Post: By the time you get to the end of this day, you may be forgiven for thinking that Charlie is accident prone, certainly in his prowess with blackberries. Concentrating on house names, to me, is verging on very sad behaviour, but well spotted Charlie, a clergyman cycling without lights. What is the world coming to ?
Friday, August 28 By Bollin Banks
More blackberries! I decided to take a large tin, this time, so that my saddlebag would be alright, so packing up, at 1.30pm I started – for Cheshire, but a different part. A very strong wind helped me as I crashed over the ten sets of railway lines that are so liberally chucked about in the lanes on the road to Walkden. Barton Bridge, then a tussle with the breeze to Sale, where I took the straightest way, Brooklands Road, to get me out of suburbia.
I have recently discovered a new hobby that gets me over the long suburban stretches effectively. That is, watching the names of the villa’s en route. Common ones are ‘The Beeches’, ‘The Oaks’, ‘The Elms’, ‘Lyndhurst’, ‘Glenview’ etc, but the ones that take my eye are those pertaining to places, one may meet with ‘Glen Nevis’, ‘Brae Bank’, ‘Easedale’, ‘Grasmere’, ‘Moelfre’, ‘Llyn Elsi’, ‘Torbay’, ‘Clovelly’ etc. But the usual fact is, that at the ‘Elms’, there is no Elm to be seen, as at the ‘Limes’ or the ‘Beeches’, whilst at the ‘Oaks’ is perhaps one solitary tree of that ilk. At ‘Glenview’ is a bare outlook of a road or factory. ‘Moelfre’ is far from being a grassy hill, and it would be uncomfortable if ‘Llyn Elsi’ were a lake! Still, it is just a name!
I traversed that narrow lane that dips down to the Bollin near Castle Mill, and had a long walk down the river bank, but failed to get what I was after, so I crossed the river by means of a twisty wooden footbridge, and discovered a decent amount on the other side. Reaching the Ashley road, I sped down to Castle Mill, where I tried to get a pot of tea but failed. On the climb afterwards, I left the bike and in wandering down the steep slope to the river, struck a peach of a place. I could not go wrong after that and all but filled my tin, and tying it up, I made for home via Hey Head and Gatley to Cheadle. Now I had had trouble with a clicking pedal all afternoon, and in putting it right, noticed something sticky dripping out of my saddlebag. It was blackberry juice! Between Chorlton and Stretford, I saw a large hole in the road, presided over by a policeman. I presume a heavy lorry had proved too much for it! The usual route home with lamp lit, from Walkden, and in the railway riddled lanes saw a parson (of all people) cycling home without lights. My bag, worse than before, was full of blackberry juice, but the fruit was a delight. 50 miles
