A BREATHLESS HUSH IN THE CLOSE

Wildlife Notes

We were kept awake on the Estate a few nights ago by a very loud and determined fox, evidently walking up and down between my house and the flats. There seemed to be another fox, somewhere distant, answering. It's very hard to describe the noise, but once you've heard it you recognise it. This time it was exceptionally loud. I eventually got out of bed, and from a front window watched the fox come out in front of the church and saunter away up the road, presumably in the direction of the other fox. One of my callers (from Golborne Road) remarked that she had been kept awake by what she was told were foxes, "Sounded like a baby!" she said, "Why do they do it then? Are they talking to other foxes?" I replied that I believe their intention is to meet up with other foxes. "Why's that then? I thought they didn't like other foxes!" I explained that I believe they want to get to know each other better. "Ooohh, yeah."

This is a real St Luke's Summer, for which God be thanked! In the late afternoon sun one day last week I was able to watch a lesser-spotted woodpecker on a rather weedy tree, and then on the wall of the flats behind me, which was a pleasant surprise.


The Ascension of Our Lord

Some of you will remember the War Memorial Calvary ("What have you done with Jesus?") and its structural problems that required it to be taken down three years ago (having been held up by scaffolding for more than fifteen years). The plan had been to restore it quickly as a visible sign of our intent for the whole church, but of course it didn't work that way. In fact that was just as well, because when we came to scaffold the outside of the church the whole of the sunken area over which the Calvary stood was filled with scaffolding, and the wooden cross had to be carefully placed against a wall. The cleaning of the exterior brick and stonework also produced a huge amount of dirty run-off, and it became obvious that if the Calvary had been re-erected in its place it would have got absolutely filthy. So, the fact that the (cast-iron) corpus was waiting in a forge somewhere in Sussex was a good thing.

The exterior scaffolding came down some time ago, and the specialist contractors began the process of reconstruction. Meanwhile, the corpus was restored to his original state. Martin Travers (who designed the Calvary in the 1920s) never stinted on bling if he got the chance, and so our cast-iron corpus was gilded. Now, Travers was more of a designer than an architect, which is perhaps why he had fixed the wooden cross onto a cast-iron beam. It was the rusting and subsequent distortion of this beam that had caused all the problems. So our contractors had to cast a nice new concrete beam, in situ, as the new base, which meant that lots of brickwork had to be taken down, making it quite a task. Then the old stone plinth had to be restored and re-erected, and then the wooden cross was oiled and put in place (which involved more scaffolding and a block and tackle).

Finally, last Friday, the corpus returned, in the back of a van. The gilder came with him, in case of touching up, and there were the men from the forge, and the contractors, and a man with a lorry with a hoist. They had the unenviable task of moving an extremely heavy cast-iron figure that was now covered in very delicate gold leaf and hoisting him up onto a cross about fifteen feet off the ground. Matters were not made easier by three cars ignoring our parking suspension; the contractors told me that one had actually been parked there while they were there, and the driver had just shrugged when told the bay was suspended. The result was that the hoist couldn't get very close, and they decided not to lift the corpus over the cars. Instead they carried him round in a circle, rising to a considerable height to get him round behind a streetlamp. Frankly, I held my breath. All was accomplished beautifully (though not without acute anxiety for the watching Vicar). They fixed his hands in place, but then came an alarming moment when the cross-beam flexed, and indeed the whole cross moved, which worried the contractors sufficiently for them to call the architect. They were reassured, and when his feet were fixed the whole structure became rock-solid. So now, for the first time in decades, the gilded figure of Christ presides over Rowington Close. Best of all, the job has been done in time for the centenary of the end of the Great War.


Back Home

We returned to worship in the main body of the church this weekend. Our Sunday Mass was exactly 150 years after Fr West celebrated the first Mass in the newly-built chancel, and 145 years after the building was consecrated by Bishop Jackson. It's not all finished, with three significant bits of repair work still to be done, and the lights not sorted out properly, but at least we are back, and you can see the brilliant ceilings. It was a deep joy to celebrate the Dedication Festival, and (I hope) to do it as Fr West would have wanted. We had a decent crowd, and a nice party afterwards, and people's joy and relief was palpable. The next thing is to get the new extension finished, so that the parishioners who have waited so long for level access and lavatories can finally come back as well.      

FROM WESTMINSTER, WITH LOVE

Loves, Labour's Won

Our "heritage pioneers" at St Mary Mags are an excellent lot. They have been researching local history (and aspects of the history of the church) for the Project website, and to provide us with the raw material for future exhibitions, and some have been trained in the techniques of oral history (by a professional) and have been out interviewing people. These interviews will provide an archive of local experiences, but will also be the material for the recordings in the "whispering walls" in the new building, places where you will be able to learn more about the recent history of Paddington from listening to people tell their stories.

