A Bit Of A Monday Melange.

Ah yes, I am definitely a coffee lover. Not a snob mind you, I will drink anything as long as it tastes good, including the cheapest of instants, but a life without coffee would be a bit much to contemplate really. The day doesn't start until the central nervous system has been booted up by a mug of the good stuff, and I must confess, I do drink quite a bit of the stuff.

I do drink tea as well, just supermarket cheap stuff, as I've heard all proper tea is theft... Ahem...

Anyway, moving swiftly on, although as I say, I'll drink pretty much anything labeled Coffee, I couldn't be without my Aeropress. After reading and watching so much guff about the thing for a several weeks, I finally took the plunge (literally) in January and now I'm utterly hooked. I love the coffee that comes out of it - smooth tasting and clean too - no gravel in the bottom of the mug or floating about in the liquid itself. Clean up is a piece of cake too, so much easier than with my Cafetiere/French Press. Although the latter looks smarter, more 'cool' and classical, the Aeropress knocks it into a cocked hat in every respect.

My beloved Aeropress and my favourite every day coffee, Asda's cheapo Italian - it's rather good and a bargain too.

I wouldn't make a very good product photographer though - random use of a vignette and odd choice of post processing, but in my defence, I was experimenting/dicking about rather than taking a serious shot.

Now I have seen the Aeropress procedure described as being a very mindful ritual. Well I'm all for mindfulness I have to say, it really helps me to stay on an even keel and it plays a big part of my Bimbling about, but I'm not sure I'd describe this particular coffee maker in such a way, mainly because of its looks and plasticky build. It's is perfectly up to its job, but just not made to classic or craftsman looks. That's the only reason I can come up with by way of explanation, but using it I don't find myself indulging in the moment at all. Now the drinking of the coffee, that I do indulge myself in.

But when it comes to mindful caffeinating, for me, nothing betters brewing up on the Trangia stove somewhere quiet in the countryside, as a read through earlier entries on this blog will show. But it is also something I haven't done for quite a while so I decided it was about time I had myself a coffee ride down to my favourite spot for such an event - beside the Tresillian River.

Friday was the first of December, the first day of winter, and temperature wise it really felt like it. It was cold although there wasn't any frost, the temperature was just above freezing, but there was once again a Northerly wind blowing, albeit only fairly lightly, but enough to make its presence felt, particularly on the face and ears...

It was cold enough not just to require the donning of the winter gloves for the first time in months, but also my long sleeved underpants and Shemagh scarf. Despite all that, I was still cold for the first few miles until both my body and the day itself warmed up a bit. 

The low but bright and watery sun made me extra wary of stuff coming up behind me whenever I was facing into it, but thankfully the lanes down to Tresillian are quiet affairs anyway.

You do find some strange things by the roadside sometimes. Last week it was a pair of pristine Pumpkins, fresh from the supermarket and just lying in the ditch.

On this ride, it was a crank and pedal - much butchered too. Someone had a tricky ride home by the look of things, possibly with some fresh injuries too as when a crank lets go all sorts of bodily bits become vulnerable to damage - wedding tackle and teeth in particular.

It really was a beautiful day on Friday, despite the chilly wind.

A favourite spot for photos this - the railway bridge on the lane to Tresillian.

The Wheel Inn at Tresillian dates back to the 14th Century, which officially makes it 'a bit old.' It is now Grade II listed and its claim to fame was it was the HQ for Sir Thomas Fairfax, a Commander in Chief during the English Civil War. 

But never mind all that, more importantly it was Fish and Chips Friday, and boy did I know it as later on, when I rode home past here at nearly one o'clock. The smell from the kitchens really made me feel hungry  and Fish and Chips would've gone down a treat in other circumstances.

Fish and Chips on a Friday is a bit of a thing here in the UK, and apparently it has its origins in Roman Catholic tradition, and not eating meat on a Friday, so Fish was the obvious alternative. It was also likely to be fresh on a Friday due to boats returning for the weekend after being out all week.

Not to be outdone, I had fish and chips myself that very evening as I sat down to watch Coronation Street erm... my foreign language news and current affairs programme. My fish and chips came out of my freezer though, so not exactly fresh, but still, there we go, and with both a dollop of Mushy Peas and a dollop of Baked Beans, along with a Pickled Onion, it was all rather tasty.

Told you it was a beautiful day.

This is the view the traveller on the A390 gets as he/she/unsure passes through Tresillian heading towards Truro, and along by the river. Shortly I'd be hanging a big left and following the trail that leads through the trees sticking out into the river up ahead. 

Bloody hell this one's fuzzy.

