Terrell

Robin

2012-02-07T13:07:00.004Z

The chirpy friendly Robin is keen to come close at the slightest invitation, showing off his crimson breast and announcing his presence with a sharp tweet.

This one near Carl's Tea Hut on a snowy walk around High Beech in Feb 2012.

Treasure in The Lea Valley

2011-12-23T18:28:00.002Z

The Lea Valley is a real treasure. Within sight of urban London this land of lakes and rivers is a haven for wildlife. Yet agriculture and industry mix with sport and leisure pursuits.

Best Pub Meal Ever!

2010-12-23T17:27:00.004Z

In the deep snow of a welsh valley, tucked close to the cold iron bridge of the cold River Usk we fell upon the best meal in the best pub in the world.

The hearth was stacked with burning logs and the bar was empty. A hearty plate of pigeon and venison was tucked into.

Can't wait to get back there and use it as a base for walking.
http://www.thechainbridgeinn.co.uk/

2010-04-30T16:29:00.002Z

Like a colour scheme for a bank.

Nothing quite so beautiful as the blue sky, white capped mountains, grey green spring maquis, and the pink blossom of the peach groves sprayed by bright sun rays.

Nothing quite so beautiful as a walk in early spring through the orchards and down to the river. To hear the spring water splash through the outwash gravel and to gurgle over giant erratics. To smell the sweet heady scent of yellow laburnum in the shade by a babbling arrosages.

Week 12010

2010-01-08T08:47:00.003Z

Ok its the first week of 2010.

1. Exercise
Went for Sunday walk on the old route that Gina and I used to do. Went the other way round though because I thought it might be easier. Cold and icy. My boots crunched through and icy film most of the way. At the bottom it got quite muddy. It took an hour which surprised me. By the end I was in a poor state. I have not been well. I seem to have a bug for the last week or so but I felt really exhausted.

The rest of the week was disrupted by further snow making further journeys impossible for the faint hearted. However, an hour was spent on Tuesdayshovelling snow to get the car back up the hill to the house.

Looking forwrad to normal weather. More walks and the Gym

2. Food
Monday went well and flet better.
Tuesday too bad on the biscuits.
Wednesday awful on the biscuits and wine.
Thursday better

2008-04-23T15:39:00.002Z

Much Inspired by Gardeners World.

I watched Gardeners World last week and was much inspired by their simple account of easy gardening for the hobby amateur gardener working full time and only able to get out for 10 minutes between showers every other week.. I thought I would adopt their style.

So this weekend I looked out and consciopus of global warming I decided to grow my own vegetables. I started with buxom rusticulatum or sea-horse radish behind the potting shed before slipping a sharp spade easily into my fine tilth. My variety was called "Lively Lady" and I chose her because of her pendulous double stamens that dazzle in the early morning sun. Cultivation is very easy. You water every ten minutes during the night, and only 20 minutes during the day for the best results. I start mine off in an old shoe box which I leave in a damp corner of the Jacuzzi. Buxom is a heavy feeder and I used plenty of well rotted bull shit.

Next week I shall talk about my clemontones, gloriosa conperceptiii and growing them in a medium sized garden and I will enlist the help of a few villagers to run the threshing machine in the back field.

2008-04-07T08:58:00.002Z

50 Years Ago : It snowed

50 years ago today I was taken protesting up to the 208 bus stop at Digby Road to wait for the single decker to take me to the Mothers' Hospital. I was simply told that my removal from the warmth of the terrace house in Marlowe Road was due to the urgent need to meet my sister, for the first time. As I was marched up the road under close supervision, not realizing the momentous significance of the events that would follow that would change my life for ever, I was stunned by the fact that it was snowing.

I shall further explore what happened as a result. I shall tell the tales of having to share everything I possessed. How my bike got completely broken. The further suffering will be outlined. But this must wait.

This morning I wish to recall that it snowed in April in 1958 and it lasted about 10 days. So when you speak of global warming do not use this weekends snowfall. There may be climate change but it's more complex than you would believe and snow this weekend is not necessarily good evidence of its own. It snowed for 10 days in April the week my sister was born.

My blood just boils.

2007-11-02T09:12:00.000Z

My blood just boils.

I know I am no expert in this area but I also know that in the 1970's I was taught that teaching children to read is complex and is best done using a variety of methods including phonics and whole word approaches.

This morning on the radio John Humphries led a feature on literacy that lauded the phonics approach which led to "everyone being able to read" (more of less) he said. Such a low standard of analysis would never be allowed over politics, economics , environmental or health issues. Humphries sounded like Ali Gee with his simplistic comments. "Like this drug problem right? How can we get the quality of the gear to be better, right?" How much longer can we maintain this naiuve innocence about reading?

The last 30 years have been repeatedly puctuated by phonics is best-whole word is best debates in the popular press manwhile anyone in the know does both.

Well, it forced me to check with Ruth Miskin, the government adviser for literacy. She has a website. Well low an behold it states that phonics at first is a good thing but then for more complex reading, for words that are not phonetical, toher strategies might be used. makes good sense.

My sheer amusement came with the above example, M-O-M . I know no one in my local area that says Mom. Then again down our way we used a different phrase, one I still use today, which more or less sums up the limitations of just phonics. "Ennit, Muvva".

Etangs de Carlit

2007-10-25T18:09:00.000Z

The Etangs de Carlit

The start of the 2-1/2 hour walk around the Etangs de Carlit is not promising. Parking the car under the concrete dam of the Lac des Bouillouses or La Bollosa, the landscape is bleak, and stony. Many gravel paths lead this way and that between the mountain hostels and bars, all unwelcomely closed in this October sun. A few tufts of dry grass shiver in a cool breeze between scattered pine trees, huddled in twos and threes. Vast pipes, and building works create an industrial air, if only there was some work being carried out. Above the cold expanse of a choppy La Bollosa laps at the granite shore.

