The Navigator here, reporting in. It’s Wednesday 1st April, 19 weeks since the wee incident in France that caused such a stramash. I was thinking it’s probably time for an update; if for no other reason than to debrief myself. It’s very easy to forget.
Yes, the accident happened on 19 November
The initial, overwhelming relief of being home. Then the long hours at the Minor Injuries Unit, where after x-rays and a CT Scan, the extent of the damage started to become clear. Plating and pinning was not an option. When the duty registrar came to chat to me about my thoughts on a possible shoulder replacement… yikes.
Invoices trickled in from France. This one at least told us what it was for. The ones from the first hospital simply stated the total to be paid. Saga dealt with them all.
During those first few weeks, what I remember is the pain – not from the shoulder, but from the damaged nerves. The Chronicler being an utterly wonderful carer as he helped me with dressing and basic tasks, and took on all of the shopping, cooking and cleaning. In addition to making sure I got out every day to walk in the grey and damp of winter.
December pain relief.
Initially, I couldn’t ride my bike, and I couldn’t sew; two things that are who I am. After going a bit stir-crazy for 6 weeks, I was finally able to use my sewing machine. A project! I still couldn’t use scissors or a rotary cutter, so I rummaged the stash and dug out all the leftover bits of fabric cut for previous projects. My Recovery (and Therapy) quilt was begun. I sorted the bits and pieces roughly into colours, and off we went, me ‘n’ Flora (my Singer), stitching so happily.
First steps in the recovery/therapy project
Three weeks later, we’d assembled 36 ‘blocks’; by that time I could use the rotary cutter to trim them. Many happy hours were spent arranging the blocks into a pleasing pattern. Stitched together, they became a small, 1.2m square quilt top. At 10 weeks I could just about manipulate the safety pins to assemble the top, the wadding, and the backing. Another couple of weeks, and I could grip a needle, and I could begin short spells of hand-quilting. The project was fully assembled by week 13, and I spent the next couple of weeks adding more hand quilting and embroidering a label.
Assembled on paper from a handy seed catalogueTrying out layoutsJoining the pieces in the final layout Binding the edgesIt’s done.
At 10 weeks I also managed to get back on my bike – baby rides initially, progress frequently halted by winter in its many forms. Now up to 40-50km. Confidence will take a bit longer. The map of coffee shops in a 10-20km radius of home is ever-developing.
There was sun, and no ice. But there was mud.Coffee Shops. Mostly south of the A1, where the roads are quieter.
So much joy, in so many ways.
And the shoulder? Not responding to Force of Will just as fast as I would like. The bones have healed, and the nerves are almost there. I’m working on rebuilding strength. What isn’t improving, though, is the range of movement – so, a bionic joint is in the offing.
It’s been toilsome at times, for sure. But spring is here, and sunshine helps immeasurably. My support team is steadfastly wonderful, and my troubles are small when compared to many. I’m doing just fine.
The Navigator here. Jumping in on the Stravaiging to share some thoughts.
Which started with this little story from our good friend Karen:
“So, Michael and I went to a great robot/AI demonstration. Lots of young things. All very modern. As the tour was about to start, a cute young thing directed the group to a sweeping modern staircase. She asked me if I would like to take the elevator. I chose to take it as a consideration and a courtesy instead of taking umbrage. I’m embracing my dotterage. What would you have done?”
“Good on you, Karen!” was my first reaction.
But what would I have done? Whatever it was, I’d need to have been very quick, as the DB would have immediately voiced a reflex refusal on our behalf. But somewhere along the line, sooner or later, we’re all going to have to have that conversation with ourselves.
We are no longer 30 – or even 50. Though our brains are ignoring the fact, our bodies are far more honest. They will make it perfectly clear that they aren’t so happy with epic days hard on the heels of arduous ones. They protest. And, if you don’t listen, they dig in their heels.
Our bike journey last winter was curtailed by just such an event. The body, in this case, Chris’s, dug in its heels and refused. So, we backed down, as graciously as we could, sent the bikes home, and continued on our journey using Plan B. Until the body called a halt to that, too.