Not so long ago on seeing a Toyota Prius I would've sworn under my breath and cast my best disapproving scowl in the owner's general direction. Those things weren't popular in my house I can tell you. So beloved they are or were, of the superior and pompous, condescending, virtue signalling, baggy jumper wearing, tree huggers who proudly proclaimed their green credentials,  when in fact purchasing one of these things at the time was anything but green. Now Toyota build the Prius in factories around the world instead of only in Japan, their green points might have improved a bit these days, but for the first few years of their existence, the car a person already owned was far and away the greenest car they could own. One of the Universities published a top 20 green cars list and the Prius came 12th I think it was, behind a diesel Land Rover Discovery! It was all to do with whole life costs rather than the headline - 'It runs on batteries round town so must be green'

There was just such a snooty and smug owner in the village where I live, and he never quite got the hang of the fact that other people couldn't hear his pompousness approaching as the thing ran about on its batteries, and he would scowl and mutter at people who would unwittingly get in his way in the lanes - people like me!

So as you may have noticed, I'm not a fan of the Toyota Prius. Or at least I wasn't until I traveled about 15 miles in one, possibly that very one in the photo, as it was one of these taxis. The example I went in had been to the moon and back, as all good private hire cars have, with some silly mileage on it like 280,000 miles or something. Yet there were no rattles or squeaks, it was silent inside and the transition from battery to petrol was utterly seamless. Ok, it was a little revvy cruising along the A30 at 65mph, but the ride and drive, fit and finish, really impressed me, and apparently, for all its miles, it had been utterly reliable.

So I got things wrong - It wasn't the car's fault at all of course, but the aloof owners, so I must apologise to Toyota for all the rather robust mutterings I've made in the past, as it seems a really good car. I'd go for one of these over an all electric every day of the week if I was after a biff about and wasn't fussed about a normal petrol or diesel engined job, and I never thought I'd see the day I'd be saying that!

Ok, rant over, let's get back to Friday's pootle about in the glorious sunshine...

Take the left turn I mentioned earlier, and another immediate left and you find yourself on this very pleasant access road that actually leads up to Pencalenick School. Before long though, you take another left and onto the riverside Bridleway, but before that I had a stop to check out an old friend of mine...

Trevella Stream!

This stream pops up out of the ground just north of my home port and criss crosses several of my regular routes and haunts around the village. I nearly always pause when crossing it to hang my nose over the parapet and see what is going on, or maybe take a stroll up the banks a short way in each direction. One of the tracks I occasionally follow also runs parallel to this stream, so I'm well acquainted with it near home turf. But the stream does in fact wend its way across country and down into the Tresillian River, and this is it just before it meets the river. 

One day, if I was fitter and in possession of some welly boots, I'd like to walk along the stream from source to finish just to see where it goes and so on. I doubt I'll ever be able to manage it, not just for time spent walking doing my back in, but also for all the scrambling over obstacles that it would involve. It would be asking a bit much to attempt it unfortunately, but maybe I could do short stretches, we'll see.

Not a wellie, but my trusty 25 quid walking boots from Decathlon. I'm a huge fan of these boots, and this is why - completely waterproof, not a drop of water got in despite me wading about almost to ankle height while taking photos. For 25 Lizzies, I think that's rather good.

Turning off the riverside Bridleway a short way in and one finds the ruins of an old boathouse. A nice place to sit and take in the view, but I prefer just around the corner from here and on a sort of beach affair at the water's edge.

Aaarggggghhhh... flipping fuzzy photo posting!! Grrrr.... wheresmeflippingswearbox....I'mgonnaflippingpumppoundsintothatboxlikeamachinegun... 

Anyway... this is the Tresillian River and most pleasant it is too. Out of shot are the opposite wooded banks of St Michael Penkivel.

 I'm a sucker for a free sticker and a bit of shameless advertising in my photos.

I have found the Trangia can be a little reluctant to light easily when it's cold, so I left the burner out in the sun for a while before putting it in its stand and good ignition was achieved.

This was the tipple of the day, and my first time trying this particular flavour. As you'd expect, it was nothing offensive, although as these are sold as being 'three in one' jobbies, they do contain sugars so might be a tad sweet for some folk. But this made for a very tasty trailside mug of coffee, and it was all the better for having been made using a stove, rather than brought in a flask or bought from a Hipster in some coffee shop for a small fortune.

The wind soon meant me having to deploy the windshield to keep the flame under the kettle, but in the sun, it's chill was emasculated.

This is a very mindful way to drink coffee - I would advise anyone wanting to spend some quality time like this to not even use a gas stove, as they will boil water far too quickly. No, the Trangia's ten minutes or so to boil a single mug's worth of water ensures plenty of enforced idleness, and that is time best spent immersing one's self in the surroundings and enjoying the anticipation of the hot beverage to come. The coffee itself is just the end part of the whole process, and it's a ritual I always enjoy and take benefit from.

On this occasion it was the warming sunshine, the sound of the wind in the tree tops and the noise of some water birds or other - I'm not up on such things so couldn't identify the squawks and calls. On other occasions I've been treated to Kingfisher's zipping about, and the sound of Cuckoos and Woodpeckers, while I sat and waited for the kettle to boil. It's all rather splendid at this spot I must say.

