The Sin Bin - Automatic Chain Oilers.

A clean and well oiled chain is a joy – silent and smooth running, along with easy shifting of gears. I'm a bit of a chain oiling obsessive, usually putting far too much on, too often, and so ending up with a manky, gooey paste as dirt sticks to it, sort of defeating the object of the lube in the first place. So you'd think I'd welcome the idea of an automatic chain oiler, an item that works very well on motorcycles.

Well no. Just how hard is it to oil your own chain, really? Judging by the state of some drive chains you see out and about, usually on some poor old commuting rattler, it is nigh on impossible, but the sort of person that neglects their bike to such a degree is hardly the sort to shell out a load of Lizzies and fiddle and fanny about fitting fancy bottles of oil and hi tech jockey wheels to their bike.

There seem to be at least two types on the go, one using a soft plastic bladder and a bottle of oil that requires the pilot to squeeze the bladder periodically while riding to push oil out onto the chain. The other uses a pair of AA batteries in a downtube mounted device that does it all for you, although you do have to programme it to tell it how often you want your chain squirting. So you have bottles and bladders, pipes and tubing, and oil nozzles to aim at the chain, or even a whole new jockey wheel to install. What a load of faff that lot will be! Bike frames already have plenty of cables, hoses, bottle cages, bags, pumps, and batteries hanging off them, who wants to go plumbing in a load more guff?

No no no no! Just buy some oil and put some on the chain every now and again, it takes just a couple seconds. You don't even have to use shop bought bike oil, old engine oil is better than no oil at all for instance. These things surely are a case of desperately making something to sell, regardless of whether the resulting product has any real merit.

If one of these devices turns up in my stocking one Christmas, there will be the most dramatic and bloody murder in Lapland of a popular bearded seasonal character, and his merry elves, the world has ever seen.

Conkering.

Conkers - I'd almost forgotten about them. Riding a motorcycle or driving various four wheelers in recent years, Horse Chestnuts to give them their proper title, didn't feature much. I might notice a few squashed examples on the road surface, but then my attention would flick back to whatever else was going on on the road. But out for a bimble and en route to some local woods yesterday, I came across the green knobbly seed casings, and the shiny contents themselves, the conkers.

An exciting sight in my childhood.

Conkers were a big thing in childhood, and the first sighting of them on the ground would lead to some frenzied stick throwing into the trees to encourage more to drop. Pockets would be stuffed full and the catch taken home to be prepared for combat in the school playground.

Some would be baked in the oven, others soaked in vinegar, still more set aside for the following year, as age hardens them apparently, but I never did find out for sure as I'd either forget where I stored the previous year's cache, or they were secretly thrown out by a parent. Once some sure fire world beaters were picked, holes were carefully made in them, usually with a meat skewer in my case, and string threaded through, ready for the white heat of fierce competition.

Some local woods were the target for the ride.

Conkers is a simple game, but of course, of vital importance to one's reputation and playground prestige. It was usually extremely disappointing for me though, as my favoured weapon was often smashed to smithereens under the impact from some weedy looking kid's 'two'er' or 'three'er'. Failure would often result in accusations of brazen cheating - “That's not a conker you git, that's a dwarf cannonball” but there were no stewards to initiate an enquiry or dish out suitable punishments, you just had to take it on the chin, (then try and nick the kid's victorious conker while his back was turned). There was also the pain of rapped knuckles, and if the conkers tangled then the striker could expect to get at least two fingers painfully constricted by the suddenly tightening coarse string wrapped around them. The clever kids used long shoe laces which were less abrasive to juvenile skin. I hated the clever kids.

Plenty of pine cones around too, but they are no match for a good conker. You can't play extreme sports with a pine cone, nor ward off invading critters. A conker makes a good missile as well, the aero shape and heavy mass lending themselves to such activities, but a pine cone makes for a poor impact with its light weight and bulky shape. Nope, conkers are where it's at.

