Gertsamtkunstwerk

The Honest Lawyer

Last year, I interrupted my long-planned Olympic leave to travel to Durham at short notice for a work visit. The usual hotel in the city centre was unavailable. I suspect that that was due to football happening at St James's Park Newcastle at the time. Several teams involved, and their entourages and fans, demand more hotel accommodation than a normal run-of-the-mill League match. Instead I booked in a place called The Honest Lawyer, in a village called Croxdale just outside the city. One colleague was sniffy, pointing out that it was a motel. I had stayed in a Best Western in Bournemouth a few weeks earlier, which served exceptional food, so I thought I would try this. 

I arrived on a glorious summer's afternoon, which became a glorious summer's evening. In such conditions, a motel was a bonus; a conventional hotel would have felt claustrophobic. Instead, just outside my bedroom window was this view

The room was ideal for a short stay. I lost count of the number of power sockets in the room. So many hotel rooms have too few. It especially annoys me when I can't put my phone on charge and keep it on the bedside table. The hotel had free Wi-fi, a sine qua non for me these days. 

And dinner was very good. It wasn't as fine as the dining in Bournemouth but that would be difficult to match. But I would certainly go back again - although the city centre hotel is more convenient for the office. 

I started with an Arnold Bennett omelette. I had never previously eaten one, and had only vaguely heard of them via a TV programme where some model pretended to cook, to universal derision. It is named after Arnold Bennett, an author who hailed from the Potteries. 

While he was staying at the Savoy Hotel in London, writing Imperial Palace, the chefs perfected an omelette incorporating smoked haddock, Parmesan cheese and cream. He insisted on it being served wherever he travelled and the Savoy serve it daily to this day.

Recipe from Delia and Recipe from Nigel. Delia describes it as a flat but fluffy open-faced omelette made with smoked finnan haddock.

My main course was  Oven-roasted stone bass with girelles, sweet potato & radishes. I hadn't previously heard of stone bass, and am not sure whether it's actually related to sea bass. apparently it's also known as Atlantic wreck fish, and there seem to be plenty enough recipes on line featuring it. It was tasty, and I'd certainly eat there again, although it wasn't outstanding.

Having had such a pleasant evening meal, I was disappointed in the breakfast. I've had worse, but I wouldn't recommend this one. That having been said, when I realised it was going to be a long wait to get my small cup refilled from the wandering jug of coffee, one of the staff did sneak me a latte from behind the bar rather than the weak tasteless probably instant 'filter' coffee that was on general offer.

And, I'm afraid, having stayed at the Best Western in Sheffield, which produced a long list of trivial faults, which added to up to quite substantial dissatisfaction, I'll be giving Best Western a miss for a long time.

Lyham Road

An awfully long time ago, last summer, I took a walk to see the Olympic Torch go by. As it was a topical event I tried to post about it fairly soon afterwards.

When the torch had gone by and the crowd dispersed, it was time to walk home. I often photograph other people's neighbourhoods. Perhaps it was time to shoot my own.

Back up Lyham Road, which runs broadly parallel with Brixton Hill, and was once known as Back Lane. It also runs parallel with Kings Avenue, which is as much Clapham as Brixton. Someone told me that the rich people lived on Kings Avenue, which has no pubs, and their servants lived on Lyham Road. When I arrived in the area there were five pubs: the Royal Oak, the Duke of Cornwall, the Red Lion, the Prince of Wales and the Waggon and Horses. Now only the Prince remains, and its future is in some doubt. 

Incidentally, they're all terribly common English pub names, replicated in numerous places across the country. More interesting names elsewhere in the area. The Sultan and the Hand-in-Hand on New Park Road. The (former) Telegraph at the top of Brixton Hill, connected with the introduction of telegraph transmission. Slightly further afield, the (former) King of Sardinia and the Hero of Switzerland.

I was prompted to do this post by Slip House being mentioned on Twitter:

Its overall form consists of three slipped orthogonal box shapes, arranged to take full advantage of available natural light, and afford the best possible views.

I think the house next door to it is also attractive

The Wesleyan Mission Hall is now King's Acre Methodist church

Below is a photo of what is now a block of flats

Up until 1997 it was a Primary School called Ashby Mill, named after the nearby Windmill, often known as Ashby's Windmill. It was closed due to the number of surplus Primary School places in the area. Along with other campaigners, I said at the time that the population trend is upwards. And so this has come to pass, with pressure for more Primary places being very much in the news.

Many of these Victorian triple deckers remain and often contain good or very good schools. I suppose they make good use of small spaces in densely populated areas, but I'm not convinced they are any longer ideal for modern education. They are certainly a far cry from the modern well-designed schools that sprung up under Labour's Building Schools for the Future programme.

This sign comes from the former pub, the Duke of Cornwall. I knew it had been called the Duke of Cornwall, because I always thought it a step too far having that and the Prince of Wales on the same road. I've even checked with Jimmy. Yes, this is a sign from where the Duke of Cornwall used to be. Perhaps he shot a lot of white deer.

 

 

 

 

Modern flats and those from an earlier generation

I've labelled this Prague Place but I think it might be Ramillies Close. I no longer need to know the difference! Next to it, a pre-school which was being redecorated as I passed

Moving along we reach the Mural. It's been there for years. Just weeks before I took these photos it was revamped and formally re-opened.

The mural depicts wheat being ground at the local windmill ready to be baked into bread, and also reflects modern Brixton (in the winter there's a good view of the Windmill from Lyham Road, not so much in summer)

Modern cottages some with well tended gardens

Lyham Road's only remaining pub is about halfway along. I think they were still getting over the long-finished Euro 2012 football and not yet geared up for the Olympics, due to start the next day. A pub that's suffered, like so many, from being Tied to the brewery, who then charge a premium on the wholesale price of the drinks the licensee is obliged to purchase.

Many of the clientele, at least traditionally, of the Prince are Prison Officers. Rumour has it that the Red Lion was more popular with the inmates who would slip out the back gate. Probably no truth in that rumour!