Coffee supped, time for some photos...

 Usually, in the lanes, such a sight would be the remains of an old bin bag or some tattered agricultural wrap, but down here it's seaweed hanging in the lower branches of the trees.

Oh........ bother.... (I've run out cash for the swearbox now).

I did think I'd just head back the way I'd come, but decided that I may as well enjoy the day some more and ride the mile or so down the Bridleway to St Clement.

On the right is Tresemple Pond, a gert lump of water cut off from the river by the path.

St Clement.

In St Clement I paused to take in the surroundings, and after a few minutes a Mercedes Vito van with a folding satellite dish on the roof rolled into the small car park. Now I've seen these vans around before, they belong to the local BBC South West telly news crew, and I knew exactly what was about to happen, and later on that evening, I was dead chuffed to be proved right. But back to St Clement, the van stopped and out jumped a chap who as forecast, proceeded to take out a stills camera and a large telly camera thing on an industrial looking tripod. That was my cue to get out of there quick as I didn't want to end up on that evening's weather report! So I dialed in maximum thrust on the Voodoo's pedals and got out of Dodge fast.

Sure enough, during the evening's weather, they went to the daily segment where their camera man had been out capturing the weather and views somewhere nice, and there was St Clement, and the chap even replicated the shot I'd taken above of the tree with the church in the background! Pure coincidence of course but nice to know my photographic eye was in agreement with a pro!

Had I stuck around I don't doubt I'd have been asked to go and sit on the water's edge or something to add a little human interest or whatever. I've been on telly before, many, many years ago, and every now and again, I'm still reminded of the occasion by some mickey taking beggar or other.

Leaving Steven Spielberg there to do his thing in St Clement without little ol' me, I headed back towards home, with the sun now behind me, but also straight into the wind.

This is the same spot as the earlier photo of course, just in case you weren't paying attention.

 Swans on Tresemple Pond. This is a nice distance to have Swans I find, I'm not so keen when they're up close and expecting food...

Looking (fuzzily) back towards Tresillian.

Cracking views to be had along this Bridleway. In the photo directly above the little 'beach' and old boathouse where I had my coffee are just visible on the left bank at the head of the curve.

Right clicking and opening in a new tab is the only way to view these fuzzy photos.

The Voodoo carefully slung in the bushes, and also facing the wrong way for whatever reason. 

That was the last photo I took - I'm a beggar for machine gunning photos on the ride out, but on the way back going head down and thinking of lunch rather than taking more shots. So these reports always lack the full story photographically.

Anyway, I made my way back more or less the way I'd come (I added a bit on the very end of the ride), past the seductive smelling Wheel inn and so intent was I on getting home for some scvoff, I pedaled all the way up the ugly climb out of Tresillian on the Probus/St Erme road. That hill is bang out of order, it's a nasty basket alright, and I've only gurned and gasped my way up it once before, on Fatso as it happens, so I was feeling rather pleased with myself at not having bailed out on this occasion. My legs were utterly buggared for the rest of the ride home mind you, and it took me a while to get my heart rpm down and my lungs back in my chest, but I was feeling rather pleased with myself I must admit.

So that was Friday, and it was all very well but by the time I'd got home the Voodoo there was absolutely minging. I'd have flown up that hill out of Tresillian I reckon if the bike hadn't been weighed down by so much clug. A good old scrubbing was in order then.

Now a friendly chap on Flickr had suggested I do a shot of my bike fleet in my back garden (or the Nettle and Bramble Sanctuary as I like to think of it), so with the Marin and also Fatso being clean at the moment, an all clean fleet would be ideal. But it wasn't to be, and by the time I got around to things bicycle and garden related over the weekend, time and imminent darkness, were marching on, so I shot the bikes before giving the Voodoo, and the Jamis as that was a tad mucky too, a good clean.

Looking back, I should've got my step ladder out and gone for some height, but I was in a rush to bag something before it got too dark out, despite me using flash for the shots.

I like a bit of strobism, but it's not something I do a lot of, so thought I'd use two of my three flash guns to give the images a bit of a lift from the dull back garden. I haven't got any lightstands, so use tripods to mount the flashes, and also had the camera on a tripod too. 

I had the Canon 430 EXII camera left and the Nissin Di 622 camera right. Both at full belt and the camera on manual to better control ambient/flash light. The only issue was the Nissin was not behaving itself, and when it did deign to fire, I don't think it was doing it at the right time or on full power, as it wasn't contributing much in most of the photos.

I tiggered everything using my trusty Yongnuo remote flash and shutter triggers, which usually behave faultlessly, but maybe the one under the Nissin is in need of fresh batteries or something. The third flash gun I own is low powered and only any good indoors as a back light really, not up to this kind o'thang. 

This was a very rushed job though, and a rather unimaginative laying out of the bikes too. I'm sure I could've done a lot better if I had got my act together earlier and not been racing the onset of dusk!

