Faux pas the post

Here we are in sunny Belfast.

Cherryvale Playing Fields, about 2 minutes from mine. Lovely.

In many respects, I started my Belfast days as I will likely go on: On Thursday morning I attended my first day of training to be a HomeStart volunteer in East and South Belfast, good, and made my first culturally inept faux pas, less good.

Volunteering was something I knew I wanted to do when I moved. In Peckham I had been volunteering with the Dulwich Helpline* as a volunteer befriender. My 'befriend', Nancy, was a 90 year-old Jamaican lady who'd lived in SouthEast London for the best part of 60 years. Being befriends with Nancy was a treat. When she was feeling up to it, it was a joy to take her out and about; when she wasn't feeling up to it, it was a joy to hear her laugh as she defeated me at Ludo. She did not mess about. Some days, really low days, it was enough to just sit quietly together with a cup of tea. I never knew what was going to greet me at Nancy's: 'Come in, baby, come in', or 'I'm dying, baby, I'm dying'.

Some days I couldn't be bothered. It was cold. Or raining. Or I was hungover. But I was always glad I went: Apart from the occasional stroll in the park and a trouncing at Ludo, hanging out with Nancy provided me with an incredible opportunity to see into a totally different community, a totally different experience of the world. Nancy's days gave mine perspective (and, I hope, vice-versa).

Understanding the day to day experience of an elderly, disabled, single immigrant living on a government allowance is something which, try as they might, cannot be conveyed in an AgeUK brochure or an ad for energy providers. It's a lonely, stale-smelling, grotty place. People bustle in and out, drop-off your lunch, see that you're taking your medications. They'll help you into bed, wash your laundry. People will collect your shopping and put your bins out. They're generally kind. But they're not your friends. You're not sharing experiences with them - they have a uniform, or a badge, and they haven't chosen you.

Knowing Nancy has, I think, greatly broadened my horizons. But it also broke my heart a bit. She was upset when I told her, a month or so beforehand, that I was moving. She'd just had a postcard from me from France with a picture of Al & I on the front. She was astonished that this was possible (so was I - touchnote people, download it now), and wondered if I'd gotten famous for something while she wasn't watching. She shook her head when I told her. 'You're moving? To Ireland?' she asked. 'Ah', she said, 'you love him. That's good.' I couldn't deny it.

But as I left from my last visit with her, she sobbed. And there's nothing, but nothing, to make you feel like the world's biggest asshole like closing the door behind to you a soundtrack of an old lady's tears, your face wet against the breeze as you wipe away you own. Befriends.

So, like I said: I knew I wanted to find a volunteering opportunity in my next homeplace. The tears, the being beaten at boardgames - what's not to like? HomeStart was a charity I'd heard of before, and I was keen to work with a family. That way, I figured, I'd get to hang with some grown-ups and a kid or two. I don't know many grown-ups in Belfast, and I sure as hell don't know any kids, so win.

I'd been in touch with the co-ordinator and signed up to attend the training, which started on my first day in Belfast. Yes, after such a giant ride, I could have totally gotten away with staying in bed the whole day, but to be honest, it was nice to have a sense of purpose that first morning. My biggest worry with this move is about being able to generate an income to keep me in gloves and stockings (both of which I will need in spades) and sunny holidays (which I will also need in spades), so perhaps some discipline & a routine are a good foot to put forward. (Ok, maybe making an income isn't my biggest worry, maybe my biggest worry is the weather...)

So off to training. It's a 10 minute ride away (ha!) and I cruise down the street with no luggage. It feels like I'm flying. The training is 8 weeks long, and as it's the first day, we're all on our best behaviour. In the break time, I'm loitering by the back of the room with my cuppa, gazing out the window. The trainer comes back in and I ask her, peering down on an Israeli flag a couple of streets away, 'Is that, a, ah...' (scratches head - who/why in Belfast would hang an Israeli flag?) 'a synagogue? Is this a Jewish neighbourhood?'

No. It's not. Cue: Cultural Faux Pas the First. Nope, it's not a synagogue. And the trainer attempts to explain this to me, very gently. 'No', she says, 'in Northern Ireland, some people hang Israeli flags, and, ah, some people, hang, well, the other flags.'

It takes me a minute to catch on. I'm thinking to myself, 'Jewish people?'

No. And then it dawns on me. I now know that there's a well-documented allegiance in Northern Ireland between republicans and Palestine and unionists and Israel. When you think about it, the relationship seems obvious, though flying the flag of another nation from your house seems, to me, a pretty high level of commitment, no?

