many centuries, have been laid to rest.  There is a feeling of peace, a silence. This is an unpolluted space - there are many mosses and lichens attached to long weather worn gravestones - their lovingly chiselled remembrances can no longer be read, a place where all those who have longed and doubted, rejoiced and feared, now rest bodily in sure and certain hope of resurrection.

Now I'm heading towards the feared Pistern Hills - a steep little lane that rises from nothing up through the trees and disappears into darkness. The lower slopes look like nothing if you're in a car, but on a bike the gradient quickly saps strength from the legs. I pedal a low gear, steady and slowly, as the gradient ramps upwards I change into the easiest gear I have - nothing else left after this - I spin the pedals slowly and consistently, trying to keep an even tempo. It works. I gradually crawl up the hill, round the right hand turn and further up to the farm. The road flattens slightly, enough for me to change up and pick up speed. I'm up, it's done - not too bad really - but I can't help thinking how I will cope when it keeps going up.... and up..... and up for 15 miles or so.

I'm heading for home now - and it's mostly downhill, with a tailwind. I'm flying along at 25mph and feeling good. Back through Ashby, then a slight detour through Donisthorpe, Measham and up the long drag to Snarestone. From there a left turn and another hill up towards Newton Burgoland before the right turn onto Derby Lane and the quiet lane through to Shakerstone. This is where I was attacked.

I didn't see or hear him. He came out of nowhere, a silent, stealthy man dressed all in black and red. He overtook me just as I was meandering slowly along. He said nothing. No acknowledgement. I caught a glimpse of the side of his face - he looked older than me I thought? - surely i could catch him?  I let him go about 20 yards in front and then decided to try. Up on the pedals for the first time today, gathering speed, it's uphill though, quickly I'm breathing heavily and my legs begin to burn. He seems to be getting further away - I push harder still, I'm moving at 25mph, surely I'll catch up soon? - But no, he's getting away. 100 yards now, maybe more. As the road moves uphill again I think he might be slowing, I push harder still, I'm catching him now, gradually clawing him back - then he glances over his shoulder - he's seen me - he's off again.

I follow him all the way back - never managing to get closer that about 20 yards - in the end there's the final hill from Congerstone up to Barton in the Beans - I've ridden this road many, many times - I know it intimately - the steep bits, the bits where it is possible to pick up speed. No matter; it seems he knows it too - he's pulling away again. By now i'm a lather of sweat - I can't go any more - I'm done - beaten. I ease off and watch him as he pedals strong and steady into the distance and around the corner. Then I wonder.... what route was Gary doing???

Cycling Typography....

The Black Cow....

The rain came as a bit of a shock as I rode to meet Gary; I'd set off in sunshine, now the sky was a murky grey with watery streaks. Soon it started to rain, at first just a few spots but quickly growing into a proper downpour. Within five minutes I was truly drenched - I was carrying a waterproof but I couldn't be bothered putting it on. Somehow the rain was warm and refreshing, my thinking was that I would dry out quickly once it stopped.

I got to Measham and the rainfall was much worse - heavy and soaking, riding through it was difficult, the big droplets stinging my eyes. I decided to stop and shelter at the bus stop. Gary called just at that moment and I told him I'd be at his house in about 15 minutes - I set off again in the rain - this time with the waterproof on. By the time I got to Gary's and he invited me in I was thoroughly drenched and dripping profusely all over his kitchen floor. As we gazed out of the kitchen window, wondering whether to continue, the rain stopped and the sun reappeared - onwards then.

I went from soaked through to totally dry within 5 miles. Gary set a fast pace into Burton on Trent, we were running slightly late and needed to make up time. In Burton there was a new rider - Mick, we hadn't met him before although he said he had been out with the Burton branch some years ago. Mick works as a cycle mechanic at Halfords. Soon Barry and Pete had arrived and we duly set off - heading for Dalbury Lees somewhere north of Derby towards Ashbourne. There was no evidence of any rain haven fallen in Burton, the sun was shining and it was pleasantly warm.