We have left behind the pleasant drive up the winding tarmac road between the thickets of pine and the alpine meadows, which open out to reveal a winding bubbling stream. The herds of huge cows laden in calf, clanging their way up and down the roadway from one lush grassland to another. The herds of mountain horses roughly chomping at the undergrowth on the edge of the thick forest.

Up a dirt track and leaving the last hostel the path soon creates a torturous climb across enormous speckled granite boulders and between huge pine tree roots. Gasping at the thin air, for we are in spitting distance of the high altitude athletics-training centre at Font Romeu, we trundle upward along our stairway to heaven.

Along a semi dried up riverbank the yellow way marker stripes drag us along a bouldary high path and ominous yellow crosses forewarn the dangers of straying. However, the river is dry and we are disobedient, lazy walkers and take the more direct route. The path flattens and a bright sun burns on a patch of lush grass. We stop for a picnic and drinks. Before long we can lay back and feel the solar blast every inch of bare skin.

But we must away from this peaceful slumber if this two-hour stroll is not to turn to night time return. We glimpse through he trees the first signs of still water, blue and cold through the green pine screen. The path turns away and there is disappointment. However, it is short lived as beyond a sharp turn yet another lake beckons. Huge deep and cold. Shimmering wavelets ruffle every inch of the surface in the bright warm sun. This is “Estany de la Comassa” and she stretches off northward girdled by a granite rockery of mountain pine, and heather.

The path takes us away and another turn sloping down hill to Estany Sec. Sweet Estany, shallow and reedy. Brown spikes dotting up through the cold blue. We cross a dried river valley and climb again to a mile long ridge and the path wends off into the distance. Both left and right drop away rough grass and heather, a few scattered bushes and occasional clumps of juniper.

A short rest on a boulder allows us to spot the first fleck of an Eagle, soaring, circling in the distance. Then as if by accident another appears close to the first, in the clear blue dome above us. How it managed to piece the floor of the dome in the middle and just appear there is indeed wondrous. We would expect it to appear far off and then come closer but by magic Eagles just appear.

Across a dip before us lies the dark overshadowing Pic de Carlit, towering magnificently above us. A couple of ramblers gradually step casually closer. “Bonjour” is exchanged. “Vous ascend La Carlit”, aujourdoui? We are asked.” Non! Mon dieu. J’retorne. La Carlit un autre day”. We look once again with some longing

The ridge ends with a sharp fall down to the river and the junction is signposted. La Carlit another 2 hours. The return an hour and 40. We have been four hours already and the shadows are long and thin. The shallow “Estany de des Dugues” reflects the far mountains. We see our first fish. First a small fry and then further away the unmistakable shape of a small trout.

Around a spur, and away from the lake we are in shadow as we turn south. A cold win whips through the col. Pockets of unmelted ice have survived the warm day in the shadows. The col deepens into another river valley to follow us down to Estany del Viver. High above us a stag and hind take a few quick steps to move away from us. They stop and stare before deciding that their flight should not be interrupted and they stumble up the steep path through the trees.

Down the tree lined wide ravine we can see the flat grassland open out between the thick pine forest. Rivers converge on a flat terrace and our path crosses a narrow low wooden bridge a few feet from the churned up peaty, muddy, rivulates. Across the bridge and we are forced to leap the narrow stream again before the path heads back into pine forest and along the edge of “Comassa”.

We are back on the path leading up to this heavenly beauty and pass our picnic place now deeply in shade, the falling light behind us. We return some five hours later.

Towards Body Beautiful

2007-10-18T11:07:00.000Z

Had my Gym review with Samantha yesterday and she says I should build up my muscles. I have been about 6 weeks since the holiday binge, walking, running, cross training, rowing,cycling all in the same room in Chigwell. I must have travelled about 100 miles at least. Best thing about it is that I have heard every decent track on my ipod for the first time.

I now have a diet of stomach pressing, triceps and bicep curls, stair walking, and floor exercises thrusting my pelvis. So there is no change there then. Mind you I have to add this to my existing exercise regime which might be more challenging. She assures me that this will lead to the sculptured body beautiful that we both want so desperately. I am not convinced she wants the same one as me though.

I told Samantha that my future new increased biceps mustn't get in the way of my dainty little ipod holder which barely reaches round my arm now.

I have my doubts about Samantha's new regime, but am willing to give it a bash. I am fearful of becoming muscle bound of course. However, she says there is a skiers exercise fest coming up which she is putting me up for. I bet they all will turn up with skin tight 5ft, 5 stone Lycra body suits. My mind boggles at the thought. Once again I'll have to dig out the baggy shorts and shredded rugby shirt with the fruit juice and red wine stains just to be so obviously not with them. The things I have to do because of fashion.

I guess there will be no one there doing my type of extreme skiing. Its a more specialist sport. I will think to myself "Slow, slow and slower. Rest. Look at the wonderful view. See how those clouds sparkle in the bright sun. I suppose I'd better go on a little way now. I bet Gina would love this. She would say it looks like New Zealand, and recite some wonderful romantic poem that had some reference to mountains or snow. Falling over is just such a great excuse to sit for a while, have a rest, and see the scenery. I must do it again. I wonder how many turns I can do without going down hill so I don't have to get in that queue to come back again. I wish all these skiers would go home and leave me in these mountains in peace."

2007-05-21T08:23:00.001Z

The Kingfisher

Through my life
I have searched for you,
Illusive Kingfisher bird.
Because you are so rare,
I prefer to think that it is the sparkling blue beauty
that I so long to share.

A glimpse I yearn for,
before you dart away.
To dive and dip, for another feast.
So swift, sharp, with a foaming splash.

It needs a gentle step or stalk,
A watchful attentive peer,
through leaves on golden woodland walks,
or in green dingle glades you appear.

Patience is a virtue for those that hold,
in stark contrast to desire.
And those who wait patiently,
will they ever tire?

Or perhaps that bird,
in making haste,
sped off to another roost.
A comfort haven, for safeties sake?