But, with all the photoey guff packed away, I got on with the job of washing the two bikes at the back of the shot, finishing up in the light from the kitchen window, but I am now the proud owner of four clean bikes, a state of affairs that doesn't happen often I must admit.

Anyway, I have to get on and get some dinner before Coronation Street I erm... read War and Peace... ahem, so I'll leave it there, thus avoiding a prolonged rant about the hot topic of British Cycling this past week or so, that of the Government having a review on cycling safety and considering, if the matter is brought up, compulsory helmets and daygloey clothing. That has really ripped my knitting that has, or rather some people's responses to it all has. Fingers crossed the subject of compulsion of these items won't come up...

Right, mustn't get into all that... time for dinner.

---------------

Hoi! Cycling Flipping UK... No!

Well as I mentioned in my last post, it was my birthday recently, and my age is really starting to hit home now. In fact, when you start to get old there's no escaping the fact you're getting on a bit and it can all get a bit depressing. Soon I'll have more hair in my ears than on my head, I think twice before buying green Bananas, and a bag for life suddenly doesn't seem a safe investment. Soon no doubt I'll be issued with my tartan shopping trolley with stainless steel front legs for superior ankle ramming, and a pair of those trousers that come up to my arm pits. I expect you get all that kind of thing when you first collect your pension, but thank heavens I won't need the pink or orange hair dye by then though, I'll be bald as a bowling ball by then I expect.

But the reminders are everywhere, and it's a bit of a shock when you realise you are watching the telly programmes and channels that identify you to marketeers as being a coffin dodger, so you get all those wonderful adverts like the Sun Life ads -

Daughter - "Dad, it's June"

Unnamed Dad holding binoculars- "Oh hello June"

June - "Are you off hiking?" 
Hiking? Have a word with yourself love, he's perving at the MILF next door, if he was off hiking he'd be holding boots, or a map you daft old bat... 

June carrying on - "The postman delivered this by mistake"
Hoi! June! Don't you go blaming the younger folk for your joint befuddlements, it was anonymous Dad the silly old bugger getting his house number wrong on the forms, the daft old twerp. He won't see Easter at this rate, he'll forget he's got the gas on and blow the house and his neighbours to kingdom come soon the way he's going on, you'll see. Not long now before he meets Elvis I'm telling you.

Anono Dad - "It's my Sun Life over 50 plan" blah blah...

But wait, I'm being unkind here 'cos what's this I hear in the oh so realistic dialogue, you get a free pen! Whoopee flipping do. What does an old person want with a free bloody pen? They've got drawers full of the things, a bed pan or a nice urn to put their ashes in might be more useful I reckon.

Then there are all those ads for incontinence products -

"My friend Susan is great fun, but she makes me laugh and whoops! There goes my bladder..."
Oh please, do you mind? I'm trying to eat my dinner here, I don't want images of women peeing their pants in my head thank you.
Be careful where you sit round Susan's house that's all I can say.

Suddenly, we seem to be surrounded by the failings of old age and the grizzly and trouser drizzly fate that will soon befall us.

Saga really eat my lunch too, they've obviously bought a list of names and addresses from somewhere complete with birth dates on and now hardly a day goes by without me getting some large print mail shot for old people's cruises down some German river or cheap insurance for the Honda car that has just had its gearbox reversed (why do old people drive at 35 mph in first gear, and 10 mph in fifth or sixth? Is that something else that happens when you collect your first pension - they send someone round to turn your gearbox upside down?).

So it's all a bit depressing really, but look, it's alright, I can still ride a bike and get out and escape all that doom and gloom for a bit and go and enjoy nature at it's best, and fight off the Reaper for a bit longer (unless I expire on some ugly steep hill somewhere) by maintaining a degree of fitness.

So there I was on Tuesday last, just returned home ruddy faced and feeling refreshed after a bike ride in the chilly but sunny countryside, when I spy the Cycling UK magazine 'Cycle' has arrived. Always a pleasant surprise that, as it's a good read and this edition promises some interesting stuff about long distance riding - something that I'd love to do if I was able, but enjoy reading about all the same. So I eagerly unwrapped the magazine and out fell an unmarked envelope... hello, looks like the bung a member of the cabinet might receive, or a drugs payment. Alas there was no sum of used notes inside, just some offer for holidays to Cyprus or somewhere equally hot and tummy troubling.

Then out fell another insert, another offer, this time for the flipping Oldie Magazine! Whaaat the f...  flipping hell?! Even they're at it now! Bog off with your crusty related offers you beggars!

Whoa whoa whoa... What's this? You taking the piss or what?  Don't you lot start as well...

I'll give you Oldie you cheeky buggers, I'll come round your head office and give you a good hiding with a rolled up copy of the Damart catalogue if you carry on like this. Flipping cheek.

Well Cycling UK really sucked my Werthers there, but I mustn't let it get to me, as I had just returned from another most enjoyable bike ride, so must stay positive through this doom laden onslaught - I'm not ready for my box just yet. Now, where are my glasses...