The excellence of the heritage pioneers was demonstrated by the fact that they wanted to do more, and organised a pub quiz (partly to ask questions based on all the things they had found out), which they called the "Keeping It Local" quiz. This was held a couple of weeks ago in the Eagle in Clifton Road. This is the pub that used to be the Robert Browning, but I imagine Eagle was an older name, so I'm all in favour of that reversion to tradition. It seemed generally a fairly traditional pub, but they were happy for us to take over their upstairs room, which was a good venue for a quiz attracting thirty-five people. We organised ourselves in teams, and I was quite positive about the make-up of ours, with a wide range of knowledge and several people who were Paddington born-and-bred. I hadn't bargained with the presence of the Westminster Labour Party team, but when I spotted Cllr Dimoldenberg (who is an even bigger geek than I am) my heart sank. I also shouldn't have had that pint of beer (shockingly unprofessional, but I was trying to look relaxed). They beat us by three points, and maddeningly we knew three answers that we had got wrong through pure silliness and indiscipline. Helen didn't like me doing quizzes because I am such a bad loser, so when we have them, I usually help set the questions; here I enjoyed myself but came away sore. Did I shake Paul Dimoldenberg's hand? I did not.


The Heart of Westminster

The Dean of Westminster, Dr John Hall, is one of the smoothest and most charming clergymen in the Church of England (though Helen once got under his skin by asking too-probing questions after a lecture he gave about religious education). At Westminster Abbey he has assured his place in history by building the "Weston Tower" which gives public access to the Triforium, part of which is now a gallery to display some of the Abbey's treasures, and by commissioning a window from David Hockney, just installed. The Weston Tower is a very clever piece of work (designed by Ptolemy Dean, the telegenic Surveyor of the Fabric) which is tucked into a corner formerly occupied by some loos, and which gives astonishing views along the south elevation of the Abbey as you go up the stairs. I suspect that the conceit of using specimen pieces of every type of stone used in the Abbey's history will look rather twee in the future, but it's a pleasing touch. I can't say I like the metalwork that loops across the glazing; neither Gothic nor contemporary, but kitsch in my view. But, as I say, Dean Hall's place in history is assured (even if he misses out on a coronation).

In my view, though, the most important thing he has done is to raise the profile of religion at the Abbey. It's a building with tremendous history, it's always referred to as the church of kings, and is in fact the burial place of most of our medieval and early modern monarchs, and it also functions as a sort of national pantheon, as the actual burial place of such as Chaucer, Newton and Darwin, and the place of commemoration of countless other national heroes of one sort or another. It also contains, in Henry VII's Lady Chapel, the finest piece of renaissance sculpture in Britain (Henry VII's tomb, by Torrigiani), and indeed the Chapel itself is one of the most important works of art of its period anywhere. So it's not unreasonable that the Abbey should be a tourist attraction, and as a "Royal Peculiar" it doesn't have a very clear spiritual function, beyond ensuring that a daily round of worship is celebrated (not a trivial thing, but an alien concept for the managers who run the contemporary C of E). So, it's never been a great surprise to me that it mostly feels like a tourist attraction in which worship occasionally takes place (it's not alone in that) but Dean Hall has ensured that religion has been brought back. I don't know how much income the Abbey expects to make on a Saturday in October, but they have chosen, under Dean Hall's leadership, to forego one Saturday's receipts by closing the Abbey to tourists and making it a place of pilgrimage for the day. So it was that I went, with an intrepid band of parishioners, to the National Pilgrimage to the Shrine of St Edward the Confessor last Saturday.

Because of course the medieval abbey was intended as a place of pilgrimage, housing the shrine of England's royal saint, (famed for his gentleness and radiating the love of God for the poor) and it functioned in that way until the dissolution of the abbeys. At that point the shrine was destroyed, but the Confessor's royalness trumped his saintliness, and so his remains were not scattered (as happened at most English shrines) but reverently buried. Hence, the reconstructed shrine still contains the saint's remains, and the modern Abbey has created a day of pilgrimage, around the Confessor's main feast day, at which the Abbey is absolutely given over to prayer, devotion and worship. We walked down from Paddington (which took an hour and a half, on a beautiful warm, sunny morning) and arrived in time for one of our number to make herself a pilgrim badge, while others used the facilities. We then took our seats for the Solemn Eucharist, which was very well done (Mozart was sung and the Bishop of Ebbsfleet preached). Afterwards there was the opportunity to visit the shrine, behind the high altar, where incense was burning, candles were being lit, and people were kneeling in prayer in the niches beneath the saint's tomb, and around the space. Genuine devotion. Real prayer. That absolutely brought home why all those kings wanted to be buried as they are, in a ring around the shrine, close to the holy man, so full of the grace of God. After the vergers finished clearing up from the service the east end of the Abbey was opened up again, and you could pray in the chapels. The highlight was praying before the Blessed Sacrament exposed in the Lady Chapel. Actually you could see the Sacrament in the monstrance from a particular spot in the Sacrarium  (the space around the shrine) which I would never have imagined, but was itself a very revealing detail, because the monstrance was placed on the Lady Chapel altar, that lovely little gem under its baldacchino in front of Henry VII's tomb. To be able to pray before our Lord, present in the Blessed Sacrament, in the very centre of power in this land (knowing that beyond the window in front of you was Parliament) was intensely moving and impressive. The silence there was stunning. That experience on its own was enough to justify all the nonsense. Last Saturday, for a few hours at least, the Lord was truly the heart of Westminster.         