Pete, Gary and Barry

We travelled out to Egginton and on to Etwall - glorious lanes, tree lined and with clouds of cow parsley all around. We climbed gradually so that we had a panoramic view of the surrounding valley and fields. All was peaceful, quiet and typically English. We caught a glimpse of a hot-air balloon lurking in the trees like a stranded animal, it had either just landed or was about to take off. We had a short climb now, up to Dalbury Lees and soon we were at our destination, The Black Cow, standing on the village green. Norman and Mike where already at the pub - it was Norman's birthday and he treated us all to a pint of the most excellent 'Mr Grundy's 1914' a dark beer but not at all overpowering and perfectly presented. We sat outside for 20 minutes and then decided to move into the pub. The Black Cow has seen much modernisation and 'improvements' - the results are typical. The place had a librarianised quietness, an almost genteel atmosphere - no sign of any rough-arsed farmers which is the clientel you might have expected in these parts. This is though a pub with aspiration - its been watching the cooking programmes on tele and thinks 'I could do that' - and so it has. The menu looks familiar but tempting; there are a couple of couples hiding in the corners who are giving it a go. As I wait to be served at the bar, the shiny-faced barman saunters past with a couple of entrees for the couple on table 3 - they looked good to me (the entrees) - but then he'd forgotten something and had to go back to the kitchen "two seconds sir" he said as he fled past. This was a lie. Isn't it always a lie when people say 'two-seconds'.... why not be truthful..... "6 minutes 43 seconds sir...." at least we'd know.

After three pints of Mr Grundy we decided to head back. The tradition with these beer rides is to find a chip shop on the way home - out here in the middle of rural Derbyshire it felt doubtful. We pedalled off in vaguely the right direction, the sun had gone to sleep now, although it was still warm and the the sky had a moonlit glow that made us all look like part of a far off nursery rhyme. Strangely we didn't see any cars - not one. I was worried about it - maybe the world had ended why we'd been enjoying Mr Grundy - lets face it, it has to be serious when there's no cars .... and no sounds???  To take my mind off the problem we pretended we were in the Tour de France - riding all over the road without the hinderance of traffic - it was fun.  We got back to Etwall and were almost hit by a couple of cars going through some temporary traffic lights too fast. Back to civilisation. The chip shop was shut though - but, rather handily, there was a chinese takeaway next door - they did chips - we ordered - job done. It turned out these were fine chips - Barry said they were "the best chips I've ever had"

After a toilet break in the bushes across the road we were off again - a straightforward route back to Burton on Trent now and riders slipped away at various junctions and roundabouts as we approached town - I couldn't help thinking they would be tucked up in bed soon - whereas I'd still got over 25 miles to ride.

As we passed through Burton and headed towards Gary's house he upped the pace. Fuelled by dark beer and chinese chips he seemed powered up, hyperactive and full of strength. He shot off into the darkness and I followed. It was a Herculian ride up to Rosliston - don't think we've ever been faster - Gary (on his old bike) was pushing....pushing....pushing. In the end the heavier bike and maybe a few twinges from his knee slowed him down, thankfully - but we were at Netherseal in record time. Gary was done - but I still had 13 miles to get back - and the efforts from Burton were telling. I took it easy for the rest of the way. Got home at about 1.00am - almost 70 miles done.

Summer stripes....

The hot, sunny weather continues here and I am now nurturing impressively tanned arms and legs - I look stripey in the shower .... and its still May!!

Gary and I met up recently and rode gently out through the lanes in the direction of Stoke Golding. Suddenly the white flowers of the cherry are gone and in their place all over the roadside verges and woods there is a great upclouding of mustardy yellow, a kind of lemon olive, very beautiful and in the bright sunlight quite startling. It is the oaks in flower. There are a few outstanding examples on the ride today, in particular a row of three formidable trees between Far Coton and Shenton, as oaks go they are not old trees: two hundred and fifty years maybe, they have a girth about like that of a couple of pillar boxes and they stand stoutly, in their prime. They have grown quite close together, very straight, and now, suddenly they have undergone this magnificent rejuvenation. An abrupt and vivid change from leather-brown buds to olive-yellow flowers, from obscurity to clarity. Rising above all other trees around them they become the upper sun-lit edges of a great cloud of leaf. And on these bright, sunny days which we are all enjoying, the flowers burn like vast candles of yellow.