Tuesday was a cracking day for a ride, bright and sunny but with a knife like Northerly wind blowing the odd shower about here and there. Thankfully, mostly there.

 For such a cheap and cheerful bike, the Voodoo doesn't ride too badly at all for my needs. It is certainly very smooth, and also quiet in operation, not having a chainsawesque freehub like Fatso for instance. Riding slowly along the lanes all that can be heard is the crackle of tyres on gravel which is rather relaxing I must say.

The paint on the wheels is shockingly bad mind you...

Bright sunshine beaming down on me (the sun always shines on the righteous...) but someone is getting a good soaking, over Ladock way by the look of it.

Fuzzy photo alert - right click it and open in a new tab. Or maybe it's my eyesight that's going... 

Tregassow Lane was all awash in the usual places again, despite some half hearted attempts to ease the flooding by digging out the ditches in some places (the wrong places it would appear). This was taken between the fully flooded sections, but take it from me, it was flooded alright.

Random roadside Autumnessness, and more fuzzy goings on.

King Alfred's Cakes Fungus (also known as Cramp Balls - sounds like something a Roadie might suffer with) on a recently downed branch in Tregassow Lane.

Apparently, so legend has it, King Alfred once hid in the countryside and was asked to remove some cakes from an oven when they were done (just where exactly was he hiding for heaven's sake?). But old Alf fell asleep and the cakes were burned, and these Fungi are said to resemble the consequences of leaving a monarch in charge of your bakery.

These Fungi are inedible (and who'd want to eat one, really, I mean look at it...) but do make really good tinder. They need to be utterly dry (no shit...) but will take a spark from a fire steel quite readily and also will burn steadily but slowly, so ideal for starting camp fires or stoves.

At the far end of Tregassow Lane, atop the hill, stands the remains of a finger post. Navigation for strangers then isn't easy without a sat nav, you need to find a local to ask the way - "Tresillian? He's thattaway my 'ansum, not far, 'bout three blaaasts of a shotgun he is.."

Top end of the lane between Trehane Barton and Riverside.

So far I'd done rather well with the weather, the worst I'd suffered was just an occasional sprinkle of rain carried on the wind. I don't mind sprinkles. Sprinkles are fine.

The same spot, and I must admit to doing a bit of staging for this photo. I cleared a couple of other leaves away from in front of this bright one as it stood out amongst all the reds and browns on the bank like a beacon, and I wanted a clear shot of it.

The lanes were however very wet, very squidgy and very mucky, after some robust showers over the previous 24 hours or more. What a still photo can't capture is the sound of leaves dripping, and water trickling into the storm drains along the road. I saw only one car the whole time I was in these back lanes, so tuning into all the surrounding noises is always easy on these routes.

 Another ride, another Campion shot. But I am a fan of these little flowers, they seem to thrive in all conditions nearly all year round, and make for a nice little bit of colour in the hedges and banks.

A small patch of Gorse showing well too.

The signpost at Riverside that while it has escaped amputation, is still need of a little TLC.

It was just as I was taking this shot that it suddenly started hailing. No gradual smattering followed by incrementally heavier falls, this was a full on dumping of the stuff, bouncing off everything and getting into places no hailstone should ever go. I got on the Voodoo and made my way up the hill towards St Erme where the sunken, tree lined lane would offer more in the way of shelter, but the hail stopped as suddenly as it had started, like someone flipping a switch, and I actually didn't get very wet at all, just one or two bits that had got down my neck.

So that was a very pleasant ride despite the dodgy weather, and this oldie is still doing ok. Not great mind you, my back feels considerably older than the rest of me, and I shuffle about like a right old ruin when off the bike, but when on it, the freedom of movement I get feels very liberating, so knickers to the Grim Reaper chap, I'm not quite ready for my elastic waist trouser fitting and woolly lined slippers just yet.

Crappy mappage of the Bimblings. Tregassow Lane is points one and two, and Riverside at point three. Full mapping lurks Here

Now, has anyone seen my glasses?

----------------

Getting Things Together Again.

Thankfully, the recent depressive episode didn't develop into a full blown anxiety/despair riddled affair as can happen, instead I just had a complete lack of oomph in me for anything. I was a shell of a human being really - brain on stand by (nothing new there to be fair...) and a strong desire to just sleep. Everything requires disproportionate levels of effort, if I can be bothered to even attempt something in the first place. It's what I imagine a severe hang over must feel like, but without the partying the night before. Often this comes a precursor to worse feelings of panic and dismay and so on, but this time, I started to pick up again before things descended any further.

So I'm not going to dwell on it all, as that's the best way I've found to cope - ride it out and once I start feeling perkier, forget all about it and think forwards, don't keep going over it all in my head.

My thanks though for the kind comments - much appreciated. I'm not into attention seeking and all that self pity carry on so don't go looking for sympathy or anything, just telling things as they are, but the comments are still appreciated believe me.