Beware! Snow Warning!

2007-02-10T10:42:00.000Z

Beware! Snow Warning!

“All school sin the city of Birmingham are closed for today due to severe weather” announced a senior officer from the local authority’ on radio four’s morning news programme. He went on top explain how ice and snow had made the roads and pavements hazardous. People should be careful. Not make unnecessary journeys. Transport was likely to be disrupted. I wasn’t surprised. I had heard the threat of extreme hazardness weather when a meeting in a local school was cancelled at the weekend four days before. Either the Met Office or the local authority, or both had done a good job.

I thought back to the winter of ’62. Snow fell early in winter covering everything in a 6 inch white blanket. Soft flakes fluttered sweet softly crashing to the ground with a melancholic pit, pit pit. Quickly a build up whitened the mean streets. For a while the inner city became Christmas box. You could almost see reindeer and horse drawn sledges filled with fat men with rosy cheeks, and white delicate women wrapped warm in coach blankets, with lilywhite hands deep in furry bearskin muffs.

Bit the snow stayed, it stayed for weeks, endless weeks. Weeks and weeks of cold monotonous snow. But the Christmas spirit changed. I can’t remember how long it took. I guess not very long for the blanket to be churned up by traffic, blackened by oil, dirt and grime. Slush filled the roads. Wet slidy icy slush that crept through your shoes. The even blanket was piled along the pavements through successive clearings and pedestrians had to climb across mounds of ankle turning ice humps if ever they needed to stray from the gritted swathes of walkways. It was great a first. The first few days but we grew weary after some time.

At first children rolled great mounds into giant snowballs, and turned some to snowmen complete with sticks and half bricks as eyes and mouths. I never saw a carrot as a nose until I watched cartoons on TV. Games of snowballing were fun, at first. Freezing cold hands and sopping wet feet could be warmed in front of a one bar electric fire on the table of my Nan’s kitchen. Six kids alternating hand warming with feet on the table in front of the fire.

I could hear in the voice of the local authority mandarin the fearful tremor of the hazardous extreme weather. I don’t think it was just the possibility of death, hyperthermia, or starvation for some poor people. Perhaps it was the threat of being sued if some poor person slipped and broke something or worse. “You are to blame!” they would say. “You didn’t act yet you knew the weather was extreme and hazardous. You did not close the school. You knew there would be traffic chaos yet you did not force us to stay at home. The simple solution. You must compensate me for your error” The tremor in the mandarin voice was clear when he said “stay at home”

“Forget attendance league tables. Forget day’s loss at work through absence. There could be 6 inches of snow for God’s sake. Stay at home! Forget lessons and learning. This is a hazardous weather warning and we can’t afford you to be taking risks.

Driving through the bare winter forest late that day the snow was already on the turn. Too much brown stump, shrubby bush and forest litter showing through the dabs of wet melting mush for a warm Christmas feel. Hordes of children slid on plastic sledges overlooked by many parents who did not work that day. Young babies tottered in Eskimo baby grows and toddlers learned the concept of snow, using the word for the first time.

Back at work

2007-01-14T18:14:00.000Z

So back to work after Christmas......

Oh dear. Wouldn't retirement be so good. Having amassed many interests what am I doing having to go to work every day. I have painting and not enough time for pencil, watercolour, oils and charcoal. Then one day i want to move on to ceramics. Then there is the photography. I have walking to do. Cycling. Gardening. Learning the piano, and the guitar. Then there is the harmonica. Have I got enough time for going to work?

Yes, but if I was retired would I actually do these things? Maybe not. The day could be too cold and dark. Other things might get int he way. Other people. There would always be tomorrow. The sheer routine of going to work is actually the easy option.

So every day to work, despite the bureacracy, the ridiculousness, the absurdity of working in a large organisation.

A balade as the sun goes down

2006-12-31T18:06:00.000Z

An evening strole a balade not a randonnez, as the sun was dimming near the lost village of Casenove. The warm light of this bright winters day brought the browns of a mediterranean autumn to the fore. Silhouettes grew from the sandy, rocky alluvial plain on the Tet.

Dogs barked and hunters fired shotguns through the thicket, while families strolled this popular venue too and fro. Oak seered by some long forgotten fire were surrounded by rejuvenated undergrowth. Bamboo stems, slender and supple sliced through the bright green foliage. Neat rows of stark fruit trees puctuated the plain.

The Canigou became dark and mysterious across the wide Tet valley. High above the silver sliver of moon became bright in a still blue sky.

Granite boulder walls of the compounds and houses of Casenove, were now overgrown with cultivated vines.

In short bursts, I lectured my son on the development of a new persona for the new year. A persona based upon wit, imagination, fun and above all application. Crows cawed their appreciation of the message as it fell among the silent stones of deserted, forgotten Casenove.

Dali Museum

2006-12-31T10:16:00.000Z

Having spent a week of strenous training and feeling as fit as the proverbail fiddle now. (Such a strange image- why not as fit as the fiddler?), I made my way down to Figueras to visit the Salvador Gala Dali museum.

I love Dali for his sense of fun and the overiding theme that everything is mere illusion and nothing is real. San dunes are faces, rocks are bodies. Househild objects are noses, lips are sofas. There is such a tremendous sense of fun in all this. Dali emerges as a self publicist and kind of early cross betweeen Branson and Hockney.

Deeper messages based upon themes in Freudian psychology are evident and compelling. The enduring fondness of his long term affection for, and relationship with Gala is endearing to me.

Yet Dali displays mastery of techniques in the creation of art and his media involves painting, sculpture, the skills of the jeweller, the animator and the illusionist. There are elemnst of performance art in many of his works. This drawing of Tuna Fishing is not perhaps typical Dali but shows his sheer mastery of drawing.

The museum is well worth a visit. Dali can also be explored on the internet. There is also a good Dali museum in Florida.

