ProudfootForward

by bicycle

[neenot-blog]

Failure

I failed last night. I bombed on stage. 

I’d been looking forward to my 5 minute set, had written and memorised my little piece and was ready to share it with the world. I got some laughs, to be sure, but it was the silences that echoed long after I left the stage.

I felt deflated. I felt I’d let down my ‘bringer’ friend. I felt that maybe everything I do is a failure - I’m too caught up in positivity to notice the shit I produce. As I cycled home the whole of London felt like it was made of cardboard, ready to collapse at any moment. 

I’m not good with failure. It’s not something I’ve had much experience of - more through avoidance than superhuman excellence, I might add! As a kid, if the likelihood of losing loomed I would deny any attempt at success, give up and piss about at the back. Cut and run. 

To go forward with confidence, and get knocked back is a new and difficult experience. I think the time has come to reset my emotional compass, to do more things where failure is a very real option, but to do them with determination, dedication, and the knowledge that the worst case scenario is a good lesson well learnt. 

So the next challenge: I need to take a flying leap out of my comfort zone, push myself to do what I would not dare, learn to fail or succeed and treat these two with equal regard. 

[neenot-blog]

National Buying Survey

I just filled in a national buying survey. 

On the one hand, that’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back, and I have just dedicated my time and energy to help massive corporations sell more shit. Whoop.

On the other hand, I got a fiver out of it (covering the artisan almond croissant and organic spinach I bought at the City Farm Market this morning); I got a chance to peek into the world of corporate whoredom; and I an opportunity for a bit of self reflection. How do I do the things I do? 

I’m pretty sure the data-input-minion will just tick the ‘hippy freak’ box and move on (”Shit, another one who cares more about the environment than their brand of oven cleaner.” “And she doesn’t use shower gel, or disposable sanitary towels. eugh.” “And she goes on holiday on a bike...?”) 

I ticked a lot of no boxes - TV, gaming, car, cigarettes, football, magazines, gravy granules... I was struck by the seemingly infinite number of ways available for us to donate our lives to big business and their shiny shiny products. 

I also realised that I do nearly my shopping at Sainsbury’s, and have extreme brand loyalty when it comes to toiletries (if little else.) I guess I’m as much stooge as anyone else - it was good to have this whacked in my face. It may be called ‘Simple’ facewash, but it’s still made by a shareholder-worshipping-megacorp, so what gives? (So no, NBS, I don’t “love” any your big brands. They’re all faceless money making machines, even if some of them have better PR.) 

I have a long way to go before I am comfortable with where I spend my money. I can’t eat non-free-range chicken after cycling through the miserable stench of chicken sheds, but when it’s not in front of us, it’s easy to forget where things come from, and where the profits go. 

This was also a survey of the digital age. It asked what you did on the previous day. I could say I was in a cafe, but there was no option for “hugging awesome people”, “playing wise wise wise”, “helping others with ideas and smiles” or even plain old “socialising.” If you weren’t consuming or interacting with a digital device, your time was null and void; you were a nothing. Get back on Facebook and generate more advertising income, FFS! 

A reflection of modern life? No -  a reflection of how They would like our lives to be - small, controlled, predictable, and spending... Luckily, where humanity fails, individual humans can rise up to hold the torch for freedom, sustainability, rationality and an inquiring mind. 

[neenot-blog]

Friends old and new.

A few months back I was talking to an old friend, extolling the virtues of Yes Tribe, the wonderful new people I’d met and the positivity we’d created. Then she raised a question. 

“But don’t you think it’s sad that you don’t get that from your own friendship group.” 

I was stumped for answer. 

At Tales of Adventure, when asked about heading out on expedition with an almost complete stranger, Fearghal and Olie were both in favour. 

“If you go with an old friend, you have an existing dynamic between you. However well this works in London, in everyday life, it’s going to crack when you submit it to a four month, two man adventure on the Amazon.” 

I think that answers my friend’s question. 

Old friends are wonderful, they are fantastic. If you’ve stuck around that long together, you’ve probably got something pretty awesome.  But the longer the friendship, the more baggage it comes with, good and bad.  

