Pancakes Again

Back in South Africa, the trimmings around Easter, such as Lent, Ash Wednesday and Shrove Tuesday are only really observed in the Catholic community. I was vaguely aware of Lent, but all the others were only found in the pages of fastidious almanacs.

Here, however, Lent is commonly mentioned (if not commonly observed), and Shrove Tuesday is a national institution. Not entirely, I must mention, for the religious significance, though: it’s much better known by the alternative name of Pancake Day.

Having a day dedicated to pancakes is something I can really get behind. They were always a huge treat growing up. They’re connected in my mind with two events during my childhood. One was Methodist Church fêtes, where there was always a pancake stall (selling at a price of 20c apiece, if I recall). The other is rainy days. Where we lived at the time, rain wasn’t particularly common, and when it arrived, it was usually in short, sharp thunderstormy bursts. Occasionally, you’d get a day where it hung around and rained all afternoon. This was, in local parlance, ‘pannekoekweer’, or pancake weather.

Because there’s nothing better for days like this than a supper of pancakes. There’d be the cajoling and pleading (by the children), followed by a half-reluctant acceptance (by the parents). Then there’d be the long build-up: my mother at the stove, cooking a double batch three at a time, with the stock piling up on a plate. By the time she was done, the whole house smelt delicious, the family were waiting in the kitchen like vultures, and once the lid was lifted on the pile, there was a rapid devourance in a flurry of cinnamon sugar, with a tally kept of how many each person had eaten as a sort of badge of honour.

It must be said, though, that what we called pancakes are probably what most over here would call crêpes. What they call pancakes (such as you’d see in this delightful post), we’d probably call large flapjacks. What they call flapjacks, we’d call crunchies (although theirs tend to be a lot stodgier and moist than ours).

As a footnote, I might mention that whenever we make pancakes now, I get a poignant memory: the recipe is on an email sent when we lived in Ireland, 16 years ago now. It segues seamlessly from “so nice to talk to you on the phone at the weekend” to the recipe, to news about my grandfather, who was dying of Alzheimers at the time. Wonderful, yet sad. Interesting how one dish links together so many different strands of life…


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New Year, New Places

Going for a cycle involves two things, really. A bike, and somewhere to go. And while there are a lot of little country lanes within an hours ride of me, it eventually starts to get a little along the lines of déjà vu. As beautiful as the scenery is, there is a risk that it becomes a case of “this way again…”

So when I stumbled across this blog post on VeloViewer, I was immediately intrigued. I  had a look at my explorer map around my area, which looked like this at the end of 2016:


If I say so myself, that’s rather impressive coverage, given that I wasn’t really trying to do that. However, there are a few isolated squares I haven’t been to, and the south east corner is rather empty (and gets a lot worse just off the picture).

So this year, while trying to keep up with distance, and fitness, I’ll have a secondary aim: To increase the size of my max square from 13×13 at the end of 2016 to something a bit larger. 20×20 is probably doable, with a bit of diligence.

And so the first ride for 2017 took me to that little square South-East of Henley in Arden. The only road in it is a dead-end lane going past a little lake to a farm. So it’s not unreasonable that I wouldn’t have been that way before. But it’s certainly worth the trip, especially in the cold stillness of a winter morning:


So here’s to a 2017 full of new places, new routes, and new experiences.

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Last ride of the year

For the last two years, I’ve significantly toned down my riding between November and February. It’s cold and dark. It’s occasionally icy. It takes a lot of willpower to get out of bed, especially when the road is wet. Which it usually is – either through rain, or dew when it’s clear. I haven’t had the right gear, resulting  chilly knees, and wet feet.

But then, I’ve seen other cyclists on Strava clock up the miles, and felt a pang of regret. And so I acquired the gear (despite the ludicrous appearance it lends me), and I’ve tried to keep going out. The rides are shorter, and slower, but they’re there. And I’m still in good enough shape to pick up on the opportunities which come along.

Such as sometime cycling friend, James James Morrison Morrison*, who has a habit of planning a ridiculous ride in the last week of the year. Last year, it was a train trip to Taunton, followed by a cycle home. In the dark. In the rain. Madness. Stupidity. But Respect. And so this year I told him I was in (before knowing what was involved, I might add). Turned out it was something similar, but returning from London instead. And during the day. Still rather mad. Significantly less stupid. Hopefully still some respect. However, on the eve of this trip, I popped over to his to settle details, only to find that bureaucracy on the railways had scuppered the plans. No bikes on the train to London until the New Year.

