I woke to my alarm at 7:45 and again heavy rain and said out loud
"No fucking way".
I'd been kept up most of the night suffering from hayfever, I hadn't had it so bad since I was a child. By 11am the rain was easing but the day was already wasted. I walked back along the river with Hudson and onto Annan high street. Just the usual really. Same shops, same school kids in groups with awkward smiles and shifty eyes at each other. I picked up some better pens and went and sat at The Blue Bell pub and wrote all this. I picked up The Sun newspaper for the first time in years. It had three seperate articles about celebrity females nearly 'popping out' of their shirts. Back to the tent for an early night, early rise. We should cover some miles tomorrow as to not get stuck in a rut.
On the road, one man and his dog. 29 days, 700 miles, one journal, no readers.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Day 5 - Carlisle - Annan.
I awoke at 8:45am to blinding sun and stifling heat. I quickly got outside but the ground was still sodden which is really unpleasant on such a nice morning. I spent the next two hours doing laundry, drying out all the gear from my panniers that had gotten wet and slowly packing as neatly as possible. I'm definitely not the target demographic for this campsite, first of all I'm the only tent and secondly I've spent fourteen pounds here compared to the six pounds in Haltwhistle.
Anyway, taking it easy today, the heat is a bit too much. I made breakfast, some noodles and sandwiches for later. The days really are never straight forward. I just entered Scotland at Gretna. There is a house there marked 'First/Last house in Scotland. Marriage room Est 1830 over 100,000 weddings here'. I'd heard the story that young English couples would run away to Gretna and get married as the legal age for marriage was lower here.
Entering Gretna I was already feeling weak, another short day and as the strength drained from my legs I pulled into a caravan site. "We don't do tents, you'll need to go to Annan it's only nine miles". I smiled but my heart sank. Nine miles is of course very little, but on a day where you're already feeling spent after doing twenty all day, it's a fair chunk. We connected with the NCN7 route as it meandered and humped us down country lanes and through puddles of raw eColi. I was noticing things. The thickly painted road markings on rough asphalt. The cracked paving flags. The teams of kids in football strips. The beer in the petrol station. It would still take me some time for this to feel like home again but I saw all these things as good. Only the small heavy black stone was left, rattling around in the bottom of my chest. An uncontrollable discomfort honouring those few soles i sorely missed and the love I had lost by leaving. I had a knowing feeling that this stone would always be there and I would have tolearn to live with it's presence but also that it was good that i would never forget those people and I would never forget that girl.
With some help from my phones GPS I found the campsite in Annan. I needn't have bothered it was directly on the NCN route. It was a small field next to the football ground with only room for fifteen pitches or so and again, mostly caravans or campervans. There was only one other two-man tent with a touring bicycle parked up next to it.
I looked around the heavily postered shed that was acting as reception and picked up a local map of Annan. No-one was here. Back outside was posted the wardens phone number and as i searched out my phone a man left the toilet block, I nodded and smiled.
"Hi!"
he said in a familiar tone and waving a finger like Colombo putting the pieces together.
"I saw you in Gretna" he continued almost correcting himself in fear of sounding weird.
"I remember that...." searching for the words
"The dog".
He seemed friendly and roadweary aswe began to talk. He was Paul from Munich, a fifty year old looking a slim thirty five. I told him I was going to find a pub later and he described a large place with lights and food he had to go to first.
"Tesco" I said, he nodded.
The warden arrived about an hour later to collect nine pounds (three pounds too much in my opinion). She was a lovely older Scottish lady and her accent rang of the ears with an indescribably pleasantness and generosity. She showed interest in the dog as about half the people I talk to do and I gave her my well rehearsed spiel.
He's eight. He's an Australian cattle dog. Or a Blue Heeler, same thing. We've just flown back from Canada together. He loves it here. He doesn't really like the trailer that much, so he's glad we've arrived. I took a breath and she smiled as I knewshe would and tentatively put out a hand for him to smell. He turned the other way, he usually does unless you have food.
I enquired about a pub and she pointed me to The Blue Bell.
