Unquantifiable Hazards

 

Avon River Tripping

Avon Calling

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River Tripping

Gurt lush view on the way up the Avon.



Beeses Teas - you'd think they should have one less 's' or 'e' or an apostrophe maybe, but they do have a ferry.



Cow parsley



Paddling point



Graffitti on path reads 'Boycott Bitton Station'.

Eco warriors not welcome here : thinkofengland.blogspot.com

Mr Angry rants here : thisisbath.co.uk



An old puffer. Coal might be crap, but you've got to appreciate the engineering innit.



No more woggles for this cub. Quite some way from the road. Didn't do a post mortem so can't say how it ended up like this.



The first time I cycled through this tunnel on the Bristol-Bath cyclepath about twenty years ago, it fair blew my mind. It didn't have any lights back then, so you really had to concentrate on the light at the end of the tunnel. Besides that nice metaphor, on a hot sunny day the experience was and still is, like cycling through a fridge.

British Summer Time

Despite the forecast, the first day of British Summer Time* was great. We went for a cycle up the River Avon (well ok, the towpath) and turned off by the herons' nests up through the woodland.



And despite having watched all of 'Victorian Farm' on the telly, I still don't know what this bit of agricultural machinery is.



What a lovely wall ! Skilful, beautiful stuff.

* Ultramarine - British Summer Time


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Sloe Trip

South out of the city along the Whitchurch Railway Path, the route once taken by coal up from the Somerset Levels, towards Maes Fort, an Iron Age settlement occupied by Celts around 500 BC.


Up the hill in bright midday sun, glancing back to see the city behind me, the Clifton Suspension Bridge in the far distance.At first I thought that I must have been too early - or too late - for sloes this year, but then I found some and picked just under a kilo, plus a few blackberries.


Explored the fort and the triangulation point, marking 199 metres above sea level. Meet you here when the floods come !



Made my way back down to the oak tree where I'd left my bike, to find the field now full of cows. Had to skirt around the side of the field, hop over a fence and scramble up a bank, rather than meet a bull or protective mother. I'm sure that cattle are much less used to humans these days, or maybe it's all the hormone injections that make them more aggressive than they used to be.



This way, that way, following the Samaritan Way for a bit. Passed through Stanton Drew, Norton Malreward and Chew Magna



Lazed at the edge of a field, found running water in a cattle trough.



Finally some sunshine to ripen the harvest, though apparently the worst in living memory. I'd suggest a bit more mixed agriculture and a little less cattle.


Peaceful, except for the occasional plane heading for the airport.

Found myself at Chew Valley Lake, opened by Liz & Phil in 1956.

Then back up hills, gears crunching, gathered acorns, freewheeled downhill under the viaduct at Pensford.


Crossed the main road and headed towards Publow.



Great paddling spot, right next to Publow church, the bridge repaired since my last visit.



Then it all went horribly wrong ! I should have heeded the omen of the dead rabbit on the bonnet of a parked car, the unfortunate half badger by the side of the road. I couldn't work out how to get back to Whitchurch, despite having an old map and navigating by the sun and from memory most of the day. I ended up in Keynsham but couldn't find the cyclepath to Bristol, despite praying to Bill Bailey & Marcus Trescothick. I got to Hanham as the light was fading. I'd been out for seven hours and it would be dark in half an hour. I got even more lost. I'd been vaguely lost all day, but unconcerned. Now I was getting anxious. I followed a sign to Avon Valley Woodland and disappeared down a dark trail smelling of balsam flowers. Ahead, there was something familiar about a treeline. I'd stumbled on the River Avon and the familiar path upstream from the boathouse at a bend in the river. It was still another few miles cycle home, through clouds of gnats, past Polish fishermen and teenage paddlers to the last hill, my shoulders tight and aching, mouth parched.

Home for a nice cuppa. Sloes in the freezer. 30 mile round trip.