Though we’re 30 now, when I think about my friend I still see her as she was when she was 10, 13, 18, 24, if only subconsciously. I fill in the gaps of how I understand her now based on 20 years experience of her past, just as the brain colours in our peripheral vision from memory. And it’s going to work both ways. 

When life stagnates, when reinvention calls, it is harder take a new direction surrounded by only those that have loved you for too long, those who have a pre-existing understanding of how you “should be,” and treat you accordingly. Two heads are better than one, but when the two heads are in the same place, sparks for evolution are harder to find. The catalyst may need to come from elsewhere.  

In a new tribe, around new people, you are free to be as you need to be now - no one knows any different, and they will take you based only on the present, and potential futures. You build up new networks and dynamics with others that support what is, and what will be. New ideas and possibilities open up. 

I accept some friendships may wither and die as people take themselves to new ways of being, and this makes me sad. We must work to be the best we can be, for ourselves, and hence also for those around us;  hanging out with memories isn’t going help. 

The best relationships evolve as friends change, supporting each other, and cheering on with joy as each becomes a better version of themselves. I love my old friends - you know who you are, I wouldn’t be where I am today without you. With new energy from from expanding networks, we can support each other better. 

So heres to the next 20 years! xx 

[neenot-blog]

London to Mundon and beyond. An adventure with George, Charlie and a Gazelle.

Rain. BBC Weather had promised us a solid 24 hours of rain on Saturday, and only a little less for Sunday. Ah well! I had been craving the cold wind and green landscape. Duvet days are wildly overrated. 

Saturday 13th February

Escaping from London is always a pleasure. The urban fabric slips from the iconic to mundane, before leading us up, up and away to the Forest of Epping. We drank in the panoramic views of retail sheds, industrial units and the M25, perfectly framed by stately beech, gnarly oak and bristling holly. With this great prospect ahead of us, we each rammed a slab of Christmas cake down our gullets, savouring the rich sweetness as both flavour and fuel. 

We followed our noses, heading more or less East, taking the track least travelled at every turn. Rolled stone paths lead to a muddy track over the M25, to concrete roads and potholed lanes. We ended up wading through mud and ditches at the edges of fields, scrambling through brambles to find our way home. Maybe that was one dead end too far. 

Back on firm ground we inadvertently picked up the NCN 1. Well signed on quiet roads and metalled byways, the gentle landscape scrolled past at speed. Thatch and weatherboarding squared off in the quaint stakes, each village vying for a place on the Tourist Board calendar. As we flew I head bird song; I realised that aside from the bicycle’s gentle whoosh-hum, it was the only sound around. The city was a long way away. 

Moreton offered us the White Hart, which won us round with a roaring fire and cheesy chips. We toasted our toes, lolling on the deep leather Chesterfields while the outside drizzle receded. 

NCN 1 took us on East, past Cow Watering Lane and Writtle College, along the River Chelmer through Chelmsford, making this town one of the more charming surprises. As the official route turned North, we made our own way to Mundon. Because it rhymes with London. Sustrans really missed a trick on this one. With daylight fading we plugged on to Bradwell Waterside, trundling ever East to the edge of the land. 

The Green Man welcomed us like old friends. We ate and drank, and sat and talked, while they rallied round filling our flask with hot tea, and offering up lawns for us to camp on and wishing us well. 

The drizzle splattered on my steamed glasses, reflecting lights in stars and glares over the lens. I gave up trying to see any road, just pedalled on into the night. 

Sunday 14th February

The morning light slowly brought us round. I unzipped the tent to be greeted by a 1300 year old chapel, bold and alone in this bleak peninsular. To the other side a slither of saltmarsh was all the lay between us and the North Sea. In this place we had slept. 

The chapel was opening up, inviting us in. High walls of Roman stone and tile engulfed us, high windows let in the light, without the risk of a distracting view. A couple come from an Iona community in Milton Keynes were inside, bearing a cross covered in post-its of prayers.

“We paste them on every week, building up the layers over time.” 

This cross of hopes and dreams, requests and gratitude reminded me of another Tribe. We may not lay our hearts so much in the hands of God, but the process is the same. Coming together, sharing ideas, building a community. This need for belonging is a human need, wherever we choose to find it. 