Well, not much that can be done about that except to take it like a statue, and make an alternative plan. Which in this case was to head out to Coleshill, pick up two others, and do a 100 mile cycle with little to no planning. Sort of a ‘head north-east until half-way tired, and then meander back to the start’. Which is a somewhat different attitude to my usual stance. Normally when I do long rides, they’re Sportives. Which are timed. And despite the clearly stated intention that these are not races, the competitive part of me comes out and tries to go as fast as I can. Am I faster than last year? How do I compare to the rest of the field? I can’t help it. Not that this is a bad thing, of course – it’s just my default position to try to go as fast as I can for as long as I can. It’s fitness, and strength, and endurance. The numbers, the stats, the performance.

On this ride, though, there was no clock, and the other riders (all of whom are significantly better than me) weren’t trying to prove anything. I was just happy I could keep up. And so we tootled around Leicestershire and Warwickshire at around 15.5mph, just enjoying the ride. And enjoy it I did – the sheer beauty of fields and hedges touched by ice, rolling hills and roads winding through obscure villages (including a long-overdue return to the Sheepys) with no tourists, and nothing to attract them even if there were any. The freezing cold keeping most other (normal?) people indoors. It was just the four of us, in the silence of a bleak midwinter, exploring, discovering, relating memories and stories. The only problems were where to stop for a coffee & cake (remarkably few coffee shops in that part of the country!).

So, while part of me is really chuffed with my cycling year, the other part thinks that this ride was the best part of it. I cycled more miles this year than ever before, went the equivalent of 4 times up Everest, went faster, and longer, and better than ever before. But those are just numbers. This ride was just for the love of cycling, and if I ever lose that, all the numbers will be meaningless.


*Not their real names. But close. No Wetherby George Dupree, unfortunately.

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Bloggy McBlogface

Saw this sign on a barge in the city centre.

2016-05-09 12.22.53

The Other Boaty McBoatface

Not quite so well known as the RRS vessel that will be known as the RSS Sir David Attenborough, but kudos to the owner for sticking with a popular winner.

My preference were some of the other jestical entries:

  • Jon Boat Jovi
  • Ice to Meet You
  • Science Tool from Liverpool
  • Planktonic Relationship

Sometimes, I love this country’s capacity for taking serious things lightheartedly, and lighthearted things seriously.


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Crazy Paving

I have a confession to make. I’m a little crazy when it comes to paving.

Paving that is right

Paving that is right

When I see something like this, it makes me happy. All is well with the world, everything is in its rightful place, and birds and bees alike are bright and buzzy.

Paving that is wrong

Paving that is wrong

When I see something like this, though, it makes me sad. A dark cloud appears in the sky, blots out the sun, and an eminently inimitable turn of bad weather seems imminently inevitable.

Paving that should be right, but is wrong, which makes it more wrong than paving that is wrong, because it could be right, but it isn't.

Paving that should be right, but is wrong, which makes it more wrong than paving that is wrong, because it could be right, but it’s wrong. So very wrongly wrong.

However, when I see something like that, it’s like a bad mashup of karma and dogma. It’s like the prince who rescues Rapunzel turning out to have a sideline interest in wig-making. Or the two ugly step-sisters only pretending to be ugly so that Cinders gets her prince because they feel sorry for her. But Cinderella is really Rapunzel in disguise, slowly coming back from the harrowing ‘haircut in the night’ incident back at the palace which stripped her, not only of her hirsutity, but of her memory as well, and now she’s a raving lunatic who sleeps in fireplaces and talks to birds, and outwardly she’s all ‘yes, Stepmother’ this and ‘certainly, Stepmother’ that, and she sweeps and dusts, and sings and dances, but when it’s dark, she’s at the cauldron with eye of newt and toe of frog and she’s poisoning apples and stalking dwarves, and she’s smirking maniacally at the mirror on the wall, and she’s growing forests of sleepy brambles, and cursing fairies, and stealing the voices right out of the throats of little mermaids, and sometimes when she’s in a particularly foul mood she preys on the insecurities of baby geese but she can’t quite shake the feeling that she’s doing that bit wrong, and so she sets an elaborate trap (involving a rabid wolf, a chainsaw, and a basket of cheesy comestibles) for a little old lady who lives alone, by herself in a lonely cottage in the deserted woods, and when it’s all over she finds, under a glass cloche (together with a rose that slowly, gently, unstoppably, is losing its petals one by one), a piccolo, which she painstakingly learns to play one night while trying to spin straw into gold without pricking her finger, whereupon she is suddenly surrounded by rats, big rats, dirty rats, nasty rats, who carry her off down the hill, and she’s thinking if only, if only, if only they’d lifted up that panel of paving, and put it down so that the lines matched up with the other lines, and the blocks matched up with those other blocks, then she wouldn’t have been chased by those bears, and harassed by the talking cat, or eaten those three bowls of porridge for breakfast, and she’d have married her prince and he would have been charming, and they would have been blissfully, blissfully happy for ever and ever and ever.