Anyway, clearly, I hadn't thought about it. It was awkward. For both of us, I think.  In my very first post on this blog, I readily conceded that my understanding of Northern Ireland was, at best, naive, and I think this well illustrates that point. But while she was lovely about it, the trainer, she kind of seemed awkward about it, too, like I said: as though she were cringing a little, at the inexplicability of it.

I have much to learn, and hey: it was probably good to get that first faux pas out there nice and early. I'm confident there'll be many more!

*If you want to do something totes amazeballz like volunteer - with people old or young - but are having trouble getting started, I'd be glad to help if I can. There are loads of opportunities out there, but they sometimes hide. Let me know if you want a hand finding the one for you.

Landfall

Take it from me - any morning where you don't put on bike shorts is a pretty good morning, but when it's the first time without them in a long time, it's bloody marvellous. Pulling up that increasingly rancid lycra nappy to swathe your netherbits is better than facing a bike seat without it, but it really is a revolting downside to the joy that is cycle touring. What I'm saying is: the day got off to a promising start.

Jai and I had a cuppa, wrestled our bikes from the loosely monikered 'bike shed', said a teary goodbye, promised one another we'd never die, and parted. Me - to get a boat across the river to get a boat across the sea; Jai - to eat pancakes, buy make-up and hop a train back to the big smoke. With love.

So long, Liverpool - I'll be back.

These long distance ferries are strange things, aren't they? They have passengers, but they're not cruise ships; they're mostly doing haulage, but they've really taken the opportunity to go for a kind of kitsch floating casino experience, I find. I guess they kind of have to entertain you while you're on there or you'd all mutiny and become a band of pirates (obvs), but there's no library, if you see what I'm saying, there's a cinema playing woeful b-grade movies and a lot of fried things under heat lamps. And really, all anyone wants to do is lie down. But the upholstery is always a bit grotty, and they'd really rather you forked out for a cabin, so they don't want to make the sofas too enticing. The tv is always on a bit too loud, the coffee is terrible and everyone, everyone on board, me included, is a bit weird.

Because really, who in their right mind is taking an 8 hour passenger ferry, particularly one from Liverpool to Belfast? On a Wednesday? Deadset weirdos, that's who: the 2 European backpacker kids; the 3 generations of grossly overweight Northern Irish femmes; the woman with the bad black hair dye job and an ostentatious volume of gold costume jewellery; the couple speaking Chinese - him wearing jeans and a suit vest with a fob chain, her in a cropped top with jeggins and platform boots; and me - not wearing bike shorts. Lunatics.

Honestly? I slept most of the way. What? What did you expect? I'd just finished a 400km bike ride and then drank a sculptural volume of prosecco. Did you think I'd be on the foredeck doing the hula? 

I lack the inclination to Google-proove this (feel free to enlighten me), but I'm sure I'm not the first person to observe that, whenever travelling, we covet the view of the place from the water. Think Venice, think Brisbane (a little bit joking), that duck-truck thing in London, think Sydney to Manly ferry teeming with tourists happy snapping all Summer long... I reckon that, for most places, the view from the sea is an unlikely first view these days, but for a long time, that was how anyone arrived almost anywhere truly new, and I like it. Most great migrant stories* involve a landfall, don't they?

Arriving into Belfast by sea, it's all business. It's a ship-building port, after all (quiet time while everyone things Titanic thoughts...)

Belfast from the sea - it's all business

Between having to get the bus 400 meters to the passenger terminal and jostle for my luggage, my arrival was somewhat lacking the Cate-Leo cinematic feel.

Nonetheless, here I was. In Belfast. I retrieved Horseback from his seafaring shackles and we rode through the big gates, round the corner, to a fluro-clad Al and his no-name bike, for the last 8kms, home.

* I want to note here that, while my boat ride wasn't exactly thrilling, it was safe and I was welcomed at the end. There are desperate, aching people making dangerous, costly boat voyages to my own home country right now. They're coming, asking for our help, seeking refuge. Instead, they're treated to illegal abuse and inhuman punishments. I am appalled by these actions taken by Australia's government. These actions are #notinmyname and I wholeheartedly welcome anyone, besieged and seeking asylum, to share my place in the world. 

Journey's end

Wrexham to Liverpool is a miserly 50kms. Ha! Pfffft! What. Ever. 50kms - hardly worth getting out of bed for.

Took us ages.

About 10kms into the Day 5

The first 40kms went by like the trivial fluff they were. The last 10kms took an hour. I was knackered (I think we both were, but Jai's demon image needs careful husbandry and I will not despoil it), and even though we wanted it to end (dear God, let it end), neither of us wanted it to be over. The journey had taken on a momentum of its own. The fact of the journey had kept us going, and it had provided a helpful buffer from The End.