The road beckoned, and we headed on, through cabbage fields and battery chicken sheds to Burnham, another surprise discovery. The waterfront was made of abutting houses, old buildings jostling for space with a river view. The greasy spoon doubled up as a gift shop, toy shop and card shop - selling everything anyone had ever asked for. There appeared to have been a recent shipment of Thomas the Tank Engines, a hundred smiling grey faces eyeing up your coffee. 

Onwards, onwards we rolled. Battlesbridge, the most easterly bridge on the Crouch, was good 10 miles from the sea. The bridge spanned a tiny trickle, leaving no clue as to why no bridges had been built further downstream. 

We had been hoping to explore Foulness Island, only to find QinetiQ had got there first. The whole island is barricaded off so the MoD can practice blowing things up. Or shooting things. Or something. I don’t really know. An entire landscape dedicated to obliteration. We made do with Wakering Steps, leading down to the Broomway - the most dangerous footpath in the country - an oozing mudflat causeway leading to Foulness. The sea already licked our ankles as we stood on the beach.  We hastened back to safety. 

Shoeburyness was another unexpected delight, green roofed beach huts, disused gun turrets on a seafront park, and couples determined to picnic on the beach no matter how the wind howled, blasting sand into their sandwiches. 

Cycle ways led us back into Southend. Fish and Chips in a seafront bar, sunsets reflecting off the sea and sheet glass. Sunday had been a beautiful day. Never trust the weatherman. 

On the train home we rested, safe in the knowledge that a week of feeling down was thoroughly cured, blasted away on the wind. 

[neenot-blog]

Mud - a beginner’s guide

Last weekend I drove a mini-bus of excited 20-somethings half way across the country to splash about in mud for a couple of hours. It turned out to be a pretty awesome January Sunday. 

To be fair, this wasn’t just any mud, it was Tough Guy mud. Highly specialised gloop carefully placed to challenge us, lull us into a false sense of security, then make us all look rather silly. I have never so fully appreciated the slushy brown stuff, its varieties and properties. I hope to rectify this here by exploring some of the more wonderful soil-based liquids we encountered in Shropshire. 

Common or garden mud

A thick layer of squelchy mud over a hard base, designed to maximise the number of people falling on their arses. A simple classic, heavy on the shoes, readily available with just a small input of rain and some heavy use. 

Velvet Delight

My favourite. A well mixed, smooth mud, churned by a thousand stomping feet to form a free flowing liquid. Globules thrown up would race through the air, ephemeral maltesers suspended alluringly with every splash. The gentle silty mess seeped through your clothes, a lulling softness. With the colour and viscosity of melted Galaxy, the stagnant stench was an apt reminder that Wonka’s river of chocolate this wasn’t. Nonetheless, a true delight to run through. 

Grey Water

Water turned grey with disturbed mud. It is thin and weak, dim enough to hide the bottom of a pool, but with no redeeming softness. It is cold and harsh - it cackles and crackles in your brain when you dunk your head. A thin, cruel gruel. 

Wild peat

The heavy scent of the bracken softened the palate, plunging the urban runner back into wilder times free in the woods and moors. The power of perfume to carry you far from the concrete jungle. The earth was dark and soft, a subtle spring underfoot. It left soles clean and shoes light, content to remain in its place in the landscape. It clothed the hillsides with its cloak of wilderness.

Toughened Slide

A firm, hard mud on a steep hill. The surface smoothed by a thousand bums and lubricated by gentle drizzle, this makes an incredible slide. Frequently laced with stone to upset the unwary adventurer, this is the mud most likely to make you squeal with joy - or pain.

Thieving Porridge

A lumpy, textured, cloying mud. It collects footwear avidly, sucking and pulling at every trainer that comes through, gasping for a hold. It squeals each time a shoe pulls free, sighing and slumping back down, gathering strength for its next target. This is a sad mud, desperate for something to cling to. Spare it a thought, but tie your laces tight. It is as determined as any Tough Guy. 

Grassy mattress

A youngster in the mud world, still contained by grasping grass, leaves matting together to form a continuous whole. You won’t sink deep, a shallow depression is enough form bulges and dips all around, as the surfaces strains to contain itself. The sandy soil lets water drain freely, giving this a less sodden finish that other muds. 