The day was welcome nourishment contrasting starkly with the heaving muscle wrenching excercise regime of the past few days. Set me up for a leovely dinner of wild boar, potato and red cabbage cooked by Chris Garrick and Julia. Listening to Chris playing a CD version of a range of peices but especially "Dimming of the Day" was a great end to a day of art.

Go for it part two.

2006-12-29T09:52:00.000Z

Another sharp bend called for another rest and taking in the view. A drink of Scottish spring water and an apple. "There goes my last supplies", I thought echoing Scott, or Amundson. The cycling had taken on epic proportions.

Far below the N116 roared intermitantlyas large and small bugs sped east and west. The sun was bright burning back the misty dampness.

The dusty track flattened out now confirming the map. Peddling became easy. On the right towering on another hillside a ruined building sttod grey and forlorn. A high tower, or the remains of a large chimney loomed over the scrubby autumn thorn forest below.

A golden rule I have found in these parts is never take the path that looks overgrown and abandoned. It always ends abruptly. However, the wide dusty track turns a slight right and up over another low hill. To the left a grassy track runs alongside an unusual wire fence. It's downward very steeply and once again I dismount. Entering a shady wooded area it becomes soft underfoot. "Is that a tarmac road?" I peer across the narrow valley and slightly upward. "Is that a distant car I hear?" "No its the black of granite!" "No surely its tarmac."

I take another gamble and continue downward. To find a ford. Deep and fast flowing in the shady hollow of a deep ravine. Large boulders make cycling through the water which I guess would come to the bottom of the forks. I don't fancy getting my feet wet on this chilly day. I work out several stepping stone options, leaning on the bike and stepping on the not so submerged larger boulders. Emerging from the other side succesfully with a marginally damp left foot I start to peddle up the now almost completely overgrown track. An opening in the undergrowth confirms the large possbility that there is tarmac at head height on the right but a steep bank bars the way. "Yes, but it could be just a random bit of tarmac not going anywhere."

Along the path and round a bend all hopes are confirmed. Not only deep black almost unused tarmac but there within a few roads the sign confirms that this is the D13, the road back to Vinca. Cycling round here is emerging into a pattern. In South East England you get used to ups and downs. Sometimes slightly more ups than downs. Always moderate. Sometimes more downs than ups. Always cycle towpaths downstream. Similarly railway lines. These are gentle slopes.

Here you spend the morning going up. relentlessly upward. Steeply agonisingly upward. The downslopes are almost unforgettable. For 90 minutes I have been generally going up. Now high on the D13 I start to go down. The bike picks up speed easily. Life is sweet. The view of the valley is immense even through the misty cool bright air. Like a mature sensible lover the wise cyclist takes the pleasure slowly, cherishing the moment as if it may be the last. I stop to take the view and save a photo of the bike with my mobile phone.

Downward again and picking up speed. The bridge is in site and a last dash in high gears will see me up the ramp to the start of the bridge. I'm across the high roadway notcing the meandering river below and the greyness of the dired up resorvoir bed. Old summer sunken walls and roads are revealed. In front I can see the lights of the railway level crossing marking a return to civilised life. A thought crosses my mind and I dismiss it instantly. I pedal slightly quicker. "Ding" I gasp.

"Ding Ding Ding" The red light flickers and the single barrierstarts into downward motion. I pull up and rest my foot nonchalantly on the crash barrier on my right and wait for the afternoon express. It speeds past empty. the barriers lift and I take a calm moment before starting off up the steep slope, acorss the main road and left along the long drag back inbto the village. Mestres dogs are lieing in the sun motionless. I decide not to wake them up with a deep bellowing "ruff- ruff ruff ruff".

Go for it

2006-12-28T17:20:00.000Z

Its no good staying in bed all day when you really have to get out and get fit. You just have to go for it. So friends have already let on that I need another route to cycle and I thought I'd like to explore the next valley where the wood comes down to the dried up lake in winter and there is a dirt track that leads off into the macquis. Its quiet there and never visited except for the odd fisherman when the lake fills in the summer. So where do the fish come from? Never mind.

So off I go on a chilly damp early morning cycle. Down through the village to the lake and across the viaduct taking the route alongside the single track railway line. A brief stop at the lake to take in the silent stillness without a ripple of le lac de Escoumes. Surrounded on three sides by the green shroud of hilly forest and stretching into the distance. High above through the cold mist glows the brightness of the warm sun unable yet to break through. Adjusting the holes on my wollen gloves to once again cover my finger tips, I start again along the well worn aged tarmac viaduct that forsm the fouth side of the lake.

The hillside closes in as the track passes through the sandy steep weathered ridge which is covered in scrub on the top and on any surface that has not been rain scoured into steep rivulets. I get to the track but decide against a turn. "Why turn into the lost valley with its endless meandering paths to nowhere. The map shows no discernable route. I have been down there walking and paths just stop. besides this tarmac path is smooth and peddling is easy' I carry onward. The dusting of sand and stones that covers the tarmac comes to and end and cycling is even better on the quite nes smooth macadam surface. A steep slope leads down to a sharp bend and the track turns across the path of the railway track. I rehearse the safety procedure at a single barrier continental style levekl crossing. "Should I dismount" becomes the question of the moment. No sod it. "There are hardly any trains on this line anyway". I cross and the road leads down to right hand curve, and I can see and hear the main road. The almost constant soft intermittent roar of each car and lorry grows louder. The main road has only two carriageways at this point. I wobble along the white line close to the edge. Each vehicle rushes past at 50-60 mph a few feet on my left. While I'm thinking about how well the French respect the cyclist a german whizzes past a few inches from me.

