A Story of Long Ago, and Not So Far Away

Posted on 15th June 2024 by The Navigator

The past is foreign country; they do things differently there.

L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between, 1953

The Navigator here again.

Long ago, in 1981 (that’s 43 years ago), we embarked on our first cycling tour, here in Norway. We’d been married 18 months, and we grabbed 6 weeks between jobs as we moved from Farnell in Angus to Tranent in East Lothian.

I was riding my brand-new Raleigh Silhouette 10-speed ‘Mixte’. It had cost £123 from King Street Bikes in Aberdeen, and boasted an amazing 10 speeds, 52/42T on the front, 14-28T on the back, with Positron shifters on the stem. She was a beautiful metallic pale green with white cabling. My first brand new bicycle. The Chronicler was riding a Carlton (remember that one, Kevin?) with similar gearing, though his had 11-32 on the back. The chap in the bike shop had made withering comments about ‘climbing trees’ with such a low gear. For those of you whose eyes have glazed over, this was gearing made for going fast on an empty bike, not grinding slowly up Norwegian hills on a loaded one.

I found this in Raleigh’s 1983 catalogue. Mine was a 1981 model.

Panniers were non-waterproof, porous, with zips. Our tent was a Vango Mk2, cotton inner, nylon outer, with a front A frame, and 15mm aluminium poles connected with springs. It also came with a plastic ‘A’ connector, that if misplaced rendered the tent usless. Our stove was a one-pint Primus which ran on paraffin. At one point we needed to acquire a ‘pricker’ for nozzle clearing, to discover the Norwegian word is ‘prikker’.

We wore cotton jeans. And cotton sweatshirts. And fabric trainers.

We took a train to Newcastle, with the bikes riding in the guard’s van, and a ferry from there to Stavanger. The fare was £13 return, and we were given a bunch of campsite vouchers too. We slept on loungers on the deck, until we were awoken by a very apologetic chap who was “very sorry but I must clean the deck”. At 5.30am.

We disembarked in Stavanger at five minutes after noon on Saturday, to find all the shops closed at midday, closed until Monday. Except that this was Whit weekend and Monday was a holiday. We did find some kind of kiosk where we could buy packet soup, dry crackers, and butter. Could have bought sealskins for skis and additives for flavouring neat alcohol… no snow, no hooch, no need.

The first two weeks we cycled around the south coast to Oslo. It rained persistently for those two weeks, and our inappropriate clothes, under ineffective waterproofs, were constantly wet. We inevitably bought the little blue wellies that everyone wore, and cycled in them.

Those little wellies are still available this morning. Black now.

We carried travellers’ cheques, and cashed them at the bank. Bought postcards and sent them home. Food was expensive, with a few exceptions. We ate a lot of bread, crackers, cheese and yogurt, porridge and pasta. Absolutely no alcohol.

The pannier zips broke, and had be fixed with needle and thread, and safety pins. The bike wheels developed wobbles. Chris crashed into a cow and bent his pedal crank; he bashed it back with a big stone and carried on.

In amongst all of this, we had a phenomenal time. We met up with our friend Rick, who was studying and working there and had some crazy times with him and his friends. Blagged our way into a midsummer’s festival claiming that all of us were Scots; perfecting that fine example of worldwide stereotyping of the mean Scot. Eating at a big table in a cabin with about 6 or 8 others while the conversation flowed in three languages – and not losing the thread. We picked blueberries and ate them with milk and sugar. We learned all about woodstoves. We ate brown cheese and fiskeboller. We visited the Frogner Park and its statues, the Viking ships, and the ‘Fram’. We drank one day’s budget on a terrifyingly expensive half litre beer on Karl Johan. We explored folkmuseums and Stavkirkes, and rode uncounted ferries. We left our bikes outside Oslo’s main railway station for several days, unlocked, and thought nothing of it. Nobody locked bikes.

We put our bikes in the care of Godsekspedition at Oslo Central Station, and met up with them again a day or two later up in the mountains. We navigated through tunnels, and diverted around them. We serendipitously came across Geirangerfjord, and made ourselves ill eating cherries in a valley where they were produced in abundance.

We slept on campsites, and we camped wild. We were eaten by mosquitoes. We got sunburned, soaked, and frozen. We pedalled through stunningly beautiful places.

I can remember names of places, but not how the couple of trains that we took linked them up. I do remember pushing my bike – a lot. And that it was unreliable when going downhill – with slightly out-of-true wheels, brakes would cause a wobble, then the frame would pick up a weird resonant frequency. Unless I was careful, I’d be thrown off. That issue was never to be resolved.

Arriving in a very soggy Bergen, and camping atop a mound while the lower parts of the campsite flooded. Watching as those with less foresight tried to dry sleeping bags with the hand dryers in the loos. (Loos with heated floors; that was new and enlightening). So smug were we.

Buying souvenirs with the last of our Norwegian kroner – a beautiful woollen blanket, which, when I recently got to thinking about it, was actually Mexican. Our Mexican souvenir of Norway.

