the proofing of the Paramo

It's April, the height of the TGO Challenge preparation season rituals.


The run up to the Challenge is punctuated by a succession of events, each one reassuringly familiar over the past 15 years or so, and even after all this time the novelty doesn't wane.


Around February it's that twitchy time of scanning the rail company websites for the release dates of first the overnight sleeper tickets, and then the train home from Montrose. There are bargains to be had when booking  immediately  tickets are released, and more importantly, huge financial penalties for failing to do so. This year I've gone for the First Class option on the way home, for not a great deal more than standard class.


Then the Final Details arrive, and each year I scan for familiar names, and think of the wonderful Challengers that have passed away and are no longer on that list. Each year, being a bit of a saddo, I also find myself counting up how many on the list have completed more than I have, and each year that number gets a little smaller.


Today was a landmark if the countdown to the off - today was Paramo proofing day. I only do it once a year, and rarely can a chap have so much fun with a washing machine and a dryer, warm in the glow of newly restored and functional waterproof gear.


Now I know that Paramo is the Marmite of waterproof gear - some think it too heavy (its got a lot lighter over the past few years), others claim it isn't actually waterproof.


I have a theory about waterproof gear - there is no such thing. If it rains enough, you will, eventually, get wet, it's just a matter of time. So, if I am to get wet, at least it will be in something comfortable. For years I have been released from the tyranny of Gore-Tex, and there's no going back now. The trouble with Gore-Tex (and other similar laminates) is that it's like wearing a crisp packet, and about as comfortable and noisy. The laminate wears out, pointless in boots (leather boots can be proofed with wax, fabric boots offer no protection to the fragile laminate). I'm sure there are newer fabrics, but it's Paramo for me.


So, over the next week or so, I'll be working out how much food to take, where to send parcels, try to remember which way we'll be going, and if that's the same way I put on my route, putting the tent up in the garden for a bit of practise, wondering how many feathers are left in my sleeping bag, and buying a new pair of overly-priced, fluffy walking socks. Oh, and I might do a bit of walking.

Spring

Both the keen-eyed readers of these pages may have noticed that I haven't been blogging of late. There is a reason for this, and it's called Winter. This winter has been truly dismal - wet, grey, dark, the footpaths, even in sunny Essex, have turned to mud and the roads constantly wet and covered in potholes and debris. So, I haven't been blogging because I haven't really been doing much. Hardly any walking and no cycling to speak of.


It's not that I don't like Winter as such - in fact there are some aspects of Winter that I positively look forward to. The winter birdwatching round these parts is superb, and beautiful cold, crisp days are perfect for walking. The trouble is, there haven't actually been any cold, crisp days, just wet.



There are landmarks through winter that I subconsciously tick off, both good and bad



1. The last Sunday in October. Probably the most depressing day of the year, when the clocks go back and we inflict on ourselves the misery of late afternoon darkness. I know that, logically, Greenwich Mean Time makes sense, with midday falling more or less halfway between sunrise and sunset, but I just hate it.


2. Late November through to December. Just dark and wet. Christmas. Hideous. However, from now onwards....


3. December 22nd. The day after the shortest day of the year, a day to be savoured. From this day, imperceptibly, daylight hours are gradually lengthening, and hope is on the horizon.

4. Boxing Day. The day after Chriismas Day is a day for walking, and more importantly, it's not Christmas any more. Most importantly of all, I can now look forward to about ten months of turning on the radio or walking into a shop without hearing Shakin' f****** Stevens singing Merry F****** Chistmas Everyone. Christmas music is uniformly s***, and has no place in a civilised society.


5. New Years Day. It's not New Years Eve anymore, so I no longer have to pretend that I'm excited by the prospect of the clock reaching midnight, and it usually means a walk with the Stockwell Strollers.