Fast-forward 9 months. A previously undiagnosed heart condition, genetic in origin, is being successfully managed with clever drugs. Everything feels good, and the brain is quite ready to return to our usual cycling schedule, one that hasn’t changed much in the last 20-odd years.
However. Basic things like getting travel insurance suddenly look different. And when you have to buy said travel insurance from Saga, you’re officially old, right? But the brain is still in denial.
It’s taking considerable effort to give ourselves permission to slow down a bit. To accept daily distances of less than 80km – and in flat terrain. To have proper rest days, where we rest – and don’t go charging around places visiting things or doing chores. To enjoy not camping in winter. To use cycling as a means of transport between longer stays in interesting towns. Not to ride in the rain if we don’t have to. To hop on trains and buses from time to time – after all, that’s why we bought our cool folding bikes.
It’s taking practice to manage this new reality. Not to feel guilty about not ‘doing it right’. To embrace our ‘dotterage’., to quote Karen. To be gracious in accepting courtesies.
The conversations are ongoing, and we would love to hear your thoughts.
Life at home this week has been strange. Unfocused. Confused. Challenging. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Chilly. Different.
Why? What is the cause of all these difficult, negative feelings?
Agatha. The Aga. Our gas-fired, cast-iron range cooker.
Agatha is poorly, shut down, awaiting the transplant of a vital part; namely, the boiler within. During a routine service last week, the Aga Doctor noticed some dampness where dampness should not be. This little issue is compounded by the fact that the insulation (after 30 years) has settled, leaving said boiler at risk of further damage from overheating. So, shut down she is, pending the return of the Doctor next week.
In these modern times, I would venture that very few Agas continue to be used in the way they were intended when the were first invented by Dr. Gustav Dalén in 1922 – for cooking everything, for heating the kitchen and beyond, and providing hot water. They’re very much seen as an expensive, aspirational, luxury item, to provide country house ambience in the kitchen. For folk with more money than sense. It’s easy to judge.
I’ve been thinking a lot about these things in general, and about Agatha in particular, and how she fits in with our aspiration to live a low-impact life.
Agatha runs on gas. If you compare her consumption to that of a standard gas oven and hob, Agatha uses an alarming amount more.
However.
In our home, Agatha is considerably more than an oven and hob. This is what she does for us:
Provides ALL the hot water, including that for the washing machine
Does ALL the cooking
She keeps the kitchen very cosy, and the rest of our 100 square metre flat comfortably warm.
Keeps our traditionally built, 1750s home at an even temperature and humidity.
She dries all the laundry on the overhead pulley.
As a result, there’s a lot of things we don’t have; you may notice the lack of things with plugs in the photo. The list includes (sample list – not everyone has everything!):
Central heating boiler Tumble dryer Oven and hob (separate from Agatha) Electric kettle Microwave/combi oven Slow cooker Air fryer Coffee machine Toastie maker Toaster Soup maker Thermomix Deep fat fryer George Foreman grill
Etcetera.
Agatha was built in around 1972, bought second hand by us in around 1992. She cost us £300. Engineering and installation cost a bit more than that in 1994. Since then, she has fulfilled all the functions above.
If we were to accept conventional ‘wisdom’, we could ‘modernise’ with new and up-to-date energy-efficient systems. What would that mean for us?
Removal and disposal of a working appliance and associated infrastructure
Purchase and installation of (say) ground source heating, pipework and radiators with the associated works involving damage and disruption to historic internal structures. Getting Planning, Listed Building, and Building Control consents. Restoration and redecoration.
Refitting of the kitchen to accommodate new appliances
Purchase of: Oven and hob, Electric kettle, Toaster, Tumble dryer
I’m not just talking about the monetary cost of these items, but the energy and resources used in manufacturing and shipping them. Especially when they would be replacing an entirely functional system.
Since we installed Agatha in 1994 (that’s 31 years ago), how many times has your central heating boiler been replaced? Your oven and hob? Your tumble dryer? Not to mention all the other small appliances? And that’s not taking into account all the work she did in the 20 years before she came to us.