The End of the ride. The End of the Palace as we know it. And while not The End of Jai and Amber, for now The End of the daily face-to-face sharing of trials, tribulations, triumphs, tea and too much information.

The day started in what had become the customary way - raiding a Sainsbury's and sitting somewhere odd - like the memorial set by the checkouts in Bridgnorth, or in Wrexham the Sainsbury's caff. Seriously. And we were like naughty little school kids and ate the things we'd bought in the store in the caff even though we knew we shouldn't have. Once we removed our hi-vis, we were dressed head to toe in black and ergo were ninjas. When the staff approached, we just went invisible. Simples.

So. I was knackered, and in denial about The End, but also I had kind of given up the will to route plan by this point in my preparations, and I could not for the life of me figure out how to cross the river on my OS map. Google maps appeared to be suggesting my bike become amphibious, and the ViewRanger route finder seemed to be suggested riding around in circles till you just decide to stay on the side you're on. Unacceptable.

Dear Liverpool. Get a bridge. They're lovely. Kind regards, Everyone.

We didn't do Liverpool justice. It looks like a really interesting, happening place. We dropped off our stuff and proceeded to behave as though the town didn't exist. It was the strangest feeling. I just couldn't care. After 4.5 years of living beside some of his lesser known work, the bollards of Bellenden, I'd had all these notions about going up to see the Antony Gormley figures at Crosby Beach, but the closest I came would have been if I'd virtually recreated the piece by lining up the prosecco bottles along the edge of the table as we emptied them.

What I was doing in Liverpool was almost too private to be doing anywhere, least of all in public. Effectively, Jai and I created our own bubble of achievement-awestruck-adoration and stayed there all afternoon and evening. Until, clutching yet another prosecco and a block of chocolate, we crawled back to our room, at all of about 10.30pm. Like winners.

Liverpool, I'm sorry. You deserved better. Another time.

A range of views

You might remember I was looking for a navigation solution? Well, thanks to my friend IF and his friend Pete, I found one. ViewRanger. Changed my life. You can download individual tiles of OS maps and use them to plot a route, and then, without even so much as a phone connection, you can stick your iDevice in the raincover of your front pouch and follow the blue line across the country. It's heavenly.

It takes some doing, getting your ViewRanger on, and I cut it pretty fine. For instance, I didn't take the time to fully appreciate all the details of the key for the maps. I didn't, for instance, fully understand that the hollow dots along a national cycle route meant 'unpaved'. I mean, I suspected as much, but, well, the details.

Jai and I took a look together, and decided to give it a go anyway. We we starting a new day, why not start it with a bit of mystery? 

The path was divine, actually, all along a river using a disused rail trail. Jaime was basically frothing at the mouth at the thought of being on a rail trail. Until she got a flat. Boom. Right there, middle of nowhere, nowhere near a road. 

We tried pumping it up, but no joy. Because I was a Brownie, and because I made the Girl Guide pledge, I had 1 spare inner. For a 400km journey. That's prepared, right? Wrong. Bad Girl Guide. We were about half way along the unpaved bit of track. Do we use the spare now, and risk another one in 30 seconds? Do we hobble along with a flat for the next 6kms? Do we, and here's the real question friends, take our heavily laden bikes and bushbash our way back to the road??

Yes! Of course we do! You can take the girl out of Cockatoo...

You won't be surprised to hear that, somewhat bloodied but undeniably wiser, we wound up right back where we started, with Jai changing her busted tube for mine. Look, it was an adventure, ok? As we were pouring off the railtrail, we were imaginating a bikeshop that sold cake. Carrot cake. Yeah. And a cup of tea. Yeah! 

Sometimes, the universe delivers. We rolled into town to find a specialist, independent, bespoke bike building workshop, on the river, nextdoor to a cafe selling carrot cake. I am not joking. Thanks, universe.

Mercifully, as illustrated above, the rest of day 4 was a blessing. Yes, it was 85kms long, but it was a delight. Rolling country lanes and sunshine. Honestly, thank goodness, because another day 3 would've been the end of me. The towns of Coalport and Ironbridge in particular were delightful. Highly recommended! The fact that I cycled through them with a damp t-shirt and bra dangling from my pannier to dry and they still let me in, surely speaks volumes about them also!

Enter, Wales. Oh, Wales. 

I know London has a bad rep as a town full of tired, stressed, over-worked, adrenaline junkies. I know that. I'm really enjoying no longer working 55+ hours a week and commuting 2.5 hours a day. Part of my willingness to move arose from realising that I was in work by the time Al got up, and he was home eating dinner by the time I left. That sounded dreamy to me. Can you believe that, Londoners? Leaving for work at 8.30am and being home by 6.30pm, still doing a full day of work, contributing loads, and basically working 9-6? Incredible!