THE CONCRETE AND THE CLAY

On the Road

An unpleasant accident on the Harrow Road yesterday evening caused traffic chaos. It was clear that a car had struck a motorcycle.  It didn't look good for the motorcyclist. not least because the police were still doing their investigations two hours later. If it's only a collision they are keen to get the traffic moving again, but here a large section of road (and pavement) was taped off for a long time, and people in high-vis were using cameras and surveying equipment. What I couldn't understand was how the car came to be sideways on  across the road, nowhere near a junction. That appeared to be the place where the accident had happened, as the motorbike was there under his front wing. The natural conclusion is that the car was executing some strange manoeuvre when the collision happened. In truth, it is surprising that there are not more accidents with motorcycles and mopeds, given how rashly many are ridden along the Harrow Road.


Fall of an Emperor

Councillor Robert Davis has resigned. Robert Davis has been a towering figure in Westminster for years, a councillor for more than twenty years, Deputy Leader for years, a past Lord Mayor, but most significantly, Chair of Planning for seventeen years. An enquiry has found that while he did not do anything illegal, he breached the councillors' code of conduct. This was after he referred himself to the City Council's monitoring officer back in February, after the scale of the gifts that he had received from property developers had been revealed. He had registered receiving more than five hundred gifts (or instances of hospitality) over the past three years, some of which were of the scale of trips to five-star resorts. Why were  property developers (admittedly not a rare breed in Westminster) so keen to lavish gifts on Councillor Davis? Perhaps because he had been chair of the Westminster Planning Committee for seventeen years. It should be pointed out that the laws against corruption in local government are very strict, and the enquiry has found that Councillor Davis did not break the law, but the monitoring officer makes reference to the impression that was given being a bad one. Because the sense was that you needed Councillor Davis to look kindly on your planning application if it was at all controversial; he did not sit on every panel, but as chair he chose which applications went to which panel, and the belief was that if he liked your application he would see that it came to his panel. In my (very limited) experience, Councillor Davis seemed a pleasant man, though rather grand, but anyone who made planning applications to Westminster (as we had to for our extension) was conscious of his shadow over the whole process. It did all feel a bit imperial. I see that the current Council  Leader has "welcomed" his decision to resign, "Et tu, Brute?"


Concrete

Wherever you look in London there are tower cranes, and then there are all the building sites (like ours) where it is impossible to install a crane. Building is constant. As well as cranes, the indicator of construction activity round here is the scale of traffic generated by the concrete batching plant at Westbourne Park. It's not an aesthetically pleasing building, but it's inconspicuously placed between the main railway line and the Westway. Now when it was built all its raw materials were clearly transported by rail, so it made perfect sense, next to Paddington New Yard, but now it appears that the cement no longer arrives by rail. You never see freight trains of bulk powder wagons on the sidings. In fact, I'm not sure that there even are any sidings any more; I suspect that they may have got in the way of Crossrail. So now, not only do we have constant movements of concrete mixers taking the concrete to building sites, but we have the "goods inwards" as well, huge lorries carrying cement and aggregate. I constantly grumble to myself about what these exceptionally heavy trucks are doing to our roads (and how dangerous they are to cyclists) but I have to remind myself that you are obliged to have batching plants like this reasonably close to construction sites, because the concrete only has a limited lifespan once it has been mixed, so no-one is going to close one down that is so convenient for the builders' promised land, which is central London.


The Benefits of Landfill

There are, however, no waste disposal sites in central London. Rubbish has to be transported out. Historically, the Dust Wharf on the Grand Union Canal (just behind Paddington Station) was where the street sweepings were collected before being shipped out on barges. There is still a very big waste disposal contractor based right next to the canal at Willesden Junction, though nothing now travels by barge, certainly not from the Dust Wharf. "Dust" is a Victorian euphemism for faecal matter, which used to be piled up, higher than a house, on the Dust Wharf. The "dust" was carried out into Middlesex and spread on the vegetable fields. Yum, yum! Now, of course, we produce mountains of waste that can't be spread on the fields, and that generally goes into landfill sites, which are mostly old worked-out gravel pits, located in a ring around London (it's one of the useful things the Green Belt accommodates). If you think that's not very nice, try visiting a city in the developing world where nothing has been planned, and the housing has encircled the landfill (which wasn't even in a pit to start with, and so has become a mountain). The landfill sites are at places like Thurrock (where the new Thames tunnel will start) and Sipson, where the third Heathrow runway may eventually be built. A few years ago the government imposed a landfill tax to discourage the use of these sites, and the resulting money is meant to be applied to projects of public benefit. So, we have been after it for years. When we were first planning the project landfill money seemed like a good bet, but you couldn't apply that early, and by the time we were at the right stage, the rules had changed. Finally, we have managed to qualify for some, and the diligence of our fundraisers has been rewarded. So, benefits can come from landfill.      