6. Around January 6th. Its not my birthday anymore (each time I have a birthday, someone invariably mentions how old I must feel now that I'm a year older, and I invariably reply that I only feel a day older than I did yesterday. Annoyingly, the day after my birthday this year I came down with a severe dose of man-flu, and did indeed feel considerably older than I did the day before) and it's the end of the festive period school holidays - the state babysitting service has resumed and grumpy old men like myself can once again get out and about without tripping over families.
7. February 1st. I like February. It's a proper cold winter month, with the first signs of spring and just enough extra daylight to gladden the heart. As February becomes March nature does it's thing - Hawthorn bushes blossom by the roadsides, bulbs appear out of the ground, birds start singing and the distant sound of woodpeckers doing what woodpeckers do seems to be everywhere. The roads and paths start to dry out, walking boots are on, the bikes emerge from winter hibernation, and all is well with the world.
8. The last Sunday in March. Probably my favourite day of the year, the clocks go forward, it's not dark until about 8pm, spring is definitely here, and summer's just around the corner. Fantastic.
So, the last few weeks have seen a complete climatic transformation - dark wet days have been replaced by long periods of dry sunny weather, my cycling has resumed, and the dry roads mean the Bianchi has been put through it's paces. Some lovely rides on the superb Essex/Suffolk border roads, the Cycale season has resumed and I'm considerably fitter than I was a month ago. Happy days, and spring is here at last.

my tent is restored

Some months ago I discovered that I'd made a terrible mistake. Inexplicably, while clearing out the loft (which is once again just as full of junk), I rather stupidly managed to take the inner portion of our brand new Vango enormo-tent to the dump, leaving us with a £500 tent minus a rather important component. Our new tent was rendered rather too spacious without an inner.

So, back in September, I contacted the manufacturers, and asked if they had a spare inner, more in hope than expectation. They promised too look into it, I forgot about it, and I heard no more. A couple of weeks ago, I sent them a reminder. The very next day, a very nice person at Vango e-mailed me back - yes, I could have one, at the bargain price of £47 including postage. The following day it arrived, and our new tent is restored to full working order. So, thanks very much to all at Vango for excellent customer service.

Mind you, that loft is looking a bit cluttered again..........

A ride of two halves

Saturday was the final Cycale outing of the year, the traditional ride out to the Harwich Winter Beer Festival.

The weather gods again smiled on us, a cool and dry day, and a decent turnout with a couple of new riders. The roads must have been wet, though, as the bike was particularly filthy by the time I got home. Harwich, it has to be said, isn't my favourite town (it has that depressed, run down, end of the line feel that is common to so many east coast towns), although it does have a certain charm, and the festival has a pleasantly understated, relaxed feel.

Almost as soon as we began the ride, it was apparent that this was going to be very slow going indeed, with one rider again much slower than the rest of us. Keith, as befitting our Cycale supremo, took the executive decision to split the group in two, some going ahead, and some escorting our slower rider at a rather more pedestrian pace. Matt and myself volunteered to escort, and not for the first time I found myself on B****sitting duties. Now, I don't mind doing a bit of B****sitting now and again, and pedaling, freewheeling, stopping and generally cycling slower than I can ever remember doing was actually quite relaxing, if a little chilly.

I do have enormous sympathy for those that find themselves struggling to keep up with a group - it must be dreadful to know that everyone is waiting or stopping for you, especially in a group such as ours that doesn't go particularly quickly, and is more interested in spending time at the next pub rather than speeding along. I love to see people doing stuff outdoors, be it cycling, walking, playing sport or whatever, and I especially love to see folk who aren't particularly strong striving to improve their fitness and get out there and do something. That's why I spend so much time loitering and B****sitting at the back of our cycling group, keeping an eye out for those that aren't so fast. We've always had cyclists of varying speed and fitness, and none of us have ever minded. We aren't in a hurry, we just go out for a ride and a few drinks in the company of our friends.

However........there surely comes a point when one realises that

1. "I can't keep up, I might be spoiling these rides for everyone else"

2. "Perhaps I could accept with some grace the help that others are giving me"

3. "Maybe I could do something about this, by putting in a little effort to improve my fitness - it will be so much more enjoyable for me and everyone else"

Sadly, I just can't see that happening.

On a rather more positive note, the ride back was completely different. While most took the option of more beer and the train home, Nigel, Matt, Mark and myself cycled back to Colchester. Normally, a post-beer festival ride would be a sedate affair, but not this time.

