The cycle of life

This weekend I did my usual amount of bicycling up and down towpaths, currently the Oxford Canal. We have a pattern now with our boating which involves working out where we think we are going to end up at the end of each day and then I drive the car there, hunt about for somewhere to park ( usually in the layby nearest to the relevant bridge) get my bike out of the boot and cycle back to meet T and the Rusty B. 

On Saturday,  because it was already simmering with heat by 7am, I set off very early. As I pedalled past the air smelt of coffee and toast, with boaters emerging into the dappled sunlight , hanging up washing, opening windows, gradually stirring into life as the ducks milled about bickering and squawking,  expectantly waiting for their daily scraps. The permanent live aboard boaters obviously have their regulars who they feed,  and I passed one boat where a large swan and her not so small cygnets had actually jumped on to the front deck,  where a smiling  woman was feeding them leftovers. Being of the generation that was brought up knowing that a swan can, in one swoop break your arm ( yes, this is TRUE)  I admired her bravery,  but was very  relieved that we do not have to contend with such visitors, though I will never tire of feeding a gaggle of mallards and their ridiculously sweet ducklings who come alongside us regularly as we drift past. 

My favourite bike,  and one I got when I first came to London was called Lillian Jones, because she used to belong to a sprightly but elderly woman called, you guessed it, Lillian Jones. She was a proper old ladies bike , pink and green with a large wicker basket in the front and together we had many adventures. I used to cycle her every day to and from college, to the pub, to Brixton market, to jumble sales on a Saturday morning. Hardly any  of us had cars then apart from our rusty Circus Bumbellini van, which had a rather temperamental accelerator pedal,  that sometimes got jammed and once caught fire outside Brockwell park on the way to a gig. Despite this and many other incidents it served us for a few summers ,  though by the end,  parts of it were held together by gaffa tape and it certainly wouldnt have got through an MOT these days. Lillian Jones once featured in an advert for Brixton cycles which was shown at The Ritzy as we all sat and clapped, in the days when there was only one screen, and if you were in the know,  you always sat right in the middle,  becuase there was a slight ridge down the centre of the room so you got the best view. In the days when you could get carrot cake and hot pear juice to take in with you to have  ( in between your cigarettes). Though I have been trying, I cannot for the life of me remember what happened to her in the end but she was a faithful and trusted companion for many years. 

The Oxford canal is much thinner and more remote than the Grand Union,  which is where we started from , and in some places its a challenge to get two boats past each other without touching. We have had to remove the tyres that protect the sides from bumping as they simply wouldnt fit through the very narrow locks and you couldnt fit more than one boat in at a time, making the whole process a little longer, as on bigger canals its much faster if you tag along with someone else and go through together. In places it’s hard to believe that we are only a couple of hours from Camberwell. You can go for long stretches  without passing  a village or any sign of habitation ( apart from the rose covered lock keepers cottages, which look like something out of the Hovis advert). Most of the beautiful old brick humpback bridges no longer go anywhere and there a fields of corn and wild flowers, sheep and cattle as far as the eye can see. In some places the towpath is very narrow and completely choked with grasses and cow parsley and you have to be very careful to hold your nerve when cycling very near the edge,  as one wiggle and you’re in with a large splash ,  and a nasty dose of Weils disease and a stomach upset for your trouble. Its such a shame that you can’t swim in it, especially when its so hot, but the River Cherwell with its deep bone chilling pools is getting bigger and wider the nearer we get to Oxford, so it won’t be long before I can include an early morning swim in my daily ritual, a prospect that fills me with joy. The fact that the weather is bound to change as soon as we get there does little to dampen my enthusiasm as come hurricane, storm or rain showers, I will swim.

On Saturday night, sun blasted and sweaty,  we moored up between locks on a stretch of water still and smooth as mirror, without a breath of wind, the heat of the day gradually fading  to be replaced by a soothing coolness. As it got dark,    the sharp reflection of the clouds and the water smudged together like ink on blotting paper, the surface shattered every now and then by swallows who dipped and swooped catching flies. As the shower is still under construction we made do with large buckets of cool water and a bar of soap, a delicious and effective process, followed by crisp clean clothes, a splash of Jo Malone and a comb through damp sun tangled hair. As we have no table outside we rigged up a cunning and extremely practical ( yet rather thin) dining table out of a plank,  with just the right amount of space for serving dishes and plates for two and then made supper with ingredients that mostly came out of our allotment , washed down with a cold glass of wine. We also discovered that the tiny gas powered fridge can stretch to making ice. It’s the simple things.