July 31, 2012
Lambeth Bridge bike lane before
Cycling over Lambeth Bridge on our trip to London this weekend – once I had got over nearly being wiped out by a bus – I was struck by a small detail. The bridge used to have ludicrously narrow bike lanes on it, so narrow they were dubbed the ‘worst cycle lanes in London‘ but they were widened last year (coincidentally just days before we launched the Cycling Embassy on that very corner). And not just widened. One of the really scary things about those bike lanes was that they took you right over the expansion joint of the bridge, just at the point where it ran parallel with the road, forming a lovely trap for an unwary wheel. On Friday I noticed that joint had been filled with some rubbery material that presumably still allowed the bridge to move a fraction in the heat – but which would no longer grab a bike wheel if you were too busy concentrating on not being killed by a bus to avoid it. Which is good. I mean, it’s not as good as giving bikes their own space on the road, away from all the killer buses, but it shows that someone who was responsible for putting a bike lane on the bridge had thought enough about it to remove a hazard.
Whoever that person was, I must say you don’t detect their hand at work too often anywhere else. Central London is now full of handy little cut throughs for bikes which allow you to go the wrong way down one-way street or out of dead ends – great for making the bike the fastest way to get around but designed in a way that leaves them a bit lacking. For instance, you can cut through onto Waterloo Bridge from Covent Garden really easily – bikes even get their own traffic light. On the way south, the other half saw the green light, nipped across the road and promptly ran a red light as he got onto Waterloo Bridge. Why? Because he’s used to driving, and if you’re in a car you’d never get a green light that let you onto a junction and then a red light that stopped you from getting off it. On a bike? Well, who really cares? Bikes are going to run the lights anyway. And coming back, we took a nice little short cut that let us through a closed-off street and then I nearly cycled the wrong way down a one-way street. Why? Because there was no no entry sign to warn me. Well, why would there be, no cars would be coming that way… no wonder bikes in London seem to break every rule of the road. Sometimes it’s hard even to know what you should be doing, unless you’re doing exactly what the cars do.
Anyway, despite the best efforts of the traffic engineers and London’s drivers, we survived. I’m not sure I’ll be signing up for another 15+-mile trip through London traffic on a bike again in a hurry, but I’m glad we brought our bikes, if only so we could enjoy getting around in the blissful conditions when they’d closed off most of the roads for the weekend. Oh, and so the contrast with the final ride back from Bigtown Station to home, with barely a car on the road, could be enjoyed in all its glory. Although I feel duty bound to note that it did start raining the moment we set off…
July 28, 2012
Well, we made it. We got off the train at Euston – an adventure in itself as the promised member of the station staff who was supposed to let us and our bikes out of the back of the train never materialised and we had to go find someone with a key – and set off through the sticky streets of London hoping we’d make it to Hampton Wick alive. We took a slightly circuitous route because we decided it would be easier to go via our old stamping grounds of Lambeth and roads we were familiar with. That was why I found myself on the roundabout at the foot of Lambeth Bridge, suddenly inches away from a double decker tour bus which had decided to overtake me and then turn left onto the bit of road I’d sort of been intending to cycle on before it was full of bus. You wonder whether ‘wiping out a typical London cyclist’ features heavily on the tour itinerary or whether it’s just a lucky bit of local colour. Either way I was pleased to discover that my city cycling reflexes were still intact, if only because it meant I was still alive.
For the rest of the ride there were only two further assassination attempts, both aimed more at the other half than me, and we easily evaded them, arriving sweaty but unscathed an hour or so later – and at least there were no buzzards. I then got up early the next morning and nipped out on my bike to pick up a paper. Suddenly it was as if I’d dropped through a wormhole and landed in an alternative universe, one where the only vehicles moving were bicycles and pedestrians wandered casually across the road. Was this London, or had some massive navigational error meant we’d somehow ended up in Groningen? I knew cycling was enjoying something of a boom in the leafier parts of the South West, but this was amazing. It wasn’t till I got back to my friends’ house that I remembered that they were effectively on an island – because of the road race that day, all of the roads around were closed. Nobody could drive anywhere they couldn’t practically walk or cycle, and so that’s more or less what people chose to do. With a few exceptions, the streets were filled with bikes and people on foot and the few cars that were moving just had to navigate with care.