Under the wire

Deep channels worn through the ground by challengers fearful of the barbed wire above. The firm ground should be easy going, but there’s always one stone protruding where it oughtn’t. Yep - that one. You know it. The unyielding subsoil is now worn through to the surface, bringing up whatever terrors normally lie hidden deep beneath. 

Want to know more? Sign up for Tough Guy 2017 and find out what I’m going on about... 

[neenot-blog]

City to Sea in a Snowglobe

London to Brighton, 18th January 2016

Tower Bridge is a great place to start any journey out of London - away from the city, the icon of the capital spanning the river carrying you on first leg out of urbanism. And the views are fantastic!

Three of us headed South, the streets turning whiter as the urban heat island dimmed, allowing the snow to grow deeper as we passed. Beyond Eden Park and Shirley and we stumbled into a woodland winter wonderland. Bare branches glistened, a thick frosting fell over the fields, turgid mud concealed beneath a cloak of beauty.

Hybrid v. Road - the wide textured tyres won out, racing over icy tarmac and soft tracks.

As Karl raced off up the hills, we kept back, steadily, steadily, we made it up.

Over the M25 - a cheer! We’d escaped it’s stranglehold on freedom; London behind us, the rest of the world waiting.

South Godstone - Lifesize plastic giraffes, hippos and zebras stand deep in the cold, white drifts. Icy statues, no safari jeeps will find them here.

East Grinstead - a bar. We are alone, frozen gloves and boots spread over every radiator. Hot food! Hot Coffee! A warm welcome wouldn’t have gone amiss. Meh. Cocktails by the pint, cocktails by the jar. The floors are sticky, the tables squashed to the sides of the room. We gorge, honoured to be catching a glimpse of out of season party.

We glide down the Forest Way, old railway embankments take us smoothly to Forest Row, and a bike shop. Armed with new brakes, we are ready to take on the next set of hills.

We cross hills and valleys, little lanes lead us deep into the Sussex countryside. The snow thins as we creep South, and the Sun creeps higher in the sky. Only the North face of the downs stay frozen, a white wall rising in front us, the barrier between us and the sea.

Hybrid vs. Road - The worn gears slip and slide, the heavy tyres grip the road, heavy panniers and soft legs giving into the rising ground. Skinny tyres and fit riders race on high.

I put the gears on low and plod on. Up, and up, and up. The next bend, or the next? I go on. The wind picks up - the essence of sea in my face - and I know the summit is near.

Ditchling Beacon - Scarp face of the Downs conquered! Another cheer. We pause. Karl and Charlotte wait for me at the top.

We sloop over the Downs and down to the sea, new brakes proving themselves. The breeze sharpens as we hit the shore, while the call of the sea grows less appealing. Fish and chips are in order. Hot, filling and earnt.

[neenot-blog]

Recipe for Adventure: Ham-Sandwich

Find Ham. Vital. Find someone inspirational to look after you and help you find Ham.

Feel the salty sea air clasp at your face; smell the warm smoke as wood burners fight off the winter; see the pigs in their natural habitat, in the open grasslands, cosy in their own world, unaware of their tasty fate.

Climb some hills. Get in the easiest gear, don’t look too far ahead, and sing your way to the top. Squeal with joy as you summit; grin, jaw aching, as you take in the view and freewheel back down. Get the adrenaline pumping, burn some calories, and find the top of the world.

Roll along the deserted proms. Dodge the storm berms of sand and gravel, thrown up over the walls by Desmond. Watch golden sunlight cast glory over the cliffs and turn the sea into a glistening maelstrom of beauty.

Lose yourself in the shingle. Wide, crunching expanses extending beyond the horizon. Feel alone, feel free, a moving point lost in an infinite landscape.

Hit the docks. Gangways and walkways, closed off - private, no admittance, spiked fences reaching for the sky. Forbidden spaces filled with jostling ship builders and crane drivers. This world is half grey, under monotonising paint and a sprinkling of undisclosed industrial dust; half orange and yellow - hi vis, danger, look at me - I’m important.  

