I like to ride my Bicycle...

Our village green this morning

My x-rays are clear. I am disgustingly, bouncingly, 100% fit and healthy. If I were a cat, my nose would be wet. But still, I am compelled to lose some poundage. My weight gain has not been accumulated by gluttony or unwholesome foods; I am the annoying kind of person who can (and does) keep a Lindt chocolate bar in their desk drawer and eat a couple of squares a week. I enjoy oatcakes and unsweetened muesli and feel no temptation towards cakes or snacks. No, my pounds have built up from the unbelievable hardship of having my studio next door to the bedroom, which I enter first thing in the morning and (previously) did not leave except to do the odd walk or pop-to-the-shop. Thankfully, being 6ft tall, it doesn't really show, but the scales do not lie. So, for the first time since I was fifteen, I am taking daily exercise. I have lost half a stone and am feeling bizarrely fit - my skin is almost glowing and my cheek bones are cautiously emerging. Even Andy has noticed, and when your long term partner notices change, it must be change.

One of my favourite lanes

At eight am in the morning there are few places I would rather be than on one of my regular circulars; a seven mile round trip to buy the Saturday 'Times'. It's downhill and uphill and gets my cardio-vascular thing-a-me-jigs going nicely. The roads are fairly quiet, as most people are indulging in a weekend lie-in, so I cycle in blissful solitude.

We are enjoying a golden end to summer and the fields glow warmly with browns and golds. The occasional leaf drifts through the sunlight and through gaps in the hedgerow I glimpse church spires poking up from the landscape, the countryman's map markers.

I take a detour to one of the prettiest villages in our area, and visit the little shop. As well as my paper, I pick up burgers from Foxbury Farm, cottage rolls from a Gloucestershire bakery and cheese. The cheese - Crudges - is new to me and is one of the few to be produced in Oxfordshire from locally sourced Jersey milk. If you weren't tempted by it's provenance, then the blurb on the label would utterly win you over;


"Now made with raw milk for a fuller flavour, Haddon Gold is smooth and has a buttery taste derived from the rolling organic meadows of Hutton Grange Farm, Great Rollright. Meadow Fescue, Cocksfoot, Timothy, buttercups and dandelions, all gently swaying in the breeze, amidst the dappled shade of Horse Chestnut trees and the gentle sound of rumination from these beautiful Jersey cows."

Mr Crudge - for, unlike our favourite cake-baker, Mr Kipling, he really does exist - is a locally born farmer. For those of you who take an interest in such things, he rents his premises from ex-Blur member and newly-turned country boy Alex James. And if you are thinking that cheese is an odd thing for someone losing weight to be putting in their shopping basket - all things in moderation.

My aching knees have lost their stiffness and I almost whizz back along the narrow, straight lane and through the side of the woods, calling out a cheery hello to the drowsy herd of Dexter cattle. The sun is getting up and crickets are chirping in the dried grasses. People begin to emerge in their cars and it is time for me to be home.

There are, after worse ways to shed a few pounds.

Browning

Everything seems to be going brown...




In the woods, mushrooms and fungi are sprouting already...






And the farmer is harrowing.

Butterflies & Summer showers

My walks and cycling have been curtailed for some weeks, thanks to something I did to my ankle (not sure what but it stopped me going anywhere far) which took forever to get better and then getting a nasty little cold. But yesterday, after days of patchy rain, the sun shone and we went across the border to one of our favourite circuits. We had the usual quiet adventures which make us happy; ogling an empty (and gorgeous) old stone house and imagining what we would do with if it were ours...spotting fat brown trout in the crystal clear waters of a stream...finding a Victorian bottle bank on someone's land, naughtily trespassing to investigate and the ensuing disappointment of discovering it all broken.

However, these little joys were eclipsed by the proliferation of butterflies, enjoying the muggy heat. This estate leaves strips of 'scrub' for wildlife and they are havens for once common species, now sadly not-so-common. I haven't seen so many butterflies in one place for a long time, and set about 'catching' them - in the nicest possible way.

PAINTED LADY

RINGLET

SMALL TORTOISESHELL

PEACOCK

CLUMSY IMITATION

Today I was not so lucky with the weather. It was nice enough, when my trusty/rusty old bike, Hercules and I set off for a quick jaunt round the lanes.

We are so close to the county border that I can switch in and out of Oxfordshire/Gloucestershire within a few miles of cycling. By the time I was in Gloucestershire, the monstrous dark clouds which had been glooming behind me, finally caught up and the skies opened. Not much to do except keep pedalling. The clouds chased me all the way back into Oxfordshire.

Despite being soaked through, I still enjoyed the contrast of the brightly lit landscape against dark skies. By the time I was nearing the woods, there was a bit of thunder and lightning thrown in, for extra excitement.

Had to get off to walk round these puddles. The holey tree on the right is what we call the 'hornet tree' - where we once watched the goings on of busy hornets, and a couple of years later found the remnants of honeycomb which had dropped down the trunk.

Drenched as I was, I felt a pang of sympathy for the farmer trying to cut his hay; like me he must have started when the sun was out, and like me, he'd been caught out.




The wind decided to get up, and if anything, the rain came down even harder. I cycled the last couple of miles home soaked to the skin and water almost blinding my eyes.

Naturally, by the time I was back in the village, it had stopped.

A day of grace

It was one of those really special summer days, with a kindly warmth and a cool, perfumed wind. The kind of day when you venture out of your cramped studio to get some milk and the day says -
'hello - where've you been? Let's go and have an adventure...'
'Oh I'd love to, but I can't, really, there's artwork to be done, e-mails to write, not to mention the garden and the hoovering'
'Ah yes, but how many days do you get like ME? There'll be enough cold, grey muddy winter days, when you'll look back on this as a day of grace - and smile at my memory, when I am long gone.'
So, like Moley from 'Wind in the Willows', I kicked up my heels, and set off on my old bike Hercules...

the open road

The farmers were literally making hay while the sun shone.

golden days

Swinbrooke is one of the prettiest villages in West Oxfordshire - a fairy town decked with flowers and threaded with chuckling streams.


Cycling through Swinbrook towards Burford - this is the village church, where the Mitfords are buried.

.
...and past the dear little old chapel nearby. It is humbler than its grand sister, but there is more a sense of peace and old sanctuary.

Burford was swarming with people admiring it's charms. After the obligatory 'potter' and window shop, I found a pub which, being off the main street had a deserted patio garden and a decent range of beer...time to sit down with my book and recuperate.

A pint of 'Henry' and Walker's finest.

And so the journey home. Back past the gentle Evenlode, past the cricket match, now in it's last desperate 'come on boys!' throes.

Evenlode river near Swinbrooke

I'd done about 14 miles now, by taking the 'scenic' route. The shadows were lengthening and the swifts diving low over the hayfields. The light was taking on the 'old gold' shade which seems to bathe everything in storybook atmosphere. The landscape was almost purring, like a warm, contented cat, sleepy with sunshine. It had been a wonderful day - but I was glad to get to the top of Swinbrooke Hill and head for home.

The view from here

Our favourite walk, about 5 minutes from the village.