For reasons that I can't really fathom, we absolutely caned it on the way back. By common consent, it was the the most effort we'd ever put into a Cycale ride, into a headwind all the way, utterly different from our usual rides. I think it was my fault, I led the way into the wind for the first five or six miles, wondering if the others behind were as knackered as I was. I pulled over, and, sure enough, they were. Mark and Matt took long turns on the front and we reached Wivenhoe, grinning, in record time. Nigel mentioned something about "hanging on to coat tails". Fantastic. Post ride, I felt that warm glow of tiredness as I dozed on the settee, the sort of tiredness that you only get when you've really put in some effort, and legs and lungs have been properly stretched.

On the way back we stopped off at the Black Buoy in Wivenhoe, newly refurbished and reopened as a community buyout, the money put up by a consortium of locals and regulars. The pub was full, and the beer was good, so the future looks good for at least one of our pubs.

Today is a glorious winter's day in Essex, low sun and deep blue sky, not a cloud to be seen and not a breath of wind. In fact, it's the perfect day for cycling. Ordinarily, I'd be out on the bike or walking. However, this morning I pulled a muscle in my ribs, bizarrely, while getting up from the toilet. Don't ask. It's just as ridiculous as the time I had to cut short a holiday in the Lake District, having pulled a muscle in my back while reading a newspaper at the breakfast table. Anyway, that's why I'm sitting here typing this, between hobbling around like an old man and listening to Rob the kitchen fitter dispose of the rest of my savings, instead of doing something really important

health and time

When I started this blog, it was largely for my own amusement, a diary of my outdoor activities, with the occasional rant, that perhaps some other like-minded folk would find interesting or amusing. I'm fairly certain that that's the way it will stay. However, something happened this week that I just can't get out out of my head, something I feel compelled to write about.

The BBC have broadcast, on a couple of a occasions, an interview with Joost van Westerhuizen, the former South African rugby player. Joost van Westerhuizen was one of the greatest sportsman of his time, who represented his country on 89 occasions, and was a powerful sportsman who played the game with great skill and athleticism, and, it has to be said, some devilment.

Three years ago he was diagnosed, at the age of 42, with Motor Neurone Disease, a hideous degenerative neurological condition, an illness that a few years back took the lives of two of my friends, Darren and Robbie. In the interview, he speaks eloquently and with great dignity about the disease and about his impending death.

That in itself would be heart-rending enough, were it not for the remarkable physical resemblance between Joost van Westerhuizen and my brother Lewis, who died from the disease last year. Lewis was a gentle man, who had just got his life back together after finally extracating himself from his hateful and deranged ex-wife, and the diagnosis came at the cruellest time, when he had once again found happines.

It's not just that they look so alike (both dark, handsome men, Lewis was one of those annoying blokes who actually got even better looking as he got older and more grey), it's the mannerisms and identical  effects of the disease that took my breath away. The slight tilt when sitting in the wheelchair, the wasted, bony shoulders, the difficulty swallowing, the movement of the head with the sheer effort of talking, and most of all the slurred, barely coherent speech (the BBC actually used subtitles for the interview). 

Watching the interview, I could have once again been at the nursing home where Lewis' life ended, desperately trying to understand the words that he struggled to say. Sadly, that's the memory of Lewis that is most clear in my mind, rather than the lovely, kind, laid back brother I should remember. My memory of my father, who died six months before Lewis, is similar. I should remember a strong, energetic man with a remarkable work ethic, but what's in my mind is a tired old man, rendered helpless by strokes, deafness and the gradual failure of his body.

In the interview here http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/0/rugby-union/24890861 Joost van Westerhuizen tells us that "there are two things that we humans take for granted, health and time". He's right. Nothing else matters. Everything else is trivial.

blackberries, trig points and birdwatching

Autumn has arrived in Essex this past week or so - after months of warm,dry weather it's back to cool, windy and wet. I even lit our first coal fire of the season. So, the outdoor activities have been curtailed somewhat, I've wimped out of cycling and resorted to a bit of ambling about.