Find greenery. Lots of greenery. Love it. Live it. Wake up in dew soaked nettles, smell the chlorophyll, the freshest salad you can find.

Wash greenery - rain. Rain is good for this. Lots of rain.

Experience quaint towns vying for the chocolate box cover. Corfe, Rye, Winchester, and a hundred thatched and cobbled villages, scattered across the countryside like beacons of delight and disbelief.

Find Sandwich. Put it all together, the steady motion going on, going forwards, the bread holding it together, keeping it together. The fillings - the highs, the lows, the wonders and surprises.

This Ham Sandwich is four days in the making, a unique combination of weather, people, landscapes and experience. It could never be the same again - and who would want it to be? Every journey is another story, a new adventure waiting to be discovered.

[neenot-blog]

[neenot-blog]

Ham Sandwich - part 2

7th December

Chichester to Pevensy

I am dry as I wake and pack. The drizzle sets in as I hit the road. I prefer it this way round.

I stop under a tree for first breakfast. Stood at the side of the road, apple in hand, a cyclist then a car pull up to check I’m ok. Yay - people.

I take second breakfast at Barham Coffee Bar. “The best coffee in Barham!” - Barry, customer. I wonder if there’s much competition.

I creep. I creep through the flatlands towards Littlehampton. Rustington is cobble-oplis. Every building is made of cobbles. I’ve never seen anything like it, as on I creep.

I hit the sea at Worthing, where carrion crows rule the beach. I follow the prom - sea, salt, shingle - lovely.

As I head East I see an ever changing face to the edge of this island.

Worthing - old fashioned sea side, formal, but relaxed. Lancing - quieter, and more personal. Gone is the grand prom, the beach creeps into the land, for those who live nearby to enjoy.

Shoreham-by-Sea is a port, steep heaps of aggregates, dry docks, and unlabelled sheds holding unknown cargos. Don’t ask. Zig zag through the quais, steel walkways creaking. Cycle signs disappear beneath the barrage of “Private. No Access.” on spiky palisade gates. The correct route is the only way available, offering the merest glimpse of another world.

Hove hoves into view. “Don’t cycle on the prom. DO NOT cycle on prom. NO CYCLING on the prom. Seriously cyclists - you can fuck off now. NOW.” I peer into the distance, two, maybe three, people visible on the whole expanse. I cycle on the prom. The only hazard are the heaps of pebbles thrown up high by Desmond a few days before.

Brighton swaps bowling greens for funfairs, but the anti cycling force remains strong. I sigh and carry on.

I slide out of town, realising too late I’m high above the sea. Fuck - it’s not just Beachy Head I need climb. I quietly curse the Seven Sisters, wishing she’d been an only child. I am rewarded the Roedean, disguised as a prison, fences reaching beyond retaining walls. The best cliff top views are saved for the headquarters of the Blind Veterans association, adding insult to injury, or a beacon of hope?

Rottingdean offers a a forgotten prom, clinging to the base of ivory cliffs, now glimmering golden with the sinking sun.

Peacehaven high, Newhaven low, then the cyclists’ lush version of the A259 twists along to Seaford, where they are busy rebuilding the beach.

The Final Sister, my nemesis - Beachy Head, glows ominously. I take in the beauty of the chalk from beneath, then fire myself up for the road the Eastbourne.

The Climb:

1&1 gears. Tick.

Fully fuelled with sugar. Tick.

A back catalogue of inspirational music in my cranial jukebox. Tick.

“Can’t Stop Me Now, cos I’m having a good time, Can’t stop me now…”

I glimpse Cuckmere Haven - the first haven to deserve the name. The elegant meanders slowly swirling through the plain, a vivid mirror of the orange sunset cutting through the gloom. I catch my breath - wonderful.

“Moving on up, Mooooving on up…”

The sky gets darker, the cars pass closer. I ride down the middle of the lane, so I can only be overtaken when the road’s clear. Seriously.

I sink suddenly to Eastbourne, fingers straining on the brakes. A grin cracks my face. Elation. “Can’t take me Down, can’t take me down…” I’d finally triumphed cycling over the South Downs. They’d been the dark demon looming large at the end of the day, making every mile won a mile closer to the dreaded. Every cafe, every photo, every map-check mere procrastination.