But I really feel like Wrexham took this anti-London approach to living it too far. Jai and I checked in at the Premier Inn and wandered into town. It was about 5.35pm. The entire shopping district was deserted, as though the whole population was taking a nap, knackered from a full day of being Welsh. I checked the time again. Maybe I got it wrong? Maybe it was 9.30pm? No, no - before 6pm. 

I know I guy who loves Wales so much, that the sheer mention of the place sends him into raptures. I emailed him for dinner recommendations before we left the hotel. When I got back, I found a reply saying 'Get out as soon as you can'. 

It was a funny feeling that night. We'd both thought of day 5 as kind of a jolly - only 50kms, and the last day at that. I can't say I was sorry to be ending the bike-short era, but the thought of finishing the journey was as daunting as it was thrilling. It's not about the destination, after all. 

From bad to brec-kuuuurk!

We arrived in Bridgnorth by some miracle, and found our digs. It was a pub, which had just closed for the day, so we called the landlord. He told us to take our bikes up the path along the side of the pub to the back garden where we could leave them overnight. I went first, Jai followed. The path was cluttered with exactly the kind of junk you'd imagine - broken chairs, barrels, a ladder, old signs. It was like picking your way through an obstacle course. I got to a gate & saw some chickens. There was another gate at the end of their coop, and beyond that an entrance to the garden.

I opened the first gate and discovered to my horror that there were ducks in the coop too. I am petrified of most water birds, following an unfortunate incident in my childhood in which I was chased & attacked by some of the fuckers. I have no idea whether it was ducks or geese, and I don't really care. As far as I'm concerned, if you can swim, fly and walk, you are an abomination, an angry, viscous, arrogant enemy, and can't be trusted. 

'Oh God', I said. 

'You just have to do it', commanded Jaime. 

'Oh fuck.'

We were tired. We needed to be done. This was my final challenge for the day. 

Using my bike as a kind of protective shield, I headed in. Interesting choice, since those bastards can fly, but it was really all I had. I told the waterfowl in no uncertain terms to back off. They were squabbling amongst themselves, presumably over who got which bits of me, and I got to the other end unharmed. The gate was locked. 

'I'm climbing over', I said, desperate to get out, willing to abandon my trusty stead to the enemy without hesitation.

Jai reversed, seemingly over a big white chicken who was totally losing it (what she was afraid of I'll never know - we were just two loud people in fluorescent vests with flashing lights everywhere, traipsing through her house. Relax lady, sheesh!). 

I couldn't climb the gate. I was shaking like a leaf. My mouth was dry. The duckgeese were finalising their plans & sure to head my way any second. 

Alerted by the commotion no doubt, a woman appeared on the other side of the garden, stunned to find some chicken rustler in with her hens. 'What're you doing?', she asked. 'You need to get out of there.'

I wasn't going to argue, but I didn't want to go back past the duckgeese. 'I'll come & meet you round the front', she said. Why, for the love of God, if that was possible all along, had we not started with that?? Why send people up your deathpath past monsters if you don't have to?? What kind of hellish initiation ritual is that? 

By the time we got in to our tiny, tiny room, I was in bits. Exhausted. Starving and not at all hungry at the same time. It didn't seem at all strange, then, when I found myself taking my helmet in the shower to wash the chin strap. I'm not even joking. 

Bridgnorth, you were pretty, but you really, really tested me. 

What goes up

From the get go, getting to Bridgnorth was an uphill battle. The whole way. All the time. All 90kms of it. 

Ok, I'm exaggerating, obviously - I did not ascend a 90km-high mountain. It just mostly felt like I did. 

This little bit of mirth at the beginning of the day sustained me up the first hill, I'd say, because what is funnier than finding a giant horsehead and making believe it's part of your bike named Horseback? That's right - very few things!

And so to Bridgnorth. 

With the exceptions of swimming & appreciating the punch lines of jokes, Jaime does everything faster than me. She bakes faster, runs faster, forgives faster, goes through the racks at charity shops faster, eats faster - you name it. Of chief relevance here though: Jaime cycles much faster than I do. In urban areas, I make up for that by being a wiley urban cycle-fox, and we arrive places at the same time. On the open road though, she just fangs it. Like a demon (she's a demon). 

I can only imagine how frustrating it must have been for her to have to wait for me at the top of 90% of the hills between Stratford on Avon and Bridgnorth, but I must say, she was incredibly gracious about it. 

