To Bigtown, to help out for an hour or so at the local guerrilla* gardening group’s seed swap, where we discovered how hard it is to give stuff away to the canny people of Bigtown, and the people of Bigtown discovered how hard it is to wriggle out of being given some seed by sufficiently enthusiastic gardeners (‘I’m no really much of a gardener’ ‘Oh well try some leeks, they’re pretty foolproof’, ‘We’ve no much room’ ‘how about some of this cut-and-come-again lettuce?’ ‘well I’ve not really actually got a garden’ ‘No problem, how about some basil, that’ll grow on a sunny windowsill’ – seriously, you think cyclists are persistent in sharing their addiction…)
And then, the seeds and plants mostly distributed to mostly consenting adults (although if you were out shopping in Bigtown this afternoon and didn’t keep too close an eye on your bag it might be worth checking there aren’t a few unsuspected strawberry runners lurking in there with your messages) I rode home, and for the first time this year I kind of wished I had a camera running to record the ride. Not because of any horrible incident with a driver – the opposite of that, in fact. The fluid way on a bike you can slip through the traffic and escape it altogether onto the paths. And all the little interactions on the way – the two kids playing policemen who whistled at me and held up their hands to make me stop (scofflaw cyclist that I am, I pedalled off laughing), the two teenage girls practising a dance move on the bridge, the dad having a go on his daughter’s scooter. It would appear that spring has sprung and everyone has taken their mental coat off and is enjoying the release.
* “we’re not really guerrillas, but some of us are quite hairy”