HIGH CULTURE

Seeing Stars

Do you ever see people on the street who resemble the famous? A man looking exactly like David Wagner, the manager of Huddersfield Town FC has just walked past my office window, twice. It seems unlikely to be him, as presumably he should be supervising training somewhere in West Yorkshire, although I did once see the team bus of FC L'Orient on the Edgware Road. The thing was that he was dressed convincingly, as you would expect a football coach to dress. Actually in central London you do genuinely see public figures quite often; it was no surprise to pass Dominic Grieve MP at Westminster Tube Station a couple of weeks ago.  Richard E Grant nearly ran over my mother-in-law while riding his bike across Portobello Road (obviously a few years ago). I could go on.


Back in the UK

I returned from France to a Confirmation Service two days later. Bad planning (there were extenuating circumstances too tedious to go into). I had realised that we had some young people who had been admitted to Communion years ago, but who were now approaching university age, and so should be offered the chance of Confirmation, making an adult commitment now that they are beginning adulthood. So I wanted them confirmed before the autumn term. I was making arrangements when there was no Bishop of London, (and experience suggests that the diocesan bishop is inordinately busy and can never come when you want) and so I approached the Bishop of Fulham, who happens to be an old friend (we were neighbours in Reading). Bishop Jonathan was happy to do it, and informed the new Bishop of London, when she arrived, and she was happy, so that was all fine. I know that some of my neighbours thought I was making a political point by using Bishop Jonathan, but it was really a matter of convenience. I gather that the Bishop of London is intending to use Bishop Jonathan rather more in this way.

Of course I fretted and worried about the service beforehand, but it went well. To be fair, worship at St Peter's is fairly simple and relaxed, so there's not so much scope for things to go amiss. Still we were late starting, as we were waiting for one of the confirmation candidates (and family) to arrive. It's always educative for bishops to encounter rough sleepers as they come into church, and we ticked that box as well. There was a good lunch afterwards, and we were joined by two or three of the St Peter's extended family who use our services but don't make it to worship. Unfortunately the Christian Aid box, containing donations towards my sponsorship, disappeared during lunch, which was a pity. Such is life. Fortunately I had emptied it before church, so there wasn't much in there.


Back to Normal

On my first Monday morning back I had four callers wanting help, some known to me, some new. It doesn't help one to greet everyone with grace and generosity when one is trying to do something fairly complicated on the computer and one is interrupted four times.   

I went to the Police ward panel meeting and learnt about an incident on Westbourne Green that had passed me by. Apparently, about a week before Carnival, one evening when the young men were all hard at work on the gym equipment, an altercation occurred and a shot was fired, which was heard by residents of Gaydon House, who also saw the gym bunnies scattering to the four winds. Apparently it was some sort of spat over drugs. It attracted a lot of immediate police attention, but they were playing it down by the time of the panel meeting. It's all very well being cool and not panicky about these things, but I have a nasty suspicion that the use of guns is beginning to become normalized, and to be regarded as routine, which seems like a step towards America. That worries me.

Apparently the Carnival went off well. People report it as being well-managed and enjoyable. The figure of nearly 300 arrests makes for easy headlines, but compares well to something like the Reading Festival, which involves far fewer people. Bizarrely, there were a couple having breakfast alongside us in the Croydon Premier Inn on Bank Holiday Monday who were heading for the Carnival (former West Londoners, now living in the Midlands).


Literary Legends

Thanks to the generosity of one of the organisers I was invited to a remarkable event; Joan Bakewell in conversation with Margaret Drabble, at The Avenues Youth Club (up in Queen's Park, just off the Harrow Road, next to the Mozart Estate). The Avenues has some well-connected supporters who were able to organise this fundraiser for them. I'm not sure what the actual clients of the youth club made of having a room full of grey-haired folk listening to two elderly ladies talking about novels and Newnham, but actually it was really interesting, because they were bearing witness to the extraordinary changes in women's lives in their lifetime. I would observe that Joan Bakewell (Baroness Bakewell DBE) has remarkable charisma, even at 85. The Avenues now has to fundraise for all its work, as Westminster City Council simply abolished all its spending on youth work. In what universe does that make sense?  