"Follow the river down with him (The dog), you'll get a good pint in there aye, and he's allowed too".
I set up camp as Hudson watched, ears pricked in curiosity of my routine. He would stand on whatever thing it was I needed to move next and tap dance on the spot confused when I told him to move.
Paul returned from his land of milk and honey and we took the walk down the river where I bored him with obscure elements of his own countries film and musical heritage. He'd never heard of Neu! or Cluster but he knew Kraftwerk and had seen Fitzcarraldo. He said he hadn't heard from Werner Herzog in years. I told him he'd had three films out last year, one of them starring Nicolas Cage. He seemed distinctly unimpressed. When we arrived at the bar he insisted on buying my pint. I really liked Paul and I liked how we had found each other on the road. We discussed routes and had made the same plan of a route through Ayr, Arran and up to Inverness then John O groats. I knew my Inverness leg of the trip was looking less likely every day but we both shared an enthusiasm for the isle of Arran. We'd heard, read and seen good things.
At The Blue Bell the pub quiz was in full swing, it wasthe kind of place where London was talked about like it is a far away exotic destination and the internet as though it is some mythical beast they heard of through a friend of a friend. We stepped back to the beer garden where Hudson entertained us by kicking off with every other dog he saw. Paul claimed that the key to looking young was exercise. I had a feeling that it was more a culmination of small lifestyle choices. I drank two pints of Deuchars IPA while he had two halves, stuff like that. I told him I could spend all night in that pub, that I enjoyed the banter. He said well he had to sleep in his tent. I told Paul some of my theories and observations. I told him that when I saw touring motorcycles I thought that they were missing everything but that walkers probably said the same thing of us cyclists. He said he had seen many walkers. I really liked Paul, he was a proper tourer but it was time for bed.
Anyway, taking it easy today, the heat is a bit too much. I made breakfast, some noodles and sandwiches for later. The days really are never straight forward. I just entered Scotland at Gretna. There is a house there marked 'First/Last house in Scotland. Marriage room Est 1830 over 100,000 weddings here'. I'd heard the story that young English couples would run away to Gretna and get married as the legal age for marriage was lower here.
Entering Gretna I was already feeling weak, another short day and as the strength drained from my legs I pulled into a caravan site. "We don't do tents, you'll need to go to Annan it's only nine miles". I smiled but my heart sank. Nine miles is of course very little, but on a day where you're already feeling spent after doing twenty all day, it's a fair chunk. We connected with the NCN7 route as it meandered and humped us down country lanes and through puddles of raw eColi. I was noticing things. The thickly painted road markings on rough asphalt. The cracked paving flags. The teams of kids in football strips. The beer in the petrol station. It would still take me some time for this to feel like home again but I saw all these things as good. Only the small heavy black stone was left, rattling around in the bottom of my chest. An uncontrollable discomfort honouring those few soles i sorely missed and the love I had lost by leaving. I had a knowing feeling that this stone would always be there and I would have tolearn to live with it's presence but also that it was good that i would never forget those people and I would never forget that girl.
With some help from my phones GPS I found the campsite in Annan. I needn't have bothered it was directly on the NCN route. It was a small field next to the football ground with only room for fifteen pitches or so and again, mostly caravans or campervans. There was only one other two-man tent with a touring bicycle parked up next to it.
I looked around the heavily postered shed that was acting as reception and picked up a local map of Annan. No-one was here. Back outside was posted the wardens phone number and as i searched out my phone a man left the toilet block, I nodded and smiled.
"Hi!"
he said in a familiar tone and waving a finger like Colombo putting the pieces together.
"I saw you in Gretna" he continued almost correcting himself in fear of sounding weird.
"I remember that...." searching for the words
"The dog".
He seemed friendly and roadweary aswe began to talk. He was Paul from Munich, a fifty year old looking a slim thirty five. I told him I was going to find a pub later and he described a large place with lights and food he had to go to first.
"Tesco" I said, he nodded.
The warden arrived about an hour later to collect nine pounds (three pounds too much in my opinion). She was a lovely older Scottish lady and her accent rang of the ears with an indescribably pleasantness and generosity. She showed interest in the dog as about half the people I talk to do and I gave her my well rehearsed spiel.