I've changed the rear cassette on my new bike - with Mont Ventoux fast approaching I decided that the benefit of a 30 tooth rear sprocket might be of benefit. Even with a compact chainset I now have a range of gear ratios close to a triple chainset. Today is the first day out on them and everything seems fine, certainly spinning up hills is slightly easier and more relaxed - whether it will make any difference over the distance we have to cover, who knows? - we'll just have to wait and see.

We get to Stoke Golding. It's sweltering now, we both look like we've just stepped out from the shower. We decide a trip to the pub would be the right thing. Replace fluids etc. So we stop at The George and Dragon. This is a village pub that has undergone some considerable updating over recent years, owned by Church End Brewery they offer an inspired collection of cask ales, quite a number of them are the pale, citrus-tanged, hoppy brews that Gary and I are partial to these days. We enjoy a couple of pints of 'Poachers Pocket' and then another couple of 'Fallen Angel' - we also tuck into a lump of Sparkenhoe Red Leicester cheese, made just a couple of miles away at Upton.

We ride back towards home through quiet lanes with birds singing and bees humming, as the sun lowers and the shadows lengthen I look around and can't think of anywhere I'd rather be.

Beer ride - The Crown at Alrewas

This week is a definite - the recent cry-off's due to the weather are confined to history - today is hot, glorious in fact, the afternoon has a silent infinity about it - the shimmering heat, the sweet cool grass in the waste of May... Nothing moves except the flickering butterflies, electric with sunlight, small scraps of turquoise and ivory, soft as flying flowers. I cycle from home to Netherseal to meet up with Gary and Paul from across the road. Gary is injured though - his knee is swollen and giving him some trouble. His physio thinks it may be a cartlidge problem, we'll be taking it easy tonight.

So we pedal to Burton on Trent with a serene and aimless innocence - no racing or rushing tonight, plenty of time to breath and just enjoy the heat and scenery. Seven of us meet up at the Abbey Arcade and we cycle from Burton via Branston and then on Tatenhill and Barton under Needwood. We stop for a moment to look through the window of Adrian Timmis's cycle shop in the village. Adrian rode for Great Britain in the Olympics of 1984 and also rode the Tour de France in 1987 (finished 70th), his shop is superb.  He has many modern cutting edge bicycles but also some nostalgic displays; his bike from the 1987 Tour, a collection of race programmes and winning jerseys etc. We gathered around the window like schoolboys outside a sweet shop, then Adrian appeared from inside, he was working late and invited us in to have a look around. In we went drooling over £7,000 time trial bikes and a particularly interesting box set of Tour de France cyclists - like toy soldiers.

We set off again, through the village and then joining a cycle path running alongside the busy A38. Soon we arrived at Alrewas (Oll-re-waz). It is a little after eight o’clock and the sun is vanishing rapidly, the golden light gradually fading. There's a historic charm to the village: many half-timbered, thatched cottages, a 12th century church, the Trent & Mersey canal (England's first) and also the National Memorial Arboretum.

The Crown - Alrewas

The Crown was busy tonight - the weather had attracted many visitors to enjoy the outside benches and tables. Also there was some sort of 'open mike' music night. People were turning up with guitars the whole time we were there. The pub is archetypal 'Olde - Worlde', lots of small, low rooms connected by a labyrinth of corridors. Open fireplaces, Old, blackened beams, an eating area, lots of hustle and bustle with people enjoying themselves. We queued at the bar listening to someone singing and strumming a guitar - he sounded just like Jim Reeves. There was draught Black Sheep, Pedigree, London Glory and Bass - we tried the Bass and Black Sheep which seemed okay. We had three pints to make sure, then it was off to the Alrewas Fryer for supper. Excellent chips, Gary supplemented his portion with a pickled egg and then we were heading for home. It's dark now but still very warm - no need for coats or even arm warmers. We head back via Edingale, Lullington, Grangewood and then Netherseal - then for me, a further 12 miles to Nailstone.