HENRY IN FRANCE, PART 2

THE VASTY FIELDS OF FRANCE

Tuesday 28th

On arrival in Dieppe I diverted us into town to get Euros from an ATM, which gave Ian the opportunity to enjoy the swing bridge in action, but also confused us about the Avenue Verte route. Still, we found it in the end, and at Arques-la-Bataille (the Bataille in question being 1944, when they were liberated by "Les Canadiens") joined the marvellous cycle path on an old railway track bed, which was level, well-surfaced, and wide, and took us all the way to Forges-les-Eaux, our evening destination, 55km from Dieppe. On the way we passed a terrific chateau at Mesnieres, but mostly it was just quiet Normandy countryside, along the valley of the Bethune. We met the young girl with huge panniers on the way, and learnt that she was heading for Gournay-en-Bray, which was another 27km further than us, a distance that seemed ambitious, particularly since she wasn’t going much faster than we were (but she had to get to Paris sooner than us). Around Dieppe the path was busy with pedestrians as well as cyclists, but quiet out in the country, just the occasional family picking blackberries. At Forges-les-Eaux, a rather unglamorous spa town, we found the Logis Restaurant-Hotel La Paix sooner than we expected, and found a family of British cyclists also staying there, who were just behind us on the road. We hadn’t spotted them on the boat, as their bikes had been on a car, which was their support vehicle (and was waiting for them when we arrived). They were taking an extra day to get to Paris, and going via Versailles. It turned out that the father was a runner, and he and Ian had been in the same race at one time. He had, however, run from London to Paris a few years ago, essentially seven marathons in seven days, which even Ian agrees is madness.

The bikes were nicely accommodated in a dry barn, with a door that locked, and we and the monoglot “patron” seemed to understand each other adequately. The restaurant was what you might call provincial in appearance, but the food was very sound. I had guinea fowl stuffed with pistachios, and a meringue glacee. And lots of bread. And a coke. And we shared a bottle of local cider. There was a church across the garden with a chiming clock, but I don’t remember hearing it in the night. The thunder, on the other hand, did wake me.

Wednesday 29^th

The weather forecast had always been bad for this day, and it was our longest distance to travel, so I was apprehensive. It was still raining when we got up, but not much. A decent French breakfast, with the facility to make Earl Grey, so I was happy. When I went out and checked the weather after breakfast it was barely drizzling, and felt quite mild, so I packed my jacket in the pannier. Mistake. We bought chocolate and apples in the square to eat on the way, but by the time we reached the open road it was tipping with rain and feeling quite cold. We got soaked quite quickly and I thought at that point that it wasn’t worth putting a jacket on over a wet jersey, but I realised eventually I was wrong. When we got to Gournay-en-Bray, 27km of rolling countryside  further on, I was shivering uncontrollably, and so adopted jacket, full gloves and waterproof cap (under helmet). It was grey, cold and miserable, and neither of us could see properly because of water on our glasses. The route book had been in danger of disintegrating each time we consulted it; fortunately the signs kept on appearing. At Gournay we met the family again (having been inexplicably passed twice by their support car on the way) but then they went off a slightly different way. We got spectacularly lost in Gournay town centre in the rain, and faffed about grumpily. I had my first scare when, on a cycle-only path, I didn’t spot a van about to cross it at right angles on a lane, and then cycled over a chain which was meant to stop that happening. Anyway, no harm done.

After Gournay-en-Bray, we were in hillier country. St Germer-de-Fly had a lovely old abbey, with a gorgeous Romanesque apse, and a Perpendicular chapel tacked on to the end of that, all very picturesque (but it was still raining). I had to remove a glove to Instagram. We then met the valley of the Epte, which would have been fine had we stayed in it, but instead we climbed straight out, a long steady slog, which was the first real hill since England. In pleasant weather it would have been an agreeable challenge, but when you could feel the water pooling in your shoes it was less fun. Still, we managed, and were rewarded with clearing skies and some long views. We paused in a photogenic village and I was alarmed to find I wasn't getting a picture when I tried to Instagram, but then discovered that it was simply that the lens on the back of the phone was covered in rainwater. One spectacular descent, and then a drag into Gisors, which starts out unpromisingly (we thought it looked like a suburb of Plymouth) but turns out to be very charming. It was the border town between Normandy and France (a thousand years ago), and so has a big castle, with a very good example of motte and bailey form. Also a beautiful view of the decorative church of Ss Gervase and Protase, over the rooftops. We walked around the castle bailey and ate our apples. The rain had stopped. 

The next section was largely on ex-railway path, but away from villages. It all felt quite remote, and the path was full of crud washed down by the rain. It was there, somewhere near St-Clair-sur-l’Epte, that I had my puncture. Rear wheel, curses. Fortunately, Ian is quite good at these things, and I had brought spare tubes, so he simply changed the tube. Obviously it took a while, though. Blessedly the weather was pleasant by this stage. At Bray-et-Lu we left the path and took to the very quiet road for the run into Magny-en-Vexin, which swung along the side of a little valley in lovely late-afternoon sunshine. Again, finding our B&B turned out to be quite simple; it’s not a big town. Today’s ride was 100km, and we rode all day. It was about 6pm when we got there. 