The prison was built in 1820, as the Surrey House of Correction. In 1853 it became a women's prison for those that preferred that to penal transportation to Australia; a military prison between 1882 to 1898; and until recently a 'trial and remand' prison. According to Wikipedia, 

the communal areas are overrun with mice and rats. The footings for the treadmill remain and are visible and the former 'hanging i.e. execution suite' is now an enlarged cell with six beds.

Before reading this I hadn't realised that, last year, it stopped being a local prison and is now a Category C training centre. I believe there has been another report recently recommendin it be closed and sold off. If it's no longer being used as a 'local' prison I imagine there's little rationale for maintaining this highly inappropriate building. I imagine the sale of the land would be handy receipt for the Exchequer. I wonder if the building would be convertible into Yuppy Flats, or whether simpler to raze it, and create a new development. It would be nice if there was social housing, or a mixture of social housing and 'affordable' private housing. Although the current definition of affordable is a bit of a joke; requires an annual income of up to £70k. Easier to pre-sell to buy to let landlords and overseas investors and create a transient set of people with no motivation to invest in building a community.

And Mr Woodley, a local institution supplying newspapers to the prison and local residents. He's never open when I go past. Perhaps he's permanently closed. Like an Aladdin's cave out of Dickens.

The Waggon still looks like a pub but I had to search on the internet to find out that it's now used as a private school - a slightly bizarre alternative use, at least to my mind, and one that questions the extent that they provide a broad enough curriculum in what was never a big pub. Probably not accessible for disabled children or staff, either.

The top of Lyham Road is pretty much the highest point for some considerable distance and often affords great views of London. The best view of all is from high up in Courtney House on New Park Road or the roof of an erstwhile friend's former flat on Felsburg. With binoculars you can read the time on 'Big Ben' or see Wembley Stadium and the hills to the North of London. So this is a pretty rubbish picture of the view. I didn't realise quite how tired I was from walking there and back, and standing and waiting, in blazing sun.

All Saints, a modern Anglican church is near the corner

Through the sheltered housing we can peek at Richard Atkins Primary School, a listed buiding

These houses are also listed, although since I took the photo they have been let out as sub-divided rooms and 'sheds' for migrant workers and are now undergoing renovations, including some deep excavation, which I'm not convinced is consistent with their listed status

I'm rather fond of the "Tulse Hill" Telephone Exchange, as it officially is, despite being nowhere near Tulse Hill. Makes my broadband faster than average.

And on Streatham Place, a brand new block of flats, which was marketed if I remember as the somewhat optimistic Park View Apartments

 As it turned out, this was not the best day to take photos, being that it turned out surprisingly bright and sunny. I suppose I should re-do the walk, but, life's too short.

Bourton-on-the-Water

The first full day of our Cotswolds Mini-Break. Decent breakfast at the country inn, although I've had better. A promise of sunshine later in the day, and the forecast set to be decent all weekend. 

I had bought a book called Short Walks in the Cotswolds, one of a series. I decided that we would do the walk nearest to where we were staying, a stroll round the outskirts of Bourton-on-the-Water. I suggested that maybe we could find a coffee shop to start the day off. 'Somehow', we found ourselves in a field, with all-day parking available for a fiver, just a short stroll from the town centre. One thing led to another and we spent the next three and a half hours in Bourton. 

A lovely town, delightful to visit. I would hate to live there. It was quiet when we arrived, not many people around. When we left at 2 pm, the pavements were crammed with visitors, and cars were queuing along the main A road to turn into the village. 

They call it the Venice of the Cotswolds, a lazy description, because it looks nothing like Venice. Venice is sited on 118 small islands separated by canals and linked by bridges. Bourton has a small stream running through its centre, which goes by the name of the River Windrush, and has five bridges across that river, that would prevent boats passing along, if the river was navigable, which it isn't. 

I was briefly struck by the name 'Windrush'. We use it in Brixton. Our town square is Windrush Square, named after the MV Empire Windrush, the ship that brought the first group of immigrant workers invited over from the Caribbean to assist in rebuilding Britain's post-war economy. The Windrush was one of a series of, often secondhand, ships named after minor English rivers - Windrush had previously been a German cruise ship and then troop ship, and was captured and taken as a prize of war.

After coffee we wandered along the river and found ourselves at the Model Railway Exhibition. Photography forbidden - fair enough - so no photos. Basically, it consisted of three rooms, each with complex and intricate model railways. By this, I mean glorified train sets, but not disparagingly. Fascinating, wonderful amount of detail. I'm sure if I returned I would spot many things I didn't notice on this visit. You get the opportunity to control some signals and points, allowing the trains to move along their various tracks. Particularly good fun if you get to elbow small children out of the way*.

All around the village were signs that indicated that dwellings were holiday lets. Such a high proportion must rip the heart out of a community, even it does, I suppose, provide some low-paid local employment.

We spent quite a time strolling around, watching people in and around the river, basking in the sun that grew warmer.

We didn't go in the Motor Museum but enjoyed its exterior.

Jimmy bought an ice cream

The local hardware shop played up to the quaint olde-worlde image (1950s-ish) I think the village would like to project.

These girls walked fearlessly through the water. Small boys yearned to join them but were held back by over-anxious parents.

We finished our stroll along the river.

We finished off our half-day trip by visiting a Model Village, for which Bourton is famous. I have this idea in my head that I've been to loads of model villages, but I'm not sure I have. I do recall one near Bexhill in 1972, which I guess is Hastings, which reportedly closed in 1988, and Tucktonia, visited in 1980, which closed in 1986. Bekonscot is supposedly on my list of Days Out, but it's a long way to go for the day, and Bourton Model Village, delightful as it is, has probably fulfilled any residual need for half an hour in a model village.

 

 

     

 

Seeing how the town was filling up with coach parties, locals, and weekend visitors, we knew it was time to leave town. 

We returned to the car park where I was briefly amused by this sign

The next day we passed the entrance to Longborough Opera House, so the sign's origins were (probably) explained. On the other side it said "Parking all day £5".