That was something I knew already, but other than that it was a day of discoveries. For instance:

*I discovered that Englad has a sweaty, fungal infection in the armpit of the nation that is Stourport on Severn. You need a wash, Stourport on Severn, and you might want I consider some talcum powder.

*I discovered that the neighbouring town of Bewdley is a delight - the river is divine & there's a pub by the bridge with a toy train going round the rafters which delights children & adults alike. 

*I discovered that even Jaime sometimes regrets eating a whole chicken for lunch, even if it is a 'total bargain'.

*I discovered that I can back up a hilly 91km day of cycling with a mountainous 90km day of cycling. 

*I discovered that it hadn't been a once-off the day before: reliably, at somewhere between 78-85kms, my bike seat will rearrange itself into an intricate pattern of razor blades & begin to shred flesh.

There were some tears today too. Yep: I cried a bit. From tired & shock, mostly. We were about 75kms in, halfway down a hill, when some speed demon bully car whizzed past me at such a click that I kind of jumped and hit a pot hole that sent my phone pouch flying into the middle of the road. As I shoved my bike into the hedge hugging the roadside & ran back up to retrieve the pouch, I was shaking. Jai was down the hill, round the corner somewhere, she would've just had the same arsehole zoom past her, too, and I had possibly just lost our navigation tools. 

I avoided being collected by the next car, and darted into the road. Mercifully, the phone was fine, and no harm done to the pouch, but when I got down under the rail bridge and saw Jai's hi-vis paused, but about to whizz off to climb the next hill, I just cracked. I called out to her, my voice breaking, and begged her to wait a second. I needed a minute. And a hug. And a jelly snake. Or six. 

It was a low point. 

Little did I know, the worst was yet to come...

To see a fine lady upon a white horse...

Ah, look at me then, brimming with possibility. Ha!

What followed that blogpost was some mediocre food, some apple scrumping, before that rare Friday night indulgence of eating chocolate biscuits in bed watching Grand Designs. For someone who doesn't have a tv, that's a pretty epic night in, I'm telling you!

But, my friends, you know it's a bad sleep when you're mentally drafting your scathing TripAdvisor review at 2.30am... Cranky.

Day 2 was put on the right course by these blokes. 

Cracking cup of tea & a superb toasted egg, cheese & tomato sandwich. 

That's the kind of start I thought I needed to ride 91kms. Questionable. 

About half way through the day, we rode through Banbury. I'd seen it on the map & it made me want to jiggle my knee and talk about horses. Over the course of the morning, careering down country lanes, I tried to dredge the scraps of a nursery rhyme up from the depths somewhere. I couldn't quite get it. 

When we got to Banbury, I was half wild with hunger. Ravenous. About 8kms before Banbury, my hunger-ravaged brain had rearranged the letters on a roadside sign from INDOOR PARTIES to NOODLE PATTIES. 'Mmmm, noodle patties', I thought, 'I've never eaten one, or ever heard of them before, but they sound amazing...' No. Idiot. 

Somewhere along the way I had become obsessed with the the idea of fish curry & rice. Obsessed. I simply couldn't imagine going another km without it. We found a could of curry joints, all closed, and I was about to loose my rag completely when I spotted a Thai place up the road. I ran. Ran. I could barely walk, but I ran. 

'Closed'. Cruel, cruel world. I let out a wail befitting the death of a loved one and was literally on the brink of throwing myself on the footpath when Jai wheels up & says, 'Dude, it opens in 4 minutes.  Were fine.'

I love that woman. 

While we waited an eternal 4 minutes, I harangued a passerby and asked, 'Hey, do you know a little song about a horse in Banbury?' This had the delightful effect of causing an unknown middle-aged man sing me a lullaby in the street. An excellent distraction from hunger if ever there was one - I highly recommend it. But what a forgettable ditty! That same afternoon I had already forgotten the words and couldn't sing it for you now if my life depended on it. 

I'm regularly astonished at how migrants wind up places. For instance, how did this beautiful Thai woman, our waitress, find herself in Banbury? Got on the wrong train in Chiang Mai? Easily done. But seriously. How? And she wasn't a loner - there was a whole Thai supermarket up the road. How did this community arise? I look forward to a link to a scholarly article 'A social analysis of the Thais of Banbury - their journeys and history', regaling me with the long history of the Banbury Thais who came over with the Vikings and have been sowing fields of lemongrass ever since...

I do see the ridiculousness of me asking this question as I move to Belfast, but I am one woman. And with the best will in the world I don't rate my chances of coaxing a whole community of Austalians to join me. 