Our host was very charming, (he'd texted details of how to get in, but I hadn't actually checked my phone) and welcomed us effusively. It was an eighteenth-century townhouse opening onto the pavement and had a little bike rack in the stairwell. The room was lovely. We had a sofa-bed and a double, but were too weary to bother with the sofa-bed. Instagrammed myself looking incoherent and Ian totally crashed out on the bed. We had a little walk around the stunningly attractive and unspoiled town. The church was open, and had an outstanding stone vaulted roof. We left a prayer for Helen at the shrine of Our Lady. Our host said there were several places to eat, but on a Wednesday we could only find one open, but fortunately this was the exceptional O’Billot. I cannot remember a better meal. Asparagus with jamon serrano and Parmesan; cote de veau; deconstructed lemon tart with orange sorbet. A bottle of chilled Cabardes rose. This was not provincial! This was highly sophisticated, and quite unexpected. Also quite reasonably priced. We walked back through the silent town to the B&B very satisfied. The only drawback to our room was that you heard lorries rattling over the cobbles every so often.

Thursday 30^th

By this stage I had got used to a night full of dreams and feeling I hadn’t slept soundly, but I seemed rested. My legs were holding up all right as well. We had exquisite croissants (and marmalade) with Earl Grey for breakfast (and excellent bread and cheese). We enjoyed totally empty country roads for the first few km back onto the Avenue Verte at the amusingly named Wy-dit-Joli-Village (actually one of the less jolie villages we had passed through), but it was there that Ian got a puncture (front wheel). He had brought one spare tube, and changed it out. Other cyclists whooshed past, unselfconscious in full team lycra. With that it took us a couple of hours to do the 23km to Cergy, although there was a stiff climb on the way. Cergy is at the end of the suburban rail network, sitting in a relationship to Paris like Watford to London, so we felt pleased to have got there. After that, though, it became rather soul-destroying, as we passed a sign saying 30km to the centre of Paris, cycled for an hour and came upon another sign that said 30km to the centre of Paris (a few miles further on we found one that said 31km to Paris, but by this time we were past caring). In fact, it was further by the Avenue Verte, about another 57km in fact (from that first sign in Cergy).  We then added to that by making a massive error and wasting an hour’s riding. The route requires you to cross the Seine five times (as well as the Oise once, just before the confluence at Conflans) and we miscounted, and so got very confused.

We met our first huddled migrants at Conflans, and then a traveller encampment right on the route heading for St-Germain-en-Laye. Crossing the dark forest of St Germain on deserted forest tracks we felt very isolated, but when we came out onto a road there was a working girl, how very French! From St Germain the route took us through Maisons-Laffitte (saw no racehorses) and then round a great meander of the river. We cut off another meander by a shortcut instructed by the book (but not signposted) through Nanterre and Puteaux (twinned with Hackney!) it was there, coming over a hill, that we first caught sight of the Eiffel Tower and actually believed we would get there. Then it was along the river again, across again, and through the Bois de Boulogne to the Port de la Muette, and then down a cycle lane in the middle of Avenue Henri Martin and Avenue Georges Mandel to the Trocadero, where we entered traffic. It was on the approach to the Pont d’Iena, which actually leads to the Eiffel Tower, that Ian led me through an amber light, causing me to curse loudly and work harder than I had intended at that moment.

So, photos at the Eiffel Tower (and chocolate). Then back on the bikes to cycle to our hotel beside the Gare St-Lazare, taking in a hundred yards of the Champs-Elysees, just so I can say I’ve done it. The hotel receptionist was duly impressed (actually he looked rather surprised) and put the bikes in a stairwell (I nearly lost my bottles at this point, taking them off and putting them down, but he collected them up and they were waiting for me behind the desk). The Hotel Opera Deauville was a bit tatty, but did the job supremely well. Reception, friendly. Beds, comfortable. Shower, hot. Restaurant, across the road. Station, across the road. What more do you need?  We collected tickets from the station and quietly consumed boeuf bourguignon and Pelforth beer. We didn’t have the energy to celebrate wildly, and we needed to have our wits about us for the return journey in the morning. In any case, I was a bit weepy, and had been for much of the day, thinking of Helen, for whom we were doing all this, and who would have been enchanted by the idea of riding into Paris, like the Tour de France peloton.

Friday 31^st

The journey home all went to (Ian's) plan. 9am train from Gare St-Lazare. Change at Rouen (carry bikes over stairs). Cycle from Dieppe station to 12.45 ferry. Another flat crossing, but on a boat full of families. Lunch on ferry (dodgy curry, eaten with enthusiasm). Slow exit from Newhaven port, alongside the grizzled old gent on the Galaxy, who turned out to live in Brighton and longed to get his wife to cycle in France with him. Train from Newhaven, change at Lewes (more stairs). Cycle home from Victoria, arriving back about 7pm. Ravenously hungry, and liable to fall asleep at any moment, but otherwise unharmed!