Some schools have banned games of conkers now, for fear of being sued should a kid get injured in some fashion, probably by being blinded by a flying piece of shell. Where's the fun in that? The adrenaline rush of danger is all part of sport for the players, and the chance of seeing a kid lose an eye right in front of you... well... how cool would that be? That was a possibility not to be missed, so you'd make sure you got right in close when watching a contest, and squinted, just in case the shrapnel came your way. Many were the battles that took place in the middle of a circle of eagerly expectant kids, all screwing their faces up in unison as the striker took aim.

Another report though suggested one school's ban wasn't for health and safety reasons, but because it encourages feelings of superiority as victorious players lord it up over their defeated class mates, and we can't have winners and losers in modern touchy feely society can we? My thoughts on such policies, and the pallid, lilly livered, hand wringing types that come up with them, aren't for airing here, as my swear box is overflowing as it is and the internet is far too polite a place for such bitter and eye wateringly strong language.

All these things were racing through my head as I rode on, and I might yet return to the scene and fill my pockets once more. Not to start playing again, I'm a bit old for that, but because Spiders are supposed to hate conkers, and their presence in a house will deter the bandy legged beasties from entering. I'm all for anything that keeps the hairy arsed beggars out believe me. I'd shoot them with a twelve bore shotgun if I could, both barrels too, you have to make sure after all. Either that or they're just crap at playing the game and don't like to be reminded, but for whatever reason, conkers do the business on Spiders apparently, and that has to be a good thing.

Bimbling about in the local woods.

So that's Conkers - vastly under rated sources of cheap sporting endeavour and useful Arachnid repellents. 

The Sin Bin - 24th September, 2015.

This is aimed at the salad swerving MAMIL roadie I had the misfortune to be walking behind in town this morning, as he pushed his bike along the pavement mingling with the shoppers.

Dear MAMIL,

I'm sure skin tight lycra provides many benefits for you when out putting in the miles on your slim, lightweight, performance steed. But there is an issue that needs addressing, and it is with regard to that skin tight nature of your chosen attire, specifically in relation to your shorts, and your erm... shall we say, generous build.

Nobody wants to see your fat arse in town mate! 

Particularly so as you seem to like going commando. Oh yuck! 

Your bum crack wobbling about like a caravan in a crosswind just ahead of me made me fear for the integrity of my stomach contents. It's not a pleasing sight so early on a fine morning I can tell you. That was just with you walking along the street, what the hell things are like when you are stretched forward to the bars is beyond contemplation. Judging by the faces of people walking towards you, the view from the front was more alarming than charming too.

The worst of it is you probably stood in front of a mirror in your gear when you bought it, and thought 'yup, looking good...' No no no no... No! A Hog's Pudding in a sausage skin would be more like it. 

Some people really shouldn't be allowed to choose their own wardrobes and you sir are a prime example. Wear some baggier shorts over your lycra jobbies for pity's sake, nobody wants to see your barrel like backside in such vivid, cheek wobbling clarity.

You sir, whoever you are, are in the Sin Bin for heinous clothing and visible bumcrack crimes, and I hope you use the time to carefully consider your actions! This is a lenient sentence by the way, as I was sorely tempted to wrestle your poor bicycle from your grasp and stick it right where the sun actually was (unfortunately) shining this morning. In fact there was room there for two bikes, such is the vastness of your lycra clad backside. Please, get some dignity, decency and decorum!

Grrr.....

Oh no... I know I shouldn't have started typing this just after eating my dinner... excuse me...

Death and the Autumn Equinox.

Today is the Autumn Equinox, when the length of daylight and nightime are equal, and from now on, it all goes downhill. But Autumn isn't all that bad really, in fact, I like it a lot. Autumn has an atmosphere and smell all of its own and the lanes somehow seem more peaceful and still as the year starts winding down, unless it's blowing a proper hooley of course, then things are bit more energetic, but still.

After a couple of days of not feeling so clever, a ride today was just what was needed. Setting out, I often find the rhythm for that particular ride within a few hundred yards, and today was a proper bimbling day – it was going to be a ride spent mostly in the lower gears and in single figure speeds, and when it comes to enjoying the back lanes, well that's no bad thing at all. You ride the lanes to escape the rat race, so why go hooning along them in a blur of piston like knees and pulling anguished faces? 