I digress. Day 2 was a lot harder than day 1. While there were some delightful bits early on, rabbits in hedgerows, etc., I did spend a lot of the day feeling like I was being chased up A-roads by people with driving convictions and ants in their pants. It was tough. If I'm honest, it was really only the thought of seeing the Spen-dog's little smiling face in Stratford on Avon and knowing that she would ply me with booze that got me up some of those hills. Thanks, Spen-dog, you're ace. Everyone should have one. 

Challenge Accepted

Seeing as how I haven't been to work in some months, I might have found my 6:05am alarm confronting. Instead I was wide awake, waiting for it. In Peckham Rye, the hour between six and seven is when the town wakes. Typically, anecdotes about waking hours are littered with reference to birdsong and dawn's lights on dewdrop. In Peckham this same daily waking is denoted by more harried bus activity, and a sudden violent exchange of the orange light of the street lamps for the faceless grey of the creeping dawn. It has the same effect. 

Up. Tea. Tears. Hugs. Departure. 

As you can probably tell from this picture where I look like I've just been electrocuted, I had stage fright. You know, that feeling where someone puts a lid on your guts, you can't catch a single thought & then directly before you're due on stage you're certain that you need to wee so badly you think you're about to burst... but you don't. Yeah. Just like that. Can I do this? Is this happening? What have I forgotten? 

Part of what made this (probably mental but I'm doing it anyway) ride feel possible was my occasional commute to my old work: I figured, if I could do 20kms before breakfast, I could probably do 80kms in a day. Seriously. My logic was that advanced. Aptly, this was how we started, along the deathpath from Peckham to Cricklewood, via Vauxhall, Victoria, Hyde Park Corner, Marble Arch and the Edgware Rd. So many opportunities to die. So many ponies in Central London (including mine). 

Along the way I bored the shit out of Jai with such remembrances as 'that's where I first met Franchester' (my beloved football team of yore), where I'd had dinner with my desertwife's parents some years ago & found the carvers lacking (always an interesting observation from a non-meat eater), the neighbourhood where she & I went  antiques shopping on Bargain Hunt... She's really good at smiling & nodding. Lucky.

We met some legends for breakfast (thanks for meeting us, legends!), made some bike adjustments and set off into the great unknown. Unfortunately, one of these adjustments involved me resetting my bike computer. Like a boss. At this point though, we'd done roughly 20kms. 

As predicted, navigating out of London was tough. It involved the grim underpass of a giant ring road & playing peek-a-boo with a railway line. And it was thankless - I don't mean to say that Jamie was ungrateful for my map reading efforts. To the contrary, in fact. But even in my kindest hour, I say that North West London could best be described in one word: pebbledash. Acres & acres of it. Pebbeldash! Why?? why, dear architects from the past, did you wish for us to live in villages of regurgitated gravel? And how, by what dark magic, by what insidious marketing beast, did you convince us to comply? When I imagine the pebbledash mogul (there must be one, surely?), I imagine a leathery, bleach haired, parachute track suit-wearing hermaphrodite, rolling in gravel, laughing maniacally, shrieking each time a frontage is painted or demolished.

Enough. Here the highlights package frontage rest of the day:

Seeing the underside of the M25 & being so dwarfed as to feel as though I was in Gulliver's travels. 

Cute half pint at roadside pub.

Delightful waypointing stranger outside Chesham. 

Riding up a gorge in the Chilterns with farmland all around. 

Gaining a true appreciation of how ridiculous the Metropolitan Line is - seriously? Amersham??

Arriving at the days end having done 60.2kms since breakfast, inhaling a beer & some chips & starting to feel like this might actually happen (Note: I thought the same about Scotland...) 

Look out, Belfast - I'm on my way. Slowly. 

Introducing, Horseback

This is my bike, Horseback.

Handsome, no?

Naming your bike Horseback allows you to say phrases such as, 'Yes, it was a quick journey - I came on Horseback', which delights me. It delights me not only for the obvious reason (general hilarity), but also because: Jai & I were out walking one day in Windsor Great Park. Stunning, gorgeous Winter day with deer frolicking, sun shining, etc. We'd been out there for hours, loving it. As we were walking back towards town, just as we were passing a sign saying 'NO CYCLING' these 2 rogues approach. On bikes. On bikes worth more than my first born son. There is overwhelming evidence to suggest they are mid-get away after a Lycra heist. As they're passing us, one says to the other, 'Mwough,' silver spoons pouring from his mouth like milk sick from an overfed infant, 'is this the way you used to go on horseback?!'

We died. And so: Horseback. 