It was a great midweek ride - made all the better by the fine weather of course. I arrived home at 11.40pm - 57 miles covered.

Peter Rose leading the group

Tim and Barry the Bell

Gary

Warmth at last.....

I've been lax with my blogging - sorry - here I am though, just back from a 25 miler and oozing sweat!

The transformation here over the past two days has been heartening. The cold and wet have been swept away by sun and heat - I'd forgotten what it was like to ride in the sunshine - I have been so wishing the good weather to arrive that I had forgotten the problems it brings. Actually there aren't many problems - it is infinitely more rewarding, relaxing and enjoyable than riding in the cold. One thing though that I had forgotten was the vast array of flying insects that seem to exist only to aim themselves at my face when I'm out on my bike. Of course sunglasses are a help - but today I'd forgotten mine - in fact I have no immediate clue to their whereabouts, it has been so long since they were last needed.

There is a clarity and a shouting of bird life everywhere - a thrush shouts out with a clash and jingle of silver. Pigeons moon and moan, a solitary cuckoo (the first I've heard this year) beats a bold and endless double note into an echoing monotony. There is a constant mad rushing of blackbirds, low and fierce in flight from place to place and a sudden laughing of woodpeckers in the tree tops. Noon is as noisy as morning and evenings even fuller. The summer break for silence seems a long way off. When there is no singing or flight or nest-building there are passionate interludes for mating: the fierce pursuit of blackbirds, the fickle beckoning of chaffinches, hens dancing, cocks fighting.

Alongside the road there is a stretch of marshy ground dotted with a paradise of flowers. The trickle of water that seeps towards the distant river is a blaze of colourful erruption. They grow in immense luminous islands, gigantic buttercups among lush clusters of pink stemmed burnished leaves of bottle green. There are leaves of wild iris too, swording upward from the black earth. And swathes of foamy cream cow-parsley. All of it seems to have appeared over the last few days - suddenly there’s an openness to the land, the yellow-brown glow of the river in the distance, the tall black shade of the woods. a meadow profusely overgrown with a display of wild flowers, the burdock that Lear made into a crown, the long purples that Ophelia weaves into a garland. As I pass over the canal there are holiday barges with flowerpots and brightly painted kettles on their roofs. A man lies on the roof of one strumming a guitar, a small terrier type dog stretched out with him. This is the heart and soul of Olde England - no sign of it having its back against the dry-stone wall - This at last, is the years great transformation in a climax of action - the whole character of the land is changing, birth and renewal, new life.

I pass endless cyclists - like the flying insects we are all out, attracted by the sudden heat and light. I ride through an avenue of trees that flutter and syncopate, camouflaging the open blue sky. But the insects are annoying me - they seem to concentrate on hitting my eyes - I'm constantly blinking, wiping, brushing them off. Bigger ones have settled on my arms and legs, I flail away at them as I travel along the lanes. It gets to the point where I have to tilt my head to the floor for relief - clearly this is not a good idea when travelling along the highway - I curse myself again for not having my glasses.

So cold.....

Last night there was a ferocious storm here. The house was battered by hail stones the size of golf balls - I thought Tiger Woods was practising in the garden. Then the hail turned to rain, the sky was almost black, foreboding and slightly scary, not at all like May should be. Then this morning I've woken to a frost - it really seems more like winter in terms of temperature. That said at least the sun has made a brief appearance, for a short moment I thought it looks like being a beautiful day. And some might say it is - but not great for cycling. The sky has turned to a muddy grey mess again, the wind is sharp and stinging and rain is just around the next corner. I put my shorts on first thing but after venturing outside to take out some rubbish realised that I'd made a foolish error. It's long trousers again - and thick socks.