Forget training and KOMs on Strava and all that sort of nonsense for a change, pick a low speed or gear and stick to it, and sit back and enjoy the simple pleasures of riding slowly, that's what I say! (it's also a good excuse for not being very fast anyway, but we won't mention that here...)

The lanes this morning were utterly peaceful, just a few birds and the crackle of my tyres on the gritty tarmac to listen to – mostly. There were a few farm tractors out and about as usual, and the ever present Crows kicking off as I disturbed their peace, but days like today remind me how lucky I am to live in the countryside and not have to battle the traffic and white noise of towns to reach it.

It was also a bit of a wildlife themed ride, as first up I disturbed some sort of bird of prey or other. I looked up as I was passing a gap in the high hedge where a farm gate is set back from the road, just in time to see it take off, bank to the right, and soar low to the ground down the field and away. Whatever it was, Kestrel, Buzzard or Hawk (I'm not up on my birds as you can tell) it made a graceful spectacle flying so effortlessly and silently away.

The ford at Boswiddle has only just reached the road, but will soon enough be much deeper and faster moving.

Boswiddle Ford is where I always upset the local Crows. They always start squawking and screeching as I approach the top of the steep hill which leads down to a small river, and continue their barracking the whole time I'm there. It's a spot I usually stop for a while, as it's a peaceful place (Crows apart) and the sound of the running water is rather relaxing. The water had just broken over the top of the bridge and started a narrow flow across the road – slightly surprising given the rain we've had recently, I expected to give the bike a bit of a clean ploughing through the water there. Give it a few weeks though and it will be running fast and deep again.

Another place I'll stop and take in the view when passing.

Leaving the ford, and the unruly Crows behind, I came across the sad sight of a recently killed Badger - wildlife encounter number two. Encounter number three came a little later on in the form of a young Pheasant, I imagine the victim of a traffic collision, but in this case, still alive, just. I did consider breaking its neck but thought I'd only make a mess of it and inflict more stress and pain on the poor beast, so left it to its fate. It may recover, or it may fall prey to one of the local cats, but that's life, and death, and the way of things I suppose.

Some Badgers are illegally killed then dumped on a road to look like they've been hit by a car. Possibly what happened here.

One very poorly Pheasant, but what to do with it? I chickened out and left it be.

Mind you, I nearly bagged a Pheasant or two of my own just a few yards further on. They are criminally stupid and chaotic creatures at the best of times, and it seems utterly cruel shooting such dumb critters and hardly worthy of praise or merit – I've nearly collected at least a dozen or so just by cycling about the lanes and startling the darn things. Blasting them to oblivion with a shotgun is just stacking the odds too far in the shooter's favour I reckon. Go blast something smaller and faster ya big bullies! 

Anyway, there I was pottering slowly up a hill when several junior Pheasants ran out of the hedge and up the road ahead of me. All but one finally remembered they have wings and the power of flight and took off, while the other dimwitted bird just ran up the road, looking behind now and then as it went, until finally it turned left into a gateway and disappeared.

 But that wasn't the end of the Pheasantry as the last wildlife encounter of the day involved a much bigger example, and I reckon as they grow older and bigger, so their brains grow smaller. This one went true to Pheasant form. I didn't know the dumb blighter was there, I could've passed it by and wouldn't have been any the wiser. But Pheasants don't really do stealth, or hiding, they do panic and chaos and they do it to a very high level indeed. There was a sudden screech and out from the hedge right beside me on the left burst a bigg'un. Good job my bowels were in good and strong order today, let's put it that way, 'cos I only had one bicycle clip with me and it didn't half make me jump. This one didn't leg it up the road though, oh no, it flew right across my handlebars so close I could've slapped it on the backside, and then crashed and kerthwacked into the hedge on the other side of the road. Never mind dicing with fast moving buses and taxis in towns, we country bikers have blundering brainless birdlife to contend with, and at least four wheelers are predictable. One day I'm going to come home, slightly dizzy, and wearing a dead or stunned Pheasant like a fat feathery hat, it's as certain as Christmas.

Foresters have been busy in the Duchy of Cornwall woods near Trendeal.