As you can see, Horseback has all the mod cons - pedals, wheels, seat, thermos, etc. and also super nifty computer that tells me when I'm breaking the sound barrier (thanks to Al, via Badger), and basically, a front pouch. 

It's kind of embarrassing, the front pouch. It's something I never thought I'd be into. I mean, it's not exactly hardcore, is it? (See http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=sOP5raLiDSk for rules of being hardcore - I refer to it often.) Whilst pootling around Brittany, however, I discovered I LOVED it. Look! Everything I need, directly in front of me. I can stuff my face with endless snacks while riding! Where have you been all my life, front pouch? And look! a little see through waterproof pocket for the instructions! Sold. Newsflash: I am not hardcore. 

I'll tell you what is hardcore - we're leaving in the morning. 

By way of preparation, I will be eating and drinking all the things. Oh, and getting an emergency haircut. Game on. 

An Ode to Peckham and its Palace

It's not all kms and maps and bike parts, you know (though there is a lot of that - stay tuned). 

Getting on your bike to cycle away from the little home you've carved out for yourself is not only physically and technically demanding. 

I've done it before. Because the thing is, I love making new homes. I love the challenge, the discovery, the intrigue, figuring out how the place makes the people make the place. I love exploring. I love getting it wrong sometimes until you get it right just once: I'll take 3 dead ends for one surprise view as a happy exchange. I like knowing communities and the details of places and finding their hearts and finding a place for them in mine. (Because: adventure.)

In different ways, my heart aches for all my homes - I want delicious fresh sushi and incomprehensible gardens of raked over stones; I want endless desert skies and sand underfoot; I want painfully artistic coffee and the ding of trams in my ears. But this town, and in particular, this flat, has been my home for longer than anywhere else in my entire adult life.

I love it. I love its nooks, and its crannies, its stars and its tumbleweave (more the town than the flat, thankfully, but we do have a plughole 'monster' thanks to Jai's 'my hair'). I walk down the street in this town and I recongise people. And they reconise me. And it feels like home. The delightful family in my off license of choice, the pervy dry cleaner and his lovely long-suffering wife, Edwin the homeless former Chelsea College of Art student, my mate at the station who hurries me up the stairs when I'm running late and then shoots the breeze with me when I miss my train, the emaciated wino lady and friends, that kid at Khan's who valiantly brandishes his pubescent moustance but is waaaaay too young to be working the day shift, the cobbler in the markets who complements my shoe choice, Eileen Conn the tireless campaigner empowering the Peckham community to be the masters of their own destiny, the gaggle of children giggling by the station's South exit and their enterprising parents whos all-hours hair salons make for a nightlife like no other, the old man on nightshift at the 24 hour store who judges my late night snacks, the legends of Wednesday morning BMF on the Rye who know not to talk to one another before the cool down because what-time-do-you-call-this-anyway?, Benedict O'Swooney whose treaties on the architecture of Peckham had me swooning from the word go, and probably the worst barrista in all London who inflicts himself on the unsuspecting commuters of Peckham from his concession inside the station. These people aren't my friends, but they are my community. 

And all that's before you even enter the Palace, whose characters actually are my friends. (At this point, I honestly can't talk about the ridiculousness that is handing out pieces of your heart as friendship tokens and then waving them goodbye - like I said, probably mental but I'm doing it anyway.) 

So here's to Peckham, my cosy homeplace, where I've loved and cried and laughed and raged and brewed and scehemed and danced with everyone watching. 

And also to my next home, and the one after that, without ever less loving the ones gone before. 

Route planning

I've kicked my preparations up a notch

and now I am making a mess with bike-related objects, rather than just general household chaos. Progress!

The plan is London to Belfast via Liverpool. Avoiding Birmingham at all costs ('probably mental but I'm doing it anyway', remember?).

I have a pervasive, morbid fear of being lost in Birmingham on my bike. I assume it will be dark and raining, regardless the hour. To give you an idea of how exactly I feel about Birmingham I will tell you this: I adore my grandmother. More than words. She and my aunt lived in Birmingham for a time. On one visit, my grandmother and I, disoriented in a mire of tracksuit pants and ugly brick, wandered not far from 'the Bullring'. Cue a downpour the likes of which Noah never imagined. We found ourselves taking shelter in some Faustian armpit of an underpass, where from darkened corners appeared unforgiving yellowed eyes. I felt like Aladdin meeting Jaffar in the prison cave with my grandmother playing the role of be-scarfed Charming Rescue Monkey. Badly. The rain was endless and yet it did nothing to wash away the unrelenting stench of urine. Welcome to Birmingham. Like I said, I love my grandmother, and at this point I took her hands and told her so. 'Nanny', I said 'I really, really love you, but I am never, ever coming to this hole of a place again. Ever.'

