What a fantastic sunny weekend. The cat has spent his time sniffing around the borders and the chickens have been sun-bathing. We took the tarpaulin off the top of their compound and they’ve been enjoying the warmth, laying down in the chippings and spreading out the wings and legs to soak up the sun.
We’ve been out on our bikes. We rode up to Springfield and into town through Chelmer Village. The sun was so warm, and it’s lovely to be cycling under empty skies with not even an airline trail to spoil them. With all air traffic over the UK and much of the rest of Europe grounded by the volcanic eruptions in Iceland I’m enjoying our silent, deserted skies.
I know it inconveniences those who want to travel, but as far as I’m concerned, the longer it continues the better.
A great weekend. The second bank holiday in a row with good weather, and we certainly made the most of it.
Saturday, as usual, we pootled around town, went to the market with the newly-refurbished shopping bike (with panniers), did some work in the garden and sat on the lawn drinking gin by the chickens. Really quite idyllic.
Sunday, though, was our day of adventure. We had planned on riding up to Little Waltham, which is only a couple of miles away, and sitting outside the pub watching the cricket on the green.
Not to be.
We got to Little Waltham alright, but there was no cricket, and not much more activity at the pub, either. So we decided to cycle on to Great Waltham instead and try out luck there, only we never actually got there. Somehow we took a wrong turn through Howe Street and ended up in Pleshey, quite a few miles from home.
Turns out Pleshey is a bit of a cyclists’ hub, and we joined a rather more professional-looking group in proper cycling garb on their day out from London in the garden of the Leather Bottle pub. The woman at the bar declared us all mad for being out on bikes on a day like this. A proper scorcher.
We couldn’t have picked a better day for it, and sat in the garden for half an hour, taking pictures of the ducklings waddling across from what’s left of the castle moat watched, with a certain amount of envy, by the flock of yellow-grey birds at the back of the garden.
From there we cycled on through the Chignals, across Chelmsford and up the hill to Galleywood. All told, we did 27 miles. Not bad considering we were only setting out for a gentle ride to the next town. And best of all, no aching the next day – just tired legs.
Monday – bank holiday – it was Sue and Tom’s wedding down in Kent. We were only going to the evening bit, so we did jobs for the rest of the day. I dug in the garden, replaced the bean plants that had been broken in the wind and fiddled on with the salvage shopping bike to stop the panniers catching in the spokes of the back wheel. I think I fixed it.
All told, then, one of the best weekends in ages, and all because we had time to get out and indulge ourselves for a day. More of the same, please.
I was late for work this morning. Why? Because the route I cycle to the station was flooded.
It’s been raining for days, and it was inevitable there would be a slight delay before the main wash made it down to us. As I came out of the house and cycled into the nature reserve and on over the bridge it was obvious the river was much higher than usual, as it had spilled over the banks and marooned a bench and the large willow that had been snapped by the high winds in autumn.
It had flooded a long way into the horses’ grazing pasture, and the horses themselves were nowhere to be seen. In their place, a flock of excited ducks swam around in a newly-formed lake.
It looked like things were going to be alright until I got to the back of the university, where the river was gushing over the banks, across the path and into the little wood beyond. One intrepid commuter took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his suit trousers and waded in, giving a sneeky smile to those of us watching him go, but soon coming to regret his rash actions as the water got higher and higher and fast approached his knees.
He stood on tiptoe, but the height of the water increased far faster than the height of his legs, and we all left him to his fate. We turned around and cycled back, all the way along the river and through the reserve, back past home and down a higher, less vulnerable path to the station. I got there in the end, late but dry. I wonder when the wading commuter finally dried out.