He's eight. He's an Australian cattle dog. Or a Blue Heeler, same thing. We've just flown back from Canada together. He loves it here. He doesn't really like the trailer that much, so he's glad we've arrived. I took a breath and she smiled as I knewshe would and tentatively put out a hand for him to smell. He turned the other way, he usually does unless you have food.
I enquired about a pub and she pointed me to The Blue Bell.
"Follow the river down with him (The dog), you'll get a good pint in there aye, and he's allowed too".
I set up camp as Hudson watched, ears pricked in curiosity of my routine. He would stand on whatever thing it was I needed to move next and tap dance on the spot confused when I told him to move.
Paul returned from his land of milk and honey and we took the walk down the river where I bored him with obscure elements of his own countries film and musical heritage. He'd never heard of Neu! or Cluster but he knew Kraftwerk and had seen Fitzcarraldo. He said he hadn't heard from Werner Herzog in years. I told him he'd had three films out last year, one of them starring Nicolas Cage. He seemed distinctly unimpressed. When we arrived at the bar he insisted on buying my pint. I really liked Paul and I liked how we had found each other on the road. We discussed routes and had made the same plan of a route through Ayr, Arran and up to Inverness then John O groats. I knew my Inverness leg of the trip was looking less likely every day but we both shared an enthusiasm for the isle of Arran. We'd heard, read and seen good things.
At The Blue Bell the pub quiz was in full swing, it wasthe kind of place where London was talked about like it is a far away exotic destination and the internet as though it is some mythical beast they heard of through a friend of a friend. We stepped back to the beer garden where Hudson entertained us by kicking off with every other dog he saw. Paul claimed that the key to looking young was exercise. I had a feeling that it was more a culmination of small lifestyle choices. I drank two pints of Deuchars IPA while he had two halves, stuff like that. I told him I could spend all night in that pub, that I enjoyed the banter. He said well he had to sleep in his tent. I told Paul some of my theories and observations. I told him that when I saw touring motorcycles I thought that they were missing everything but that walkers probably said the same thing of us cyclists. He said he had seen many walkers. I really liked Paul, he was a proper tourer but it was time for bed.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Day 4 - Haltwhistle - Carlisle
Quite a succesful day today. We awoke in Haltwhistle at 7:45am, packed up and went to the park reception to pay my six pounds. It was empty and though I was tempted to just leave I couldn't do it. I left my money under a stone on the windowsill with a little note saying 'From the man with his dog, we stayed an extra night because of the rain'. It felt like the right thing to do.
As I pushed away to leave down the gravel driveway the owner appeared. She got her money and I didn't look like a thief or a blagger for one second.
I reconnected with the NCN72 in Haltwhistle town and followed it as best I could. It was acting erratically and quickly sent me about three miles in the wrong direction. I probably missed a sign but I never did see it even when I retraced my steps. I was warmed up and felt strong. Hudson was cooperating and we were conquering the rolling roads one crest at a time. When we came into Gilsland the NCN shafted us again and we wasted twenty five minutes but more important was the energy lost.
In this situation you become very aware of your energy and begin to use it up more efficiently. I've become quite adept at riding the gears, knocking the gears up like a trucker when gravity begins to give you a helping hand and easing off of the pedals as I switch down to make the peak of each climb. Each downhill feels like a gift and each climb a challenge. When you feel strong it's an amazing sensation, like lightning in your muscles as your heart beats faster to feed them, it's addictive.
I saw a cyclist in matching blue lycra with a blue helmet on a blue bike with blue valve caps and the kind of bike that has big letters on every component. He said "Morning" as he passed but all I could muster was "Oh, is it still? Good". I felt guilty afterwards, it seems the logical conclusion of the cyclist is to go around looking like an f1 driver. Later in the day I saw he passed me on the way back and I made sure to give a healthy hello this time and he smiled. I realised he'd probably been all the way to Carlisle and passed me on the way back, it's humbling, I'll just have to get used to this slow pace.