I set off slowly - there's a headwind that makes any idea of speed futile. Much better to plod along and wait for a direction change on my route that will make pedalling easier. We set off for France in a few weeks' time - I'm so far behind schedule in terms of preparation and fitness that I feel grumpily annoyed - I blame the weather but I really must try harder! There's a glance of the sun again, peeping through the gunmetal greyness, but the wind is cold and the tree branches rattle as I pass. One of the great delights of cycling is watching the seasons unfurl across the countryside. I moan about the vagaries of the weather but the way the year constantly morphs from winter to spring, summer to autumn and onwards, unconsciously underpins all our hopes and memories. People in the Caribbean don't get this - the weather and foliage are always the same, there are no anchoring points in the year. The months merge together in an abundance of sunshine with nothing to mark the passage of time. Right now I wish I was there.

Onwards then - and the effort has warmed me slightly but my hands and feet are still cold. It's one of the rides that sees my mind drifting to strange corners - I was wondering how many words have been spoken today?. How many words uttered by all the people alive and awake in the world between, say, 8.00am and 10.00am this morning? - It would be a lot, like counting grains of sand on a vast beach - then I wonder what happens to those words? - where do they go, the sound waves, the energy, the fleeting moments of time.........

My route today covered about 14 miles - Up the hill to Bosworth, down the hill on the other side and then turn round at the island and back up the Hill into Bosworth again. Then head out of Bosworth as if on the way home towards Newton Burgoland and up the hill to the Carlton turn - then the final hill from Congerstone to Barton in the Beans - quite a hilly route.

Bikes and Blues.....

Over the years my main musical interest has been 'The Blues' - the 60's bands, Zeppelin, Free, Groundhogs, Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac, Chickenshack et al sparked my interest and from there I travelled along a continuing path of discovery, exploring the original source material, which continues to this day.

What's this got to do with cycling??

Well, there is a story relating to a famous blues singer and guitarist called Robert Johnson. He, above most of the other blues artists of the early 20th century, displayed a combination of guitar skills and songwriting prowess that have influenced many, many later generations of musicians. The interesting part though is the shadowy legend that has grown, along with his reputation, over the years. From all accounts Johnson was an average performer, one of many itinerants who played on street corners, juke joints and saturday night parties. Johnson disappeared from the music scene for a while - when he returned, he was the most accomplished musician anyone had ever seen. The legend is that he was 'instructed' to take his guitar to a crossroads at midnight. There he was met by the devil who, in a Faustian pact, exchanged amazing guitar and songwriting abilities...... for Johnson's soul.

The reason I mention this is because I think something similar has happened to Gary.

We went out together recently and chose a particularly tough, hilly route. It's been a while since we had done anything similar. We travelled along at a reasonable pace passing through Ashby de la Zouch and turning towards Ticknall, there was a few short stinging hills and then the long drop down into the village. Onwards towards Melbourne and a particularly nasty 11% climb towards Lount.

As I laboured slowly up this climb, suddenly, with muscles coiled like springs and lungs like Hades' bellows, Gary shot past - and I mean shot - not just gradually moving forward - he went flying past in a quite superb display of raw power - within seconds he was 100 yards ahead. It was impressive to say the least. Soon after that we turned right towards Staunton Harold. Now we had to climb Pistern Hills - a horrible climb and best avoided in my opinion. Same again - only this time Gary set off well in advance, stamping on the pedals. He's pushing a big, big gear and doing it easily - meantime it feels like I'm rolling backwards - I'm struggling even with my lowest gears; breathing heavily, legs feeling like they've been pierced with burning needles. And on it went for the rest of the ride. Each hill we approached Gary would bounce away like a mountain goat.

And so it occurred to me; he's been out with his bike at midnight and sold his soul to the devil - and in return he is able to cycle effortlessly up steep hills. So dear reader, I've decided to auction my own soul to the devil or the highest bidder. What can you expect if you win? - I have no idea. You can't see it or anything. But I suppose you could keep it in a jar or something. Anyway the bidding starts now. Good luck. And if you win, once I've received the cash plus £2 for P&P, I'll send it to you in a jiffy bag.

A 'two-ride' morning....

Dawn was just a promise as I set out today. There is more rain to come, I can't quite see the sky yet but I can sense rain in the air. I have a busy day today so an early ride is in order and I set off with lights ablaze. The forecast says showers. I'll hope for the best.