I was entertained slightly longer in the car park by these beauties

A striking feature of our long weekend was the high number of well-preserved old cars we saw. Many older then these, and many from the early 70s (the days when I could name most makes and models) in seemingly pristine condition. At first I assumed there was some sort of Old Car convention but concluded that it's all the rage in those parts to own and drive old cars.

We drove away from Bourton-on-the-Water for a late lunch. But that is another blogpost!

* joke

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Corfe Castle and Swanage

I have a little book called Short Walks in Dorset, and thought it would be a splendid idea to walk these modest strolls whilst in Dorset in March.

I selected the Corfe Castle walk, because we had seen Corfe Castle on our visit two years ago. I wanted to travel on the steam train, but, realistically that was not going to happen on a March Monday.

It's a bit of a drive from Bridport to Purbeck but not unpleasant when the roads are not too busy. We thought to stop for coffee en route, and I thought that Prince Charles's model village, Poundland, would be an excellent place. We drove around it but could not find anything that resembled a café, tea room or anywhere else for refreshment. Now, if I were designing a new village, I would make damn sure that I created a village centre with a decent café, village shop, Post Office and pub. Not just shops selling beads and artisan furniture. But it seems that Poundland is just another dormitory town designed for people to drive away from, and into historic Dorchester.

We didn't explore Dorchester to any great extent, so it would be unfair to comment in detail. It didn't seem that inspiring, but we did find somewhere open for morning coffees and preparing for lunch. Nappers Mite is a strange name and has a fairly interesting history. My coffee was perfectly satisfactory and I'm sure if we'd been hungry we could have found something to meet our needs.

Onwards to Corfe Castle. The National Trust car park is some distance from the castle. The pay-and-display machine was broken, and the Visitors' Centre was uninviting, so we set off on our walk which originated across the road from the car park (take care crossing).

 The walk took us along the Corfe River. There were some helpful signs of what wildlife to look out for. Aimed primarily at children but interesting, too, for adults who lack any particular knowledge.

 

The path crosses the river and I made the mistake of following the signs to the castle and village rather than referring to the walk instructions. Having looked at the book again for the purpose of this blog post, I have just realised that as we didn't even park in the 'correct' car park, our chances of following the route were virtually zero. And reflects as much on the poor quality of the instructions as my incompetence in reading them. Hmm.

The path took us along the bottom of a cliff, with the ruined castle looming above us

 

A pleasant enough walk until some ghastly woman and her companion galumphed past, sneering loudly at people who stop to take photos of sheep. Very rude. I can only pity her if she must rush everywhere and miss seeing anything. But, mainly, rude.

The village is twee and very consciously a tourist destination. A shop dedicated to Enid Blyton, who visited Purbeck and  - possibly - based Kirrin Castle on Corfe Castle. Quite interesting to look at; startling that someone can make a living from selling all sorts of Enid Blyton tat, including lots of golliwogs. 

There was a museum which held our attention for nearly five minutes, and a model village which didn't appeal (too many children, apart form anything else) and a selection of pubs.

We chose the Fox Inn, worth a visit to have a look in. There was a roaring fire, in what's claimed as a 14th century firepalce, and some people were eating what looked like well made meals. The beer wasn't great, clearly wasn't getting the turnover at that time of year. Reviews are mixed, to put it mildly.

We strolled up up to the castle entrance but were staggered at what they were charging just to walk round a few old ruins with no really significant history (despite what the marketing people claim). So, instead we walked round the village before heading off to Swanage.

     

Swanage seemed pleasant enough as out-of-season holiday towns go. Nice walk along the beach and stroll around the shops. The highlight was a bowl of mussels. I forget the name of the restaurant, but it had a front room with a counter, and a back room for dining, with lots of teapots on display and jams and chutneys for sale in the connecting passage. The mussels were excellent. We also witnessed an incident which turned 'very annoying parent of toddler' into something quite amusing. The toddler was called Oscar.

The father of the child seemed desperate to show off to us and a couple of old ladies what a marvellous father he was. He spoke to Oscar in the way that one might speak to the child of an acquaintance - stiltedly, and bombarding them with questions and statements, rather than in that desultory way of half-finished sentences that people use when close.

Mother seemed uninterested, her body-language hostile and uninterested. She said nothing. Until, suddenly, loud show-off Dad announced "I'm Oscar's favourite Daddy". Hurriedly, Mum said "Oscar's only Daddy". Too hurriedly, too desperate to emphasise the point. I sniggered. He looked daggers at me. I'm so bored with these absentee fathers who spend so little time with their kids - often for good reason, sometimes for not - and then feel the need to show other people what good dads they are (they imagine) rather than actually be a good dad!

We had another annoying parent-of-toddler incident in the Red Lion at Wareham. We were the only people sitting in what is a large bar of a hotel, and this couple arrived with their toddler, and sat at the next table to us. The mother - who was about 6 or 7 months pregnant - demanded the man went to get her 'another' large glass of wine but he was too busy playing with the toddler's noisy toy. We decided it was time to go. Inconsiderate and anti-social. 

On the way home we saw what I assumed was an albino peacock, as did this photographer (a year earlier), but it seems from the internet that white peafowl are actually bred as such!

Who's My Bottom? - Christopher Gillett

I put this onto my Kindle because I follow Christopher on Twitter; this stemmed from when he appeared in Il Postino at Los Angeles Opera.I continued following him because of his intelligent insight into the life of an opera singer.

Like any branch of entertainment (and sport) we tend to think of the Big Star Names and the Glamorous Lifestyles that we imagine that they lead. But the Big Names would be nothing without the legion of supporting performers travelling and alternating between big roles in small houses and smaller roles in big houses. 

The title is derived from his frequent performances as Flute in Britten's Midsummer Night's Dream - one of the acting troupe, The Mechanicals, who perform the play within the play. And as the peripatetic singers move from opera house to opera house, they often find themselves working closely with people they've never met - or, let's be honest, even heard of - before.