We really got rained on today and the pacing was weird and inconsistent. In one minute i saw a sign saying 'Carlisle (A69) - 18 miles' and then the NCN sign said 32 miles. We pitched up just North of Carlisle, the sites a ripoff and full of conspicuous camper vans emblazoned with names like 'Pageant' and 'Sterling', still, they have a laundry here. It's 7pm and I'm already in my sleeping bag with Hudson asleep next to me. I can see myself coming up with more and more creative ways to piss without moving on this trip.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Day 3 - Haltwhistle.
I woke up to heavy rain today so didn't move and went back to sleep. There was no way I was going to pack up my tent in the rain and then ride off into it. The amount of time I have seems endless right now and I'm taking full advantage of this luxury. I finally force myself outside at nearly 2pm and it's still raining. It'll be another night here then.
I look at my map and notice that during my prep I circled Haltwhistle with a pen indicating some sort of point of interest here. It must be something to do with the wall so I headed out on foot in the rain, Hudson in tow, grumpy. I think we'd walked about four miles when we arrived at Cawfields Milecastle. The wall was thick and impressive, the large stones cut quite precisely square and laid five feet deep. A short wall showing the square outline was all that remained of the castle, an apparent gatehouse for monitoring border crossings.I should really learn more about this wall, we often take our history for granted here in England. My uncle, an ancient roman enthusiast and reenacter told me the wall was once twenty feet high. Amazing really, the stubbornness brought on by ego and power. I just feel sorry for the poor blokes that had to build it and now it lies in ruin, funny that. The follies of man.
I'll try for an early start tomorrow, my map says I'm already halfway to Carlisle. The people I've met so far have been nothing but nice and I'm getting by on less than ten pounds a day. Better go get my phone, it's on charge in the toilet block. Night.
3am - The earth just shivered. I only felt it because I'm layed directly on it.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Day 2 - Hexham - Haltwhistle.
Our camp was drenched in dew and we were framed by a shadow cast by the tree we'd camped next to. I dragged the tent over into the sun to dry off and went systematically down the list of packing up. All very painless really and I half looked forward to getting this routine down efficiently. It took maybe 25 minutes for us to be ready to roll and we took to the country lanes. I found my legs to be very weak and it pained me to pedal.. I imagined peeling back my skin to expose the muscle in my legs, all watery and thin like a bloodshot eye ball. I could hardly pedal.We had run out of water so I tried to make up for it with chocolate but the energy never really came. Every corner conceiled another climb and every descent though pleasant bore the bittersweet indication of an inevitable climb. I got off and pushed when I had to which Hudson was fond of. I realised I was fatigued and hadn't eaten or drank properly. After seven or eight miles we stopped at a stream in the base of a steep gorge and Hudson drank a lot. The following climb was steep and demoralising, I wasn't quite prepared for this.
We came across a Roman excavation sight 'Vindolanda' packed with coach loads of tourists. No dogs allowed. We stopped in the car park and I refilled all the water bottles and cooked lunch using the stove given to me by the embittered Canadian soldier I'd met in a bar 3 weeks ago. The road thereafter was Roman and so perfectly straight. It's hard not to transport your mind back in time, imagining the ranks of infantry walking and scouting and the bulding this damn wall I've seen nothing of yet. I was tired and so was Hudson. I think we only covered twenty miles today and as I came into Haltwhistle and saw the brown sign indicating a close campsite. It was only 3pm but we'd been going for 8 hours. Time for a hot shower and a warm dinner.
Day 1 - Chester-le-street - Newcastle - Hexham.
Retracing the ten mile route I'd taken from Chester-le-street back to Newcastle was a bit of a grind. Lots of loud main roads and invisible inclines. The day started with rain and after half an hour in these ridiculous waterproofs the sun returned. The descent through Gateshead down to cross the tyne river is an ugly one characterised by weaving lanes of angry van and bus drivers. Taking some time to stand on the foot bridge that hung low over the river it was calm for a moment. There had been a lot of glass on the ground and under this weight these Shwobbles are threatening a prolapse. I notice that my front wheel has already being bumped out of true, probably by that capsize event of Day 0.