Down then up the hill and under the bridge as the railway crosses the road again. I take a right exploring the exact location of the restaurant advertsiued on horadings on the road. The dirt track leads off past a building that doesnt look like a rrestaurant, and then left past sevral more. In the dusty dirt grey front yard of the third house two large alsatians stir. One starts to bark waking a Rottweiller in the garden on my left. "Lets go back. There is no restuarant here"

I retun to the junction at the main road but go starighgt across along the road signposted to Rodes. The village stands at the end of the road up sharp against a steep cliff, covered with scrub. The new building at this end sport large gardens with swimming pools, scattered with the debris from last summer. A sun chair here. Some balls there. Childresn toys. All looks incongrous in the winter chill.

Through the village the path goes onward optomistically. Flat a first and then a sharpe turn. So this is real cycling. Not just a wizz round the Finestret. This path is mere dirt road through the macquis. I check the map and it looks like a mile or so down the road I can cross at the dam and get back to the village. "It will be nice to see the church by the dam, a place I have always wanted to visit", I think to myself.

But first there is some real cycling to be done as the dirt track rises steeply. I play about with the gears trying to find the right formula that will launch this heavy frame at great speed up this huge incline.

I never did write the piece yesterday about how cruel it is that ones middle age paunch is repeated jabbed by ones knees, left and right in turn as a cruel reminder of exactly why we are doing this. Its even worse uphill as the bike is angle just right to remind you.

At last the dam is almost reached but there is no cheer. Looming large a rusty sign says "access interdit" and a flimsy excuse for a fence bars the way. Great. The dirt track veers sharply upwards and right. "Maybe its goes up higher and comes down below?" Foolishly I take the next 100 metres up to another sharp bend. This time puffing harder and discarding gloves. "Surely just after the next bed I will be down and across the dam?" Three corners on I need a rest. This dirt track is going nowhere. I check the map, heart still pumping hard.

"Well if I carry on it looks like maybe the tarck turns into a footpath and then there might be a way back to the Montalban road. The garrague was lit by a burst of sun that picked out the brown oak leaves, contrasting them with the burnt black stems of the trees that were victims of the forst fire of two yaers ago. I searched for regrowth and here and there last years shoots had spring from the base of the worst cases. Whether they were the same plant or grown from seeds was unclear.

I tried another hundred metre dash straining at each peddle.

Thank you St Thomas

2006-12-26T18:18:00.000Z

Decided late today not to take the cycling to excess. You can damage yourself permanently and I don't want to become muscle bound. Instead had a late start, did some drawing. Opened the book on drawing trees and tried my hand at it. Wished I had started the oil painting thing, all the way. Got quite pleased with the pencil drawing of a tree filled landscape. Promised myself that I would do it in oil, one day.

Late in ther afternoon we decided to go to St Thomas le Bain, a hot spring bath in the mountains. After paying a four euro's each we waited , "un minuit" while the scramble eased in the small room of changing cubicles. Moments later were were stripped off and in 'our togs", as Gina would say. Heading for the outside door. The winter forest was bare and a chill wind whisteled down from the peaks surrounding. Nonchantly, and with much British pluck we strode forth deleiberately without fuss, reaching for the plume of hot sulferous streams that serve as "les douches". Then we were in the pools for two hours of soaking relaxing joy. There is something ancient, Roman, decadent, about lazing in a hot spring as the sun goes down, watching other people, come and go, splish and splash. The clump, clump, clumpclump, clump of the shivering steps from glass door to the first hot shower. Each clutching ones body parts as if the cool twilight air would rip them from us, given half a chance. With great stoic phlegm, I perused the cold bathroom at my childhood home created much less fuss, yet was twice as cold regularly.

Then were else can you watch young woman smile almost furtively to their boyfriends as they manouvre astride a hot jet of water gushing deep from the magma in the netherworld. And young men make amusing remarks to each other about "pour votre plaisir".

The first hour saw the sun go down and wrinkles appear on every digit. Steam willowed away over the wall and down the valley. Another hour and it would be dark! To sit in hot water, in the cold air yet warm. What luxury. One by one the pool lights flickered into life and new shadows were cast. On my back with the hotest jet pummelling by nagging vertabra 4 and 5, arced by the smooth circular concrete pan wall of the pool. Looking up, fish eyed, at a greying bluish sky. Dark trees overhanging to the left, with sharp jagged rocks. Bare trunks and twigs to teh right. Hills forward reaching upward, covered with scrub above the tree line. A bright pool light burns the water from down deep.

There is soemthing elemental about stanbding in the rush of cold wind defiantly. I can understand the Scandanavians and their rolliong in snow act after a sauna. Well, a bit. For the first time in weeks I have no back pain. My knees are no longer sore. My shoulder does not ache. They have something in these baths. Just ready for a longer ride. Perhaps tomorrow.

A second try

2006-12-26T10:04:00.000Z

So a second try. This time the early afternoon sun was beating down and within a hundred metres I was warm enough to remove at least one layer. Tieing my shirt around my waste I pondered whether it looked cooler to have its tail straming in the wind to give the impression of speed or whether it was simply better to sit on it. In reality neither looked as cool as lycra. A few more excursions are needed before I buy myself a lycra suit.

So up the gentle constant slope I peddle towards the snow capped mountains once again. Within a minute or two I was happy with progress, picking up speed nicely. "How easy this has become in so short a time, I thought optomistically.

Within another couple of hundred metres I was puffing and straining at the knees. How hard it had become. I should have taken another rerst day. You can overtrain, I thought. It is a strange thing about cycling the same route. The difficult parts become easier. Where one thinks of yestrdays strain and puffing wheezing chest, one finds ease. The genetles slopes that seemed easy yesterday become mountainous.

The sun burned bright as I turned westward towards Finestret. Quite low in the winter sky it lit the grey trunks of the peach orchards, casting long shadows. A distant chaffinch chirped and a slient robin bobbed sliently amongst the bare fruit branches. A slight wind softly moaned. A far away dog barked. Mostly there was a calm silence. A car slid softly into earshot soft at first, yet buidling to a rumbling crescendo as it sped past and away into the distant hills.