In some ways, I think this is an "insider's" book. I have read reviews and praise from singers and other opera professionals who identify strongly with the situations depicted. As an opera fan with no experience of working in the theatre it lifts the veil of the mysterious arts required to put on an opera. There's a risk in knowing what happens behind the scenes, the possibility of destroying the magic. But I am by nature curious, and I think that knowing a little more about the creative process can lend a greater appreciation to what happens on stage.

A well written book, in that I moved swiftly through it. There was some disconnection in that different chapters, referring to different occasions, were not in strict chronological order, but it was well signed and never confusing. It is published via Lulu, self-publishing, as an increasing number of writers do nowadays. I can absolutely set your mind at rest. This is a quality book, and I didn't notice any sub-editing howlers, which can often occur, even in books supposedly professionally edited and published by established book companies. 

I can't claim to have laughed out loud, but it was an interesting insight into the (often) drudgery of working in opera, the difficulties in being away from home, the problems in cancelling for personal reasons when there's no replacement, and the difficulties in financing travel and accommodation for several weeks' rehearsal, when payment is strictly for performance - and contingent on not falling ill on the night. To be honest, I think you have to be interested in opera, or theatre-craft to appreciate this book, but I would definitely recommend it to anybody who wants to understand more about the practicalities of putting on a show. And if you have illusions that all opera singers live the lives of pampered pop stars, prepare for them to be shattered!

Christopher also blogs engagingly and informatively at Saddo abroad and elsewhere eg Grimes on the Beach

 

 

 

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Wandle Wanderings Part 2

Subtitle: The day we never saw The Wandle

I purchased Cycling Traffic Free London - other areas also exist. This includes the Wandle Way, in two parts. Part 2 is, sensibly, Mitcham Common to Wandsworth. Part 1 is Coulsdon to Hackbridge. So, we followed the book, cycling from Coulsdon South to Carshalton Beeches, with not a glimpse of the Wandle. We changed at Norwood Junction for Coulsdon South. We immediately got lost and decided to sit in a nearby park, Coulsdon Memorial Ground opened in 1921, and dedicated to the memory of the men who fell in WWI. The play areas were refurbished in 2009, funded by the National Lottery. The café and toilet block was closed - the internet suggests this is long-term. By this block lay much broken glass and abandoned cans of lager, and some evidence that someone was sleeping rough there.

We found a nice little coffee shop/art gallery, Art Rebellion, definitely worth a visit if you're in the area. But, to be honest, if you want to enjoy this ride, you might as well start at Woodmansterne Station, which we passed not having really seen anything of interest.

We paused for a sip of water and found ourselves looking at a clearly historic railway bridge. Nevertheless, we didn't think anything more of it until a chance reference on a TV programme a couple of weeks later, when we realised that this was an integral part of the Surrey Iron Railway (picture copied from Wikipedia under Creative Commons).

This was the world's first railway to be publicly subscribed by Act of Parliament as a railway throughout.

It was horse drawn. More information here. The original railway went through the heavily industrialised Wandle Valley from Croydon to Wandsworth; this extension is in what one might think of the notional Wandle Valley.

It's complicated. There's a long explanation in River Wandle Companion that shows it's not nonsensical to ride out in Coulsdon in search of the Wandle. Book review here. Basically, it's about streams that only rise in wet weather.

As instructed we took a right and came upon a surprisingly pretty village green, that of the village of Woodmansterne. Quiet and peaceful, although with little more than a church to justify it as a village. I don't know why I didn't get my camera out. It was a warm day and perhaps I was more concerned with drinking water.

At this point, the instructions offer two alternative routes. We took the less strenuous, but, nevertheless had to get off and push up Chipstead Way, much to the amusement of local residents tending their gardens. No doubt, they see this sight often enough.

The great thing about climbing, especially when you believe that you are heading for a valley, is that you get the chance to whizzzzzzzzzzzzzz down Carshalton Road at considerable speed, a journey not made less hairy by the cars also doing the same. That scary feeling when you're rounding a bend and wondering what will stop cars coming up from behind and sending you into the hedgerow. I'm not saying I'm a nervous cyclist but I do prefer off-roading.

At the bottom of the hill are Mayfield Lavender fields, which were in full bloom. 

     

There were hordes of people in attendance. A surprisingly large proportion were of Japanese or Korean appearance. The tea tent was heaving - and was over-charging for weak tea in polystyrene cups - we passed. It was also possible to buy lavender and lavender-related products in the gift tent. Again, no. We passed. Still, it was nice to spend a few minutes strolling in the sweet-scented lavender fields. 

I was quite astounded at the poor level of driving in the car park and the sheer desperation on the faces of the 4x4 drivers, desperate for a parking space. One hassling a middle aged man who was trying to manoeuvre his infirm mother into the car. Another blindly driving at me even though I tried to get out of the way.

We crossed over into Oaks Park, where we did get a decent cup of tea. Although not without me being assaulted by a dog, whose owner didn't seem to realise that not everybody enjoys being slobbered over by a dirty animal, especially not when eating. I say eating, but all I could get was a packet of crisps. This park cafe had resolutely stopped serving food by 4pm on a sunny July Saturday. And Jimmy's coffee was woeful.

Still, The Oaks Park is rather splendid. Sutton Council carries a page turgidly describing its history, and showing how it connects with various local and sub-regional walks. The history is largely about the famous Oaks race 

The original Oaks Race ran from Barrow Hedges, north of The Oaks and through Oaks Park before heading west to approximately the site of the current Epsom Downs Racecourse

We will revisit it one day, when we have more time - and energy - to explore. I thoguht the view across the road was rather nice and not what you'd normally expect within the Greater London boundary.

We found a gloriously muddy track through the woods that took us back to Woodmansterne Road. For a few minutes I felt like a proper off-road cyclist. It was fun. At this point we called it a day and caught a direct train from Carshalton Beeches to Streatham Hill, our home station. But we were only a few hundred yards from the (minor) source of the Wandle!

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Lunch at the Riverside

Two years ago, a delightful trio of puddings at The Riverside in West Bay sort of got me back into photographing my food. More importantly, we had good memories of a tasty lunch, in a restaurant where the relatively few children present were under control. We decided to repeat the experience.