So anyway, I've got my biking/snapping/immersing myself in all things smelly and countrified mojo back and have bagged a few rides.

There's a saying in cycling* "If in doubt, get the Fatbike out" (* I may have just made that up) and if any bike is going to put a smile back on my face it's going to be Fatso. My other bikes all deliver great cycling experiences, but the Fatty is the only one that feels more than just a collection of metal and rubber bits bunged together, it has character - somewhere between that of a naive bounding puppy and a rampaging Rhino. It's why it's the only bike with a name - Fatso. None of the other bikes seem to encourage nick naming.

So I'd decided to go and check out my local woods again, as it felt like a while since I'd had any sorties in them and I wanted to see what was happening - any trees freshly downed or dead bodies to discover, you know the kind of thing.
I also wanted to make the most of any Autumnal colour as some rather turbulent weather was being forecast for later on which would surely bring down most, if not all, the remaining leaves.

The Autumnal colours were indeed looking pretty splendid on the hill down to Lanner Mill on the way to the woods. Some people get treated to massive displays of vibrant yellows, reds and oranges, but we have a lot of evergreens round my way so we don't get vast acres of glorious colour, just little pockets really. This view here did look pretty good, but this shot was also tightly framed to get the best of the colour - either side things were a bit duller.

Once into the woods themselves there were more pockets of bright foliage to go at, so I made the most of them.

During my lay off, I'd also gained another year on my tally, turning 56, something I never thought I'd be. Growing up, like many other young'uns, I thought 35 was old, and I'd rather kill myself than be 50 say. Now I'm here I know I'm supposed to be killing someone but can't remember who... Strange old world.

But enough silliness, at this age riding fitness disappears faster than a bride's nightie, and boy was I feeling it climbing the hill up the edge of the woods to the topmost path. It is a steep old climb mind you, but one I can ride up fairly routinely, but on this day legs were burning, lungs were bursting, and my face grimacing like a championship winning Gurner. It was no good, I had to bail out and push, something I hate doing as it doesn't do my back any good, but I was also starting to really feel the lurve again and was enjoying the fresh air and the expectations of good things to come, so I pressed on - if it hurts it hurts, try and ignore it as best I can, no turning back now.

Damn. Things were going well here so far with the photos, I had high hopes for this post, but here's a fuzzy one to knacker that confidence.

Down in Australia somewhere, there's a bloke saying "Hey Sheila, can you hear bloody dripping love?" In my imagination, it's this puddle here leaking onto the Southern Hemisphere, it's that flipping deep. I did try and ride through it once - that didn't go well at all. The front wheel plummeted in far deeper than I anticipated and came to a very abrupt halt. I had to dab my left foot down quick to avoid being ship wrecked and my foot and half my shin disappeared into the gloop. Suddenly I knew how Wun Wet Shoo, the one legged Chinese window cleaner in the village feels, as I tried to hop about in the sucking mud and extricate the bike as well, all without putting my right foot in the mire as well. It wasn't to be though and both feet got an inevitable swamping.

So I didn't ride through the puddle in the photo above, I took the path round the edge which is out of sight, but don't tell anyone will you...

Now this is one hell of a change of mind on behalf of the branch of this tree don't you think?

"I'm off this way << see, here I go... oh and up this way a bit... tum de tum de tum... oh hang on... just a minute. I think I need to go this way >> yeah that's it, I'm going this way >> now.. doh, silly me eh... what am I like..." 

How many anti depressants did I take this morning? I've got talking trees in my blog now...

More fuzziness by the look of things too.

Random puddle shot.

Nostril cam view and bang goes the clean bike.

Fatbikes are huge fun pretty much anywhere, but I defy anyone to not grin like an idiot when riding one through (the shallower) muddy puddles - mud and water flying everywhere appeals to the inner nine year old like little else, it is simply great fun, and if you get your speed right, no problem with traction as the bike will just keep driving forwards rather than spinning. Go in too fast though and the big tyres won't bite into the water/mud, but instead skate about on the surface, making for some buttock clenching wandering of the wheels as you appear to be going in several directions at once. 

No problem.

The top path emerges briefly from under tree cover and the elderly mountain biker emerges blinking into the daylight... (or would if it wasn't for the glasses).

 Now I've been to Newquay, so I've seen some pretty ugly sights believe me, but these relatives of the Puffball Fungus really take the biscuit. They are about the size of a tennis ball, have the texture of latex, and as can be seen, are the colour of cheesy vomit and are covered in warty scaly things. Yuckoriffic!

It's not just the outer skin that threatens to bring up your lunch though, inside is a dense brown (looks black in the photo, but t'is turdy brown alright) powder - the spores, waiting to caught by the wind, or better still puffed out when a careless bicyclist half runs over one with a fat front wheel, making for a big brown cloud of dry powder being puffed into the air. These things are utterly repulsive, you certainly wouldn't want one in your salad that's for sure. But for all that, they are also fascinating, each new one I came across demanding close (but careful... you never know, they might bite or give you a nasty suck or something) examination. Burst ones really take the ugliness to another level too, looking like giant exploded zits, only devoid of powder rather than pus. If I find some more I'll control my retching function and get a photo of a burst one - I just couldn't bring myself to take one on this occasion. 