The rest of the ride was thankfully uneventful and very enjoyable, and I did break my self imposed speed limit by having a fair old tear up down the hill on a paved bridleway that used to be part of a main road. I'm only human and we all like a bit of speed now and then after all, and I topped out at a blistering 30.8 mph. Chris Froome's team place at Sky might be safe for a while yet, but when he goes out bozzing along on his bike he's not doing it on 26 inch wheels and fat knobblies is he. Blasting slow witted fat birds with shotguns or racing round France on lightweight super bicycles... some folk clearly have it too easy...

More Duchy land, more logs freshly cut.

So Autumn is well and truly here, and the nights are getting longer than the days, but it's winter that really gets me down. Autumn isn't bad at all, the smell of rotting leaves mingles with the smoke from chimneys as fires are lit for the first time in months, mists hang low and the countryside is an atmospheric and tranquil place to be. I'm quite looking forward to it.

Misty Morning Coffee Ride.

This post is going to be photo heavy as I got just a bit carried away with the beauty of the moment, or moments, as they are spread over a couple of hours. Beauty of the couple of hours just doesn't sound right. Best bet – make your own phrase up and insert it here, as you know what I mean.

Saturday dawned just as the weather forecasters promised – misty but full of the promise of warm sunshine later. Feeling up to a ride, thankfully, I already had the ideal location in mind for a murky start, so the Voodoo was loaded up and off I set as fast as I could manage (not that fast then, being honest), for another coffee ride, this time down by a local river.

Early morning can be a magical time to be out and about, and this particular morning was certainly living up to the billing. The sky was blue and the air fresh as the sun started filling everything it reached with golden light, and within seconds I realised the day was going to be a bit special. Well it would be if I could reach my goal before that sun burned away all the mist, if I didn't then the air would be blue with some rather industrial language, but for the moment, it really was great to be out in the big old world on a bike.

Yeah I know, 5 mph... but this is near the summit of a long hill, and my brakes were rubbing... and... it was a recovery ride... 

Despite my desire to get a shake on, I still had my photographic eye enabled and was soon hitting the anchors, hanging a U-Turn, and messing about trying to get a photo of a cobweb without disturbing the snoozing resident spider by piercing his web with a handlebar end. While I was faffing about with that I heard a very strange noise approaching from the other side of the bushes. A bull snorting away as it came to see what this twerp was doing next to his hedge perhaps. It turned out to be a female jogger though, with what to me seemed a rather unorthodox breathing pattern of a short intake followed by a deep and sudden outward breath/grunt/moan as if she had just been stabbed. She looked alright, seemed to be making good pace and not holding her bloody guts in or anything so I guess it's just her running technique. I couldn't run to my back door so I wouldn't know a good technique from a bad one, it just sounded odd having the still air pierced by such uneven gruntage.

I read a book recently where the author described the low sun shining through gaps in a hedge onto a path as he walked, as being like the hides of a hundred Zebra laid flat. I'm not that lyrical, so I'll just say that riding along the hedge lined lanes on the tops of the hills was like riding along a big bar code, or a Blue Bottle doing a low fly past over a bald blokes comb over. 

A bit further on, where the hedge gets a bit higher, that sun would strobe into my left eye making for a slightly unusual riding posture.

The road was stripey, that's what it was, and all very nice unless the sun was caught at the wrong angle and then it strobed away into my left eye driving me nuts for a short while, so I dipped my head down and slightly to the left, while looking up and slightly to the right, the peak of my baseball cap shielding the worst of it. I probably looked very odd, but who cares, there's no one about at that time in the morning... well apart from grunty joggers and farmers. Lots of farmers. Busy lot they are and I encountered quite a few tractors growling along the roads.

 These things fill the lanes like a Sumo Wrestler fills his swimming trunks. Not much room spare so best to get right out of their way.

Beautiful morning for a ride.

Piling on the coals I soon reached civilisation, or rather the village of Tresillian, but it's close enough. I was getting near my destination now, and thankfully, all was still misty and low on contrast. So misty in fact that my glasses steamed up or got moisture on their outside, I don't know which, but I passed through the village with my head cocked back slightly trying to peer out from under the water globules. I probably looked very odd (haven't I just written that?) like I'd caught my scarf under the back of the saddle or something, but who cares, there's no one about at that time in the mor.... actually there was, but I was past worrying what people thought of me by then, let 'em stare, I don't care (sounds like a line from a Punk song...).