Once across the river I quickly connect with the National Cycle Network number 72 or simply the 'NCN 72'. Now, I don't know when this network was setup, only that I've only just become aware of it and let me tell you that in a bustling town like this it is a godsend. Taking you down quiet streets, unused back alleys and old industrial estates, it feels like having a cheeky cabbie sat on your shoulder bragging about this route he knows. In this part of the city it's hard to count to thirty without seeing the pink boxed '72' and that reassuring arrow. Once out of the town these signs take on a new character, simply allowing you to ride and enjoy the sights without the need to navigate oneself.
The ride out of Newcastle is all cement and dirty water. The Tyne looks as though if you pissed in it you could only improve the water quality and the new housing and big box stores remind me of my time in Canada and how very few things depress me as much as lazy, greedy suburban sprawl. I much prefer the ideal of village life, and neighbourhood living. Everything on foot or on bike. I remember there is a trend in Germany for these kind of towns, 'Neo-urbanism' or something. They even have a car free neighbourhood there if i remember correctly.
At a pedestrian crossing I cross paths with a middle aged lady hiker changing from her walking boots into training shoes.
"Should be comfier from here on"
She was clearly gesturing towards the smooth path leading back into Newcastle. She told me she'd walked 85 miles from Bowness-on-Solway and had done the coast to coast route in two halves over two years. I thought she was insane and wondered why she didn't cycle it. To walk seemed just one step too crazy. Who knows what drives people to do these things? Something much bigger than my petty crisis perhaps or maybe just a distilled version of my same itch.
The green gradually swelled in my peripheral vision as the city disappeared and after a while I had to remind myself where I was. This was not the North East that I had grown up knowing, visiting my family. This looked more like the Pennine crossing from Manchester to Bradford.
We were really starting to shift now, the rig felt solid and I felt strong and inspired. I was smiling to myself about my friends I'd left in Canada. My love I'd left in Canada. Once Hudsons nervousness had died down we were really putting the miles behind us. I would stay below 15mph but that was swift when compared to our 5mph crawl from Whitley Bay to Chester-le-street a couple of days ago. The place names flew by but I'd have to refer to my map to remember any of them. I kept my eye on the sun to gauge how much daylight we had left and started to scan for a nice camp spot by 7pm. There weren't any. Eventually at around 9:30pm I saw an open gate and pulled into a barley field. Recalling what my Uncle had told me about not flattening crops I made a space for us in the long grass and nettles under a small tree at the fields edge. It felt loney and exposed, not the cozy nook I was hoping for. I noticed the farmhouse was overlooking us about a mile away across the field and wondered if the dogs in the yard there were barking at us. I wanted to be invisible but the orange canvas of the trailer didn't help. After five minutes of pondering I quickly pitched, what's the worst that can happen I thought. The gate was left open. And nothing did happen. I slept quite soundly and hit the snooze button on my phones alarm clock three times before pulling away at 7am.
Once across the river I quickly connect with the National Cycle Network number 72 or simply the 'NCN 72'. Now, I don't know when this network was setup, only that I've only just become aware of it and let me tell you that in a bustling town like this it is a godsend. Taking you down quiet streets, unused back alleys and old industrial estates, it feels like having a cheeky cabbie sat on your shoulder bragging about this route he knows. In this part of the city it's hard to count to thirty without seeing the pink boxed '72' and that reassuring arrow. Once out of the town these signs take on a new character, simply allowing you to ride and enjoy the sights without the need to navigate oneself.
The ride out of Newcastle is all cement and dirty water. The Tyne looks as though if you pissed in it you could only improve the water quality and the new housing and big box stores remind me of my time in Canada and how very few things depress me as much as lazy, greedy suburban sprawl. I much prefer the ideal of village life, and neighbourhood living. Everything on foot or on bike. I remember there is a trend in Germany for these kind of towns, 'Neo-urbanism' or something. They even have a car free neighbourhood there if i remember correctly.
At a pedestrian crossing I cross paths with a middle aged lady hiker changing from her walking boots into training shoes.
