Somer is a’cumen in

The weekend before last was the first of the recent baking hot summer days we experienced here in the UK. The day had been spent at a football tournament in Trowbridge where my eldest son had played his first proper matches as part of the team. I had lathered on the sunblock to the boys, but had forgotten about myself, so as I freewheeled down the hill out of the village, the evening suns rays fell onto the back of my burnt neck, causing a not altogether unpleasant prickling sensation.
The roads around Laverton were hot and dusty, deep tractor tyre ruts in the gateways had baked hard in the heat, and a thin film of clay-dust gathered on the downtube of the bike. Even at the end of the day the air was still warm, it was a relief to hear the sound of cold, water rushing over the weir at Lullington Mill, the very soundwaves seemed to me to have a cooling effect on my roasted neck, and overheating noggin. I rode into Lullington and leant the bike against the village pump while I rehydrated and read a notice compelling the locals to watch the local morris men who were due to dance in the village. Crickets chirped in the long grass and swifts sped over the houses, their shrill calls echoing around the otherwise quiet valley. This was idylic summer riding.

Lullington pump, where notices of impending morris men are posted

Lullington pump, where notices of impending morris men are posted

It was unfortunately just a short ride, a sort of brief goodbye to the Lemond Etape as my sister was to borrow it for her triathlon training on Monday. The back tyre was almost worn through and the brake blocks were non existent after the wet and gravelly rides around the backlanes over the winter and spring. She was going to take it for a tune up at her local bikeshop before putting it through its paces around the old haunts of the original Highway Cycling Group.

Published in: on June 4, 2009 at 12:05 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The need for bacon compels me to ride.

The very next day after riding to the Railway Bridges, I had great need of bacon in the morning.

Ah Bacon, food of kings, breaker of vegetarians. Oft have I longed to partake of a sandwich stuffed with thy fulsome bounty, eaten fresh from the pan in a room redolent with the sweet whiff of thy preparation.

So I saddled up the Brompton and rode out into the splendor of the day in search of the magical pig product. The sky was deep blue, laced with gentle white and wispy clouds and the verges were humming with a chorus of grasshoppers and crickets, an insect orchestra performing a glorious symphony in praise of Summer. The sound took me back to cycling holidays in France with the original Highway Cycling Group. Glass bottles of Coca-Cola, handfuls of warm baguette broken from the stick of bread hanging off the panniers on my father’s bike. Poring over a michelin map, on the verge, dry white grass-stalks, heat haze, shimmering mirages on the dusty tarmac, and the steady insect hum from the crickets and grasshoppers.

Riding out of the village I passed the fields of sunflowers, now in full bloom, their faces seeking the light. The main road was busy and I was relieved to pull off into the local farm shop. Then, loaded up with sweet, sweet bacon, I rode back through Beckington to the village, where the bacon was then cooked and consumed.

Why, I even made you a little film of the ride using my compact digital camera. I’ve added some music by My Two Toms, I’m not sure what this track is called, it may even be unreleased, you lucky people.