As the darkness gradually leeches away so the silence is broken by the first birds to admit that the day has begun. Once one bird responds to the summons of the light the rest must respond to the summons of the voice. Soon the clamourous sounds are too much to assimilate, it's like tuning in a radio and being bombarded by a multitude of different languages and sounds. This time of year is when the dawn chorus reaches its peak. I wonder how each bird can pick out its own kind in the twittering tumult, like market traders shouting for attention.

As we teeter on the edge of summer I wonder how much longer before things warm up? - I'm out this morning in long length, winter weight bib trousers, mid-weight long fingered gloves, thermal vest and long sleeved jersey - although today feels warmer it's still too cool for shorts and short sleeved top.

But at least it's windless - lately the combination of drizzle, rain, unseasonable temperatures and unrelenting wind have made cycling more of a chore than a pleasure - today the calmness makes things easier and more pleasurable - there's a hint of blue sky and an occasional appearance from the sun - it's altogether more enjoyable than any ride in recent weeks.

After 10 miles I'm home - and then, later, I realise I have a doctors appointment - nothing serious in case you're wondering - I just want someone to look at my big toe nail - it's kind of... crumbly? So at 9.45 I'm off out again - still no rain so far and definitely a lot milder. As I ride to Market Bosworth a car overtakes me and then starts bibbing it's horn - it is far enough in front that I think it can be nothing to do with me, then I see why - on the roads edge a cock pheasant struts like a warrior, painted cheek and jowl, arrogant and scarlet and bold with mating fearlessness, even as i get close he is unflinching in his defiance while the hen will be close by, quiet and invisible somewhere among the bluebell pierced blanket of papery chesnut leaves, nesting, and toning miraculously with the silver brown leaves.

I arrive at the doctors ten minutes early - and then I have a thirty minute wait...... I mess around with a sudoku puzzle on my phone but am told off and made aware of a sign "Please switch off your phone" - I think about remonstrating - my phone is switched off - I'm occupying the wait with a puzzle?? - but can't be bothered. I pocket the phone and read a battered copy of Private Eye instead. The front cover amuses me - there is an allover photograph of the Captain of the cruise ship 'Costa Concordia' which was in the news in January - The headline says "Captain tries Hulne defence..." then theres a speech bubble from his mouth saying..."My wife was driving"

Finally I'm called in - apparently I have some sort of fungal infection in the nail - nothing to worry about the doc says - its very common and he has three nails like it himself. No drugs are prescribed - not worth bothering apparently, the treatment is rarely successful and the side effects can be considerable. So all in all it was a bit of a waste of time - but at least I know.

Avoiding the showers...

I've managed to get out over the bank holiday weekend, perhaps more than I thought. With the weather continuing to disappoint it has been a question of timing - keeping an eye on the sky and, in particular, the clouds. Clouds are so often the brutish harbingers of bad weather, these airy sculptures, ethereal, majestic works that are the most egalitarian of natures displays - and they are available to all - free - everyone has a ringside seat - surely we should look and celebrate? I keep watch for the spells of relative clarity and then take a chance and make a dash for it. I've been out everyday except yesterday, Sunday was best, I covered 26 miles and stayed dry.

But today it's cold: wet and cold but beautiful. Water everywhere, collecting in puddles, knee-deep in clear pools around farm gates, swelling hidden ditches and exciting quiet rivers into torrents. Where the roads meet the bottom of the hill in Congerstone, the fields have been replaced by a huge, flat, black mirror. The entire landscape instantly transformed into another world. Not a soul around and, other than startled birds, it was perfectly still, as if it had all been there, unchanged for all eternity. All bold primary colours and simple geometry. As I change direction the wind strikes me with a whining frenzy out of a racing tempestuous sky. The clouds hurl over me, low and thick and furious. A short blast of rain lashes me in a torrential stream - cold and bitter, a great blustering wateriness. I briefly take shelter in a small wood.

