Deciding to eschew the crowds and motorists’ fury of the Tour de France (though it would have made for some good pictures), and in a change from the last two, we spent the weekend largely outside. There was a lot of horticultural tinkering going on, with tomato plants being trimmed and thinned, beans being harvested and eaten, seemingly never-ending watering, and lawns being mown.
And, all that was without the first time picking my own (fruit, of course) for quite some time. Lathcoats Farm provided us with two crimson punnets of raspberries, and one of traffic light red strawberries. To be used in a fresh fruit dessert on Saturday evening, a few errant ones couldn’t help but escape, and gave us a fruity taste of what was to come, the homemade ice cream complementing them perfectly.
We may not have journeyed down to London to see the famous Yellow Jersey streak past, but the bikes were allowed out again. Icarus was rolled out of the garage once more, and was loaded onto the train once more, for the ride down the line, something which is gladly becoming something of a regular occurrence. Cycling into town, we stumbled upon a record and CD fair in the Shire Hall, and although we came out with lighter wallets, we were happy with our unexpected musical purchases.
Chelmsford town centre also provided us with a dinner destination on Saturday night. Going Italian courtesy of Strada proved a good choice, with our pizza and risotto cooked to perfection. It must be a while since I’ve been out in a town centre on a weekend evening (or I’m getting old), but I’d forgotten what noisy and clogged places they can be.
There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a pint or two on a Saturday night, but as the man lying very still in the doorway with his back to the kerb proved, there must be a time when enough is enough.
It was interesting, though, that the new smoking ban doesn’t seem to apply to diners who are eating outside, under canopies. And, though we sat in a charming, uncovered, and well-ventilated courtyard, punctuated by table umbrellas, it was hard to tell that a handful of our fellow patrons were lighting up.
I wish I could say the same about my weekday walk to work. As employers have seized upon the opportunity to make offices smoke-free too, the newly-introduced restriction seems to (rather obviously) pushed a great deal of smokers to have a puff on the way into work, the smoke wisping and weaving its way between strolling commuters.
Ugh.
Sunday was very indulgent, and probably for that same reason, very relaxing. Another very pleasant cycle ride to Writtle, where this time we stopped off at the Agricultural College‘s tea rooms for iced coffees and cakes, followed a nice long breakfast on the patio.
The only other job of the day was to fit some newly-purchased mudguards to the bike, so that I can ride it in the wet. And predictably, as the old adage states, it was not merely a five-minute job.
At first I didn’t think all the parts had been included, but on closer inspection, all the kit was present and correct. That didn’t stop the need for the stays needing to be shortened though, with a very large vice and an equally sizable hacksaw. After lots of cursing, head-scratching, and tutting, the onset of the failing light marked the completion of the task. It was worth it, though, the shiny black bits of tough plastic looking very smart.
Tonight, they’ve already saved me a wet and muddy pairs of trousers.
(*Credit to this blog post title must go to a plant display at the Garden Tea Rooms.)
