|
Foxes Murdering Rabbits Woke up at 4:44 a.m. Instead of closing my eyes I put on my glasses which focused the world into reality rather than hazy surrealism. I woke Sharon. She was still tired, but we had agreed to get up earlier so we could cycle farther each day and 4:44 a.m. was certainly that. We followed farm machinery tracks until they ended. A concrete road went into a farmer's field; a single track walking path went straight. We chose the concrete path. Two kilometers later it ended in grain. We backtracked and tried the walking path. It was great fun bumping along in grass as high as our waists. The bumpy single track caused me to widen it in spots. We came to a stile and helped each other lift our bikes over. The path cut directly across a field to another stile and a foot bridge. Beyond the bridge was a path through a farmer's field of waist high barley. We were discovering what walking paths were like in England. A fellow with three muzzled dogs came along. He suggested an alternate route to the right might be easier with our bikes. It wasn't. Brambles, encroaching over the path snagged and pulled at my coat and panniers. Then it got worse. Muddy ruts so deep my low rider front panniers hit bottom and stopped me. From there pieces of brick and concrete blocks were dumped onto the road. I decided to be kind to my bicycle rims and got off and pushed. We finally arrived in Wickham. It would have been quicker to go around the long way on the highway but it wouldn't have been nearly as much adventure. Wasn't there a saying: Better to have tried and got lost than never to have got lost at all? Took a single lane road which seemed ever so spacious after the walking path. That was until the freight truck came along. As the huge rig approached I gripped my handlebars tightly and repeated to myself: "I'm thin. I'm thin. I'm thin. Squeeze those elbows in." It passed so close its blast of oncoming air sent me wobbling. Whew! When I saw another freight truck approaching I got to a patch of pavement signed as a passing spot, pulled in and waited for it to pass. The truck whizzed by, the driver smiling, waving and flashing his lights repeatedly. That was much better than being flattened by an eighteen wheeler. "I'm flat. I'm flat," gave a whole new meaning to "Shit. I flatted." That was what we usually said whenever our tires had a low pneumatic problem accompanied by a hissing sound.At one of the passing pullouts I noticed scorch marks on the pavement where a car had burned. A couple of pullouts farther we came upon an incinerated car still smoldering. Someone took a serious distaste to people parking in the passing pullouts. Mind you, the offender probably wouldn't park there ever again. And to think, I had been ticked off when someone scratched my paint. Personally I preferred non smoking cars. A group of people were hand planting gigantic fields of bedding plants in perfectly straight rows. It looked like intensive manual labour. A short distance from the workers we came across burly Clydesdale horses with humongous shaggy hooves eating grass alongside the road. It had turned out to be an interesting early morning ride. In another kilometer we arrived at a Gypsy camp. There were ornate hand carved caravans painted in bold colours. One fellow was just coming down the caravan's steps as we passed. That must have been their horses we had seen. I was amazed that gypsies still existed. But then, maybe that was how some people viewed us. The road became two lane. It was busy with people on their way to work in Cambridge. We arrived on the outskirts and stopped at a library to check Visa information for other countries we wanted to visit. A young woman came over with muffins and offered us one for breakfast. She told us her best friends were off cycling for six months in Asia. Cambridge had signed bike paths. After my experience in Holland of being run off the road when I didn't take the bike path I had become very alert for bike path signs. We scooted over onto the path and within ten minutes I almost got hit twice. The first was a chauffeur driven Jag that I swerved around. The second car, coming out of another driveway, nicked my panniers. Not only did drivers not watch for cyclists on the path, but the path itself was in disrepair, potholed and cracked. There were high curbs at intersections. Whoever designed those paths didn't use them themselves. Many cyclists passed on the roadway. I joined them. Just because there was a blue bike path sign didn't mean it was safe. Cambridge had ten thousand college students. And they were in the midst of just writing exams or having just finished writing exams. We parked along a canal and watched students drinking beer who in turn watched students punting. I figured out why the Brits drank warm beer. It was too cold to drink cold beer. How about hot beer? The Mill Pub overlooking the canal with punters was busy. Punting in Cambridge appeared to have attained sporting status, and was a favourite pastime with the students. Revellers sat in a flat bottomed boat while some poor slob propelled the craft along with a skinny pole. The wind made the air frigid. The barefooted punter stood on a flat section at the back of the craft. Overhanging weeping willow branches and the abundance of river traffic had to be skillfully negotiated, causing much glee to bystanders, as sometimes the punter was jostled from his unstable perch for an impromptu swim. We heard a punter scream. Someone from the bridge asked, "Did he fall in?" "No, he regained his balance," I assured him. "Darn!" the guy said. We checked out the campuses of Trinity and King's. King's college had a quad of expansive green grass covered with equally expansive Keep Off the Grass signs. What good was having grass if no one could use it? Sturdy gothic buildings surrounded the