  

HENRY IN FRANCE, PART 1

ENGLISH MERCURIES

Sunday 26^th

After church, and a rehearsal for the following Sunday’s Confirmation Service, Ian and I had a sandwich and packed our panniers (again). I had told people that we would leave at 4pm, and a small delegation appeared then to see us off, but it was raining, so we waited a while and invited them indoors, as Ian consulted the Met Office rain radar and pronounced confidently that if we delayed our departure a little while the worst would have passed over. At least the persistence of the rain persuaded me to take a proper jacket and gloves, for which I would later be very grateful. It was still raining when we left at about 5pm. Photos were taken, and our supporters waved us off, as we wobbled out of Rowington Close under the unaccustomed burden of full panniers.

We followed a route provided by the TfL website for our journey to Croydon, the only drawback being that it’s designed to be used as an app on the phone, and you can’t simply print out the instructions. Therefore, I had copied the instructions by hand, and referred to a map, adding in useful notes of my own. It got us to Croydon very well, with only a small glitch in Mitcham, but in Croydon it all got a bit complicated. We were saved, though, by the excellent “Legible London” signs, which enabled us to find the way back onto TfL’s route. 

It was cool, and rainy, and the first problem had come on Gloucester Road, when Ian found his rack shifting under the weight of his panniers. He adjusted it and continued. We crossed Battersea Bridge, and then headed past Clapham Junction and Wandsworth Common, through Tooting and Colliers Wood, and then on across Mitcham Common (Ian was surprised at such a large expanse of green in Saaf London) and onwards to Croydon. As we were coming into Croydon I suddenly realised Ian was no longer behind me, so I stopped at the next junction. I waited, and then wheeled the bike back. I found him struggling with his rack and swearing. He asked me whether I had any tools; I replied that I had packed two puncture repair kits, but had forgotten to put in any other tools. I wasn’t bothered, knowing that he had some.  It turned out that tools were not the issue. I had pointed out some weeks ago that he needed to get a rack fitted to his bike (that’s what I did; thanks, Evans) but it seems he bought a rack and fitted it himself; at the last minute. He was frustrated that it didn’t seem to fit properly, and said that he had “lashed it up”. On inspection, what he had lashed it up with were those little wire ties that you use to close freezer bags. Funnily enough they hadn’t borne the weight of full panniers. His proposed solution was cable ties, which made sense to me, so we walked to a general store that I had just passed to ask there, but had no luck. Ian carries a certain amount of suppressed rage, and it came out quite expressively at this point after he left the shop. There were some dangling straps on his panniers whose function was unclear, and he tore those off in fury, cursing loudly enough that the shopkeeper came out to check on us. It turned out that the destroyed straps involved rather annoying metal hooks which, when they weren’t catching in your spokes or derailleur, could be bent into shape to serve as a temporary solution to the problem. So that’s what he did. It was good enough to see us through to the Premier Inn, Purley Way.

The nice person behind the desk at the Premier Inn had a ground floor room ready for us, as requested (by Gloria, who paid for it, thanks), and was happy for us to wheel our bikes in there. Next door was Wickes, and we were confident cable ties could be had there in the morning. So we went to dinner at TGI Fridays, with reasonable equanimity. Solid food (full of fat and sugar), fruit smoothies. I was still anxious, though. Slept well.

Monday 27^th

A cooked breakfast at the Premier Inn (thanks again, Gloria) set us up. Amazingly, Wickes was open at 9am on a bank holiday, so Ian was happy, and fixed the rack quite securely (if not wholly satisfactorily) with cable ties. The Premier Inn is on the site of Croydon Aerodrome, Chamberlain’s “piece of paper” and all that, which somehow seemed appropriate. Ian was keen to get on, and was not ready to retrace our steps when I made a navigating error at Coulsdon South, so we ended up toiling uphill along the Brighton Road for 3km, which wasn’t pleasant. Still, we got off, and escaped into the steep, gravelly back lanes, which then took us south. We were mostly following the Avenue Verte, the signposted cycle route from London to Paris, but we were taking a diversion to avoid Redhill and Horley, which was described in the book but not signposted. In fact, this worked really well, but we discovered how bad Surrey roads are, and were ambushed by a particularly vicious hill near Bletchingley which had us both fearing for our cardiac health. I had always told people that the first full day was going to be the hardest in terms of hills, and I was not wrong.