We had a wander around one of my favourite places - Fingringhoe Wick Nature Reserve, run by the very nice people at Essex Wildlife Trust.

Our visit didn't involve much in the way of exercise, just a bit of a stroll, a bit of half-hearted bird-watching (the tide was out, so there wasn't a great deal to see) and the immensely therapeutic pastime of blackberrying (I'm not sure if that's a real word).

Strangely enough, I'm not overly fond of blackberries taste-wise, but it's immensely satisfying to harvest a bit of free fruit from the hedgerows, and if it's possible to overdose on blackberry crumble, I've come close the past few days.

Another reason for visiting Fingringhoe, apart from the free soft fruit, is this small but perfectly formed little structure

Trig points are a rarity around these parts, and, having spent much of my adult life blundering around hill tops and summit ridges looking for them, it's a real pleasure to find one just loitering in an Essex field, at a massive height, by my reckoning, of all of sixty feet above sea level (I've heard rumours of Fenland trig points that are actually below sea level). The re-surveying of this country using a network of trig points took a quarter of a century, beginning in the 1930's, and was a stupendous achievement that gave us our wonderfully accurate, and quite beautiful, Ordance Survey maps.

I took a walk down the river from the Hythe to Wivenhoe. The Hythe remains as shabby as ever, the ghetto-like new flats (sold,of course, as "luxury apartments") doing little to mask the overriding sense of industrial decay. However, once beyond the disused and derelict warehouses, the graffiti, the mud and the sewage works outlet pipe, the river is home to an abundance of wildlife.

I'm a fairly incompetent birdwatcher, but within an hour I saw, in no particular order, Herring Gulls, Black Headed Gulls, Teal, Swans, Robin, Moorhen, Great Tit, Carrion Crow, Mallard, Redshank, Black-Tailed Godwit, Little Grebe, Little Egret and Magpies. Not bad for a dirty, polluted piece of river, and well worth a stroll on a rainy day

Keith gets his cape out

Another Cycale trip, and 6 of us cycled about 35 miles through deepest Suffolk from Diss to Stowmarket. It was one of Nigel's routes, so that meant plenty of pub stops

Keith was with us on this one, so that meant and endless supply of inadvertently comic material courtesy of our nearly crowned Cycale Supremo. He began the day by announcing that he had pumped up BOTH his rear tyres, before completely misunderstanding Matt's request for some lube and offering him something inappropriate.

First stop was the Bell at Rickinghall

Then on to the Dun Cow at Bardwell, a Greene King pub with a "beer festival" consisting of three beers that weren't Greene King

Next was our lunch stop, the excellent Greyhound at Ixworth, a curry for myself and Keith and an enormous fry up for the others. However, the highlight of the pub was the inexplicably rare Greene King XX Mild, one of my favourite beers. Greene King may well be the least popular brewery in the country, with a reputation for buying up and asset stripping other breweries while retaining the "brand", as well as brewing rather bland beers, but XX Mild is a fantastic beer.

Next up was the Fox and Hounds at Thurston

 As we left Thurston it started raining, ordinarily not good news on a bike ride. However, with Keith in the group this was a moment to savour. Cycling with Keith in the rain can only mean one thing - Keith might get his cape out, with all the comic possibilities of one of the most ridiculous garments ever seen on two wheels. Keith, to his credit, is a man seemingly without any sense of embarrassment, and he didn't let us down. The only disappointment was that he didn't manage to accidentally set fire to it, as happened on a previous ride. Here it is in all it's glory.

 The Five Bells at Rattlesdon was my favourite of the day - a proper village pub, full of locals with Earl Soham Gannet Mild at £2.40 a pint.

Then on to the Kings Arms at Stowmarket for a quick half before getting the train home - an excellent day.

As the Cycale year comes to an end, I'm in a bit of a dilemma - I'm the inaugural winner of this coveted trophy, the Cycale Puncture of the Year Award

I was presented this in recognition of simultaneously getting a puncture and falling off on last year's Norwich ride, and it's my responsibility to present it to this year's winner. The trouble is, there haven't actually been any decent punctures on any official cycale rides this year, so I'm struggling to find a new recipient. I may just have to keep it for another year.