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!

Flood.....

There's a flood on my most regular route - I know because I rode through it this morning. It's not one of those massive floods that you see on TV, There are no people sitting on top of houses, no one paddling around in a canoe, no helicopters rescuing stranded animals.... just a mild flood really, I think we're all kind of used to mild floods these days. Anyway, I got slightly wet as I rolled through the flood - it looked calm and welcoming as I entered it but then a swell built up and by the time I was through it my feet and legs, from the knees down, were soaked.

Apart from the flood there was little to remind me of how bad the weather had been yesterday. The roads (apart from the flood) are dry. The winds have abated, the blue sky is softened by a sea of white islands and the sun, when it peeps through is hot. It is more summery than it's been for the past fortnight, perhaps this is the change? it is, after all, almost May. All of a sudden it's warm enough and bright enough to believe in the dandelion. There is a fly that does too. As if drawn in by the flower's gravity, the fly fastens to its brassy rays, searching for liquid gold. It is softly and almost transparently jewel-like, with art-nouveau window-paned wings, bristled with sensors and both delicate and powerful. From a distance the fly seems just a blemish on the flower, but for the dandelion it is the reason for its explosion of life. This is an ephemeral solar system. Once pollinated by the fly, the flower will turn into a clock, to be blown away with the winds. 

As I arrive back home I dock my bike as usual and go to retrieve my mileage details from the computer/mileometer affixed to the handlebars - only this time there is just a gap where the computer used to be. I stare at it for a few seconds and at the floor underneath - somehow hoping that it may have just dropped off as I got back. No luck. Somewhere over the last 12 miles or so I've lost my little cycling buddy - I've become quite attached to it over the past couple of years. And it was comforting to have, especially on longer journeys, watching the miles click up, or counting them down, checking average speeds, time on the bike, actual speed - trying to get to 40mph - whatever..... I can't imagine why I didn't notice it had gone sooner? - Maybe because I was riding a familiar route I didn't look at it so much? - I don't know? One thing's for sure though - it's gone.

Early morning....

The foxgloves are thick but flowerless yet of course - but among them and beyond them, stretching as far as the boundaries of the wood the bluebells are also thickening for flower - a million spikes with dark hearts of bud - and here and there they are breaking out.

I've opted for another route this morning - just to keep things fresh - as I loop around and begin the return section of my ride I notice a stretched wire next to a copse that is used for rearing game birds. On the wire hang the game keepers victims, the wild enemies of the precious tame pheasants whose destiny in life is to be cared for more tenderly than most babies and then to be massacred more brutally than most soldiers. There they hang the enemies of civilisation. A stoat or weasel, a couple of magpies, a fur-shop full of grey squirrels - here there are no sounds - life is exterminated except for the pheasant and the rabbit who are reserved for death on a higher social plane. It seems the heart and core of this place is contained in one small space - a small oval; the pheasants egg. The pheasant is the lord of life around here - the divine sovereign of the woods - nothing must be done to upset his chances of ordained death. Like the murderer who falls sick on the eve of execution, he must be kept alive, tenderly, jealously at all costs, in order that the squire and his chums may not be cheated of the ultimate satisfaction - pre-arranged extermination.

I wonder about the game keepers - they must be brutalised by the lives they lead. By the constant ironic necessity of having to preserve to kill and to kill in order to preserve. They are victims of organised sadism and probably never realise it.

Enough ranting. It remains dull and wet here in the heartlands. I didn't see another cyclist at all this morning - not one. Even in the depths of winter there would always be at least one other madman out there. One thing though, the landscape is sooooooo green. The rain has heightened the intensity of hues and also served to add a boost to growth. Grass is thriving, trees are in leaf the landscape is pushing upwards at a rapid rate. The rape fields, of which there are many on my route, are a full blaze of searing sun coloured warmth. The wild cherries are in bloom, unlike trees in gardens these wild varieties have no shyness. The uncertainties of cold and rain and sun never seems to affect them they flower whatever - a glorious pageant of unlikely colour - the trees of poets, they are the tree versions of daffodils and lilys. They illuminate the woods and verges with stars of brightness - they look friendly - a cornucopia of soft amber, cream and ruby. The blackthorn blooms are in full flow here and the wild cherry flowers are clear and bright against the gunmetal greyness of the morning sky - a true and ethereal loveliness, visible from afar. In orchards and gardens the cherry will grow to great extent but usually be reigned back in height, but in the woods, hemmed by oak and chestnut, the cherry can manage an immense height, flowerless until the extreme tip lifts itself above the crowd of neighbours to display a thick white cluster of blossom floating above the earth like a cloud.