The Wheel Inn in Tresillian dates right back to the 14th Century, which means it is officially classified as 'a bit old.'

Minutes later I was at my target location, beside the Tresillian River, and taking in the peaceful surroundings. Everything was still and quiet, at first. But the more you listen, the more you hear, and nature can be quite noisy, but it's a good noise - one to tune into rather than out of.

Time to sit and watch the sun burn the mist away.

The far bank of the river was only visible as a large grey mass, as the sun here was still largely blocked out, and looking down the river towards Truro revealed just a grey, murky... well... murk. Never mind all that though, I'd just flung myself out of bed, ridden just over five miles up hill and down dale, all without caffeine. That is some commitment right there, I think you'll agree, so I needed my reward and set about brewing a frothymungous Cappuccino. A beautiful and peaceful setting and a tasty, strong, coffee to compensate the effort involved in getting there – perfect.

Not black and white conversions, just shot towards the sun.

As time was going by so the sun was gaining strength, and slowly but surely colouring in the countryside on both sides of the river and revealing all the details previously hidden, until the last hill top emerged from behind the haze. This was what I had hoped to see and didn't want to miss.

Autumn is here, and the leaves are just starting to drop. This one clinging to a semi submerged stone on the river's edge. 

The day had finally got up and running, and everywhere seemed to wake up with it. The path behind me was busy by now with joggers and dog walkers, a chap in a motor boat burbled past, and someone fired up a chain saw on the far bank. Time to move on then. I followed the riverside path down to the Hamlet of St Clement, poked my nose around there for a bit, then headed back the way I'd come.

Above and below - Downtown St Clement.

Heading back. The path is a Bridleway, and being beside the river, flat all the way.

The day had by now gained some proper heat and I was sweating like a glass blower's backside  I was a bit hot going up one of the gruesome hills leading away from Tresillian village. Time to hang the trusty baseball cap on the bar ends and get some cooling air onto my sweaty crust. Try doing that on your drops, or wide as a house 29er bars! Bar ends might be a bit 1990s, but they are still darned practical for hanging your hat on, a much overlooked feature I think.

A thoroughly enjoyable and rewarding ride then, one to look back at when things are less harmonious and draw strength from – there are good experiences to be had, and they will come again.

Singletrack Magazine - Good News and Bad news.

Whoop! The latest, (and 100th, as you can see) issue of Singletrack magazine clumped onto my doormat yesterday, and of course, it looks well up to the usual high standard.

That is the good news.

The bad news came when I just had my daily look on their web site and saw that Deputy Editor Jenn is stepping down. Reading further I discovered it was because she has stage IV Cancer, and that is so desperately sad. When you find a real corker of a magazine, a mag you enjoy reading and eagerly await every issue of, you also tend to connect with the staff in some small way, you enjoy reading their output and get to see their faces, and so you sort of get to know them, so when something like this happens, you feel the sadness and the tragedy too. Clicking the link and expecting to see Jenn was off to pastures new or something, I was gutted to read the news.

There are details on the web site of how donations are being made to Cancer Research UK and Macmillan Cancer Support from various 100th issue special product sales, and also from new print and digital subscriptions.

Best wishes to Jenn, and all those close to her.

Puddle Pedaling and Selfie Sticks.

Well Autumn is here alright. I seem to have missed summer, must've had my back turned for a mo and there it was... gone. But now the rain we've had during the erm... 'summer,' has taken on a slightly more hostile edge, aided and abetted by some pretty unruly and blustery winds. Monday night was a prime example – it battered down. The horizontal rain lashed my windows and the restless tree outside scraped its branches along the guttering all night (really must trim it back), making getting off to sleep a frustrating process. Eventually though I did and Tuesday dawned dry(ish) and calm.

Now all that rain can only mean one thing – one of my favourite lanes for a potter will be flooded in parts. I always enjoy these occasions because despite the depression and despite being the wrong side of the half century on this planet, I still behave like a small child sometimes, and enjoying splashing through the puddles and floods on a bike is one such occasion. 

