The League of Barely Perceptible Salutations

It's another cycling post I'm afraid. It has been very interesting (to me) watching the numbers of cyclists increase as the year has gone one. The better weather helps for certain, and on good days there are easily 5 times more bikes on the cycle paths than on wet ones. But I reckon there's a cost implication too, as the ludicrous price of petrol continues its slow bite and people actually begin to experiment with having some money at the end of the month again.
Of course, there is a clear divide between "real" cyclists, the ones with the 1000 yard stare who talk bravely about their experiences cycling in "January", and the new wave of Johnny-come-lately fair-weather lightweight...well, you know. This leads to a kind of sneering bike-snobbery, mainly from people like me, which is unfortunately demonstrating that "road rage", the name given to the act of hitting someone over the head with your wheel brace until they stop moving, is badly named. It's simply "human rage", because it's beginning to infect the formerly friendly, tranquil lanes wending their gentle way through Granton and Drylaw.
It's caused by exactly the same issues as car-human-rage... bad indicating, refusing to give way and all the other petty but actually-very-serious-at-7-in-the-morning trangressions which make you want to...well...hit someone over the head with your bicycle pump until they stop moving. And that would take a while, pumps are not heavy. And you'd have to chase them, sort of like jousting.
Anyway, the in-crowd of the cycle ways can identify each other by the way they refuse to actually ever say hello, and seem to dread being seen to be friendly. But there is also the fear of being seen to be unfriendly, leading to a greeting which falls somewhere between a shrug, a twitch and something in your eye. Hill walkers will be familiar with the concept that the only two people for miles can pass each other in the middle of the Ardnamurchan Peninsula with only a grunt and a wry look to the rain clouds. Any more than that is simply being over familiar. Well, it's the same kind of thing. Heaven help the loser who actually tries to form the word "hello" or dare to identify the time of day with a mumbled "Morning" or "Afternoon". But conversely the regulars expect some sort of greeting which is where the Barely Perceptible Salutation comes in. You can't be taught it, you have to earn it.

Let a smile be your umbrella, and you'll end up with a face full of rain.

So it hasn't been the kindest of summers, as far as the weather goes. It feels a little churlish to gripe about showers and puddles when mother nature is slowly washing England into the sea one blocked drain at a time, but I reserve the right to expect more good days in six weeks than we've had. However maybe that just makes the sunny spells all the more valued.

My last post announced Jon and my plans to head north and visit the beautiful Sandwood Bay...so we did. A splendid time was had by both: the weather held up for us until late into the evening. The bay has little in the way of firewood but we found what appeared to be part of a wooden crate to burn - turned out it was made of solid, woodlike plastic which burnt very well, though perhaps was not the nicest thing to sit beside and inhale from. After family packs of Supernoodles, a couple of beers and a snifter of Laphroig we turned in, and next day were lucky enough to get a dry walk out and a most pleasant all day breakfast at Kinlochbervie's Fisherman's Mission - all the anus and eyelid you can eat for a fiver!

Our family week to Mull was everything we'd hoped it might be. The race from Tain to Oban via the Co-Op (then trying to stuff a week's worth of food into an already obscenely overpacked car) was a challenge, but once in the queue for the ferry I could relax and inspect the quality of the Oban port authority's seagull poo sweeping. Not bad, actually, but I could have done better.

Once on Mull we found our cottage and despite being a bit damp and smelling a bit like a wet dog we were pleased to call it home for the week. Walks, cycles, a visit to Iona and Tobermory kept us busy and Kit loved sticking his head into sandy puddles on the beach. Well, what are wellies for if not to fill with water? We lit the fire a few nights for no other good reason than it's fun to light fires and Lorna somehow took the Mull Scrabble title at three games to two. I managed to get lots of school stuff reading done - the benefit of no TV or internet cannot be over stressed here - and we wended our way home a week later feeling holidayed and happy.

Now back home my assignment is submitted, Kit is walking and babbling like never before and Lorna is...wait for this...getting a bicycle tomorrow! She ventured out three times on my mountain bike while on holiday. (Lorna is not the most experienced, or confident of cyclists. She can't change gear if there is a car near - well, if she can even see a car, actually - and only recently has been able to move her hand over to ring the bell. Before that she relied on a firm clearing of the throat to warn walkers to dive out of the way.) The first time, in Tain, it poured with rain so much that we hid under a tree until, realising it was never going to stop, limping home 20 minutes later in defeat. Our second run took us from Tain to Inver and all was going well until two low flying jets knocked Lorna into a ditch. You see...knowing how much she likes low flying jets, after the first one buzzed us I spotted the second one and shouted, "Lorna, stop". I knew she couldn't cycle and look at the same time, but unfortunately she thought I shouted, "Lorna, look" and proved I was right. One bruised shin later (it started off as a broken leg, but then got better) and I was off to get the car to ferry her back safely on four wheels. The third go was much more successful, on Iona, but we both agreed the mountain bike was not ideal for her so she's chosen one of these instead. Ding ding!

More on the bike front - Mike and I have been testing ourselves at the Glentress and Innerleithen trails. The Glentress red route was enough for me, but still we dared the black route at Innerleithen and lived to tell the tale.

So what now? Well, cramming as much as I can into the last week of the holidays, trying to get out on the motorbike (new rear tyre, woohoo!) and avoiding "back to school dreams", I guess.

The horror of the Scottish barbecue...

So, Lorna's mummy pals have been asking for a while when she planned to host a barbecue. The date chosen was today, and didn't the rain just know it...

Thanks to the folk who showed up, and to the sun for an all too brief appearance. Now, where can we offload 6 tons of coleslaw and 200 sausages?

Who built the ark?

This is getting ridiculous... it has rained for a week and a half (part of Glasgow got washed away on Friday evening, so it's not all bad) Yesterday, however, we took delivery of our new outdoor summer table and I went out and bought a barbecue. Today we are buying some cycle kit for Lorna so once we get Kit's chair we can have lovely hazy days pedalling along the canal into town for coffees and ice cream.
We are completely deluding ourselves. Come on, summer.