"Should be comfier from here on"
She was clearly gesturing towards the smooth path leading back into Newcastle. She told me she'd walked 85 miles from Bowness-on-Solway and had done the coast to coast route in two halves over two years. I thought she was insane and wondered why she didn't cycle it. To walk seemed just one step too crazy. Who knows what drives people to do these things? Something much bigger than my petty crisis perhaps or maybe just a distilled version of my same itch.
The green gradually swelled in my peripheral vision as the city disappeared and after a while I had to remind myself where I was. This was not the North East that I had grown up knowing, visiting my family. This looked more like the Pennine crossing from Manchester to Bradford.
We were really starting to shift now, the rig felt solid and I felt strong and inspired. I was smiling to myself about my friends I'd left in Canada. My love I'd left in Canada. Once Hudsons nervousness had died down we were really putting the miles behind us. I would stay below 15mph but that was swift when compared to our 5mph crawl from Whitley Bay to Chester-le-street a couple of days ago. The place names flew by but I'd have to refer to my map to remember any of them. I kept my eye on the sun to gauge how much daylight we had left and started to scan for a nice camp spot by 7pm. There weren't any. Eventually at around 9:30pm I saw an open gate and pulled into a barley field. Recalling what my Uncle had told me about not flattening crops I made a space for us in the long grass and nettles under a small tree at the fields edge. It felt loney and exposed, not the cozy nook I was hoping for. I noticed the farmhouse was overlooking us about a mile away across the field and wondered if the dogs in the yard there were barking at us. I wanted to be invisible but the orange canvas of the trailer didn't help. After five minutes of pondering I quickly pitched, what's the worst that can happen I thought. The gate was left open. And nothing did happen. I slept quite soundly and hit the snooze button on my phones alarm clock three times before pulling away at 7am.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Day 0 - Whitley Bay - Chester-Le-Street.
I pieced the rig together at my sisters place in Whitley Bay, right on the North East coast. I thought I would use this time to visit some family since my fathers side all hailed from there. An Auntie, Uncle and Cousins. My Granddad. They lived slightly out of the way but not much only about twenty miles, three hours tops I thought even allowing for getting lost and the odd mechanical malfunction.
The day was nearly catastrophic. Hudson was immediately uncomfortable and kept leaping out of the trailer, which since he was tied in entirely capsized us at one point. There were several serious mechanical failures, mostly based around the clamp that attaches the trailer to the rear chainstay of the bike frame. I eventually had to dismantle and reassemble the entire clamp after the protruding bolts got snagged and bent some of the spokes in my rear wheel. I swapped them all so they pointed outward rather than into my wheel, who built this thing anyway? I then rode on for miles not realising that the clamp had slipped backwards on the frame and was rubbing against the hub of the back wheel, acting as a brake. Nearly seven hours later I arrived in Chester-Le-Street exhausted from frustration and a long day in the sun. I was relieved when my family there convinced me to take the next day off and work out the kinks in the bike.
Maybe it's that I'm on the brink of taking everything for granted. Time to take stock or this life is over and every year I live takes a year of my life already.
I took the time in Chester-le-street to bind my trailer with a couple of ratchet straps and pad the trailer clamp with some squares of foam rubber. I filled up on good Northeastern food and took the twenty quid generously offered up by my Auntie. I realised that this household had been through so much over the years but there is a love and communication in this house that was never in mine growing up.
The day was nearly catastrophic. Hudson was immediately uncomfortable and kept leaping out of the trailer, which since he was tied in entirely capsized us at one point. There were several serious mechanical failures, mostly based around the clamp that attaches the trailer to the rear chainstay of the bike frame. I eventually had to dismantle and reassemble the entire clamp after the protruding bolts got snagged and bent some of the spokes in my rear wheel. I swapped them all so they pointed outward rather than into my wheel, who built this thing anyway? I then rode on for miles not realising that the clamp had slipped backwards on the frame and was rubbing against the hub of the back wheel, acting as a brake. Nearly seven hours later I arrived in Chester-Le-Street exhausted from frustration and a long day in the sun. I was relieved when my family there convinced me to take the next day off and work out the kinks in the bike.