And the bills? Our energy bills are completely within the current normal range for a 2-bedroom property. And ours is a big 2-bedroom property, far from modern, built in 1750. We don’t even have double glazing*, though we do have draught-proofing and shutters.
So, if we made all these modernisations, our bills would likely be much the same. But we would also have the costs and carbon footprint of disposing of the old and the purchase and installation the new systems and appliances. I guarantee that none of them will still be functioning 30 years from now, nor will parts be available to effect repairs.
So – logic? Or hypocrisy?
And what price a warm heart to the home?
*Listed building, Conservation Area. We got a quote, 2 years ago, for double glazing that may (or may not) satisfy the Planners. £24,000 for our 6 x 12-pane sash windows.
The past is foreign country; they do things differently there.
L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between, 1953
The Navigator here again.
Long ago, in 1981 (that’s 43 years ago), we embarked on our first cycling tour, here in Norway. We’d been married 18 months, and we grabbed 6 weeks between jobs as we moved from Farnell in Angus to Tranent in East Lothian.
I was riding my brand-new Raleigh Silhouette 10-speed ‘Mixte’. It had cost £123 from King Street Bikes in Aberdeen, and boasted an amazing 10 speeds, 52/42T on the front, 14-28T on the back, with Positron shifters on the stem. She was a beautiful metallic pale green with white cabling. My first brand new bicycle. The Chronicler was riding a Carlton (remember that one, Kevin?) with similar gearing, though his had 11-32 on the back. The chap in the bike shop had made withering comments about ‘climbing trees’ with such a low gear. For those of you whose eyes have glazed over, this was gearing made for going fast on an empty bike, not grinding slowly up Norwegian hills on a loaded one.
I found this in Raleigh’s 1983 catalogue. Mine was a 1981 model.
Panniers were non-waterproof, porous, with zips. Our tent was a Vango Mk2, cotton inner, nylon outer, with a front A frame, and 15mm aluminium poles connected with springs. It also came with a plastic ‘A’ connector, that if misplaced rendered the tent usless. Our stove was a one-pint Primus which ran on paraffin. At one point we needed to acquire a ‘pricker’ for nozzle clearing, to discover the Norwegian word is ‘prikker’.
We wore cotton jeans. And cotton sweatshirts. And fabric trainers.
We took a train to Newcastle, with the bikes riding in the guard’s van, and a ferry from there to Stavanger. The fare was £13 return, and we were given a bunch of campsite vouchers too. We slept on loungers on the deck, until we were awoken by a very apologetic chap who was “very sorry but I must clean the deck”. At 5.30am.
We disembarked in Stavanger at five minutes after noon on Saturday, to find all the shops closed at midday, closed until Monday. Except that this was Whit weekend and Monday was a holiday. We did find some kind of kiosk where we could buy packet soup, dry crackers, and butter. Could have bought sealskins for skis and additives for flavouring neat alcohol… no snow, no hooch, no need.
The first two weeks we cycled around the south coast to Oslo. It rained persistently for those two weeks, and our inappropriate clothes, under ineffective waterproofs, were constantly wet. We inevitably bought the little blue wellies that everyone wore, and cycled in them.
Those little wellies are still available this morning. Black now.
We carried travellers’ cheques, and cashed them at the bank. Bought postcards and sent them home. Food was expensive, with a few exceptions. We ate a lot of bread, crackers, cheese and yogurt, porridge and pasta. Absolutely no alcohol.
The pannier zips broke, and had be fixed with needle and thread, and safety pins. The bike wheels developed wobbles. Chris crashed into a cow and bent his pedal crank; he bashed it back with a big stone and carried on.
