Glorious English summer

Rediscovering mud

We have been bouncing all over the place.

Firstly, whilst sad to leave Italy, we seem to have got out in the nick of time. It has been El Scorchio in England but I understand that shops in Lucca have put up notices that they are not open as it is too hot for tourists, whilst in Rome the tarmac is melting. Back in Blighty the heat has turned the cat louche. He lies around, legs akimber, nipples on show through balding stomach hair like a Roman emperor at a feast. Hugo has been the same. He’s such a hottie.

I have to say, our corner of England has been absolutely wonderful. We have been out with family and friends - walking to beer and live music festivals in town admiring the hollyhocks (‘weeds’ says Hugo), evening picnics to jazz sessions in the scented gardens of a near by Tudor mansion. We have played dress up posh being treated to wonderful cocktail and dinners at private clubs in Mayfair. (I survived the wobbly ejector seat bar stool with my dignity intact, and cringed when I recalled that that cocktail I like is a Pornstar Martini which gallant Hugo had to order on my behalf. I loved the alabaster loos so much they had been sat down by the time I returned and no doubt they thought I had been constipated.) I don’t dress up that much these days- well, we do- but it is wonderful to waft around in a bit of bling and silk. I also calmed down a recent infestation of ghosts and, in an unrelated episode, attempted to finally eat the remains of our Covid tin stash. Refried beans? Warm dog farts. Carrots in water anyone? Plus I started to embrace a bit more cycling to the extent that (drum roll) I have lost 100grams in weight and several hundred pounds in kit.

Plus it’s been Henley Regatta week which Hugo absolutely loves- beer, boats, old friends and dressing up in stripes of every hue. Plus this year he broke into a quaint old pub to rescue an ancient old dodderer he was looking after and set off all the alarms which tickled him for a week, and on a separate occasion was nibbled by a Morris Dancers Pantomime horse.

Followers may recall that in Italy I started going out on a brakeless, gearless vintage bike rides. Eventually I was able to persuade Hugo to join me and indeed the flat lands which border the Pisan mountains near us proved idyllic even if the bikes were challenging. River turtles, capybara, egrets, coffee and cornetto, shoulder tans. It’s always more fun to do things with Hugo plus last time I went out alone, I ended up on a steep and horrible wild Pisan mountain last occupied by dinosaurs and had to be rescued. As I watch him disappear as a speck of peddling energy over the horizon I like to kid myself that should I fall off he may eventually come back to find my broken body sprawled on the ground (assuming the pubs aren’t open or there is no chance)

I was waiting for the blistering temperature to subside before dragging my UK bike out. But then one morning I read Tino Masecchia’s substack on walking the Via Francigena and that was it. I pinged out of bed (Hugo was on a sleepover, Friday is rowers drinking and curry night), strapped on my helmet and went off in search of the Pilgrim’s Way. The Pilgrim’s way goes to Canterbury which is the starting point of the Via Francigena route. The Via Francigena is the ancient early medieval (my guess before) route from Canterbury to Rome. Later, a bit was added to Brindisi so that Crusaders could reach the Holy Land. The idea of cycling where Romans, and medieval pilgrims (plus Vikings probably, assuming they didn’t go everywhere by boat) have walked fills me with awe.

The lanes and pathways of Surrey are chocolate box pretty and a delight to mooch around on a bone shaker even if my woo-woo was on fire despite the padded shorts. I did indeed find the Pilgrims way. It was a narrow footpath with deep banks of nettles either side. Where the path widened into an unmade road near a golf course there was also a lot of distracting house porn; cottages with gardens full of tractors and flowers, other houses all glass and metal with scooping driveways of gravel.

Back in the woods, I spotted the huge tree stump in the middle of the path, I also spotted the roots creeping to the edge. What I didn’t spot was the root hidden by fallen leaves (highlighted in pink) If I had been going faster maybe I’d have clunked over it, if I’d have gone slower maybe I would have stopped but I was in the Cinderella flying zone- I sailed through the air as if shot out of a circus canon, and -missing the holly bush – landed with a flumph in the leaves with a slightly rattled head and a dented pride.

Since then I have been a bit nervous of my bike and don’t go out alone. I brake at every leaf and then the back end slews out. This adds up to a lot of waiting around while I catch up without denting my ambitions for us to cycle everywhere- pilgrims way, via Francigena, Land’s End to John O’Groats or LEJOG as us mounties like to call it.

So, yesterday I bought a ‘stumpjumper’ mountain bike. Hugo says it could go up a ski lift and come down a bike and will only be limited by what I want to do, which is great. Honestly it has more bounce than a saucepan of popcorn. Like an enthusiastic thoroughbred horse, it heads off on its springy seat before you are even on. It’s brakes? smoking hot- touch them and they virtually amputate the wheel, so its all very gently zoom zoom. On its first outing, today as I get used to it, I admit it almost pinged me down a woman’s top (there were various groups huddling under the bridge to get out of a thunder storm) and it almost flicked me into the river on several occasions, but I love it. It all got a bit slippery when there was a cloud break and the track turned into puddles but the bike didn’t care two hoots. But the best thing? Mud.

I loved getting dressed up for Mayfair and Henley, I even wear flat bejewelled sandals so going out posh doesn’t require the bloodied feet of my youth but I’d forgotten how fun much fun it is to be splattered head to toe in mud. When I was young and feral we used to fling Frisby cow pats at each other. Or lob chunks of horse poo having stolen the horses molasses and feed aka muesli. Sigh, those were the days.

Honestly, as Hugo hosed off the bikes, I trooped upstairs to float in a bath made fragrant with orange and geranium oil. As chunks of mud and bits of grass fell into the water, I felt deeply profoundly happy as if I had found a portal back to the tomboy days of my early teens. And , of course you can have a guilt free glass of wine as guess what – it counts as exercise even though its bags of fun!

Soon, our gang are off on an e-bike treasure hunt sleepover thing, Then Hugo and I are pencilling in a trip to tour Cornwall cycling. I’ve never been to Cornwall, I understand it is windy and hilly, full of wild seas, history and legend. And maybe a bit of bodice ripping. Hugo is my Poldark.

It is Hugo’s birthday this week so our lovely kiddies are headed to us so we can all annoy the neighbours by discussing things loudly at 9.30pm on a week day whilst having our garden fairy lights on as per a complaint by Anon to the Facebook community board (We know who you are. We see you trying to look into our bathroom. Just sayin’)

As we are now going big on cycling Hugo’s present is a flash helmet. I have bought us matching helmets with intercom systems so when we go out cycling the whole of Surrey doesn’t reverberate to my screeching his name.

‘We’ll be able to talk to each other- maybe you should wear it in the house!’

‘Does it have an on/off switch?’ he asked. He’s such a kidder.

We were comparing initials after our names. He has an entire scramble board of letters behind his name.

‘I’ve just got BA and maybe Sol for solicitor’ I said

‘Do you put an R in front of that?’ he asked as quick as a flash, his face a picture of innocence, waiting for the penny to drop.

Anyway I must away. I’m off to forage for mushroom for dinner. I thought we could try Oz Beef Wellington with mash and beans….