As I get closer to home I pedal more slowly - almost as if I want to make the last couple of miles last longer. It may be dull and damp but there is still plenty to see..... and dream about.

Rain Rain go away!!!....

Getting out has been limited this week. The rain here has been incessant - We've missed the Wednesday beer ride - again. I know some of you will think we should just get on with it and get out there - stop being wussie - but there's no fun in getting soaked through, cold and miserable. Last year we rode through whatever the weather could throw at us in the sure knowledge that when riding LeJog we might have to cope with adverse conditions - but this year the challenge is somewhat different - we need temperatures upward of twenty five degrees and long hard climbs.

Anyway, I've managed to sneak a few short rides in between the showers. Yesterday I managed 12 miles picking a route I hate which includes a couple of sharp climbs. Today I've been looking out waiting for a suitable chance - as I look out right now it's stopped raining - for the first time today - so I'm going to take a chance. It's cold and miserable - the roads are wet; puddles everywhere, the bike is going to get messy and so am I - no mudguards!

Why does the rain always fall on me?....

No matter what time of day I choose to venture out it seems I'm destined for a soaking. No matter how sunny it is when I set off, I can be confident that by the time I get home I will be wet through. The weather is weird here at the moment - one minute bright, searing sun the next black and teeming with rain - or even hail.

I went out this morning - encouraged by a bright start to the day. However, just a couple of miles from home the sky was dark violet, inky, scary..... I veered off in a desperate attempt to avoid yet another dousing. It became a frantic race as the clouds loomed ever nearer....

I made my way on a round robin route back towards a glowing sky. I noticed that the recent rainfall has increased the flow of the small brook that I pass regularly. Recently the water has been reduced to a mere trickle, this morning it danced and jiggled, rippling over a bed of stones and sand, running clear as wine.

As I reach the final climb towards home the sun breaks through the branches, casting a net of shadows - Suddenly everything seems lit up. There is a mass of burning branches, of buds about to break into the first flame of summer. It is extraordinarily beautiful.

Towards the top of the climb I spot a lady pushing her bicycle - as I get closer she calls out - "Excuse me, do you have a pump?" I stop and quickly see that she has a flat back tyre. She is riding an old bike and I suspect my pump will not fit the valves on her tyres. I dismount and take a closer look - I was wrong - my pump will fit, but the effort will be in vain. Her tyre is pancake flat - a puncture for sure. She has no pump or spare tube. I valiantly attempt inflation but after 5 minutes we can both see that I'm wasting my time. Luckily she only has a couple of miles to walk - and it's not raining. Not yet.

Taxi boss angers cyclists....

It's all happening in London... 

The head of London's largest minicab company says cyclists should think more about their own safety before "throwing themselves on to some of the most congested spaces in the world" 

John Griffin, the founder and chairman of Addison Lee, blames the rising popularity of cycling for the increase in accidents and says cyclists should pay road tax.

The rest of us occupying this road space have had to undergo extensive training,” he said.“We are sitting in a protected space with impact bars and air bags and paying extortionate amounts of taxes on our vehicle purchase, parking, servicing, insurance and road tax.

“These cyclists are throwing themselves on to some of the most congested spaces in the world. They leap on to a vehicle which offers them no protection except a padded plastic hat. It is time for us to say to cyclists: you want to join our gang, get trained and pay up.”

Mr Griffin also criticised campaigners who claim that cyclists are being “murdered” by motorists, saying they should take responsibility for their own safety.

“Should a motorist fail to observe a granny wobbling to avoid a pothole or a rain drain, then he is guilty of failing to anticipate that this was somebody on her maiden voyage into the abyss,” he said.

“The fact is that he just didn’t see her and however cautious, caring or alert he is, the influx of beginner cyclists is going to lead to an overall increase in accidents involving cyclists.”Mr Griffin has already courted controversy by telling his 3,500 Addison Lee drivers in London to ignore the threat of criminal prosecution for driving in bus lanes and to flout the ban, promising to reimburse them for any fines they incur.

Jenny Jones, the Green Party candidate for London mayor, joined a Twitter campaign to boycott Addison Lee taxis. Cyclists are planning a protest outside the company headquarters next week.

Sarah Fatica, of Brake, the road safety charity, said Mr Griffin was right in calling for cyclists to get more training, but said ultimately motorists had to be more careful because they were in charge of such dangerous vehicles. “If a cyclist makes a mistake it is usually the cyclists themselves who are worse off but if a motorist makes a mistake it can lead to a number of casualties,” she said.