Finestret seemed ever more windy, ever more down hill than yesterday. Across the bridge and out of thre village past the smallholdings, and high on the terrace above the river. Those in cars driving along a road with a precipice on one side think of danger. How much more so on a wobbly bycycle, on a bumpy road, only centimetres form the edge of the road? Down the verticle wall and steep bank the river splashed and bubbled some 60 feet below in the dark shadows of the trees.

With greatre confidence I was up the gears into top. Speeding along, taking advantage of the slopes to get the legs moving. Using momentum to carry me up the small undulations. Safer away from the river, opening up a rhythmn.

The main road came up soon with a lull in the traffic for a while allowing me to keep up the speed for the slight dip before the short sharp climb to the village turning. Past the two huge Alsatians at Mestres, the coal mearchants. "Do they not yet recognise me," I think, as they start to snral viciously from behind their reinforced chained fence. And so to the long drag into the village. peddling furiously today, again noting the slight downhill before the steep rise into the village, making life easy by knowing the route. Exhausted I get off outside El Puig, pushing the bike the last short steep slope up to the house. My knees ache and burn and I stagger the fisrt steps unsure that walking was meant to be for these legs. A second trip is over and I already feel much fitter.

I bought a bike yesterday

2006-12-24T17:02:00.000Z

I bought a bike yesterday. I wasn't going to but its Christmas, and finding myself in the biggest superstore in the world, one where slim girls on roller blades skim past you like metoeors on a summer night. Perhaps to stop thje boredom of shopping I find myself looking at the bikes. I had it in mind to buy one. It's not that I need one. I have one at home but its such a pain transporting it in the car to go riding anywhere nice. Then I have never felt the spongy bounce of a bike with springs. All the modfern ones have them these days. It wasn't even that Stephen's words, "It'll be a sin not to have a mountain bike round here" rang too loudly. Nor even the obvious truth that I ned to get out an exercise far more. No I think it was the sheer helpfulness of the shop assistant. "Can I help you?" "So you would like a bike?" "This one is no good for you it is too small, you need one this size.""Oh we have no more of that sort but I will see what I have in the store." i was genbuyinely delighted to leave the store pushing a new bycycle.

That was lucky I thought. I had been mullling over the idea of buying a keyboard, even had a look at some music in a shop a few days ago. I had to explain to the shopkeeper there that I played three instruements, all badly. In fact, I didn't have time to play three instruments which ios why I am so bad at each. I practice little enough for one, so dividing my limirted skills between three is fairly foolhardy. However, my logic is that I am developing the skill of sight reading music rather than making any noticeably good sound.

So tonight I found myself on my first bike ride in the new campaign to be healthy and fit. I say first bike ride. Of course as soon as I got back yestreday I took it out the wrapper. Tightened up a few nuts and set off up the road. I would have said down the road but you notice slight inclines as if they were Anurpurna when you are on a bike. Within seconds I was wheezing like a lifetime smoker, sucking a car exhaust, with a tourniquet round the throat. My knees ached and tore senew with every push. I will not go into the delights of the gentlemans saddle which was provided, surely by Spanish Inquisition and Brother Co. Ltd.

True to say a half hour round the block exhausted me enough for me to realise that I had to go further and quickly if I'm ever to get fit. So off I set. The sun was already setting and bright light from the western mountains cast shadows on the wintry hillsides. The golden browns of autumn wer still bright on the cork oak and contrasted with the redddish glow of the bare fruit orachards. Towering high above the whiote capped Canigou oozed cold air down to this valley to bite the cheeks and fingers.

Off I set vaguely hopeful to reach Finestret. After taking it easy the 600 metres to the turning, the firts point of no return, I pleased myself by pressing onwards. Puffing and rosy cheeks by now I was still able to percieve the slight but noticeable incline that made heavy work of the job at hand. Exhaustion was easdily forgetable to the pain induced by that seat. It's true that from your childhood days, you never forget how to ride a bike. My word it must be equally true, as you get older, that you do forget how to sit on an uncomfortable saddle.

At Joc, I turned westward into the dimming sky. A road on the right offered a possibility of a second quick return, but one unknown to me, and I shunned it. ahead in a dip, stood Finistret. I hate the thought of dips. The instant pleasure of picking up speed and the fastare and faster clackety clack of the cogs. Moving up the gears and picking up speed. Knowing that regrets will soon come. Every dip is follwed by another hill.

Actually, I don't recall another hill coming out of Finestret. A lovely village by now in half light with yellow street lights casting shadows across the narrow winding turning lane. Down hill and across a bridge and a sharp right again alonmg the river, cut deep into a gorge. Woodland opens out to flat farmland and orchards soon to be covered by the growing darkness. Time to light the gloom by the 3 volt headlamp and red glow of the rear light.

"Not too fast down this gentle slope. Remember the time when you were pressing on along the river towpath and hit a half brick? Ended up half over the handles bars and hit an elderberry tree. Not tonight! Not here in the middle of the macquis! Still I have a phone. I'm somwhere on a road past Finistret. No I don't know where." Still going downhill, mostly, up in high gears.

"I know its the main road. That will be the killer up hill. Then that long dusty drag into the village. I bet that's up hill all the way." "I'll be able to get off and walk". It was very black by the time I hit the main road. There was not too much nosiy traffic, although the fumes were noticeble. Having taken my downhill rest I was ready for the hill, and for three quarters of it my speed and by now general fitness overcome the difficulty with ease. So too the long drag into the village. By now I must have swept away the cobwebs and grown in fitness. I must be stronger than I thought. I could do that again! Maybe later in the week?