When we visited in June 2011 the weather was pretty awful - windy and rainy and not very warm. This time it was sunny enough to take phots, and not especially chill.

Again, we had a very good meal. I started with a seafood souffle

I followed with grilled fish - which variety I forget now, in a leek and mushroom sauce, which was delicious, but, unfortunately, didn't come out well in a photo. I so wanted a pudding, my desire made even more so by seeing the eye-watering temptation of, this time, a quartet of puddings. But I had eaten so well I - uncharacteristically - had no room for any more.

Lovely restaurant, long established, with fresh clean paintwork lending it a nautical feel. We sat with views over the estuary of the River Brit. Pleasant staff, friendly enough but not intrusive. For a second time, we enjoyed Sunday lunch without the perennial South London risk of screaming toddlers running around. It's how it should be (if you want your kids to run around and be generally anti-social and disruptive, take them to McD's, away from civilised people. Or get them to sit at table, leave only with permission, and only with a specific destination, such as the loos. And teach them to walk, not run).

Afterwards we felt we needed a brisk post-prandial stroll. This seemed a fine idea in principle but I felt heavy and lazy. A few droplets of rain fell, and we agreed it was best to return to our holiday cottage and vegetate.

Another short ride

I was right to take that short spin to Tooting Common last week. I went out for another ride today, same destination but a greater distance. That approach is correct in the context of Graded Exercise Therapy/pacing for someone with mild fibromyalgia. Tuesday's ride was no more - but no less- than a light warm up and stretch. Today's the equivalent of a pre-prandial stroll. With the extra twist of the obligatory final leg up the hill. It was only at that point that I broke sweat and was breathing with any effort.

I dressed pretty much as I did on Tuesday - t-shirt, jogging bottoms, and canvas sandals. Just fine for a short spin like that, but if I had been going any further, I would have gone out differently. Better shoes. And more equipment. It's all nice and fluffy to go with a little handbag slung across your body,  but it's not that efficient. You need a rucksack for the water, the toolkit//pump, cardigan, map, camera, sandwiches, Swiss Army knife, ginger beer, crampons, distress flare. I exaggerate!

So, no photos.

I was going to put in a mention of a book I bought recently, called The Girl's Guide to Life on Two Wheels.

But I'm in two minds about it. It's well thought out, well written book, with some very useful tips, and some rather nive photography. But I should have taken the 'Girl' in the title as a red flag. I'm not quite sure when posh people stop being a 'girl', but other than specific usage such as 'Girls night out' most normal people stop using it by about the time they have a 'grown up' job and 'grown up' responsibilities, like bills.

Like so much of the media, it seems to assume that women are aged 35 or under, because, obviously, past the age of 35 women are, in fact, invisible, and have nothing else to do in life but curl up and wait to die.

I couldn't reasonably expect a journalist to have any insights into specific challenges of cycling with a chronic health condition, and it would be churlish to criticise someone for not catering specifically for my niche. So, if you're young, thin and girlish, this is a good book. There might be a market for a book written about cycling (and/or general fitness) for older women with health challenges, but to write it would take quite specific research and input from someone medically qualified. But of course, if anyone has any ideas, why not leave a comment, or email me!

Review from Total Women's Cycling

First day in the Cotswolds

Is it bad to say I'm bored of going abroad? Abroad has some lovely places, most of which I've never seen. But getting there and back is destined to ruin a holiday. Even when there is no delay and no problems, it takes so long, with so much hassle, and so much hanging around. For the Late May Bank Holiday weekend, we arrived at our destination on the Gloucestershire-Oxforshire borders in the time it would have taken us  to travel to and get as far as boarding at Gatwick airport. And that was even though it took hours - or seemed to - to drive from home to where we passed the Westside shopping centre at Shepherds Bush, at which point we reached the open road. and this was even though we stopped at Beaconsfield Services, like most Motorway Services, infinitely worse than Gatwick Airport.

Jimmy loves the seaside. so do I. But I wanted to show him there is more to England than 'coast'. So I chose a place that - except for the Bristol channel - couldn't really be further from the sea. The Cotswolds. Years ago we stayed  in a wonderful inn in Harwich, The Pier. They are part of an association, the Great Inns of Britain and via this website we chose the King's Head at Bledington. It was only after we booked that I realised that, despite being in Gloucestershire, the Postal town is Chipping Norton, home of the Chipping Norton Set. I subsequently read that the inn is popular with the 'Young Royals'. 

We arrived in miserable rain but I immediately loved the setting of the Inn. Our bedroom, above the bar, was interesting. Not least that we - yes, even I - had to stoop to avoid the low beams to reach it. The room was spacious enough, scrupulously clean and with a capacious and comfortable bed. I don't think either of us went for the Shabby Chic decor, having experienced too much Shabby-for-Real in life. Jimmy was also concerned that the lack of a shower curtain for the in-the-bath shower, and a floor that had lino, not proper tiling, would, in the long term, mean a lot of water seeping into the 16th Century beams. 

 

The Inn contained a decent bar, and, on the whole, the staff were warm and welcoming. Outside the pub was a sign 'Dogs on leads, Bantams running free' -  and we saw that they kept a couple of bantams. It was gratifying that people did obey the sign about dogs on leads, but, nevertheless, I did witness an act of unbelievable sadism or sociopathy.

There was a man, I don't think he was staying at the Inn or even just drinking. He had a dog, on a lead, a long lead, and somehow he got the dog to worry and chase one of the bantams. It ran around like the proverbial headless chicken and made the most heart-rendering sound of panic, while he stood there giggling away. He invited us to join in his laughter, but soon read our expressions of disgust and contempt. His face fell, and he reined in the dog, before walking over to talk to the children on the swings. He didn't seem to be connected to any of them, and that made my stomach churn, too. In retrospect, I wish I'd reported him to pub staff, but when you're not a regular it's difficult to know what to do.