Yet for all that, the ride up the Downs was far easier than the flat roads leading there.

Cyclists need hills. Without a challenge there can be no success; no serotonin, no adrenaline pumping us up with joy. We need to push ourselves to go forward, to make it worth going forwards. And to freewheel back down, squealing with delight - again, again!

And it makes those fish and chips earnt.

I sleep in Pevensy Recreation Ground. No Camping. Paths of deep mud squelch between nettle islands. I settle down in the stinging patch, easing my exhausted body onto the soft ground, safe in my bivvy cocoon.

8th December  

Shingle and Sheep.

Hastened away by fear of an angry vicar defending his precious public space from vagrant cyclists, I shelter in a bus stop to repack away from the steady rain.

Dawn blurs in through the fallen clouds. No glittering sunrise, only a vague sensation of darkness losing out to a new day. The flat landscape of ditches, reeds and sheep adds to the beautiful bleakness.

Bexhill on Sea. I admire the new landscaping of the prom - though the miniature planted gardens feels too intricate (and high maintenance) for a long prom, they are playful and engaging. The De La Warr Pavillion, something I’d longed to see, but a disappointment in the flesh. A good Art Deco edifice, but I was expecting too much from the hype, giving myself dreams of the unimaginable, leaving reality with no choice but to fall short.

St Leonards rolled past, with still no sign of an open cafe until Hastings town centre. They were still cooking pastries and moving tables when I arrived, but they gave me sustenance, conversation, and a place to warm up while the rain cleared.

The Jerwood Gallery stood gleaming on the shingle, black clapboard still a little too pristine to fit in. Glimpses through locked glass doors gave me incentive to return. A laminated “no Jerwood” placard still hung from a fisherman’s hut opposite, faded in sun of summers past. Too little, too late.

All Saints Street stretched up the hill, a rich mosaic of mismatched houses jammed together, each with its own style and angle. I admired the diversity, a planner would never allow this now.

We rose up to Fairlight as the mist descended over the quiet roads. Break pads wore thin as we sunk back down to Pett Level. Space passed by, open stretches of shingle, bounded by the ocean one side, fields of sheep on the other. I was alone in the expanse - just me, Charlie and the weather. I sang a song on how to cheer up an unhappy friend. “So I’ll take you down to Winchelsea, and we’ll dance upon the shingle sea…”

The harbourside led me up to Rye, past decaying warehouses back to civilisation. Jempsons - a local supermarket - offered journey staples of Rye bread and Ham, and Sussex Scrumpy - cheese with cider. Yes.

Excitement hit at Camber Sands - a Pontins! Real, live Pontins. “Welcomed to Jollity Farm. You will be happy here, you will.” The joy was so determined even the kerbs were multicoloured.

Lydd, Romney and Dymchurch sped by in a haze of grasslands, sheep and juncus ditches. I followed Hythe’s sea front for as long as I could before the cliffs rose up to steal me ease.

Googly - noun. A curveball, an unexpected, difficult situation. For example when Google Maps directs you to take a fully laden touring bike a steep, narrow, muddy footpath. With steps. Many steps. Bad Google.

Lifting the seat stay with every riser, holding the brakes to stop us both sliding back to beginning, I heaved Charlie up the scarp slope of the Downs. The top brought elation, having beaten vertigo, the rain and gravity by replacing common sense with brute force and stubbornness.

I was rewarded with a gorgeous ride, gently rolling hills, woods, and St Ranigunds ruined abbey. This fell sharply away to Kearnsey, or “River” as it was helpfully signed. Said river waterfall through windows and doorways of a ruined watermill, walls barely higher than the lintels. The crumbling edifice had become part of the river once more.

Googly, part 2. A gap that requires me to empty my panniers, then refill, and try to start with no momentum on a near vertical old road, strewn with lumpy rocks and slippery leaves. Again, the North Downs had me defeated.

Crossing the A2 - slipping between crash barriers, waiting for a gap in the roaring lanes of traffic - took me on to the Old Sandwich Road, the former highway converted into a cycle route. Faded lines disappeared beneath the leaf litter. The path flowed gently towards my destination.

