It’s on Days Like These ….

October 28, 2021

… days when it rained all of the day before and it rained all night and it was still raining in the morning and it has kept on raining as if it would never stop…

… days when the road has gone past wet and is no longer really a road, more of a babbling brook …

Water running down the road

… days when the fields have become lochs and the only animals visible are seagulls bobbing in the water …

field flooded up to the gate

… days when the river has burst its banks and filled the road and is pouring mightily into the adjacent field …

water pouring from road down into field below

… that I really really miss the ford.

(someone has sent me some video of it on Facebook, but it’s not the same)


For this Relief, Much Thanks …

October 27, 2021

I’m having something of a worlds colliding experience at the moment. On the one hand, I do have a book coming out in January, which will mean a little bit of self promotion over the next few months (apologies in advance for those of you who are here for the cycling and ford updates, although at least the book does have some hares in it and look how gorgeous its cover is).

Since my last book was published cough years ago, book promotion and social media have come a long way – I didn’t even have a twitter account back then, now I come to think of it. And now I’m getting tagged in by people who have been sent advance copies of my book to review (and even been followed by my publisher) who may be looking at my feed in some confusion and wondering if they’ve actually got the right Sally Hinchcliffe.

I have been guiltily thinking that I should probably be doing some more writerly tweets at least every now and then, or perhaps tone down the climate doom mongering / cycle campaigning / swearing a bit, which might not be a bad idea anyway. All of which good intentions went flying out the window with one casual tweet that went moderately viral about … toilets.

Although, given the grateful response from people of all ages and genders, I’m not sure I should apologise at all.

Anyway, in the interests of book sales and keeping my publishers happy, my book is available for pre-order now. There’s even a bicycle in it.


In a sign …

October 23, 2021

… that I have been in Scotland for too long – and particularly the western side of it – I have started celebrating the idea of ‘slightly warmer rain’.

Exhibit A:

Group of damp cyclists looking over the river

We had a ride down to the local wetland centre on Tuesday on a day that I can only describe (indeed, I frequently did, to nobody’s amusement) as ‘nice weather for ducks’.* As we made our way damply along the river’s banks, stopping frequently to admire the complete and utter lack of views, with our socks squelching gently in our shoes, I was surprised to note that we were all actually having a really nice time. It was wet, we agreed, and that wasn’t great, but at least it was quite warm rain. I don’t know if the weather equivalent of Stockholm Syndrome is officially known as ‘Glasgow Syndrome’ but I think it should be from now on.

Anyway, we went back on Thursday on a sunny day, and I can confirm that it was much nicer when your feet are dry.

Sunny view

Anyone saying ‘no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing‘ can get in the sea.

* I asked the wildlife people and they confirmed that ducks do like the rain, but geese are indifferent to it.


Pedalling Frantically

October 17, 2021

Of all the baffling things that people believe about Pedal on Parliament, the one that gets me every time (even though I’ve heard it a number of times now) is the fact that people think we’ve somehow got things under control. If I hear it described as a well-oiled machine (usually by someone explaining why they haven’t got involved themselves) one more time I might just cry. The fact is – as any regular reader of this blog has probably got an inkling by now – POP is about as well-oiled as my chain in between visits to the bike shop. It runs not so much like clockwork, or even on blood, sweat and tears, as on endless messages on every communication platform existing, emails dug belatedly out of spam folders, four a.m. thoughts, increasingly desperate attempts to bring order to multiply ramifying to-do lists, and pure nervous tension.

And occasionally, just occasionally, bike rides.

The earlier POPs were run using an organisational method best described as Death by Email. Since then we’ve mostly switched to Slack, supplemented by social media messages and painful Zoom meetings – as I believe is now required by law – and I’m grateful for the fact that modern communication methods allow us to misunderstand each other in real time on a wide variety of different platforms, instead of relying on getting our wires crossed on just one. All of which is very draining, so it was utterly restorative to be able to spend a long-delayed 24 hours with my chief POP partner in crime, setting the world to rights, showing her some of the delights of our local cycling routes, bugging her by talking at her during the climbs, and recharging our batteries ready for the final three weeks before we Pedal on COP and join the masses in Glasgow for the Climate Global Day of Justice Action (I’m hoping that by November 6th I’ll be able to get those words in the right order first time without having to go and check the website).

I suppose it’s true that almost every endeavour – especially one run by volunteers in what they laughably call their spare time – is like the swan: for all it might look serenely graceful above the water, there’s a lot of paddling going on underneath. Perhaps if there’s something you know about for which you’re grateful – and which appears to run like clockwork – it might be worth inquiring of the organisers if they’d like a hand from time to time at turning the key; you would likely make a tired middle-aged woman very grateful. And indeed, if one of those things is, in fact, POP itself, here’s your chance to do that very thing.