Enough ugliness... time to redress the balance and have some Autumnal beauty.

Having reached the far end of the wood, it was time to head back so I took the lowest path as it's flat and I'd had enough hilly bits for my morning. 

So only a shortish ride then, under seven miles, but it really did me a world of good to be out and about again. I wasn't fully back to normal, but I had taken a huge step forwards, feeling more invigorated once again. It was also my one hundredth ride of the year, which for me isn't too bad going. 

Buoyed up by the success of the above ride, and not wanting to lose momentum, last Sunday saw me heading out once again, into rather splendid calm and occasionally sunny weather.

There was not a breath of wind blowing, but the skies were mostly grey. However every now and again, the sun would come out and set everything aglow, although it doesn't look particularly spectacular in this photo, as I had to tone things down a bit. The photo that came out of the camera genuinely looked unnaturally over saturated, so I had to rein it in a bit or face accusations of being too frisky with the saturation slider in post processing. 

As can be seen, once again Fatso got the gig, but those aren't tan wall tyres, those are cluggy tyres, a souvenir of those previous woodland manoeuvres.

 Now here's a good way to clean those tyres off - a visit to Boswiddle Ford.

I've taken so many photos here I struggle for a new angle while I try to convey why I like this spot so much, so hauled Fatso out of the water and onto the little bridge on the footpath that dodges round the side of the road.

Pedal up - pedal down, pedal up - pedal down, pedal up and... coast. Lanes like these are too good to be hurried through.

It's not all good though, and just a bit further on from the above fly past photo, I came across this sad sight. Judging by that wound I'd say this was the result of foul play rather than a traffic accident. Whatever, a sad end for a magnificent but much maligned animal.

Talking of Badgers, I haven't seen 'Flash', the Badger I'd been getting visits from, for many, many weeks now, so I think he (or she) might've met a similar fate. Food I've left out has gone untouched and I've now given up hope of seeing him or her again. A real shame as it is a real treat to encounter Badgers at such close quarters as I experienced with Flash.

Target for the day's ride was this Bridleway. By the way, I've no idea where Bessigga is - it's not on the maps, there are no houses or farms along the route until you reach the other end, but that is at Gunnamanning, so Bessigga is a mystery to me. 

Now Idless Woods are nothing compared to the mud found on this first section of the Bridleway. But it was also no surprise as it is always a quagmire here, even in Summer. Unlike woodland gloop though, this mud stinks - it was properly humming. A mixture of stagnant ditch water and cow poo and pee I expect, maybe the contents of that suspicious looking drum...

I tried to ride along here too - this was taken about mid way through the mire, but I made a hash of things, got a bit out of shape and came to a halt, and just couldn't get started again without the back wheel spinning, so once again a bail out was in order and some pushing ensued. Thankfully there is solid ground to be trodden on in the undergrowth on the left. But notice however there is a bike track through the slop, so someone it appears rode through it alright. I must up my mud plugging game, clearly.

Talking of mud plugging, just after I'd remounted Fatso I encountered a woman leading a young girl mounted on a Shetland Pony, or maybe it was an economy size horse I don't know. The girl warned me that there was mud further along the Bridleway, but despite my best persuasive tactics, she wouldn't swap her micro horse for Fatso, as horses, even iddy biddy ones, are great at getting through mud. Her horse was a good size for me too - not hard to get aboard, and it wouldn't hurt so much if I crashed it. Big, full size horses scare me, but her mini nag was cute as hell. As it turned out, the mud she was referring to wasn't half as bad as the slop I'd already come through, which was good, and she also assured me that the bull that lives in the field the Bridleway crosses wasn't home. Still it was a Sunday so his day off no doubt.

I was enjoying the ride so much though, I didn't take many photos along the way, but it's a ride I've done before, and will no doubt do again many times, so it doesn't matter.

 Wall is the corner edge of a higher up field, while the other side of that fence is Ladock Woods, but I was going through that gate.

Last part of the Bridleway and real signs that this was once a busy thoroughfare. There are Cornish Hedges on both sides of the path down through here, and the track would've linked Ladock to Trendeal and further on, Summercourt and Mitchell.

Weather update: He've come in proper grizzly drizzly, he's proper manky out.

Well this wasn't in the script, I must've missed the memo or something. Or maybe it was just the Met office getting it a bit wrong again. Whatever, not far from home and a thick drizzle set in - what a lot of folk down here call 'a bit coastal', as you often get drizzle/mizzle blowing in off the sea when everywhere else is bathed in sunshine. The camera couldn't capture the rain properly, but gert clouds of it were drifting across the road on the freshly risen breeze, giving my lower half a real soaking. My trousers must've soaked up a gallon each side by the time I made it home.