In amongst all of this, we had a phenomenal time. We met up with our friend Rick, who was studying and working there and had some crazy times with him and his friends. Blagged our way into a midsummer’s festival claiming that all of us were Scots; perfecting that fine example of worldwide stereotyping of the mean Scot. Eating at a big table in a cabin with about 6 or 8 others while the conversation flowed in three languages – and not losing the thread. We picked blueberries and ate them with milk and sugar. We learned all about woodstoves. We ate brown cheese and fiskeboller. We visited the Frogner Park and its statues, the Viking ships, and the ‘Fram’. We drank one day’s budget on a terrifyingly expensive half litre beer on Karl Johan. We explored folkmuseums and Stavkirkes, and rode uncounted ferries. We left our bikes outside Oslo’s main railway station for several days, unlocked, and thought nothing of it. Nobody locked bikes.
We put our bikes in the care of Godsekspedition at Oslo Central Station, and met up with them again a day or two later up in the mountains. We navigated through tunnels, and diverted around them. We serendipitously came across Geirangerfjord, and made ourselves ill eating cherries in a valley where they were produced in abundance.
We slept on campsites, and we camped wild. We were eaten by mosquitoes. We got sunburned, soaked, and frozen. We pedalled through stunningly beautiful places.
I can remember names of places, but not how the couple of trains that we took linked them up. I do remember pushing my bike – a lot. And that it was unreliable when going downhill – with slightly out-of-true wheels, brakes would cause a wobble, then the frame would pick up a weird resonant frequency. Unless I was careful, I’d be thrown off. That issue was never to be resolved.
Arriving in a very soggy Bergen, and camping atop a mound while the lower parts of the campsite flooded. Watching as those with less foresight tried to dry sleeping bags with the hand dryers in the loos. (Loos with heated floors; that was new and enlightening). So smug were we.
Buying souvenirs with the last of our Norwegian kroner – a beautiful woollen blanket, which, when I recently got to thinking about it, was actually Mexican. Our Mexican souvenir of Norway.
We have no photos now of that journey – they were on 35mm slides which degraded. They were jettisoned into our wheelie bin, and in a night’s stormy wind were sucked out and ended up scattered the length of Haddington’s Market Street. The subject matter wasn’t terribly interesting either… mountains, more mountains, no people. And one complementary negative of a prospective king and his new bride in a gilded carriage with every spool of processed Agfa film. We do have our journals though, and they’ll make fascinating reading and fill in some gaps when we get home.
As we approached Newcastle, I remember a steward fiddling with a TV, trying to catch the BBC’s Royal Wedding coverage. We arrived back in the UK to find the country in paralysis, in total thrall, to that royal wedding and the delighted realisation that the trains were actually running, but the fares would be half price.
We knew it was coming, as it had been forecast for a few days. Unfortunately, timing and placement didn’t quite coincide to call a hotel rest day.
Things started out wet, with a downpour at daybreak. This meant that we had a wet tent to pack. The rain had a pause for a couple of hours until it began again as we took a break before a 20km section of ripio, or dirt road, through the forest. We’ve been roughly following EuroVelo 3, and this was the route indicated. We gave the dirt a go for 3 or 4km before deciding that 20km was going to take us 3 or 4 hours with deteriorating road surface conditions. So we bailed on to the tarmac. Faster, yes, but with intimidatingly noisy traffic on the wet road. Respectful traffic, but noisy.
Eyes in the fishing shelter. A cassowary perhaps?
We waited out one intense spell of rain in the shelter of a wooden fishing hut, then a few km later found a beautiful community shelter and camping area. Although we were only 8km from the hotel, we were going to arrive before check in time, so it was a great place to hang out, stay dry, eat lunch and admire the fabulous facility.
We waited out one intense spell of rain in the shelter of a wooden fishing hut, then a few km later found a beautiful community shelter and camping area. Although we were only 8km from the hotel, we were going to arrive before check in time, so it was a great place to hang out, stay dry, eat lunch and admire the fabulous facility.
The two sleeping shelters. Not our pic – credit to the Shelter app. It was raining, a lot. Another view of the Shelter area, again from the app.
(Denmark has an extensive network of ‘Shelters’ where you can stay for the night. Generally wooden ‘lean-to’ style. Variable facilities, sometimes a long-drop, sometimes water, some in town, managed by the community, some in the forest. Some free, some a fee or donation. Some you can pitch your tent, too.)