The men’s road race itself was possibly a bit of a disappointment. Quite apart from the result, watching it from the side of the road gives you no clue what was going on – and then we got trapped on the wrong side of the barriers and couldn’t get back in time to see the finish. The best bit was probably getting onto the race route itself and whizzing round to the ironic cheers of a few remaining spectators. But it did show that closing off enough roads (on a sunny summer weekend, at least, when everyone was feeling a bit holidayish and not trying to get anywhere) makes even London feel like a pleasant and relaxing place to get around. Now all I have to do is persuade them to keep the race route closed to cars until Tuesday so we can get ourselves, our bikes, and all eight of our limbs safely back to the train. Because I’m not really keen to try jousting with tour buses again any time soon
July 26, 2012
Sitting out last evening we were joined – briefly – by the cat, or rather she deigned to come over to be stroked, sharpen her claws on the bench, and make sure we weren’t eating anything interesting. Then her attention was caught by the sight of a swallow swooping in through the window of the swallow shed, where the second broods are busy making a squawking racket, and the rival delights of Swallow TV drew her over. She does love to sit on the windowsill and watch them flying around inside but the swallows aren’t quite as keen and have taken to making their displeasure known in an extremely vocal manner so the cat has taken on a bit of a hunted air in recent weeks, keeping one nervous eye on the sky. Even so, it was a lovely evening, the baby swallow racket was soooo tempting, it was getting dark so maybe the swallows wouldn’t fly, if she kept a low profile and didn’t look too much like a cat they wouldn’t attack. And besides they’re only birds it wouldn’t be that …
… frightening. Wrong. Cue enraged mama swallow, and cat bolting for the safety of the car. Perhaps I’m going to have to make her a cap too.
Anyway, we’re off to face a different kind of peril tomorrow – down to That London to see if we can get our bikes across town without being squashed or getting lost or possibly interned for the duration for daring to use one of the Zil Lanes without authorisation. That should give me something different to blog about – and possibly make the risk of aerial attack seem utterly trivial by comparison. If we’re spared…
July 25, 2012
It seems that gardeners, like generals, are compelled always to try and fight new wars using the tactics of the last. Take my brassicas. The first time I attempted to grow them they were plagued by cabbage whites. The next year I netted them against the butterflies and they were promptly munched by slugs. The year after that I planted them too close together and the broccoli bolted, not helped by a summer so grey that any right thinking vegetable of Italian origin assumed it was in fact winter. This year I have been carefully checking for caterpillars and guarding against slugs and planted everything out with reasonable spaces between them and half of them have promptly succumbed to club root. This is particularly annoying given that last year I went to the effort of testing my soil’s acidity and digging in some wood ash to bring it down a bit for the brassicas, which is supposed to help with club root. This year, I’m afraid I filed that one under too much hassle – after all, I’d never had a problem with club root – so I’ve only got myself to blame.
Of course, sometimes it works out in my favour (so far at least). Another crop which hasn’t done too well – with the exception of Seymour – has been squash. This year I decided to give my plants the best possible start in life in the hopes of raising at least one. I sowed only four seeds, paid them lavish attention, waited for a warm spell (ha!) before planting them out, put them under a cloche for extra warmth, propped them up on sticks so their leaves were out of the way of the slugs, fed them on coffee, and guarded the entrance to the cloche with a slug trap. I confidently expected perhaps one sickly infant out of all that – but all four have survived, nay thrived. One of them has even produced a female flower already. They’re crammed into far too small a space, but there’s no way I’m going to thin or move them now. They’ll just have to sprawl as best they can over the empty spaces where all my failures have been. And undoubtedly now I’ve typed all this they’ll promptly keel over from some disfiguring disease. I should probably have remembered to take a photograph before they all expire.