A ride into history....

The light is a kind of spring half-light, not shadow and not sun, a soft and treacherous glimmering from behind a cloud. The wind is chilly and finger cold and there is a continuous dancing everywhere of branch and flower. The trees have yet to come into full-leaf and so there is nothing to take out the sting from the wind - it comes straight across, rippling the puddles into small seas with fitful waves.

So it is as I make my way up the drag into Market Bosworth for what seems like the thousandth time. At the junction in the town centre I am momentarily undecided - turn right for the fast drop down towards the water park and then through Congerstone - or left and on to Cadeby and Sutton Cheney - I go left and up the short hill past Bosworth Hall and then out to Sutton Cheney. Small groups of mauve flowers stand in companies and dance and fret incessantly. As I turn it is instantly better, the thick high hedges of holly, maple, hawthorn shelter me and for a moment I cycle in stillness, in a primrose world of absolute spring. I pass a small wood - it stretches like a black carpet towards the horizon - there is a look of sombre ruddiness as though branches had been dipped in burgundy. There can be no doubt that spring is upon us - despite the recent reversion to a more wintry outlook - the green leaves of the birch tree display an infinite tenderness that will never be displayed again this year - like soft paint splashes among a dark sea of branches. The leaves have a luminous brilliance, youthful and fresh and bursting with life - as the year progresses they will dull and tire. There’s a small nest - a miracle of moss and feather built into a precarious stump - the work of robins, tits or wrens perhaps? - these nests are usually only found by chance or great patience - or by the accidental rousing of the birds themselves.

I cross the canal bridge beyond Sutton Cheney and make an impulsive left hand turn - up a road I've never travelled previously and signposted Dadlington and Stoke Golding. There's another canal bridge and a short upward pull into the village of Dadlington - I pass a pub and a village green - there are some boys playing football and a group of young girls playing under a cherry tree - it looks like a happy scene. I carry on and then make a sharp right turn signed 'Stoke Golding' - there's a steep drop and for a minute I'm flying along smiling with the exhileration. The road is winding and then I am alongside the canal; there's a lay-by with parked cars and, on the canal, there are some boats moored - this seems to be something of local attraction, there are people with children feeding the ducks, people walking dogs, people sitting in cars just looking at the scene.

I carry on. Now the downhill ease has turned uphill but not too taxing - soon I'm entering the village -  the sounds of the normal world are dim - there is the clap of pigeon wings, the squawk of blackbirds, the church bells are ringing. These sounds have a quality of excitement, maybe mystery - they seem to magnify the silence, an expansive hush, the wind has died, the strange silence of a small confined village - my senses are keen - I have not been here before - I notice everything; the red phonebox, three pubs, a network of alleyways - then I come upon a sign which intrigues me - I stop to look at it and take a photo.

I make my way home and with immediate alacrity set to on some research - it transpires that my ride today covered some historic ground, Stoke Golding's unique historical claim to fame is that in 1485 the people of the village witnessed the coronation of King Henry VII, the first Tudor monarch, after defeating King Richard III at the battle of Bosworth Field, marking the end of the Wars of the Roses and heralding the Tudor dynasty. The battle took place on the marshland known as Redemore between Stoke Golding, Dadlington, Shenton and Sutton Cheney. Henry's entourage retired to hilly ground near the village of Stoke Golding - here the impromptu coronation of King Henry VII was performed with a crown fashioned from a nearby thornbush. The area became known as Crown Hill.

I ride around this area most days - I pass the Battlefield site regularly - but riding through this village today, and then finding this information has certainly made the day's ride extra special.

Uphill slog....

I've been working on a some new routes lately. With our trip to Provence and the mighty Ventoux looming up, I know that I need to ride uphill more - simple as that really. There is of course nowhere in England that can offer the prolonged torture of riding up steep gradients for 20km or so, all I can do is seek out the hilliest routes possible and ride them over and over.

My first route starts with familiar roads into Market Bosworth, then I turn around, ride down the hill I've just climbed and back up the other side. From there I ride to Newton Burgoland by the most direct route - it's a lumpy ride with a series of short steep pulls. Now I turn right and climb up to Heather - (pronounced Heether). This is part of the Sustran routes - marked The Bosworth Trail - a winding climb that I hadn't done previously - with a couple of nice views from half way up. I always thought it looked tough when driving up it but surprisingly it wasn't too bad. Then it's another brief drop before a longer climb along a busier stretch of road to Ibstock - I found this one quite hard and was glad when the top arrived. From there I go through the town, turning left before the main road and again climbing up towards home. This road was a pleasant surprise, some attractive old buildings - Ibstock Manor House being one of them, plus a short drop down to a ford in the road - I slowed up and decided to cross it without dismounting - just about made it although I could feel my wheels sliding on the slippery concrete under the water.