We have no photos now of that journey – they were on 35mm slides which degraded. They were jettisoned into our wheelie bin, and in a night’s stormy wind were sucked out and ended up scattered the length of Haddington’s Market Street. The subject matter wasn’t terribly interesting either… mountains, more mountains, no people. And one complementary negative of a prospective king and his new bride in a gilded carriage with every spool of processed Agfa film. We do have our journals though, and they’ll make fascinating reading and fill in some gaps when we get home.

As we approached Newcastle, I remember a steward fiddling with a TV, trying to catch the BBC’s Royal Wedding coverage. We arrived back in the UK to find the country in paralysis, in total thrall, to that royal wedding and the delighted realisation that the trains were actually running, but the fares would be half price.

The past really is another place.

A Story from a Very Wet Day

Posted on 10th June 2024 by The Navigator

We knew it was coming, as it had been forecast for a few days. Unfortunately, timing and placement didn’t quite coincide to call a hotel rest day.

Things started out wet, with a downpour at daybreak. This meant that we had a wet tent to pack. The rain had a pause for a couple of hours until it began again as we took a break before a 20km section of ripio, or dirt road, through the forest. We’ve been roughly following EuroVelo 3, and this was the route indicated. We gave the dirt a go for 3 or 4km before deciding that 20km was going to take us 3 or 4 hours with deteriorating road surface conditions. So we bailed on to the tarmac. Faster, yes, but with intimidatingly noisy traffic on the wet road. Respectful traffic, but noisy.

Eyes in the fishing shelter. A cassowary perhaps?

We waited out one intense spell of rain in the shelter of a wooden fishing hut, then a few km later found a beautiful community shelter and camping area. Although we were only 8km from the hotel, we were going to arrive before check in time, so it was a great place to hang out, stay dry, eat lunch and admire the fabulous facility.

We waited out one intense spell of rain in the shelter of a wooden fishing hut, then a few km later found a beautiful community shelter and camping area. Although we were only 8km from the hotel, we were going to arrive before check in time, so it was a great place to hang out, stay dry, eat lunch and admire the fabulous facility.

The two sleeping shelters. Not our pic – credit to the Shelter app. It was raining, a lot.

Another view of the Shelter area, again from the app.

(Denmark has an extensive network of ‘Shelters’ where you can stay for the night. Generally wooden ‘lean-to’ style. Variable facilities, sometimes a long-drop, sometimes water, some in town, managed by the community, some in the forest. Some free, some a fee or donation. Some you can pitch your tent, too.)

Then it was time to take on those last few kilometres. There was a fully separated cycle path, but the traffic volume was increasing all the time. As things became more built up, I was fully expecting the path to be squeezed out the closer we got to town. It trundled on. We approached the first big, wide junction, controlled by traffic lights. Our path was still there, and we had our own lights. I watched with some trepidation the marching display at the intersection proceeded. We were at the far right of the road, going straight on. On our left, there was a lane of vehicles turning right, controlled by a filter light. As our light remained red, the filter turned green and this lane turned right in front of us. Then we got the green – and the right turn filter was still green. Sharp intake of breath. However, that lane magically stopped to give us priority to go straight on. Wow.

Further on, I could see roadworks, and two lanes of vehicles merging into one. Roadworks and rain. Joy. This is the place where a cycle lane is generally squeezed out – to make way for cars, or machinery, or a convenient place to dump piles of dirt. Nope. None of these. We trundled on, passing the cars slowed and stopped by the works. Wow, and wow again.

We reached the heart of downtown, and still our path continued. It finally delivered us to the door of our hotel, dripping wet, with no fuss whatsoever.

This cyclist, well used to fending for herself in a hostile world, is in awe.

Chapeau, Aalborg.

Three Years

Posted on 30th March 2023 by The Navigator

Three years. Three years since the ‘beforetimes’. Three years since we fled from Portugal, abandoning our journey as borders closed behind us. We both retired from work at the end of 2018, so we didn’t really have much time to get a handle on what that was going to mean for us before our world, like everyone else’s, was upended and our lives put on hold. We’ve been doing other things in the meantime, for sure, dabbling, exploring new places in our own home countries, learning new things and trying out different lifestyles. Looking back at this website, those three years have elicited only seven posts; I guess not much really settled for long enough – or we were lazy in thinking and posting. Being unsettled can do that. Whatever. But we’ve stepped back on to the road, returned to where we left off to continue our interrupted journey. It’s time to knuckle down. Time to re-tackle a project.

On the surface, most things seem to have returned to the way they were pre-Covid. The masks have pretty well gone, the roads are as crowded as ever, and few countries are still requiring Covid testing or vaccination certificates. Below the surface, though, much has changed. We’ve been shocked at how much our confidence has been knocked after so long away from long-term travelling. And how the rules have changed; familiar countries are suffering unrest and it’s no longer deemed advisable to travel there. Chris’ new passport is black, our European Health Insurance cards have become something different, and we collected an entry stamp in Faro – our first European passport stamp since Bergen in 1981. Covid masked some fundamental changes; that open-ended European journey we started in 2020 cannot now be completed in one spell. We can only remain in Europe – in the Schengen Zone – for 90 days within each 180 day period. And no, there isn’t any way of extending that.