Meanwhile, it turns out I don’t have a photo of a swan, graceful or otherwise, so have a tranquil leaf instead which, despite doing no paddling at all, was quietly floating upstream as the water rushed past it down towards the sea.

Leaf floating amid reflections in the water

You may write your own metaphor for that.


For Mary

October 9, 2021

After my friend Mary wrote this about her cancer, we have all been out planting spring bulbs, myself included.

Bulb planter

We none of us know where we will be in a week’s time, let alone next spring. But sometimes it’s a necessary act of resistance to plant something for our future selves to enjoy.

chionodoxa flowering

I hope Mary will enjoy hers too.


A Hard Pass

October 3, 2021
cyclist riding along an empty rural road

We were once advised never to buy a house with ‘Mill’ in the name, advice which has stood us in good stead over the years, and a sound principle to live by. In recent weeks I’ve been wondering whether to add a codicil: never to plan a bike ride with ‘Pass’ in its name (especially if it tends to appear in lists of the ‘100 greatest climbs in Scotland’). Despite such wisdom, this morning saw me setting off, with some trepidation, on a ride that would take me over not one but two named passes: the Mennock, and the Dalveen.

Start of the climb to Wanlockhead

The reason is that as part of the Pedal on Parliament plans for COP26 we’re planning a two-day ride from Bigtown to Glasgow, and that involves going over one or other of these passes. It seemed sensible to both recce our chosen route and work out whether I personally had the legs for it before committing irrevocably to the venture. And so a 70-mile Sunday spin was planned with my riding companion to go out up the Mennock, and back down the Dalveen, and see how we fared.

In preparation, I made the mistake of googling the Mennock Pass, just to see what it was like. Unfortunately, what this threw up was mainly discussion of gradients (and the terrifying fact that the climb was ‘longer than Alpe d’Huez’, although this turned out to be only if you head all the way up to the radar station at the top of the hill). It turns out that most descriptions of cycle climbs on the internet start and end with how steep and long they are, without any information about what they’re like to actually cycle on.

Looking back down the Mennock Pass

So here’s my attempt at a corrective: the Mennock Pass is bloody lovely. It’s a long old climb, true, but it’s not an impossible one. The road takes you up between soaring hills, but it follows the river valley for the most part and with the hills on either side to give perspective, it barely feels as if you’re climbing for most of it.* There are signs that it’s been infested with camper vans over the summer (from the number of bins supplied at every possible pull-off point) – not so much ‘wild camping’ as ‘fly camping’ as my pal calls it.

sunshine and looming clouds

The weather was Octoberish: we started in bright sunshine, watched the looming clouds gather, pedalled on through showery rain, braced ourselves against chilly winds, admired a sudden rainbow, and found ourselves back in the warmth of the sun again – and that was just the first five minutes (a pattern which repeated itself for the next eight hours).

Wanlockhead - Highest Village in Scotland sign

We had planned to stop at the pub in Wanlockhead, which very much wants you to know that it’s the highest village in Scotland, but by the time we arrived we had the bit between our teeth and paused only to eat an emergency pork pie (in possibly the least well chosen picnic spot imaginable) and enjoy our flasks of coffee before pressing up the final stretch of the climb. We were briefly tempted by the bar of the highest residential hotel in Scotland, in Leadhills (is there another kind?) but settled for raiding the shop for supplies and then turned right for an excellent descent down towards Elvanfoot, and back round to the Dalveen Pass for a descent into a headwind so brutal we were pedalling all the way down. The Dalveen road is bigger and (relatively speaking) busier, so we were relieved to get to the bottom and back onto the tiny empty back roads that make this part of the world so amazing to cycle on.

Descent from Leadhills to Elvanfoot

My legs now ache and I will no doubt be enjoying some tasty thigh cramps during the night (my quads have already given me some warning shots for attempting to move from the sofa during the evening). But the rest of me is feeling refreshed from spending a whole day off my phone and off the computer, with a pal to chat to and some wonderful scenery to take my mind off the tougher parts. Some parts of the ride were so glorious – like the descent from Leadhills – that it was hard not to laugh out loud. In fact maybe I did.

Quiet back road

Having spent a couple of days somewhat dreading this ride, and then ending up loving it it’s got me wondering. If that was one of the 100 greatest climbs in Scotland … what are the other 99 like?

Dalveen pass

Perhaps I might go and find out.