Despite arriving home wetter than a fish's swimming costume, I just couldn't bring myself to take Fatso back into my living room in the state it was in. The bike (despite appearances in the photos) was blathered, so before I could jump in the shower, it was time for some scrubbing of the bike, so Fatso got a full wash down and re-lube. I know some folk bleat on about how mountain bikes should always be dirty and I have got some gentle stick from a few riders for the cleanliness of my bikes, but I just hate riding a bike when it's all crusty, gritty and graunchy, never mind having to sit and look at the thing incontinently pooping clods of mud on my living room floor.

So with Fatso having earned a pass from combat duties due to it being clean as a new pin again, it was to the voodoo I turned for my next ride (the Marin is also peachy clean, and I like it to stay that way - I know, terribly sad and all that, but much as I like riding it, I also hate it getting filthy and all dinged up. Maybe though I'll get it out for a ride, as having written this, I've just looked it over, and I really want to take it for a ride...).

A ride around the lanes, starting with Tregassow Lane, of course! 

Once again the weather was dry, with rain in the forecast for much later on, but there was a gusty wind blowing - the remnants of a stroppy, noisy, rough night before. The lanes can be so invigorating in conditions like those - lots of litter swirling about on the ground, while above, the trees clatter,  grind and creak about. Such days can be so refreshing and stimulating when out on a bicycle, or on foot of course. I used to enjoy days like this on a motorbike as well, though you do lose the soundtrack of course.

Just bimbling along...

I've said before how I prefer the trees at this time of year to when in Summer. I find them far more impressive shorn of their leaves and on display in all their Gothicy, craggy, gnarly, twisted glory.

 Part of the appeal is the way lines of trees all stand in parallel, shaped by the wind and sun. You can of course use them as a navigation aid, as in the case above, South West (the prevailing wind direction in this country) is off to the left, which is nice to know. Not quite sure how useful it is to know that mind, I prefer a good map myself, but there we go. 

Meanwhile, this lot atop the hill at Lanner Mill are just a spectacular jumble.

Still at the top of the hill, some Pink Campion. For such small and fragile looking flowers, they aren't half hardy beggars, hard as nails, although to be fair, they do seem to favour well sheltered spots like this one.

One last ride to report on now, you'll be glad to know, and that was yesterday. 
Now I had fancied a ride down to the river at Tresillian for a coffee on my stove, but on going out of the door I discovered the wind was cold and cuttingly sharp. Before I'd reached the end of my road (a mere hundred yards) I'd already thought 'sod Tresillian for a laugh, I need shelter', and planned a return to Idless Woods once more, although once again I was on the Voodoo, and the woods these days are usually Fatso territory.

This wasn't actually a good move. I don't know how I rode the Voodoo as my main off road bike for so long as I got a bit of a kicking even at my modest speeds as I slid and spun my way along the bottom path through the woods once again. The Voodoo of course has boingy forks, while Fatso just relies on plump tyres for suspension, but by crikey the Fatbike doesn't half give a smoother ride on the rough. The Voodoo transmitted every bump up my arms and backside (I do lean more forwards onto the bars than on the Fatbike though which won't help) and the whole ride just felt more precarious than the rock solid, flatten everything in its path, Fatty.

A bright and occasionally sunny day, but by crikey there was a chilling wind blowing, so I was glad to reach the woods and shelter.

No... don't mind me, I don't mind standing in the stream up to my ankles waiting to take a photo while you throw treats for the dogs, you just carry on...

Actually, that's harsh, as I didn't mind at all, and the woman is a dog minder who I've met quite a few times in the woods. The photo, when I took it, was crap anyway...

This was a better angle, and it's come out fuzzy on here. Whoopy flipping doo!

Time for a fly past...

or two...

Remember that scene in Fawlty Towers when Basil attacks his car with a tree branch? I'm starting to know how he felt, but for me it's flipping fuzzy photos. Maybe it's just on my pc, but it is really burning my bacon.

A sunny woods, and given a tickle in Nik software (classic camera number six plus a bit of my own tweaking).

Random Christmassy tree shot.

Random shot near St Allen church.

Now here was an odd one - a pair of Pumpkins lying in the ditch, fresh from the supermarket too. How did they end up there exactly? The mind boggles, but anyway, there they were. Now normally I'm a beggar for a good bit of roadside treasure, ready to whisk anything remotely useful home, but I just don't like Pumpkin at all, which is a right shame, as it seemed a bit of a waste to just leave them there, maybe though someone else will have salvaged them.

So there we are, all up to date and now pretty much back to normal mood wise and so on. It has been really great to get out and ride once again, and I hate to think where I'd be if I wasn't able to ride or get into the countryside any more.

Right, this has been a long one and I'm that hungry I could eat a farmer's arse - through his trousers, so I'm off for some much needed scoff.

Happy cycling!

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