The official Avenue Verte goes in a great eastwards loop via East Grinstead and Tunbridge Wells to avoid serious hills and use off-road tracks, but we had decided to go a much more direct way, on quiet roads, and observing contour lines carefully, so from Crawley Down we went south to Turners Hill (where we took a photo in the drizzle, beside a nice old signpost) and then past Horsted Keynes (where we could hear the Bluebell Line) and through a very pretty place called Fletching, to Piltdown, where another picture was taken. A nice woman came and offered to take a photo of both of us, explaining that Instagram wouldn’t work because there was no coverage there! We crossed the river Ouse, and felt we were getting somewhere (as that’s what flows into Newhaven Harbour) and so felt able to waste an hour at the “Lavender Line”, a preserved railway that Ian had never visited, at Isfield. I caught up with Instagram duties while he played trains. It was a pleasant afternoon by now. From there on into Lewes was very pleasant riding, with a decent cycle route from Ringmer into Lewes town centre. In Lewes the Brewer’s Arms provided a restorative pint and a pleasing pulled pork and cider pie. We cycled the last 6km to the South Downs Youth Hostel at Southease feeling more relaxed (though apprehensive of the enormous shoulder of the Downs that kept on threatening to take the road upwards). We did not have to climb a hill; the Youth Hostel is not far from the river. We had a room for two (bunks) which was better than I was expecting. I didn’t sleep terribly well. Hard bed, but also brain not switching off. It turned out that this would happen throughout the trip.

Tuesday 28^th

Cycled the 5km into Newhaven along the unpleasant A26, but there is no real option. We were firmly told at the port office that we were not foot passengers, but vehicles. Fair enough. Amusingly one each of our panniers were searched at the port; the Border Force officials welcomed us to the “Newhaven experience”. The boat was quiet, and we were directed on quite early. There was a grizzled old gent on an old steel-frame Galaxy who seemed to be a regular, and a young girl with huge panniers, as well as motorcyclists, with whom we were penned. On board we filled our time with a cooked breakfast (it would have been rude not to). The Channel was flat calm, and it was a beautiful day.

WATCHING THE DETECTIVES

Police Activity

On Monday afternoon it became clear that there had been an incident at the west end of Shirland Road, near the children’s playground. I was in the Office when police cars and vans started charging in that direction, and the police helicopter hovered overhead for an hour and a half. I had a call to make in that direction, and tried to cycle that way but was thwarted by incident tape closing the road. As I cycled back along the Harrow Road it appeared that someone was being arrested in Portnall Road, but of course they might not have been connected. It’s not unusual for the Police to visit known troublemakers before Carnival, but that was clearly not what was happening here. It seemed a lot more reactive. Apparently, I later learnt, a person on a motorbike shot at a white car which hit a tree on Kennet Road, and the gunman then took off into the adjacent special school. No-one hurt, apparently. The word is that this was in retaliation for an attack with a hammer in the vicinity of the playground on Shirland Road. So there were two incidents, but connected. A drug house was also mentioned. All perfectly normal for a Monday afternoon in August. It only got onto the BBC London news on Wednesday, as one of a series of five incidents involving guns in the past three days.

Register Office

Now, the Westminster Register Office used to be in what the City Council called “Westminster Council House”, on Marylebone Road, the former Marylebone Town Hall, a fine neoclassical building by Sir Edwin Cooper, begun in 1914 and not completed until 1921, and adjoining his Marylebone Public Library of 1939, but a few years ago the City Council tired of the upkeep of these distinguished buildings, and so disposed of the library to a business school. The Old Town Hall has been in the hands of the builders for four years, and I gather that it has now been refurbished, but in the interim, the Register Office moved out to Harrow Road, to a set of council offices near the (former) police station, which started life as the Paddington Board of Guardians offices, and which is in St Peter’s Parish. It’s not a bad building (Edwardian) but can’t have been as photogenic as the Old Town Hall, not least because some horrid automatic doors had been installed during its time as the Council’s “one stop shop”. As Anglican clergy are ex-officio registrars we are required to submit quarterly returns to our district register office of marriages conducted in our parishes, and it gave me great pleasure to cycle up to the office and hand in my nil-return forms in person. However, I’ve just had a nasty shock; an email from the Registrar to the effect that she hasn’t received my last two sets of returns. I may be a bit flaky about these things, but I am quite clear that I remember taking them to the office and handing them in at the front desk, in person, in an envelope addressed to the Registrar. A mystery.   

Tapering

I am tapering my training; that’s the correct phrase, I believe. My charity cycle ride to Paris (with my brother-in-law) is next week, and one is supposed to ease off one’s training in the final week. The trouble is, of course, that I am so idle that I am naturally terrified that I have simply not done enough, and so tapering off seems counter-intuitive. Still, there comes a point, as with exams, when rationally you know that you can do no more. I was unable to ride round the Park on Monday anyway, as the east side was closed. I had seen the advance notices and wondered why, but then on Sunday evening it became apparent, as a string of horse-drawn vehicles (minus horses) were parked outside Cumberland Terrace, and obvious film security men were hanging around. On Tuesday it became clear that they had put tan (or something) down on the road there, as the road was still coloured (and men were jetting down the entrance to Cumberland Terrace) and there was a pungent smell of dung. I wonder what period marvel it was?

The ride is for Christian Aid, in memory of Helen, and you can find details on the “A Light in this World” section of their website.