16:55 - Sandwich. 17:00 - Sandwich closes.

I eat my Ham Sandwich in the market square, my bike becomes a table, panniers a plate, for my celebratory feast. I’ve eaten a pack of dirt already this trip.

I stink. Sweat, mud, and happiness. I really stink.

[neenot-blog]

Ham Sandwich - part 1

Ham - Corfe, 5th December 2015

After a wonderful evening with Rob and Veryan Young in Ottery St Mary, Rob braves the pre-dawn to wake Woody the campervan, carrying Charlie and me to Ham.

Ham - not quite a hamlet. The name is a late add on to a road sign. The ham sandwich is more epic.

I set off giggling and singing to myself; within a few moments I am almost knocked off - another cyclist heading down the middle of road. Neither of us expected anyone else to be out here at this hour.

The countryside is stunning - despite December’s best attempts to make it miserable. Grey clouds glower on the horizon, while bare trees frame stone cottages nestling in the landscape. Terraced slopes home agile sheep. Groves of white stemmed birches stand out from a carpet of golden leaves, purple branches quivering above.

Hills rise and fold, curving away from you, then hitting you in the face with a steep climb.

“Ride it Tough Guy!” The hill goes on, each bend laughing as the challenge extends on up. Charlie squeaks and squeals, change gear: up - click; down - kerchunk. grimble grimble, shish shash, and on we glide.

Soon we’re into Hardy country. I understand why Tess found work as a dairy maid - cows are everywhere. Furry beasts peer out under deep fringes; long horns catch on the long grass; a field a panda cows defy logic.

Once grand houses flake quietly away behind potholed drives. Shutters are drawn closed, the grounds returning to the wilderness.

Flattened bracken and distorted trees point North East, a natural compass bent into shape by prevailing winds. The gusts are from behind, pushing me up hills, only to blast me sideways as the road turns.

There are cars that wait, cars that smile and wave. There are cars that hoot a warning shot far back then race past, shaving hairs from my arms as they go.

Roads for cars are long and straight, build despite their surroundings. Ameliorating diversity, interest and curiosity, surrounding areas recast to make way for The Road. Cats Eyes are the most notable feature available to name a cafe after. Cyclists get the old roads - twisting single lanes that follow the land wherever it will go.

Corfe Castle rears up into the night, uplit on its fearsome mound. Closed all day due to high winds. I spend the evening in cutesville, postcard photographers ogling every cottage and cobble. I head out to sleep in front of a gate down a bridleway. National Trust Purbeck Coast - No Camping. I snuggle deeper in my bivvy bag.

Corfe to Chicester, 6th December 2015

A deer in the headlights scampers into the brush.

The chain ferry - the road falls into the sea. A stop line, no barriers. People round here can be trusted. The tickets, along with their bag and their ticketmaster, are haven’t changed since the 50s. Clunk diddy clunk diddy clunk diddy clunk, we trundle across the mouth of Poole Harbour to the landed yachtsmen of Sandbanks. Boat-like white and glass houses squat between palm trees. General Boom lives on. A retired sailor walks his suburban vision of dream, the morning papers clutched tight.

Bournemouth beach front: Beach huts. Brick, wood, glass and concrete. Old and new. Peeling white, velvety black, and even a paint chart rainbow. Single storey and double. Hidden in the hills, or perched on the shingle. This is hutsville.

Sandstone cliffs reach up high above, gnarled into gargoylesque forms by cantankerous winds, basking in a golden sun. Pines and gorse pierce through the rock face. Is this Poole, or is this California?

Steps and groynes are submerged in a desert. Ripples of sand meander over the beach, over the prom; the tarmac slithers. Berms have formed, ready for the tractors to clear. Charlie tries his hand at the beach cruiser life, but it’s not his forte.

The New Forest: a museum wilderness. “Lockslide Bottom”, “Lockslide Heath”, “Lockslide View”. Each viewpoint is labelled, cars queue up to take their place at their chosen exhibit. The glistening lights of Southampton Docks are only the other side of the hill. Walkers, spaniels and ponies dot the scene, little horse arses poking out of the bracken.