Then it was time to take on those last few kilometres. There was a fully separated cycle path, but the traffic volume was increasing all the time. As things became more built up, I was fully expecting the path to be squeezed out the closer we got to town. It trundled on. We approached the first big, wide junction, controlled by traffic lights. Our path was still there, and we had our own lights. I watched with some trepidation the marching display at the intersection proceeded. We were at the far right of the road, going straight on. On our left, there was a lane of vehicles turning right, controlled by a filter light. As our light remained red, the filter turned green and this lane turned right in front of us. Then we got the green – and the right turn filter was still green. Sharp intake of breath. However, that lane magically stopped to give us priority to go straight on. Wow.
Further on, I could see roadworks, and two lanes of vehicles merging into one. Roadworks and rain. Joy. This is the place where a cycle lane is generally squeezed out – to make way for cars, or machinery, or a convenient place to dump piles of dirt. Nope. None of these. We trundled on, passing the cars slowed and stopped by the works. Wow, and wow again.
We reached the heart of downtown, and still our path continued. It finally delivered us to the door of our hotel, dripping wet, with no fuss whatsoever.
This cyclist, well used to fending for herself in a hostile world, is in awe.
Three years. Three years since the ‘beforetimes’. Three years since we fled from Portugal, abandoning our journey as borders closed behind us. We both retired from work at the end of 2018, so we didn’t really have much time to get a handle on what that was going to mean for us before our world, like everyone else’s, was upended and our lives put on hold. We’ve been doing other things in the meantime, for sure, dabbling, exploring new places in our own home countries, learning new things and trying out different lifestyles. Looking back at this website, those three years have elicited only seven posts; I guess not much really settled for long enough – or we were lazy in thinking and posting. Being unsettled can do that. Whatever. But we’ve stepped back on to the road, returned to where we left off to continue our interrupted journey. It’s time to knuckle down. Time to re-tackle a project.
On the surface, most things seem to have returned to the way they were pre-Covid. The masks have pretty well gone, the roads are as crowded as ever, and few countries are still requiring Covid testing or vaccination certificates. Below the surface, though, much has changed. We’ve been shocked at how much our confidence has been knocked after so long away from long-term travelling. And how the rules have changed; familiar countries are suffering unrest and it’s no longer deemed advisable to travel there. Chris’ new passport is black, our European Health Insurance cards have become something different, and we collected an entry stamp in Faro – our first European passport stamp since Bergen in 1981. Covid masked some fundamental changes; that open-ended European journey we started in 2020 cannot now be completed in one spell. We can only remain in Europe – in the Schengen Zone – for 90 days within each 180 day period. And no, there isn’t any way of extending that.
But – enough of that! We’re so very happy to be on the road again.
It’s always good to know that the bikes are aboard!
We’ve been rattling around the UK a fair bit since the start of October. We started with a bus journey from our home in Haddington, East Lothian, to Alyth in Perthshire, for a week of housesitting. Home for a couple of days, then another bus to Carlisle in Cumbria, where we spent a few days exploring. Thereafter, the train to Rugby in Warwickshire to meet up with John for a week on his narrowboat on the Oxford Canal. Then there was another rail journey back north to Stockport, Manchester for a house-sit. Next, we travelled by bicycle back to Oxford for another sit, and thence to the environs of Bath in Somerset for another, also by bike. The journey home was somewhat complicated by Storm Arwen, but involved bike, train and bus, and an unscheduled overnight stop. Three nights at home, and we were on the road again, on the bus to Tain, in Ross-shire.
Inverness Bus Station
It’s all very different to the kind of journeys we’ve been undertaking up to the beginning of last year. But they are journeys nonetheless. We’ve visited new places, met new friends, experienced different ways of living – and culture shock – all within this crowded little island we call home.
