The hi-vis army: reclaiming our commute

Queuing for the ferry every day you’ll see a lot of yellow. A neon jacket, a flash of fluorescent and even the odd bright orange sock. And the numbers in these garish colours only grow as you drive through the city on the other side. Impossible to ignore, sliding seamlessly through traffic, pedalling purposefully towards their carbon-free day. Smug gits. When you join these neon ranks it’s hard not to feel just a little pleased with yourself. Just a ten-minute spin and your heart’s racing, you feel full of fresh air, and you beat the bus! That alone makes it worthwhile.

Cycling in the city is speedy and ever-changing. There’s no guarantee a car won’t pull directly in front of you, even if they appear to have seen you; or they might overtake and then stop directly in front of you to make a right hand turn. Some drivers anticipate a bike and will stop for you to pass, or to make the final push up a narrow hill. After all, it’s always easier to stop and start in a car.

You can’t predict what a car may do, but you can make sure that all the cars around you know what you’re doing. Take up proper space in the road, don’t hobble in the gutter. Point to your turnings, take the proper lane on a roundabout, and smile! Car drivers don’t want to run you over, especially if you’re sticking to the universal rule of the road: don’t be a dick.

Too often I’m stuck driving city streets instead, and I know that ugly neon is the easiest way to spot a cyclist. I’m staggered by the number of people on bikes, in neon, with helmets. It might not be the most stylish look, but it is the smartest. With the promise of fresh air and fast riding, I relish the odd chance to commute by bike rather than car. And when I do, I might even wear a bit of yellow.

This Slice of Sea

This slice of sea is with me every day, sunrise and sunset. The sun’s position may change only slightly every day, but the light and shape of the water below is ever changing. Every morning, I walk down the hill in cold fog, pacing down the centre of the road to reclaim it in this small hour. Through the narrow streets and out on to the quayside, tall masts and the thrumming whir of the arriving ferry.

I always sit on the same side of the ferry, hunting the first and last of the light. In the morning the sun rises behind Osborne Point, across waters choppy grey or smooth silk blue. On the way home, we travel past piers, chimneys and a pebbly spit, before the west wight hills appear, with pink and blue light dropping behind.

Sometimes I sit and slump with my coffee, or plough through a book, ignoring the view. Sometimes the boat is full of the mumbled chatter of commuters, and the windows are too steamy to watch more than a smear of sea. Sometimes the ride is so rough that you lose your stomach halfway across the Solent, and the contents of your bag across the aisle.

So whilst I travel the same stretch of sea, it’s never the same, and my everyday commute ain’t bad. Travelling across waters always beats the motorway, no matter how rough the ride. Just don’t ask me how long my journey takes. My ferry ride only marks halfway, so now I’m working on cutting out the motorway from the second half of my journey.

Cornwall Countdown

Oh Cornwall! Land of moody seas, dramatic cliffs, tiny fishing villages, and plenty of white sand. I may live by the sea, but that doesn’t stop me getting excited at the thought of visiting another slice of coast. We’ve booked a tiny cottage on the remote west coast through the rather delightful Classic Cottages and I can’t wait.

Cornwall and I go way back: childhood holidays, complete with sandy sandwiches, damp canvas and proper fish & chips; a ‘first’ holiday with Tom, getting pissed in pubs and lost in fields (not at the same time); and a week walking the coast path, with sore knees, dried peaches for dinner (don’t ask) and plenty of welcome tea stops.

Cornwall holds many memories, and we keep adding to its store. We won’t be visiting until April, but already we’re talking coastal paths, new exhibitions, and what books to take. This one is top of my list; who doesn’t love a stormy story by the sea?

Book of Books

A grey day is a good one for finishing a book by the fire. And being a notebook fan, it’s probably no surprise to you that I have a book of books. I used to jot recent reads down in the back of my journals, but then they sort of all ended up in one place (what can i say, I like a good list). I made this notebook myself, having the good fortune to live with a bookbinder at the time (hi Kate!)

It’s funny how books attach themselves to the moment they’re read. To me, books are as much about the places they take you, as the places you take them. The story in the cover adds to your own: arriving in Trieste by train with A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, soaking in the bathtub of a lofty Cumbrian cottage with Freedom, or carrying a weathered Don Quixote over the Austrian mountains. Ian McEwan joined me in Desolation Wilderness, and I crossed the ocean with Jose Saramago. I lost JB Priestley on a plane, and left JK Rowling on a park bench. I’ve left some books behind, but held on to some pictures. There is something pleasingly neat about storing your memories between the pages of books. And if I didn’t keep a list, I’d probably forget both the book, and those moments surrounding each story.

Five Reasons to Climb a Tree

When was the last time you climbed a tree? I can’t resist the temptation of a strong branch at the perfect height, the arms of a tree inviting: ‘Just think how much better things are from up here..’

Every step gives a better view, and a little more of a thrill: can I reach that next branch up? I’m a fraidy cat, and it is always harder to get back down, but even one branch up feels good, and you can always jump from there!

Sitting in the crook of a firm branch, back long against the rough bark of the trunk. The trees in the wind sound different from up here, still and close.
And did I mention the view?