In the evening we ate in the Inn restaurant and had a very tasty meal. I started with Baked Cornish Scallops, with garlic, cheddar and parsley crust

My main course was a Fillet of Line Court Sea Trout, sautéed samphire and tomatoes, and hollandaise sauce with Atlantic prawn and lemon beignets

There were some good flavours and I really couldn't fault the dishes. I finished with a delicious Eton Mess, though, for some reason, I forgot to photograph it.

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A Tea Room Tour of the Cotswolds

Back on the bike, slowly

This is a diary/progress post.

Last year, when it was quite hot, I went for a bike ride along the Wandle. At the end of the day I was moderately tired and aching, but attributed partly to my stupidity in wandering around trying to find Haydons Road station. 

The next day we took the train to the South Coast, and cycled from Shoreham to Worthing. Not far, but, in the heat, concentrating on hydration, I ignored food. Very stupid. On the Monday I had a hair appointment, only in Streatham, but because of a fatal car accident (or rather, a driver crashed his car into a bus whilst having a heart attack), the road was shut, and I had to walk. In truth, it's not a long walk, but I was anxious not to be too late - even though the hairdresser knew what had happened and reassured me to get there in my own time.

However, after returning home I was spent. Just needed to lay down. And take the next day off work. And, in total, was signed off for three weeks. This conveniently coincided with the Paralympics, which, just as much as - if not more than - the Olympics should have inspired me to bike riding. 

Meanwhile, I had a referral to a fibro clinic at Guy's hospital, which was helpful, and included some advice - and a referral to physiotherapy - for Graded Exercise Therapy. The principle of GET is to build up a level of stamina. It goes well with 'pacing' - knowing what you're physically capable of, and not exceeding that.  I suppose I could have gone out cycling in the autumn, but I wanted to get into GET properly. My physio sessions were during the winter. Cold wet windy weather, and snow, are demotivating for bike riding, but so are short days and dark evenings. I joined the gym at work and followed my physio instructions to gradually build up my time on the exercise bike and cross-trainer.

Exercise bikes are a poor substitute for the real thing. It's fundamentally boring being in a gym. We have BBC News Channel, with the sound down and subtitles scrolling. I could plug myself into my mp3 player. But it's boring. It lacks the pleasure of scenery whizzing back. There is no real sensual stimulation - smell, breeze, the bake of the sun. No opportunities for free-wheeling down slopes, and no visual goal to aim for when plodding up 'hills'. The exercise bike is performance, or at least, output driven. Leisure cycling doesn't care how fast you go, let alone how many RPMs and Watts and your heart-rate. Not that heart rate is measured correctly - mine hit 231, albeit after having spotted the Secretary of State (not in the gym). but then, Dr LittleBrother hit 247 on his Garmin.

Also, exercise bikes in low-rent gyms are not designed for women. Or, at least not for women of my height. I have a 'female fit geometry' bike at home - oddly, it's the equivalent of Himself's bike, which doesn't proclaim that it's male fit geometry. Being a woman is seen as bit 'other' 'different' 'odd'. In practice, I have to choose between struggling to reach the handlebars on the upright, or struggling to reach the pedals on the recumbent. The seat on the upright is designed for a male physiology. Women's saddles are very different. Granted, design matters most when you're doing long rides. On the other hand, if a short spin on a fixed bike leads to disproportionate discomfort and pain in the seating area, it's probably not doing much good. 

Useful tips in Female Anatomy and Saddle Discomfort

I had my bike serviced before Easter. then the weather wasn't good. and then I got a cold and cough, and, oh, excuses, and anxiety-induced inertia -which probably warrants a blogpost in itself.

I have bought a gorgeous book called Lost Lanes. The photography alone makes it a must for any discerning coffee table. I was leafing through the words one night recently and began to feel very frustrated. I want to be that person who goes on long all day bike rides. Why shouldn't I? Well, in order to ride long miles you should be reasonably fit. So frustrating to be caught between graded exercise/pacing, and a need and desire for stamina and strength. No point in planning 68 miles around the Isle of Wight without practice!

And so, on Tuesday evening, I left work slightly earlier than normal, and spent half an hour pedalling down to Tooting Common and back. A useful mixture of roads with stupid drivers - amazing how two drivers drove straight at me, (both in 4x4s), one out of sheer aggression, and one too stupid to know you're supposed to look to your right before propelling your car out of a side road. Easy riding along the tarmac, freewheel down the resurfaced path next to the Streatham Hill branch railway, and some moderately challenging riding across hardened mud and up a slight incline alongside the mainline railway. 

That was the easy bit. The hard bit is always  going home. Uphill all the way, and tedious. When I first got the bike, I had to get off and push, so it was a relief not to do so this time. I just felt that I perspired more than I needed to, given the ambient temperature. And, later, my feet were aching too much.

 At least I have now identified I have a footwear problem. In warm weather, I have  - stupidly, it turns out - been wearing light canvas shoes. I did previously wear trainers, but they packed up, and, frankly, who needs trainers? In sterner weather I wear sturdy shoes. But having done a light spin, and yet suffering sore feet for all the next day, I have realised that I need to buy a pair of shoes, either specifically designed for leisure cycling or similar mid-price non-fashion trainers.

On cupcakes

When I was little, one of the first things any good Brownie - or, indeed, a bad Brownie like me - learnt to cook were Fairy Cakes. Bake some buns, dollop some icing on (icing sugar and water, mix to the right consistency) and sprinkle with sugar strands. This recipe says hundreds and thousands but the illustration is of sugar strands. In my opinion, hundreds and thousands are smething different - tiny metallic balls.

Paul Simon sings 

Hide it in a hiding place
Where no one ever goes.
Put it in you pantry with your cupcakes.
It's a little secret,
Just the Robinsons' affair.

Cupcakes are the American for Fairy cakes

I don't know why but, just a few years back, Cupcakes exploded in the UK. People wrote tracts about why Cupcakes are anti-feminist. Or why it's okay to be a feminist and bake cupcakes. Every you went, cafés were selling 'cup cakes'. I can see an attraction. When done well, the decorations can be a work of art. Have enough cupcakes, with sufficient variation in decorations, and you have an eye-catching mouth-watering display, tempting to the customer who only came in for a coffee. Coffee and cupcakes, living the dream.

