Cycle commuting in the Cotswolds

Today, I commuted to work on my bicycle. This is remarkable only for the fact that I travelled this morning from the scenic Chalford Hill, travelling the full 16 miles with a keen tailwind.

I saw a dead badger, a dead pigeon, and a blackbird, all reclining on the road's early morning surface.

At lunch time I ran a steady 5 miles.

In the evening, I cycled back to Chalford Hill, with the morning's tailwind become the evening's headwind, blowing steadily in my face all the way. It took me 50% longer to get home, panting and straining and occasionally gasping in frustrated exhaustion.

When I arrived, I was knackered - with hardly enough energy to be triumphant. The final stretch had been singularly dark and disturbing, especially the descent down Cowcombe Hill, and that despite my superb lights. And I had to stop four times on my way up Old Neighbourhood, a hill of rare intensity, particularly at the end of the day.

But I did it :)

Life smells good

My nose has been working overtime over late - both in the aaaaahtissueblessme kind of way, as any number of you fine people can attest - and in the sniffsniffooooooh kind of way. From the packet of Revels I enjoyed in the car, to the bread toasting in the kitchen, things about me suddenly seem to have a finer, deeper, richer aroma. Or my nose is lately more sensitive.

Just t'other night, the mushrooms cooking in the pan in Chalford smelled amazing (as was dinner, so it's mucho thanks to the Beardless One).

Then it was the smell of the tree that was cut down right outside my (other) office window. And the cheeseboard that had hamster cage and mushroom and ammonia and farmyard as I moved my beak around the little cheesey wonders thereon.

Last night, my glass of The Glenlivet 18 Year Old had so much vanilla and chocolate going on that I had to check that it was the same whisky as I remembered (it was). And that the glass was clean (it was).

The manor of the four seasons

Wow.

That's all.

Bona fide pie

There is, in Reading, a restaurant of sorts called Sweeney & Todds.

It is remarkable for a number of reasons, including the fact that it has changed little in the 15 or so years that I have been aware of it, seemingly remaining under the same ownership, with the same staff, and serving the same things. Yes, the prices have changed (upwards, but not by that much), but the portion sizes have not gone down, and the quality of the food is the same as ever.

Their stock in trade: pies.

And what pies they are! Decently sized, well-pastried in the best kind of flaky way, filled with the right balance of thick and pleasingly-tasty filling. Sensible, uncomplicated, honest pies. And even better; rightly priced.

The daily list of pies is read out at the table for every group, and may contain such delights as Steak and Mushroom, Beef and Horseradish, Five Nations, Vickers (named for the butchers that provides the meat), Game pie, Venison and Wild Boar, Cheese and Vegetable, Steak and Oyster, Chicken Tikka, Chicken and something or other...too many to remember after a pint or two from the bar. Besides, tradition dictates that someone in the group must ask what the third one was, to the endless amusement of the serving staff.

Add some potatoes and a side of vegetables (half and half cauliflower cheese and coleslaw is always a popular choice) and you have a meal fit for a king, queen, tsar, emperor.

The place itself is, simply, unpretentious. The walls are interestingly odd, the seating areas small and tending towards the cramped side of cosy. But no one cares, because the place continues to do what it has always done; serve that basic human need for pie. And how!

Better yet, the pasties and pastries and pies themselves are available to buy cold, to take home, for half the price in the restaurant. Who could ask for more?

Toilet bread?!

There's a bar of Dove cream bar soap on the bathroom shelf. Idly reading the box whilst cleaning my teeth, as one does, I noticed the several different languages printed on the side.

It seems that the French translation is "pain de toilette", which as anyone could tell you, means "bread of toilet", or "toilet bread". Or even "bread toilet".

Cheeps

Presumably available with feesh...?

Life gets in the way

...not of life, but of blogging.

I suppose there's a great deal of satisfaction to be taken from the fact that I'm too busy living my life, collecting rich experiences about which to blog, to actually record those experiences in the blog format.

But it's nice to have the reflective time, too, to half-remember my days through the editorial eye, and the filter of self-satisfaction that this format provides.

So here I am, catching up with my memories, updating all those drafts that I began oh-so-long ago, and trying to make them sound at least as funy as they seemed at the time.