downtown core. The central core was small but filled to capacity with students, tourists and the odd resident. A woman noticed my flag and by way of introduction said: "I used to live in Toronto. Have you had any unfortunate incidents?" That was always the first question I asked someone. She said she lived in a town a couple kilometers away and asked if we would like to camp on her lawn. "If we camp on your lawn will we meet with an unfortunate incident?" I asked her. I was leery about people who asked us strange questions. She assured us we would not. We accepted. Then she remembered her daughter was writing exams until the weekend and shouldn't be disturbed. "She'll have enough problems," the mother said. "Will you be in the area until then?" When we told her we wouldn't be, she said, "King's college chapel is a must see.". "After Italy I'm spoiled," I told her. "Oh, inside it's one of the premier buildings of the world. I've been to Florence." That testimony was enough to get Sharon to pay five dollars to check it out. I sat outside, a ways from our bikes, and read. It was entertaining to watch people point and look over our bikes. We drew a line on our map from Cambridge to Tring where Tina's (the cyclist we had met in Siena) parent's lived and set off in a southwest direction. A student cycling home told us to follow him out of the city. A hump in the road was exciting. A car flew towards us. Literally. All four wheels left the pavement. Its tires screeched on landing. We passed a row of communication satellites lined up in a field -- the dishes pointed skyward like tulips seeking sunshine. In Haslingfield we looked for a sign to Barrington but missed it. Turning around to try again, a woman stopped to ask us questions. "Where are you going?" "Barrington." "You don't want to go there," she said. "There's a big hill. Would you like to camp in my yard instead?" Two offers in one day! We followed her to a thatched roof cottage with a plaque on the side reading "Cobweb cottage." Joan and her husband David had a large property with garden, flowers, chickens and an overgrown area Joan referred to as the "wild area." "You can camp anywhere you want," Joan assured us. "You probably don't want to get too close to the chickens though." Then she invited us in for shrimp salad. Joan and David had also toured by bicycle. They had a tandem, but hadn't toured with it. They cycled in Spain, Mexico, Venezuela, Sri Lanka and Kenya and planned to go to more Spanish speaking countries. Joan was enrolled in a Spanish night class. We had a great time talking about their adventures. "Chicken soup in Venezuela was hot water with a chicken head and feet floating in it," Joan told us. I doubted I would ever get sick enough to eat that. "In Sri Lanka," David quickly followed up, "we stopped in a village and were besieged by kids as usual. Joan was giving candy to about thirty kids when all of a sudden they ran away. We wondered why and then discovered that Joan's camera had been stolen. "We went to the elders and explained. They all said they didn't understand English. They understood the word 'police' though and soon the camera was returned. "When we got home and processed the film we found our best shots of the trip. The kids had taken photos of themselves posing like glamour stars and muscle men." "They're priceless," Joan laughed. "Watch out for nudist beaches and campgrounds in England," Joan warned. I thought she must be kidding. It was way too cold anywhere in England to actually take all of one's clothes off at the same time. "They just pop up out of nowhere," she said. "One time we were caravanning with our kids and checked into a campground. While David and I were making supper our two boys went off to play. Soon the boys came back and asked, 'Mom, can we use the binoculars?' They rushed off and I said to David, 'Isn't that great dear, how the kids are getting all excited about nature?' A short time later we found out we were in a nudist campground." "Have you cycled in America before?" Sharon asked our hosts. David said he didn't like how Americans always said that phony "Have a nice day." "Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick," I said. "Or a slap up the side of the head with a wet rag," Joan retorted. We asked what countries they had cycled in Europe. "Only Spain. We haven't cycled in Europe much." "Why's that?" I probed. "It's too close?" "Well," Joan said, "We detest the French because they surrendered during the war. Italy is no go either. We had Italian prisoners in Britain during the war and they were bottom pinchers." "And they kept changing what side they were on," David put in. Belgium was too flat -- so where did that leave Holland? Germany -- well, I figured that one out all by myself. They were still fighting the war. No one ever said the British had a short memory. Just look at their grudge with Ireland. "The British didn't want to join the European Union," Joan said. "We're not bloody Europeans. We would rather join a union with our old colonies." David asked if we would like dessert. When I replied yes, he thrust an opened plastic bag towards me. It was dried grasshoppers that they had brought back from Mexico. Not even dipped in chocolate. I declined his kind offer. We had plenty of fresh grasshoppers back home. David's parents went on numerous cruises. They told Joan and David: "Those ships have everything." "Do they have billiards tables?" David asked. Frowning, his Dad said "No." He couldn't figure out why when they seemed to have everything else. You could sink all the balls with one shot if you waited long enough. As Sharon and I trooped off in the darkness towards our tent Joan said, "If you hear a sound just like a rabbit being murdered, don't worry. It's only foxes. Good night. Sleep well." "Gee. Thanks Joan. Uh, you too." |
|
|
Book Info