It might just be me, but the tide seems to have turned. On the last three occasions I have been up for a sweet snack while out I have drunk good quality strong tea, and eaten on two occasions a slice of good old-fashioned cake - Victoria Sandwich at Lullingstone and Seville Orange Marmalade cake at Sezincote, and an old fashioned toasted tea cake in Chipping Campden. And what can match a scone with clotted cream and proper jam, with tea?

I have to confess that I have tried cupcakes from several places on several occasions and have been disappointed. The visual treat is matched by a let down in the taste. Often the sponge is stale, or tastes of cheap margarine. The topping is over-sweet, sickly, and verging on the unpleasant. The topping helps to keep the bun fresher, but only up to a point.

There is one noble exception to the Cupcake disappointment - Ms Cupcake in Brixton. Vegan and gluten free, but nevertheless packed full of flavour. Jimmy got into a habit of buying me cupcakes from there, and I got into the habit of taking photos of them - with my phone. These are not good photos, so on a few occasions I actually took photos with my real camera.

Eventually, I came to the conclusion that these cupcakes, tasty though they are, were giving me such a sugar rush, followed by a sugar low, that I should indulge only on occasion. I have since rediscovered the delights of the slice of traditional English cakes, but I would still recommend Ms Cupcake as outstanding. And she has a cookbook recently published.

We even pretend that cakes aren't for us, but we buy them just for my Ladies' Maid

 

There again, she just likes cake! (from La Parisienne on Streatham Hill)

Wandle Wanderings Part 1

It's - frighteningly - over four years since we discovered the Wandle Trail. We rode along part of it one gorgeous autumn day back in 2008. Looking at my photo album we didn't visit again until August 2011. We have been on several different parts of the Wandle Trail since.

On those earlier bike trips I took very few photos. Cycling's that. It's nice to stop from time to time, to sip some water, and if you're clever, to take some interesting photos. But, unlike walking, you can't keep stopping and still sensibly call it a bike ride. Major downside of cycling - you miss a lot of the detail.

You may recall that last summer was pretty hideous weather-wise, except for a few days in May, right up until the Olympics, which, like the Paralympics, were endowed with nearly perfect weather. It's because of that that I don't moan about the summer of 2012, although I realise that the weather wasn't helpful - to put it mildly - for people dependent on a fair amount of reasonable weather to earn a living.

But one Sunday in July, the nation rejoiced, as the weather looked bright and dry, and not too hot. So we set out for the Wandle. Oh, what a fun day that was! We started with a row on Wandsworth Common, when Jimmy decided without consulting me that the best way from A-B is the most direct way, irrespective of the volume and stupidity of vehicles and their drivers.We had another row in Earlsfield, and I nearly went home, only slightly pacified by coffee. We never did find St George's Park, the sensible way to start the Wandle Trail if you're not a total completist (a shopping centre lies between there and the Tideway). 

It's impossible to explain the charm of the Wandle. The Northern reaches are unsurprisingly urban and still to some extent industrial. It also challenges my awareness of South London - before long, you're passing Plough Lane and the Wimbledon (greyhound) Stadium, yet 'Wimbledon', eg Wimbledon Park, tennis, and common seem so far from home. And, suddenly you feel that you're in the country! Or, at least Wandle Meadow Nature Park, through the more urban Wandle Park (Colliers Wood), and then you have to deal with the chaos that is Merton High Street.  It was the first decent weekend day for weeks, since before the Diamond Jubilee, by then a long-fading memory. There were few people out along the river, but streams of people flowing to Marks and Spencer and Sainsburys, still known to many South London as 'Savacentre'.

Merton Priory was founded in 1114 by Gilbert Norman, Sheriff of Surrey under Henry I. Former pupils include Nicholas Breakspeare (later, Pope) and Thomas Becket. According to Wikipedia 

In 1236 Henry III held a Parliament at the Priory at which the Statute of Merton was agreed allowing amongst other matters Lords of the Manor to enclose common land...As this was the first recorded statute of the first recorded parliament its real significance is as the starting point for parliamentary democracy

A sad statute. The Wikipedia author may celebrate the birth of Parliamentary Democracy, but all over England, and beyond, we see the destructive effects of the arbitrary enclosure of common land for the use of the rich and privileged - remember, back in 1236, the ordinary working man - let alone women - had no say in the land being stolen from us. This New Statesman article is illuminating about land-ownership, albeith in rather impenetrable prose. I'm sure I have read somewhere that over 70% of land in England is owned by fewere than 100,000 people, many of them inter-related. 

Merton Priory was demolished when Henry VIII dissolved the Monasteries. He used much of the masonry at Nonsuch Palace. 

We cycled on through Morden Hall Park, a rare National Trust property in Greater London. I have mixed feelings. I have an increasing dislike for the National Trust, and, to be honest, Morden Hall is a place of no great interest or historical relevance. But the grounds are expansive and calming. The Rose Garden is a bit underwhelming, and, on balance, the greatest attraction of the park is the River.

Even nicer than Morden Hall Park is Ravensbury Park, a tranquil place with the river as a feature, and plenty of places to sit and think. (Or just think). If we weren't with bikes we could have caught a bus home, or a tram from Mitcham. Slightly tedious to trawl down to Mitcham Junction, but the cricket green is rather pleasant. I've just noticed on the map that there is a Wandle Industrial Museum nearby. This is due to move into Ravensbury Mill this year.

Starting to expand the photo collection at Wandle Way; I promise there will be further - and better illustrated - posts on the Wandle!

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Where Hope Flows

The Mystery of Mercy Close - Marian Keyes

I became a Marian Keyes fan by accident. In the mid-90s I was, in many ways, the poster girl for reading so-called Chick Lit books. I rang my mother at work, her boss answered, and called her to the phone with "It's Bridget Jones".I loved the Bridget Jones books. I love watching the Bridget Jones films, even when they're on ITV with advert breaks inserted every 12 minutes irrespective of dramatic tension and continuity.