The slugs, meanwhile, seem to believe in taking the battle to the enemy. As I tweeted last night I was just nipping out last night to pick some spring onions when I saw this chap making a bee-line for the kitchen door.
But that was just the advance scouting party. The armoured battalions can be found lurking between the fennel and the drainpipe
I think some of them will be getting some parachute training – sans parachute – shortly.
July 24, 2012
Are we bored of the buzzard yet? I know I am, and yet this morning – despite it being a typical summer day* – I set off hatless again. I thought about going back but by the time I had realised my mistake I was a mile or so down the road. Ah well, I thought. It’s starting to rain and the buzzard won’t fly in the rain. And I’ll keep my speed steady so I don’t look like prey and it won’t attack. And besides, it’s only a bird, it won’t be that…
…frightening. Wrong on all counts.
Coming back, I discovered that the hood on my everything-bar-the-apocalypse jacket was also effective against buzzards. Which just adds to my impression that when I bought it it was the best how much?! I ever spent.
I was going to end this post with a picture of a buzzard’s-eye view of the back of my head so you can see for yourselves whether it does or does not resemble a squashed rabbit but it turns out to be surprisingly difficult to photograph the back of your own head and the other half is out, so you will just have to imagine it.
* threatening drizzle. The Jet Stream has clearly returned to its normal activity of dumping half the contents of the Irish Sea onto our heads. Readers in the South can keep their moans about it being too hot to themselves, thanks. I get enough of it on Twitter…
July 20, 2012
A brief glimpse of sunshine and absence of showers this morning tempted me out on my bike without (gasp) my gloves and even (sharp intake of breath) my hat. Well, all right, the gloves were in my pocket, I’m not completely mad. It is July, you know.
All went well until I got to Buzzard Corner and then I heard the ominous noise of an enraged mama buzzard who had spotted me and wasn’t happy. Since the first day when I felt the swipe of her talons she hasn’t given me too much trouble, but this time – although she didn’t actually make contact – she clearly meant business. There’s something very scary about seeing the shadow of a bird of prey swooping along the road and closing in on your own shadow on the bike. Any commenter who suggested slowing down or stopping at this point – well, that’s easy to say when you’re sitting at their keyboards with a great big roof over your head, frankly.
So what’s changed? The only difference that I can see is that I wasn’t wearing my hat, just like the last time when it was too windy to risk it. So clearly (as one commenter pointed out last time we were troubled by buzzards) my hairstyle must resemble a squashed rabbit. Cheers, guys.
Of course, scary as it was, it was still preferable to the moment half a mile up the road where a courier driver – clearly more intent on what the Sat Nav lady was saying to him than what he could see through his windscreen if only he had been looking – attempted to turn into a driveway just as I was crossing it. It takes a special kind of genius to almost hit a bike on a road so empty that you, the bike, and an angry buzzard are about the only things moving for miles around.
July 19, 2012
well … with a few notable exceptions, not that badly amazingly
The exceptions being the French beans again. Possibly the clue is in the name: if they wanted to grow in a damp grey cool climate they’d be called Scottish beans. It’s a bit odd because the first time I tried to grow them they were fine – we had climbing beans and dwarf beans coming out of our ears, and some of them even won prizes. Since then? Nada. Last year the dwarf beans came up stunted and then just died and the climbing beans climbed, eventually, but barely flowered and completely failed to bean. This year I think I’ve got three climbers left (two of which, naturally, are trying to climb up the same pole) and while the dwarf beans are looking a bit less peaky than last year, they aren’t looking particularly good. Any suggestions (I’m already feeding them coffee) gratefully received
Still, you know that beetroot you can see in the background, happily growing in the middle of the path?
It was delicious.*
*adjusted for being beetroot