Maybe it's that I'm on the brink of taking everything for granted. Time to take stock or this life is over and every year I live takes a year of my life already.
I took the time in Chester-le-street to bind my trailer with a couple of ratchet straps and pad the trailer clamp with some squares of foam rubber. I filled up on good Northeastern food and took the twenty quid generously offered up by my Auntie. I realised that this household had been through so much over the years but there is a love and communication in this house that was never in mine growing up.
Thursday 16th June - 9:50pm.
To be on the brink is a strange feeling and it's something I've had a sense of for some time now, like I'm casting a shadow over so many unknowns. It's possibly the weight of expectation coming down with age. I end up down a cul-de-sac surrounded by vague generalisations and cliches whenever I try to dissect it. Success? Implosion? Becoming a man? I think that most of all, I'm on the brink of being a 27-year old man who can't think of a single achievement he's proud of. Maybe that's part of the reason I'm here, camped on the edge of a farmers field in the North east of England. I'm apparently following the path of Hadrians wall. A wall the Romans built presumably to give lost souls a bearing when wandering aimlessly.
Ten days ago I arrived in England, back in my home country after three years away. An old friends wedding doubled as an opportunity to see so many of the familiar faces I had missed. That familiarity I had craved for months. The last year had been long and humbling and to be amongst people that know me helped me remember who I was. Which is mostly who I still am, though there have been some irreversible changes.
I had an hour to wait for my train transfer in Birmingham and wondered into the night with my dog Hudson, doing a circuit around The Bullring. It was Friday evening and the apes were out, chanting moronically in their alcoholic stupor. There were no people on the streets, just these animals. Hudson appreciated the abundance of discarded deep fried food on the pavement. I didn't expect to be shocked by my own country. Or disappointed.
I spent the next ten days piecing together the rig I had promised myself. I found an old steel framed touring bike. An English Raleigh 'Classic' in Burgundy Reynolds 531 tubing and dated it back to 1983, the year I was born. I put some new tyres on it, made by a German company Schwalbe. The geordie mechanic helping me insisted on referring to them as "Them Shwobbles" over and over. I picked up a rear rack and panniers, a tent, sleeping bag and handlebar bag. Finally I found a used trailer for sale and picked it up in Shrewsbury. The kind of cycle trailer designed for your small kids to ride in, made of aluminium and bright blue and orange nylon fabric. The lady I bought it from said to her young daughter,
"This man's going to put his children in it now"
Oh no, thank god I thought before I smiled and left. I couldn't be bothered explaining it was for my dog.
Ten days ago I arrived in England, back in my home country after three years away. An old friends wedding doubled as an opportunity to see so many of the familiar faces I had missed. That familiarity I had craved for months. The last year had been long and humbling and to be amongst people that know me helped me remember who I was. Which is mostly who I still am, though there have been some irreversible changes.
I had an hour to wait for my train transfer in Birmingham and wondered into the night with my dog Hudson, doing a circuit around The Bullring. It was Friday evening and the apes were out, chanting moronically in their alcoholic stupor. There were no people on the streets, just these animals. Hudson appreciated the abundance of discarded deep fried food on the pavement. I didn't expect to be shocked by my own country. Or disappointed.
I spent the next ten days piecing together the rig I had promised myself. I found an old steel framed touring bike. An English Raleigh 'Classic' in Burgundy Reynolds 531 tubing and dated it back to 1983, the year I was born. I put some new tyres on it, made by a German company Schwalbe. The geordie mechanic helping me insisted on referring to them as "Them Shwobbles" over and over. I picked up a rear rack and panniers, a tent, sleeping bag and handlebar bag. Finally I found a used trailer for sale and picked it up in Shrewsbury. The kind of cycle trailer designed for your small kids to ride in, made of aluminium and bright blue and orange nylon fabric. The lady I bought it from said to her young daughter,
"This man's going to put his children in it now"
Oh no, thank god I thought before I smiled and left. I couldn't be bothered explaining it was for my dog.
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