Sven joins me me to get me through the grimmest section. Grey drizzle washes away the grime on under used footpaths in suburbia and industrial parks. In central Southampton we race through the parks, a green respite, then past the remains of St Marys bedraggled shopping centre. The deserted malls are gone, only the concrete ramp leads up to where a car park once stood, its truncated end torn apart, innards of twisting rebar laid bare to gawping eyes.

Bridges, bridges, bridges. The Test, the Itchen and railways. Gotta cross them all! We skip Portsmouth, spy a few castles, then watch inlets, mudflats and salt marshes from our very own cycle byway.

The rain and dark set in - Chichester can’t come soon enough. We wolf our pub dinners, then try not to drift as we rack up the courage to test the night air. Sven - to London, me - to nowhere. I am dreading finding a place to sleep. I head into the night to a place away from lights, away from the road, without fences or livestock. I pass a promising scrub with containers - they appear too eerie - though the dead buildings are no threat.

I find a footpath through a ploughed field. I sleep on a narrow strip at the edge, behind a low grassy bank, my bum in a perfectly formed dip. Who needs a memory foam mattress when the land comes pre-shaped for your convenience?

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Ink

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The Landscape Tradition

I spent the morning in the V&A, exploring the world of William Kent, before heading back to the office to push on with landscapes of the present.

Kent's grand plans surrounded by the little sketches, with people and animals and scenes of the everyday - we're doing the same thing today. The styles change, the technology develops, but we still work on the masterplan to inform, and the sketches full of characters to engage. Kent had people, dogs and carriages. Corporate projects require model couples, aspirational suits and swanky cars to sell landscapes of 'lifestyle'. We get more creative scope - smiling families, spluttering dogs and kids hanging upside down on the climbing frame. We're still working on getting a giraffe into an elevation, (for scale, only for scale). 

The design ideas of Kent live on too - the natural forms, creating views and enclosure, surprise and delight. Contractors may curse the 'flowing curves' but the line of beauty is embedded in our landscape psyche. (Or at least in mine...) 

Was Kent a bellweather for everything that came after him, or are we the sheep like followers afeared to break the English Tradition.

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Found flying through our community garden... 

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Lady-boss

I swung into site, slipping inside the Heras fence to check on progress. 

"You can't get through this way, love" 

"Er, I'm the Landscape Architect. Is the foreman here?" 

"You're on the project?" confused. 

I nodded consent.

"We got a Lady-Boss!" the call went up. For the young tarmackers, this was too much. 

The circling hyenas looked me up and down - the steel toe caps and hi vis at odds with the pink socks and pencil skirt, but enough to show I was part of the job.

Once accepted, they just stared at me, dumbstruck, absorbing every last detail, as if to fix in their minds for ever the spectacle of a woman on a building site.

"I'll head up to the compound. The foreman's probably there." 

We've got a long way to go.

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Sandpit Landscapes and beyond

I was an inadvertent landscape architect from an early age. My brother and I would spend long hours creating places in our sandpit. He would focus on the roads, bridges and tunnels, while I could create houses, driveways and gardens, our own miniature world. It was populated by model cars, which we would then drive about our mini place.

Each transient community would led by Tractor, high status derived from the having the biggest wheels, least likely to clog with sand. Tractor would always have the biggest house and driveway. There would be an in and out drive, with a mock dry stone wall at the front. No expense spared. Next in line were the lorry cabs (the loads were long lost), as they could also cope with their sandy planet. 

The places we created never had names; the individual homes would, but never the whole. Roads would come to an abrupt stop at the edge of the pit - ready to lead on to a better place, never content to be trapped within wooden walls, yet never able to go beyond. 

It was a community with a head but no heart. The leader had all, the lesser beings had nothing. I was basing my world on what I saw around me. Every imaged community was the village of my childhood, where everyone had a car, and was known by their house, if they were known at all. There was no centre, no cohesive identity, just a collection of individuals who happened to live in the same space. 

I hope I have moved on from this, and learnt that no matter what you do to a space, it is the inhabitants who are the linchpin, the difference between success and failure. No amount fancy dry stone walling will make a place better, without the heart of the people behind it.