Stormy sky - Congerstone

There are times when the land looks dead, when houses and gardens look dreary and desolate - but the wood is always a circle of loveliness. It never fades - it seems to have mystery and strength and grace, it is staunch and majestic, a place of quiet and conflict, of absolute peace and passion and death. All year it has a special atmosphere, you need only enter a few yards under its canopy to become under its spell, to sense the change the shifting - sometimes soothing often startling. There seems some precious quality brought about by the close gathering together of trees into a wood. It defies analysis. I think there has to be a closeness. An avenue will not do it - nor a park or an orchard - it needs an untidiness, a wildness, a conflicting and yet harmonious pooling of life. Woods stand about the countrytside in scores, hundreds, I suppose even thousands. They are pools of wild life in a too ordered, too civilised country. They are green islands and in so small a country they are especially precious. Without them the English countryside, man-made for the greater part would be nothing.

The storm quietens and I'm struck by shafts of golden sunlight piercing the dark sky and penetrating the land below. The rain stops - I'm back on the bike and on my way.

Beer ride... The Halfway House

Ark building has been pushed aside today. The rain has stopped if only for a day, so we felt were able to join the gang from Mercia Cycling Club on their weekly beer ride.

Me, Gary and Paul from across the road made fast progress into Burton on Trent to the meeting point - Gary, on his new bike, was strong and repeatedly pushed ahead, upping the pace. Paul from across the road was moving at a fair lick too - it was a struggle for me to keep up and I fell back 20 or 30 yards on a couple of occasions. When we reached the meeting point, The Abbey Arcade in Burton, unfortunately there was no one there; we hung around like surly teenagers on a street corner and were joined by Barry the Bellringer, first time out with Baz this year!, but there was a distinct lack of any of the usual suspects from the Mercia club.

At 6.40pm we decided to set off for Donisthorpe and The Halfway House, via Caldwell, Linton and Albert Village. This was a rippling ride of fairly gentle undulations taking us finally to the pub. Tim and Norman were already there having made the journey directly from home and missing out the Burton meet. A little later we were joined by Pete who had travelled from Burton but was late getting to the start point.

The Halfway House, Donisthorpe

The Halfway House is a traditional village local set in the heart of Donisthorpe. It has recently been 'refurbished' and its name changed from, in my opinion, the more traditional 'Turks Head'. It's a higgledy-piggledy old building with various small rooms emanating from the bar area. There are faux beams, a warming woodburner and a relaxed and welcoming feel to the place. The new landlord/chef seems a friendly chap - he took the trouble to come over to our table for a short chat. Gary has eaten here and he said it was good food presented well. The beer was certainly good - very well kept Castle Rock Harvest Pale (2010 Champion beer of Britain) slaked our thirst and we sat happily chatting for an hour of so. It was getting dark as we left the pub, so lights were in order. I noticed that my computer/mileometer wasn't working - after having lost one the other day this one is off my really old bike - it could be the batteries are a bit dodgy - but it started working again after a mile or two.

I got home at about 10.30 - 45 miles covered, not bad for a Wednesday evening

Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.....

Indeed it is - May Day - the first of May. Traditional British May Day rites and celebrations include Morris dancing, crowning a May Queen and celebrations involving a Maypole. Much of this tradition derives from pagan Anglo-Saxon and Celtic customs and is most associated with towns and villages celebrating springtime fertility and revelry with village fetes and community gatherings. 

Interestingly, May Day was abolished and its celebration banned by puritan parliaments after the Civil War but reinstated with the restoration of Charles II in 1660.

But then there's the added confusion of the other Mayday. I refer to the call sign - the one that signals someone in distress and in need of help. The Mayday call sign was originated in 1923 by Frederick Mockford, a senior radio officer at Croydon Airport in London, Mockford was asked to think of a word that would indicate distress and would easily be understood by all pilots and ground staff in an emergency. Since much of the traffic at the time was between Croydon and Le Bourget Airport in Paris, he proposed the word "Mayday" from the French m’aider. "Venez m'aider" means "come help me."

So now you know. 

This May Day could see plenty of Mayday's here in flood country. The rain has been persistent all night and it's still pouring from the sky as I sit here writing this - I had intended an early ride this morning but my plans have been washed away. The forecast says it will ease off later - I will go and investigate the flooded roads and try to make my way through. This intrepid cyclist will not be stopped!