Eveening Stroll to a Life

2006-09-14T07:46:00.000Z

A damp clinging shroud of grey hang over the evening like heavy blanket. I made off up the road to the forest gate and a cinder track beckoned, a slither of brightness leading on into the shadows of beech and oak. At a pounding pace my boots cracked and crunched the ground. Through the dingly dell, all dark and myterious into a forest meadow, bright. The forest ridge rose before me as the light began to falter. A tiny shadow hopped across my path. My eyes shot side to side for the pond from wwhence it might have come. The screech of owls some distance through the tangled groundcover and dark canopy. There is a clopping in my head now as the day grew dimmer. I stop. Was that a galloping horse coming round the bend? No perhaps the sound of my own heart. I tromp onward and upward ever more loudly. A snuffle or a whinny to my right. That horse, for sure? Or perhaps there are deer? A large toad hops away. It is really quite dark now and only the snaking shimmer pathway and the sliced opneing in the tree cover along this way allows me to progress. Sweat trickles down my brow as I reach the top. In the distance I hear the traffic of the main road. Is it far? Ort a long way off? Does thisd path go toward it? Where will it cross the road. Now it is pitch? Do I go back along the trusted route? Or back along the road? Right and right agian? Or left and left? Decsions need to be made as I reach the trunk route. Bright headlamps scream intermittently from each direction. A string of threee. Then four from the other way. A single. My eyes sting at the brightness and then we are cast into deepest black. In moments there is enough light from a distant car, or enough dark to see a narrow rough pathway. I go left. This is dangerous. Its dark. There is no paving and barely enough light to see a rough intermittent track. 15 minutes of troubled staltering dodging of traffic and the bright yellow of the roundabout can be see. Drps of rain start to fall. Forst one or two. the a brief pitter patter as splashes hit my tee shirt and face, still sweat dampened from the climb.
At last back to human life. the rain starts heaviliy now. Well a pint wouldn't be too harmful. A cold beer on a warm evening. In any case I can stop in the light and find my raincoat in my bag. The beer slides down very well as I sit outside in the evening storm under the shelter of the eaves.

Lightening dashes acroiss in front as I make my way down the hill back to the car park. I never did take that rain coat out. Perhaps I was enjoying becoming wetter. I kept a check on how wet. The rain was not heavy. Perhaps being damp means that you dont notice rain so much. Leaving the light once again meant it didn't matter, much. Bright flashes now more regular lit the way in intermittent bursts. I was glad to fins the car. Glad to be alive.

Such a Perfect Day

2006-09-13T07:19:00.000Z

The end of a perfect day, yesterday was surprising. Parking the car in the inner city street in the shadow of the gleaming new football stadium surrounded by the debris of last night I did not have to hear of the deprivation statistics to know something about the kind of place this was. The poorest ward in the whole of London, I was told. Multiple deprivation of every kind. A difficult place an difficult people I wrongly assumed. The sun was shining on a muggy September afternoon as I kicked away the shattered "Newcastle brown" bottle from under the back tyres. "No wonder I found a parking space so easily I mused.

The tone being cast by the broken glass, I barely noticed the nearby peaceful islands of tree lined grassy spaces and corners where one could sit and ponder on a bench, or invest in a moments spiritually growth, away from the turmoil of the manic city streets. I entered the school and waited for my appointment.

A note caught my eye about the success of the school. "66% GCSE. The best ever". My mood of despondency began to change. "At least there is some success round here, and its being celebrated, I thought to myself". The school bell rang the end of day. A calm procession began. First a few eager pupils carrying the back packs meandered through the foyer. "Good night, miss". "See you tomorrow". The echoes of pleasantries at the end of the day repeated themeslves in those moments. I noticed the smiles and happiness as they skipped away home. Some parents had gathered meeting their children at the gate with fondness. By now the school was able to slowly release its group of special needs children for the buses which had congregated outside. A number of disabled chidlren staggered with their walking frames, or eased themselves in wheelchairs. A few able bodeies children mingled. A few helped. The joy and freindliness of the place heartened my bleak soul. "Good night miss. See you tomorrow". Some staff exhausted after a days toil but postive and friendly assisted the departure" How these people enjoy this place. Not every day perhaps and perhaps they don't always see it. But this place is special and I can seee it today. I can see it now in the faces of the chidren and the way they say goodnight. the way they are keen to return. I can see it in the way the staff warm to their charges.

Eating out

2006-09-01T13:36:00.000Z

Of course lunch out is a different affair. Moule Frite's is an excellent
lunchtime fare eaten at a street cafe overlooking a beach in the shade of
a huge canvas parasol. Sitting on the keyside at Collioure perhaps. A
seafood salad. Salads are huge and filling but often missed. Tuna, prawns,
and mussels and the very salty anchovy provide a rich topping to the crisp
lettuce, sweet tomato, and green leaves of other salad crops.

Alternatively a huge side of beef, barbecued on a charcoal fire at the top
of a mountain at some winter sports restaurant. Sitting in that warm sun
but chilly feel terrace. Bright, hot but cool mountain air, crisp blue
skies, looking at the mountains. taking time at lunch to sit and stare at
the scenery. Away from the bustle of life.

Dr Ian Terrell
MIDWHEB: A Partnership for the Professional Development of Teachers.
www.midwheb.org.uk

Mobile: 07812162105
Work: 020 8411 2458

Lunch

2006-09-01T13:20:00.000Z

Lunch

Lunch is Department 66 is invariably the picnic. “Jambon Blanc”, cheese, pate. Large red sweet tomatoes. Tomatoes that actually taste of….tomatoe. Onion and salad. Tabele, and grated carrot all washed down by a cold beer.

The picnic is ubiquitous in Department 66. Even without a watch you can tell its is lunch time since the road empties of traffic and every piece of shade and spare ground is turned into an ad hoc picnic place. Blankets are spread; each car boot delivers several chairs and the odd table. The family gathers and interrupts it’s squabbling for a social meal.

Lunchtime in the village is as quite as the early morning. At about 1200 the few shops, the Petit Casino, the boulangeries, the charculaterie, shut up shop for the afternoon. The offices of the insurance, bank and estate agents, which appear to be shut most of the time, become imperceptibly quiet. Lunchtime at home is a picnic indoors really.