In short: Birmingham, my friends, is not a risk I'm willing to take, and am prepared to go the long way round to avoid it. 

So. 

19 September (75kms) - Peckham Rye to Alesbury

20 September (86kms) - Aylesbury to Stratford-upon-Avon

21 September (78kms) - Stratford-upon-Avon to Bridgnorth

22 September (83kms) - Bridgnorth to Wrexham

23 September (54kms) - Wrexham to Liverpool

24 September (let's face it, I'm taking the ferry) - Liverpool to Belfast 

See? No Birmingham. None. (I'd love to embed this map, but Google says 'no'.)

Please note - all these distances are approximate & kind of made up.  They certainly don't take account of getting lost and detours for food and shiny things.

Navigation remains a challenge. At the moment, I am still not entirely sure how I'm going to chizu-chan (it's made up Japanese for 'map reading friend') us there. King of the Badgers says phone all the way. I've got a few OS maps, but we'd need literally loads of those. I'm playing with printing the Google map instructions, but they're a bit crap. I'm confident we'll work it out, but it might mean riding further and having silent arguments at crossroads... All suggestions welcome!

Also, caveat: I'm not saying this ride is even actually possible for me; I am saying I'm going to give it a red hot go. I'm not too proud to take the train when it's pouring rain and my knees hurt and it's all too hard. This is meant to be, on the whole, enjoyable. 

The only problem there, really, is that Jai is a demon. Actually. For instance, while I will spend this weekend stuffing my things in bags and probably crying a bit, she's running a hill marathon. Like a demon. Honestly. 

I did try to do some training - I spent last week leisurely cycling around Brittany. But let's be honest here, that was really pastry boot camp. Literally. We had a daily pastry challenge. Al won, in the end, for his commitment to the cause, and even I will concede he pulled off some pearlers (for instance, the dark chocolate and pear pastry of day 4 was breathtaking). But, still, his win was pretty contentious: I still think my mystery chocolate boob pastry took the cake. 

It's early days, friends, and it's already daunting. Thanks for throwing down the gauntlet, adventure. If you want to throw down a GPS too, that would be super helpful. Thx.

This is how I roll

I could probably get away with starting this with a quip about lemons and lemonade, but I'm not going to. Suffice to say that in the past couple of months I've jettisoned rapidly from 'no plan' to 'a (probably mental but I'm doing it anyway) plan'. 

And that plan is to ride my bike from London to Belfast and set up shop there for a while. (Did I mention the 'probably mental but I'm doing it anyway' flavour?)

Belfast. I mean, it's the obvious next step. The weather is fantastic and the dulcet tones of the locals have garnered nothing but glorification and adoring fans the world over. Frankly, it's amazing there's not a mass exodus from this thriving metropolis they call London to that cultural melting pot of innovative delight that is Belfast. Right??? Exactly. Or something. 

I've always thought Belfast would be an interesting place to visit. And I was right - it was incredibly interesting. I will confess, however, that I got a little more than I bargained for on my first visit and soon thereafter found myself in love. Not with the city itself, per se, but with a charming young resident we'll call Al. (That's you Al, wave!)

And you know what? Over this past year I've found plenty to like about the town itself, too. There are the obvious things, like being able to get a side of potatoes delivered with your pizza, and the fact that it's seemingly impossible to more than 15 minutes from your destination at any time, but also the market and the ocean and walks along the river, the increasingly exciting local culinary and beer scene, the changing murals and the preponderance of rainbows. 

There are some dark bits, too, which I can't say I 'like', but which I will say intrigue me. It feels like a place that's still finding it's feet - a naive view, certainly, and one I'll look forward to refining, over pints no doubt (where, arguably, I do all my best thinking and which possibly gave rise to this 'plan'). 

There are easy ways to get to Belfast. The flight takes 50 minutes when the wind blows in the right direction. 

But why do in an afternoon what your can do in a week at a greater financial, personal and sit-bone cost, I ask you? Adventure calls! 

And I will answer her. She's a siren. A noisy, goading trick of the light who quickens the heart and frightens the bank account. She, who sets fire to sensibility and laughs in the face of logic, is, it seems, my mistress. So. In 10 sleeps from now, I'm farewelling my London home of this past half decade and getting on my bike and cycling to Belfast. 

The only thing I'm packing is the very thing that's accompanied me on all my best London adventures - my housemate and co-conspirator in all things slightly mad, Jai. (That's you Jai, wave!)

I'm going to record my pedal powered journey here. As you can see below, it's going great so far...

Stay tuned. Route plan to follow!