Stratford Upon Avon
Throughout this journey, we’ve had our Brompton folding bicycles with us. In theory it is possible to take normal bicycles on trains in the UK, and in some instances, on buses too. The reality is more complicated, requiring a good deal of planning, booking and angst. Having a booking doesn’t mean that the appointed bike spaces won’t be stuffed with luggage or bodies, or that your standard-sized bike will actually fit into that space. We decided to avoid as much angst as possible by using the Bromptons, which fold up to the size of a medium suitcase and can be taken aboard trains and buses as such. Folded, they fit neatly into IKEA’s ‘Dimpa’ bags, reducing the chance of officialdom taking exception to them, and allowing us to take them with us into hotel rooms without leaving mucky evidence.
Crosscountry Trains bike storage. No-one else was using it, and the tiny designated luggage area was full. Oh, yes – and we were standing beside them because the seats were pretty full too.
The wee bikes give us tremendous freedom; we can ride between destinations, or we can take a bus or train. If we run out of time when riding, we can bail on to public transport. They expand our horizons, allowing us to explore further afield from our sit location, or to accept sits where a car would otherwise be required.
The bikes joining us for coffee in Abingdon.
They’re not touring bikes – 80km days would not be fun. But for the short days of the Scottish winter, they’re a great option.
Oxford
We’re not camping right now, so we’re not carrying camping kit. Winter camping has its place, but for us, for now, not what we want to do. Sunset tonight is 15:31; sunrise tomorrow is 08:44. It’s not the cold that’s the issue, it’s the long, long nights.
So, hotels it is, and a whole different adventure. Where once we would have sought out hostels for sociability and self-catering, these bonuses have disappeared due to the restrictions of life right now. As we’re past the age when shared dorms were a fun idea, we’ve discovered that we can be far more comfortable at a lower price in a hotel. It’s fun to find the old, small-town places when we can; when all else fails, the Travelodge is generally there. Occasionally we pick up something really cool, like the Royal Highland Hotel in Inverness, that fine Victorian pile at the railway station. At £34, cheaper than the SYHA hostel and the Travelodge, and they gave us free Wi-Fi. Just don’t try and find a room in a fashionable city on a Christmas Market weekend; prices are 5 or 6 times that – including the Youth Hostel. Yup.
The George Hotel, Burslem, Stoke on Trent. The AA ‘Approved’ rating was a long time ago.Our vast room in The George HotelThe atrium in The Royal Highland Hotel, Inverness.
In our cynical world, housesitting as we are doing it might look like a seriously offbeat occupation. Anti-capitalist, subversive perhaps.
“What do you mean? You go into someone’s home, they’ve never met you before, and a short while later they go away and leave you in charge of their most precious possessions – their home and their pets? In some cases, you might not even meet the homeowner? And they don’t pay you? Isn’t that dangerous? Weird? A rip-off? How can that work? ”
How can it work? Exchange and trust.
The home and pet owner has their home and their pets cared for. They have peace of mind, knowing that their pets are safe in their own environment, and their home is not unoccupied while they are away. I’ve just been checking the prices for boarding dogs and cats; from what I can see, boarding for two dogs in kennels runs from £50 to £100 per day, depending on the season and the size of the dogs. For two cats, the price is about £25 per day. Additionally, insurance companies are becoming increasingly sticky about ‘unoccupied’ homes, meaning that the homeowner may need to arrange for someone to check on the house, too. The cost to the home and pet owner of using a Housesitter? Trusting someone with their home and pets.
As sitters, we get or stay in comfortable homes in new and interesting places; a week, two weeks, or more, getting to know a new area. The AirBnB cost of similar accommodation starts at around £100 per night. The cost to us of being Housesitters? A little of our time to care for both home and pets, and honouring the trust that has been placed in us.
We meet new people and make new friends. We get the loan of, and the company of some amazing animals. And it sure beats camping in the long, dark winter nights in the UK.
We’re continually humbled by the level of trust placed in us by the folk we meet. It reinforces our well-travelled observation that 99.99% of folk we meet are good folk, and want to be seen as such.