I've cycled a big loop at this point but it's not far enough. When I rejoin the main Hinckley Road I cross directly over heading into Odstone village and rejoining the road to Market Bosworth - another short but steepish climb and then - I turn off at Carlton and another loop which takes me back to Market Bosworth from a different direction, this way includes a climb from the Wellsborough side up into the town - quite steep and by now i'm tired. Then it's back down (and up) towards Carlton again - second time up this climb! - From there I turn off right and head for home. About 25 miles or so covered.

Wednesday Beer is back....

Oh yeeeessss!!!! - ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for the welcome return of the wednesday night beer ride. The light nights are here, the weather is mild, we've all got a terrible thirst!

Actually this wednesday was the second beer ride - but Gary and I didn't make it last week - you might remember it was snowing!! Anyway, this week was looking good - I took the car to Gary's with my bike loaded on the new Thule bike carrier - just wanted to give it a test really - and there lay the first problem, the key that locks the rack onto the towbar is a duplicate - unfortunately it is of inferior quality and managed to get quite bent within the locking mechanism - Gary, utilising his engineering background, rescued the situation with a pair of pliers. So, at last, we were ready for the off. Paul, from across the road, joined us and we made our way up Hunts Lane towards Grangewood - It's been a while since I've ridden around here - didn't seem any easier. Quickly though we gathered speed and hurtled recklessly towards Coton in the Elms and Rosliston beyond. Then we noticed the sky up ahead. It was dark, like night, its wet greyness swirling and bleeding into the surrounding clear sky. 'Looks like rain' someone said. That turned out to be the understatement of the evening. Within a minute the rain began falling, gradually becoming more intense. Now it was cold too, my gloves were soaked, in fact everything was soaked - poor Paul from over the road - he was in shorts.

We got into Burton on Trent just in time to see the only other cyclist who'd bothered to turn up - leaving. We shouted to him and he turned round and joined us for shelter in the shopping arcade. We stood around chatting while watching the weather. After a while the rain stopped and we decided to take our chance - duly setting off towards the Black Horse at Coton. Then it got worse still. This time it was hail - not just a few sporadic bits - this was the real deal - we were shot-blasted for about 10 minutes - the roads were white, we were white... and blue - Pete spotted a rainbow to the left and as we moved uphill Gary announced that we were heading for the shallow end.  A piece of hail hit me in the eye with a ferocious sting. Paul from across the road decided he couldn't carry on - he was cold and soaked and opted for the road home. We waved him off as gradually the darkness gave way to a lighter, gentler scenario - it seemed unreal that there could be such a difference in so short a space. Now the roads were dry, as we approached the pub the sun was shining - no sign of bad, wet weather anywhere - except for the wet drips falling from us.

The Black Horse

The Black Horse is a typical local - situated in the pleasant village of Coton-in-the-Elms - famous around here for having a resident flock of ducks quaintly wandering about the place. The pub has been much chopped and changed over the years, it was closed for a while, then opened, then closed, opened, closed and now open again for the past five years or so - and doing well. Even in these hard times there is always a place for a village local, selling good beer at a fair price, with a warm welcome and a cheery smile. The pleasant sounds of laughter and people chatting greeted us as we stood at the serving hatch waiting for three pints of Joules' Bitter. Strange as it sounds we sat outside - the sun was shining, it was pleasant and we chatted for twenty minutes or so. Then I noticed Gary had started to shiver - not in the odd, occasional, one-off way, this was more the full blown shakes, like I imagine Keith Richard shakes in the morning. It was time to make a move - we need to be moving to keep warm, and it was getting dark. We pedalled on to Lullington, down to Grangewood and then to Netherseal. I was home by 9.30 - unheard of for a wednesday beer ride - and I needed a hot water bottle.

Exciting....

I hope that some of you out there have been able to catch at least a few events from the World Track Cycling Championships held in Australia over the last week. Having recently switched to a Sky TV package - cycling is a predominant feature on both Eurosport channels - and when it is broadcast in HD on a big screen there is a definite 'wow' factor. The BBC broadcast the highlights last Sunday which was a good way of seeing all the key moments. I find track racing exciting - the tactics combined with the explosive speed and 'to the wire' finishes is an exhilarating amalgamation.