Searching round a bookshop for more Chick Lit, I landed on Marian's most recent, her second Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married. I was struck by the serious nature of this book, dealing with Real Life problems that extended far beyond 'how to catch a man' and 'does my bum look big in this?' - themes that Helen Fielding does superbly, but not all of her imitators.

As she published more books, I bought and read them. I had bought, read and enjoyed several before it dawned on me that I was a fan. I have grown older, and 'Chick Lit' has lost its appeal. If I was in any doubt, three years ago on a beach holiday in Spain I was 'forced' to read the books in the holiday let, and ended up reading some Sophie Kinsella. Shallow, pointless, unlikeable narcissistic characters.

For the beach holiday last year, I loaded up the Kindle I'd bought largely for this eventuality. And, of course, the latest Marian was on it. The Mystery of Mercy Close. That was several months ago, and the details are fading, but what remains is the knowledge that this is seriously good writing. Strong dramatic narrative with an element of suspense. Believable characters. Flawed characters. Characters that don't easily divide into 'good' and 'bad'. The main protagonist, Helen Walsh says 

"...a shovel list. It’s more of a conceptual thing. It’s a list of all the people and things I hate so much I want to hit them in the face with a shovel.”

She's quite likable, actually, but she's no saint. Some of her behaviour is just nasty. Some of it has more complex motivations. Her parents - what can you say of them. Again, not especially likeable, but believable, and with endearing faults. 

Although I'm sure she's seriously rich, and appears to have a good marriage, Marian's own life hasn't been easy. The previous book I bought of hers is Saved by Cake, how baking helped her to recover from a bleak episode of mental ill health. Her other books have covered subjects such as alcoholism, cocaine addiction, sexual and domestic violence, bereavement, and I believe she has sharp insights which have taught me enormous amounts about these problems.

Running through is a covert existential theme - her characters are generally very involved in aspects of popular culture, but there is never any suggestion that fluff and frippery is more important than the hard reality of life as people live it. And yet, although the subjects are usually dark, there is light in the novels, and a vivid sense of hope - that this, too, will pass.

Don't make the mistake of dismissing Marian Keyes as 'chick lit'. She has one of the most authentic voices I've ever read in fiction. I know she is hugely popular with real thinking people, even though she doesn't feature in the luvvie lists of fashionable writers on the cocktail party circuit. And her commentary on modern middle-class, largely suburban life has some of the qualities for which Dickens is revered.

I've often referenced Marian in discussions about 'celebrity'. In many ways she is extremely famous, and, yet, if I sat opposite her on a train I'm not sure I'd recognise her. That strikes me as being an appealing type of fame. Famous enough to sell shedloads of books, but able to go about her life privately.

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A drizzly afternoon in Dorset

(Sorry that I have still not got back into the habit of regular blog posting. Life has this tiresome habit of getting in the way).

We visited Dorset in March. Previous blog posts on the subject are A winter break in Dorset and A rainy day in Dorset

We stayed in the village of Symondsbury on the outskirts of Bridport. An attractive village, with some of the advantages of rural life - peace and quiet,and long views. We ventured to the village pub, The Ilchester Arms, one evening and found the Locals to be friendly. They must have guessed that we were in a holiday rental, and thus could have been justified in showing some resentment or suspicion - many rural communities are being decimated by holiday cottages. We were involved in a conversation and generally welcomed. I'm not sure how sustainable small pubs in small villages really are. Even on the Friday night it wasn't exactly heaving. They serve food, and the menu looked good, but unless a pub employs a chef ans markets themselves as food specialists, they're not going to get rich on it.

On the Saturday afternoon, after we had stocked up in Bridport, we went for a stroll round the village. If you look carefully in just about any setting, you can always find things of interest. But you do have to get out of your car and walk. Also, it would have been better if I had better light. But it had been raining on and off all day, and time was marching on towards sunset.

I was mildly fascinated by the semi-culverting of the River Simene, allowing it to run under the road. I have a passing interest in Lost Rivers - so many minor rivers in London have been lost to sight (near me the Falconbrook and slightly further, the Effra). I have subsequently visited many places where the river flows down or across Main Street forming an important feature of the village or town.

Most English villages have an Anglican church. This village also has a local Primary School which is an Anglican school. it puzzles me how the churches can be sustainable, as for a religiously selective Primary School at the heart of a village, it seems at best anachronistic and possibly anti-choice, as if imposing Religion, a specific Religion, and a very specific branch of that Religion from the top down - if you are an atheist living in such a village your choice is to send your child to the local school to be taught stuff you don't accept, or to find a properly secular school outside walking distance. But given that the Church is there, and, in this case, appears to have a history dating back to 1325, I totally accept that these are a permanent feature of the rural built environment. The Church didn't look open, and didn't seem to have sufficient interest to warrant a return. 

We often look at graveyards. I hope that Jimmy finds it interesting, because I'm rapidly losing my interest in them. It always strikes me that there are few if any recent graves. I'm not sure what that means. Perhaps the Churchyard is closed to new applicants. Perhaps people are generally opting for cremations. Even so, there are also a few graves that have clearly been visited recently. It's not something I do, and I don't really understand why other people do. I emphasise I'm not being judgemental, it's obviously a popular habit, and, except in extremis, does no one any harm. 

The most interesting feature to me was this construction. It took me a while to figure out what it was, until I saw a sign explaining. I thought perhaps it was some rudimentary but complex flood defence scheme, but it turns out that it's a bath for sheep, for use prior to shearing. I don't think that I had ever seen one before, but, as often happens, just a few weeks later, I saw a similar construction on Countryfile.

In the evening we ate at The George in Chideock. I think it has changed hands since we visited two years ago and remains a high standard. Homely food, well-prepared with fresh ingredients. Not necessarily presented in the most arty way, but I had very decent Butternut Squash soup, grilled fish with a variety of vegetables and chips, and a gorgeous treacle tart. I did take photos, but the ambient lighting was great for eating but not for photography, and I don't like flash in such settings.

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