Whoop! Here we go...

I see people walking bikes along the footbridge beside fords and think what a right load of boring old farts they must be. Surely it is every cyclist's duty to bomb through puddles and fords, preferably with feet up and off the pedals, and shouting 'wheeee' as they go. If not duty then it should be made law, and what a fun world it would be too, along some commuter heavy routes in particular. Cycling through big puddles is good for the soul. Well that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. 

It's also why I am often to be found taking repeated runs through standing water, camera in hand, trying to grab some splashfest of a photo or other. That's another excuse – it's all in the name of art madam, nothing to do with being immature at all... Ahem...

Anyway, the promise of puddles and floods saw me setting off on the Voodoo (it was already besoiled from its previous outing, otherwise snotty, grotty roads would call for a snotty, grotty bike – the Carerra) armed with a new toy to try out with the GoPro.

When I bought the titchycam, I also got one of those huge bags of mounts that litter the Amazon listings. It was full of useful guff like the oft used so far chest harness, a head harness (yet to try that, needs to be dark for that I think, and somewhere I'm not easily recognised), and a collection of fiendishly clever looking mounting systems to explore, just as soon as I can figure out where they go, and what they might do. Also in the bag though was the dreaded selfie stick. I hate those things, as many others do it would appear. But you don't have to use the darned thing to aim the camera back at your grinning mush filling the frame ahead of some celeb or tourist attraction or whatever, it can be used for all sorts of interesting viewpoints of course, and I had an obvious angle in mind when I added the thing to my gear for the ride. I just hoped I didn't cark it along the way – oh the shame of having a stranger go through my stuff and finding a selfie stick in there. Some things are just too embarrassing to contemplate.

Anyone who could just see my head over the hedge going repeatedly up and down the road, must've thought I kept getting my jacket caught in a bush or something...

Anyway, it was all good wobbly fun, hanging the GoPro upsy down in front of me while riding through the puddles, so the stick proved its worth, and the rest of the ride was an enjoyable one too. It was a sunny periods/showery kind of day, although having donned all my waterproof gear (and spare water wings for the flooded bits – you never know how deep they may be) it didn't actually rain on me, which is typical.

I've often stopped at this gate thinking there is a photo here somewhere, but nothing has really worked in the past for various reasons. On this occasion though I managed to bag a shot I was half pleased with. 

Only a short trundle around one of my local loops then, but still an enjoyable one. It wasn't just the puddles that needed negotiating either, but all the other detritus that a dark and stormy night down here brings – tree branches in the road, mud that'd been dragged out of fields and across the lanes by fast running water, battered and blown recycling bins and so on. 

It wasn't all puddles and mud.

So Autumn is here, but it'd be pretty boring really if it was hot and sunny all year round wouldn't it.

Anna Hughes Takes On Lejog.

I've done a fair bit of motorcycle touring and camping in the past, from weekends away somewhere to tours around Europe, and it is an experience I really miss these days. The sense of freedom is immense as the pressures of the daily drudge are replaced by a liberatingly simple and care free existence, an aspect aptly summed up in the title of the book mentioned here. Just you, your wheels, and yourself to please.

I no longer own a motorcycle, but the idea of a cycle tour, a bit of bike packing or even a sub 24 hour jobbie perhaps, appeals greatly as well of course, but due to my circumstances health wise I doubt I'll be able to manage even the single night out of an S240. So I make do with reading about the adventures of others, usually in book form of course, what with me having a bit of an Amazon habit and all. I've read a fair old number of cycle touring tomes recently then, and as you'd expect, some are a good read, while some I just don't connect with and put down after a few days, never to be finished. 

Definitely in the former group though is Eat, Sleep, Cycle by Anna Hughes, and the story of her 4,000 mile solo ride around the coast of Britain. 

Anna is less fond of the camping side of touring, preferring a proper roof to kip under but I'll forgive her that as this was a cracking book that I fair whizzed through – always the sign of a good tale told well, and a recommended read.

It therefore follows that my fingers are well and truly crossed that there will soon be another volume to dive into, as Anna is off on her travels again, and I can only hope she is experiencing better weather where she is today than we're having down here in Cornwall. It's minging out.