Sir Chris Hoy, so long the leading protagonist at these events looks to be nearing the end of his reign as a world champion - he seemed easily beaten in the sprint events. That said I don't think anyone would write him off and with the Olympics looming he could be tapering his preparation entirely towards a fitting swansong to an illustrious cycling career. Certainly the team selectors now have something of a quandary - Hoy the reigning Olympic champ, so long at the forefront, a hero and a world-wide acknowledged ambassador for cycling versus Jason Kenny - the young turk, upcoming (for the past three or four years!) maybe a little immature for the big event? - but consistently racing faster than Sir Chris?? - We'll have to wait for the outcome.

I've suggested to Gary that he and I should have a go at riding on the track. Our cycling club has an annual trip to the Manchester Velodrome where you can hire a track bike and ride around the banked arena and get a feel for it. I suspect it's much harder than it looks on TV.

I've grabbed a couple of photos off the web to add to this blog - I really like the look of track cyclists in photographs - there's an elegance and refinement about the way they hold their position.

Also on Eurosport I've been enjoying watching the Spring Classics - Milan - San Remo, The Tour of Flanders and, last Sunday, the Paris - Roubaix, The hell of the North - with long stretches of racing at incredible speed over medieval cobblestones!! - Well done to Tom Boonen for winning the event for the fourth time in his career. 

Cycle maintenance weekend...

Gary was at my house by 8.00am on Saturday morning - and it should have been a relatively simple task to get my bikes loaded onto his car. Of course it wasn't that simple, there was much tooing and froing, the bikes were lifted up, taken down, roof rack adjusted, bikes up again.... and back down again etc etc - until finally we managed to get them all on, with just the handlebars kissing, we were on our way to Stamford in Lincolnshire for two days tuition on how to look after our bikes, under the expert tutelage of Mr Neil Exton from 'All Geared Up' which is a mobile cycle repair and maintenance business.

We were a little bit late arriving due to the problems loading up - but we were immediately made welcome with a nice cup of coffee and a quick introduction to the course; what we'd be covering, what tools we'd be using, safety in the workshop and the workstations we would be using. I scribbled hasty notes as we went along and soon we had our older bikes up on the workstands ready for action. I had the most to do on Saturday; remove my crankset and bottom bracket - replacing both. A new rear cassette and chain, new gear cable and brake cable, new brake blocks and check and adjust the gearing. It doesn't sound much but it took the rest of the day to work slowly through the list. We were fuelled by more coffee and sausage rolls courtesy of Mrs Exton before we had a short break for lunch. We worked on until around 4.30pm, then we loaded our two older bikes onto the car and headed for home. When I got back I quickly took my bike out for a few miles just to see how it felt. The brakes are fantastic now - especially the rear one which wasn't doing a job at all of recent. The gears all seemed crisp and accurate, no annoying rattles or clicks - yes - it had been a good, worthwhile day - and the prospect of more for tomorrow was certainly pleasing.

We were early getting to Neil's on Sunday, but no matter, our newer road bikes were there waiting for us, already cradled in their workstands - Neil had took the time to sabotage our front and rear mech's - our first job was to diagnose and remedy the problems he had created!!! Once we'd worked through that my day was relatively easy - remove chain, clean and reattach (no need to replace) tweak up the gear indexing and adjust accordingly, check brakes, remove and lubricate gear and brake cable, and replace the handlebar tape. A pretty easy day then - Gary had it tougher - he was replacing two of his chainrings, a new chain, rear cassette, fit new wheels and add a new cassette to his old rear wheel - plus servicing of breaks and gears. It was another thoroughly enjoyable day. At the end Gary purchased a work stand from Neil and we stocked up on brake and gear cables and grease!

We both feel confident enough to carry out a future service now - I have to say both of my bikes have never felt better!

If anyone is interested in booking a Cycle Maintenance course speak to Neil on 01780 757359
or visit his web site at www.all-geared-up.co.uk

Here're a few photo's and some video of our weekend there.

Car loaded, about to set off

Gary at work

Gary admires his handiwork

Neil and Paul

Celebration....

Today is the two-hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the invention of the cow.

One of my distant relatives Sir Algenon Muff became aware of how empty the fields on his estate were. "I was struck by the notion that large, grass-eating, milk-producing, edible mammals would be a positive boon". he later proclaimed.

After several early attempts, including a winged version that immediately flew away, Sir Muff came up with a prototype of the mooing creature we know and, in some cases, love today. A superb example of great British knowhow.

Early prototype of the cow