But isn’t it a bit weird, staying in someone’s home when they’re not there? Initially, maybe, but once you get used to the idea, it’s fascinating. Absolutely without judgement, you can step into someone else’s life and try it out. You can see how other people manage day to day tasks, how they organise their homes. You can enjoy their art, read their books, try out new equipment (thinking pizza ovens and wood-fired hot tubs). Occasionally, you can steal an idea (infrared heating panels, pans with detachable handles).
We have great fun examining the layout of different homes, figuring out the alterations that have been made and wondering how we would live there if it were ours.
Every home is different, and we get to figure out the oven and hob, the heating and shower, the bins and recycling each time. Every homeowner is different, too. Some cook, some don’t, some are gardeners, some aren’t. There are quirks that need to be managed – turning on the pump to clear the flooded garden; watering precious citrus trees, not walking the dogs.
Sometimes it can be challenging; to find a pot that doesn’t burn the contents, to locate the scissors to open a package, to find a knife that’s sharp. To discover that there’s no way of making coffee in a tea-drinking household, or to know that there must be a corkscrew somewhere but not be able to find it. Some challenges are of our own making. Because we read a lot, we like decent task lighting; this can be difficult if a homeowner prefers soft mood lighting. And I will swear that not a single home has functional oven gloves that will allow a body to hold a hot dish with both hands for more than 5 seconds. Just saying’.
”The happiest people don’t have the best of everything, they just make the best of everything.”
Sometimes, though, it can be tough to see the ‘best’. 20 months in, and still a long way to go, I’m still struggling at times with these new constraints. From a world that was as wide as my imagination and ambition to the limits now imposed by the pandemic and politics, by COVID and Brexit.
When lockdown started in March last year, it was a novel challenge to ‘make the best of’. My introvert self was actually quite happy to stay put for a while, make lists, get things done, learn new skills, catch up with friends and family via Zoom. We’re fortunate to live in a small town surrounded by plenty of wide open space for walks and rides, and I loved my (very) early morning rides around the county. We even got to grips with a few issues that we’d put off for a long time because we were either working or travelling; Chris had his worsening cataracts fixed, and I had surgery on both feet to remove increasingly painful neuromas.
Spring arrived, vaccinations were gratefully received, and things began to relax just a little. How to make the best of this? We weren’t ready to embark on international travels, but after a great deal of thought we reckoned that a few pet-sitting gigs would help us start to venture a little further. We’d done a number of pet and house sits back in 2019, and loved the ethos of the whole set-up. The home owners have their home and pets looked after whilst we score free accommodation in interesting places in return for looking after said home and pets. No money changes hands, and it’s all organised on a trust basis with reviews and feedback via the website.
When we first joined up, we thought that it would be something that would fit well with our long-distance bike touring; a while on the road, interspersed with a week or two in one place to look after home and pets. As the long-distance touring is off the table just now – at least in the way we were doing it – we’ve been organising ‘sits’ in the UK. We use bike, bus or train to get to the location, and to travel from one to another.
It’s a different lifestyle, interesting, challenging, and rewarding. We’ve met some wonderful people, we’ve made new friends. We’ve learned new skills, stayed in lovely homes, pottered in several gardens. We’ve had the chance to step into a part someone else’s life for a little while. We’ve been charged with the care of all kinds of pets, from fish and hamsters to Irish Wolfhounds and ex-racehorses. Not to mention the orange and lemon trees. We’ve learned the flexibility of travelling with our Brompton folding bikes, and have now got them well set up to carry the small amount of stuff we need to take with us. We’ve explored places that were completely new to us, and others that we’ve got to know much better.
We’d love to recover the freedom of our previous lives. Meanwhile, we’re thankful for what we can do, and we’re doing our best to “make the best of what happens”.
‘Trusted Housesitters’ is the site that we use. If you’re interested, you can get discounted membership here, and we get a couple of free months of membership if you join.
Everything we need.Travelling lightTo beautiful placesChooks in LincolnBreagha in Longniddry Pepper in Edinburgh LoeLoe in DunsKatte in DunsOlga and Marvin in GlasgowPhoenix in AlythJazz, Inca and Bandit in AlythOlga de Polga in Stockport Tashi in Oxford
I was reading a blogpost by Sam B at Fit is a Feminist Issue, (recommended) about why she doesn’t see more big women on road bikes, and my attention was caught by the line:
“There are worries about … being seen in cycling clothes.”