You have to remember to take lunch slowly. To enjoy the crustiness of the bread, the chunkiness of the pate. I just love rilliard. I don’t know why perhaps it’s just the name which slides off the tongue so smoothly, indeed almost an onomatopoeic foodstuff.

To sip slowly at the cold beer is a lunchtime delight. Delicious but very cold. If you sup some wine only take a little. After years of red wine I have recently discovered the delights of Rose. Taken chilled it is light and clean when at its best. Cold red is equally as pleasant. Be cautious though because many an afternoon has been lost to a chilled wine, in my experience.

The wise, and the French in particular are notable here I notice take plenty of cold water. I prefer the fizziness of ice-cold sparkling water. Perrier offers the cache of its name and its deep green bottles that somehow add to the cold refreshment. It is often more expensive. We buy the salty sulphurous waters because our children who hate them use them less quickly. Like beer you can learn to like them. As when I was first introduced to the earthy refreshment of Carrot juice there is something inherently healthy about these waters. A warm healthy feeling grows from the pit of your stomach as you quaff the liquid and tolerate the sulphur smell and salty taste.

Casa Sensa

2006-08-31T17:57:00.000Z

Casa Sensa is the restaurant to try if you are in Perpignan in the evening. It is a Catalan delight. I prefer to sit in the narrow alleyway outside in summer. The hard slatted garden chairs are a discomfort worth putting up with. So too the constant traffic of the Perpignan population, and their little dogs, interupting the meal at intervals is worth putting up with to capture the romance of eating outside.

However, it's the food that is worth the visit. Gorgeous calamar romane, fried squid, starters with lemon. Marvelous fish dishes, duck, chicken, lamb roasted vegetables, salad catalane. Each of the selections I have made there was a delight to enjoy. The wine, and we always have the house red or the rose, never fails to delight. Finishing with a wonderful cup of black coffee. We must go back. Soon, please!

Food

2006-08-30T07:25:00.000Z

The evening meal is an event whether it be in the sultry heat of a perpignan evening, outdoors, in the alley on rough trestle tables, or whether it is in the village restaurant, or some hotel.

A good meal should be an occasion with friends and family. It should last a good few hours and be over several courses, lasting through starters, main course, deserts, cheese, and coffee. Food is not to be hurried merely to satisfy mere hunger.

Bread is central to the food. My friend Igor, who comes from a part of Northern Spain once discussed with me the imporatnace of bread, as he negotaited, with religious zeal, with the manager in London restaurant for a bowl to be brought. "It should be a round bowl, and sliced, perhaps some brown and some white. It should be placed in the centre of the table so that people can take some and rip it with their hands and talk, " he said confirming the symbolic importance. So too in Freance, and perhaps especially in Department 66. But there is more bread in France than the simple baguette, the bayonette or the boule. Bread can be from the whole meal, mixed with cereal or nuts. There can be a variety of seeds from poppy to mustard and back. So bread eating becomes a journey of discovery, but one theme in the theatre of an evening meal, played out through the whole performance.

2006-08-29T13:06:00.000Z

The early morning is glorious on the roof terrace in the village.

The early morning sun in department 66 is invariably bright and blue skies punctuated by occasional wisps of fluffy cloud over the mountains enclose this huge, endless space. The sharp shadows of each mountain ridge are caste highlighting a new view of the familiar peaks. Buildings stand out as if they were new with each new days pattern of contrasting light and shade. In the morning sun, the yellow walls of the houses are much yellower, the green much brighter. The blues stand out.

Morning is a time of contrasts. There is much quiet and calm. Time for contemplation. Time for noticing the new view created each day by the different effects of the rising sun. Time for seeing the growing changes as the sun burns back the nighttime cloud and moisture. It’s peaceful. Down below in the street there is a gradual awakening punctuating the calm.

In autumn and winter there is a smell of wood smoke wafting rich deep and dusky across the rooftops. In spring and summer the terrace is buzzed by thousands ‘l’hirondelle”. Swooping in long arcs of flapping their tiny wings frenetically to gain height, and releasing themselves for yet another high-speed pass. Or they are chasing each other in pairs chattering to each other with that chirp cheep cheep call.

Morning is a time to sit, quite still to watch this action.

The village comes awake quite early. A commuter drives their Renault in a hurry to the nearby junction in the main square. A neighbour slowly paces towards the boulangerie for ‘our daily bread”. Another is greeted, with a “Bonjour. Ca Va”and a conversation takes place. One or two guests in the village make their way to buy provisions and bread for ‘le petit dejeuner”. The calm is shattered

Another car stops and parks outside the “presse” before buying the Independent and some “Gitane, oblivious to the small traffic jam which will be momentarily and inevitably be caused. Raymond our neighbour makes an entry and his loud French voice is heard. He quickly directs some traffic. “La Bas”, La bas”. Movement is unlocked. Calm returns.

Morning is a time for coffee. Big big cups of coffee. Coffee with milk. We have not yet naturalised ourselves so much that we can take our coffee like some of the our French friends do, in big bowls, without any pretence of being a cup for drinking. Neither do we use our freshly bought bayonette as a ubiquitous mopping tool, breaking large pieces and dumping in the bowl to soak up as much of the milky liquid as possible.

No, we are still English and sip from a traditional but large mug but we have seen this cultural difference in breakfast at close range at another delight of the morning, the petit dejeuner in a café or bar. Round the corner in the “ Bar Laetitia” we have ordered our morning coffee and eaten our breakfast, freshly bought from the boulangerie across the road. Being away from the terrace does not detract from the opportunity to sit and watch and contemplate. Time to read the “Independent” to discuss the day’s events and yesterdays.

First Entry

2006-08-29T12:27:00.000Z

Well. Hi everyone. This is my new blog in a new place and I really want to use it. I shall put here my thoughts, my research and some social material. I hope my readers are satisfied by my output.

My thanks to my blog mentor, Gina who has now gone home for ever. I miss her already.

My research interests are about professional development and impact, and the use of new technologies.