Posted in Humour, Psychology | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

Timely Training

My train was on time today. Annoying, because I almost missed it.

It used to be the case that it was reliably one or two minutes late. I can leave my house at 7:15, walk the 0.8 miles to the station, and catch the 7:26. I have the timing down to the minute – there are three landmarks along the way where I can do a time check and ensure I’m bang on time. I sidle down the wheelchair ramp to the platform at exactly 7:26, as the train in rolling up. And it invariably leaves the station at 7:28, or 7:29.

This is, of course, how things should be. In a flawed country, with flawed people, there shouldn’t be perfection. Or even the semblance of perfection. Of course, there is a limit to this – any more than five minutes late, and it looks sloppy. And complaints will be made, effusively. So, every now and then, London Midland gets the idea that perhaps it should run its trains properly. Like (and I hesitate to say this) a proper European country. For a few days, the trains arrive at 7:24, and leave bang on time. It settles the nerves of the rabble rousers, calms them down, and gives them the idea that maybe things will be alright, and they can rely on the train service.

For me, it means I have to readjust my  morning routine for a few days until normality sets in again and we get back to being a few minutes late.

But it gets me thinking – does this timeousness have anything to do with goings on across the water? Is it a coincidence that whenever there’s talk of Brexit, or referendums, or rumours of deals, the trains suddenly run on time? Probably, but it feels like there’s scope for a bit more research on this.

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Devon Coast to Coast – Day 3

The last day. One last challenge, but also one last chance to live the experience of the ride. No disappointment on either front. There were three hilly sections, a long steady downhill run into Plymouth, and beautiful scenery throughout.

Lydford was a particular delight – ups and downs through the lush gorge, with 30 metre drops to the river below, and dense woodland either side of the road. Reaching the edge of Dartmoor provided an unbeatable vista across the moors, with ponies grazing just off the path. And then there’s the Drake’s Trail, which runs from Tavistock to Plymouth.

Part of this, from around Bickleigh, is along the route of the old Plym Valley railway, and is a gentle downward gradient running through woodland. On a sunny Saturday afternoon, it’s well populated with dog walkers, hikers, and cyclists. It lends a sense of community to the ride, as though they’d all come out to see us finish.

However, once you reach the end of that, there’s a bit of a dreary section through industrial areas of Plymouth. The road around the coast is taken, which then goes through the harbour, and on towards the lighthouse and ferry terminal. This road was busy, and the pavement was full of pedestrians, and we ended up resorting to walking the last mile. I know – highly embarrassing.

And then, as soon as we’d arrived, the guy who was to take our bikes (and us) back to Ilfracombe was there, and we started loading up, and it all felt just a little anti-climactic. No fanfare, or welcoming committee, or anything like that. Just a photo or two, and a trudge to a portaloo. A long trip in a van, and then packing up the cars again. Ideally, it would have been better to spend the night in Plymouth, so that we could at least savour the arrival, soak up the atmosphere in the harbour, and get a real sense of achievement.
But still – it’s a challenge taken up and overcome, and especially for the children, something they can be really proud of. Hopefully, it’s just the start of something more regular, with more family holidays being spent this way. Could next year’s project be a ramble along the edge of the Danube, perhaps? Or down the coast of France? Much planning lies ahead, methinks.

Day 3's map

Day 3’s map

Beautiful scenery just outside Sourton

Beautiful scenery just outside Sourton

Crossing one of the numerous viaducts

Crossing one of the numerous viaducts

And another one

And another one

Final destination - Plymouth

Final destination – Plymouth

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