Sam, it’s not just big women who worry about this. I would venture that there are many, many women who would love to ride a bike, but are discouraged because they think that ‘cycling clothes’ are part of the deal. I’ve been pondering this for a few days as I pedal my early morning circuit – without conventional ‘cycling clothes’. This is by way of a rather long comment on that post.
I’m Lesley, I’m 63, and I ride bikes. I’m not a racing greyhound. In pre-COVID times, as you can see from the stories in this blog, I rode many long-distance tours, 6 months or more at a time, camping and carrying all my gear. At the moment, it’s daily local rides. I don’t do lycra.
How did this lycra style of clothing come about? I think it came about because that’s what the male bike racing community wore. So anyone who aspired to be – or to look like – a bike racer started to copy the style. Then women started to do the same thing. Manufacturers have slowly started to adapt the lycra look to styles and colours aimed at women. It’s got to the stage that you aren’t seen as ‘serious’ unless you wear the uniform.
But wait a mo. Has anyone stopped to think that there may be other ways to dress while riding a bike? Clothes that might actually work at least as well, or better, than the lycra look – and be more comfortable for both body and spirit?
Lycra cycling clothing is clingy, revealing and synthetic for the most part. If there’s anything a woman of a certain age doesn’t need, it’s clingy, revealing and synthetic clothes. Yes, I know it’s meant to be breathable and wicking, but at the end of the day – and partway through the day – it’s sweaty and stinky. Unless you’re built like a racing greyhound, it’s unflattering, too.
When I’m out on my bike, I want to look neat and stylish; I want to be comfortable, both physically and mentally, on the bike and off. I want to wear clothes that flatter me. Perhaps most importantly, the clothes have to be functional; they need to keep me warm or cool, keep my dry in the rain and protected from the sun. And I really don’t want to look like I came from Planet Zog.
Over the years I have tried all sorts of combinations, and have finally come to a style that suits me. I’m sharing it to encourage others to think about other ways of dressing to ride your bike. If, in doing that, it means that more women will realise that lycra is not compulsory when riding a bike, brilliant!
From the base:
I wear a normal, properly fitted, underwired bra. In my experience, sports bras have a band that rolls up under my boobs and a style that pushes the girls together so there is a sweaty pit in between. Getting them on and off often requires the skills of a contortionist or the aid of an assistant.
I don’t wear padded shorts or knickers. I’ve found a saddle that works for me so that I don’t need them.
Most of the time, I wear regular cropped leggings that come to just below the knee; it’s the length that suits me best. I can pick them up for a few pounds at Aldi, the local discount supermarket. OK, maybe a touch of lycra here. When it’s cold, I add some full-length merino leggings over the top.
On top is a riding shirt of my own design. It starts out as a man’s no-iron cotton shirt from the thrift store. I adjust it to fit my shape, putting in some feminine curves, and shape the hem. I cut the collar down so it’s a simple stand-up. It’s long enough to cover my butt, and keep things modest; the sleeves are long and the collar is high to keep the sun off. It doesn’t cling, and dries quickly.
When required, I can add a merino vest underneath and a merino sweater on top. It doesn’t have to be technical – Costco do a great line in merino sweaters from time to time.
I don’t clip in. I use Powerstraps to keep my feet in place on the pedals, and I wear regular GoreTex lined leather walking shoes. I never quite figured the art of ‘pulling up’ on the pedals.
There you have it. Add waterproof jacket, leggings, gloves, scarf, hat, as required. I have pedalled tens of thousands of kilometres dressed like this. I’ve climbed to almost 5,000m in the Andes, ridden through high temperatures and humidities, and pedalled to work. It’s easy to take care of, the lycra doesn’t disintegrate, it isn’t stinky at the end of the day and it is easy to wash and dry. It works for me.
This is my opinion; other opinions are valid. Find your own style, and rock it and enjoy riding your bike!