But yes, she's off again, this time doing Lejog – Land's End to John o'Groats, and I'm just sorry I missed her talk and book signing appearance at a local bike emporium as she passed through early on in her journey. It also would appear she is embracing the delights of the tent on this trip as well, so I'm looking forward to reading about how she gets on under canvas, or rip stop double walled ballistic hydrostatic nylon or whatever it is these days.

Anyway, whilst waiting hopefully for the book, we can still keep up with her adventures via her web site and her Lejog Blog.

I just hope this boisterous breeze that's tossing the recycling bags down my street right now is behind her.

Made To Feel Awkward on a Coffee Ride.

Waking up early yesterday to another sunny morning and feeling up for a ride, but not knowing where to go immediately, I decided to pack the stove and a selection of coffees and decide over a hot cuppa somewhere pleasant. So I stumbled out of the house rather than bursting forth like they do in TV ads on a sunny day, and still a bit foggy of mind and bleary of eye, set off for the local woods.

Nice morning for it.

Now, you know that awkward feeling you get when you walk into a room and disturb a private conversation? People stop talking and turn and watch you, waiting to see if you're going to stay or take the uncomfortable hint and go – that feeling. Well I got that on the way to the woods, not from any people mind, but rather from a load of cows. There is a gateway half way down the hill I was descending, and I always look through it as it offers rather splendid rural views, and on this morning, the field was home to a herd of cows including a lot of young'uns, so I thought I'd stop and bag a snap or two. Rather than come over to see who I was and get a good rub on the snout like many cows do, this lot just looked up at me, stopped what they were doing (munching) and stared, and then stared some more. 

That awkward moment when you walk into a room and everyone stops what they're doing and stares...

I felt like I was intruding on something and they were waiting for me to go so they could continue whatever it is cows do when we're not looking (my bet is line dancing). So now feeling very awkward with my obvious interuption, I sort of made an embarrassed smile and crossed the road back to my bike, the silent mooeys watching me go every step of the way.

Alright, I'll just go shall I? I said I'll just go... Oh forget it... 

It was as I was getting back on that I saw a fellow cyclist pedaling towards me over the summit of the silly steep, bad ass, section of hill I had stopped on, on what appeared to be a sit up and beg roadster. We greeted each other with a 'good morning' and I couldn't help offering my congratulations on the apparent ease at which he'd climbed such a challenging bit of the hill. “It's electric” he shouted as he trundled past with not a hint of breath shortage and rattled off up the still lightly ascending lane. I hate these electric bikes! I can just about winch my lung busting, leg screaming, face grimacing way up this particular hill and here was this chap sailing up it on some plain looking rattletrap without a care in the world. I eventually thought better of my plans to sneak into the chap's garage one night and unplug his evil, battery powered, cheating smugcycle (“Ha! Let's see you pedal up that hill with your underdeveloped leg muscles now chum!”) and contented myself with settling beside the river in the woods with a steaming Cappuccino instead.

 After a brief furtle in the bag of various coffees I have in stock, I settled on this. Good choice too, it hit the spot nicely.

A nice spot to kickstart the day.

While sat on a stump sipping and savouring the sweet frothy coffee and listening to the water trickling past, I heard something familiar but strangely out of place approaching... hang on, that's an engine, who the hell is driving around the woods at Sparrow's fart on a lovely morning like this? Well the foresters that's who. The growling 4x4 stopped, down hummed the window and one of the chaps inside called me over. They were about to start felling some trees further up the track and were about to close it off, so I would have to exit the woods the way I came in. No problem there, and refreshingly, no problem with me having a camping stove going either. 

Everybody seems hell bent on poking their nose in and spoiling other folk's fun these days, so I was half expecting a 'no fires or stoves allowed' kind of thing, but instead, on asking, I got a thumbs up and a 'no problem.' 

Hmmmm... I definitely won't be unplugging matey's bike now, instead, if I meet him again, I'll give him a cheery wave and a smile, he's just doing his thing after all, as I like to do mine.

Once fueled up with coffee, I had a very relaxing amble around the lanes in the sunshine - a good start to the day then.