But – enough of that! We’re so very happy to be on the road again.

It’s always good to know that the bikes are aboard!

Journeys, Bicycles, and Winter in Scotland

Posted on 6th December 2021 by The Navigator

We’ve been rattling around the UK a fair bit since the start of October. We started with a bus journey from our home in Haddington, East Lothian, to Alyth in Perthshire, for a week of housesitting. Home for a couple of days, then another bus to Carlisle in Cumbria, where we spent a few days exploring. Thereafter, the train to Rugby in Warwickshire to meet up with John for a week on his narrowboat on the Oxford Canal. Then there was another rail journey back north to Stockport, Manchester for a house-sit. Next, we travelled by bicycle back to Oxford for another sit, and thence to the environs of Bath in Somerset for another, also by bike. The journey home was somewhat complicated by Storm Arwen, but involved bike, train and bus, and an unscheduled overnight stop. Three nights at home, and we were on the road again, on the bus to Tain, in Ross-shire.

It’s all very different to the kind of journeys we’ve been undertaking up to the beginning of last year. But they are journeys nonetheless. We’ve visited new places, met new friends, experienced different ways of living – and culture shock – all within this crowded little island we call home.

Throughout this journey, we’ve had our Brompton folding bicycles with us. In theory it is possible to take normal bicycles on trains in the UK, and in some instances, on buses too. The reality is more complicated, requiring a good deal of planning, booking and angst. Having a booking doesn’t mean that the appointed bike spaces won’t be stuffed with luggage or bodies, or that your standard-sized bike will actually fit into that space. We decided to avoid as much angst as possible by using the Bromptons, which fold up to the size of a medium suitcase and can be taken aboard trains and buses as such. Folded, they fit neatly into IKEA’s ‘Dimpa’ bags, reducing the chance of officialdom taking exception to them, and allowing us to take them with us into hotel rooms without leaving mucky evidence.

Crosscountry Trains bike storage. No-one else was using it, and the tiny designated luggage area was full. Oh, yes – and we were standing beside them because the seats were pretty full too.

The wee bikes give us tremendous freedom; we can ride between destinations, or we can take a bus or train. If we run out of time when riding, we can bail on to public transport. They expand our horizons, allowing us to explore further afield from our sit location, or to accept sits where a car would otherwise be required.

The bikes joining us for coffee in Abingdon.

They’re not touring bikes – 80km days would not be fun. But for the short days of the Scottish winter, they’re a great option.

We’re not camping right now, so we’re not carrying camping kit. Winter camping has its place, but for us, for now, not what we want to do. Sunset tonight is 15:31; sunrise tomorrow is 08:44. It’s not the cold that’s the issue, it’s the long, long nights.

So, hotels it is, and a whole different adventure. Where once we would have sought out hostels for sociability and self-catering, these bonuses have disappeared due to the restrictions of life right now. As we’re past the age when shared dorms were a fun idea, we’ve discovered that we can be far more comfortable at a lower price in a hotel. It’s fun to find the old, small-town places when we can; when all else fails, the Travelodge is generally there. Occasionally we pick up something really cool, like the Royal Highland Hotel in Inverness, that fine Victorian pile at the railway station. At £34, cheaper than the SYHA hostel and the Travelodge, and they gave us free Wi-Fi. Just don’t try and find a room in a fashionable city on a Christmas Market weekend; prices are 5 or 6 times that – including the Youth Hostel. Yup.

The George Hotel, Burslem, Stoke on Trent. The AA ‘Approved’ rating was a long time ago.

The atrium in The Royal Highland Hotel, Inverness.

On Housesitting and Oven Gloves

Posted on 18th November 2021 by The Navigator

In our cynical world, housesitting as we are doing it might look like a seriously offbeat occupation. Anti-capitalist, subversive perhaps.

“What do you mean? You go into someone’s home, they’ve never met you before, and a short while later they go away and leave you in charge of their most precious possessions – their home and their pets? In some cases, you might not even meet the homeowner? And they don’t pay you? Isn’t that dangerous? Weird? A rip-off? How can that work? ”

How can it work? Exchange and trust.

The home and pet owner has their home and their pets cared for. They have peace of mind, knowing that their pets are safe in their own environment, and their home is not unoccupied while they are away. I’ve just been checking the prices for boarding dogs and cats; from what I can see, boarding for two dogs in kennels runs from £50 to £100 per day, depending on the season and the size of the dogs. For two cats, the price is about £25 per day. Additionally, insurance companies are becoming increasingly sticky about ‘unoccupied’ homes, meaning that the homeowner may need to arrange for someone to check on the house, too. The cost to the home and pet owner of using a Housesitter? Trusting someone with their home and pets.

As sitters, we get or stay in comfortable homes in new and interesting places; a week, two weeks, or more, getting to know a new area. The AirBnB cost of similar accommodation starts at around £100 per night. The cost to us of being Housesitters? A little of our time to care for both home and pets, and honouring the trust that has been placed in us.

We meet new people and make new friends. We get the loan of, and the company of some amazing animals. And it sure beats camping in the long, dark winter nights in the UK.

We’re continually humbled by the level of trust placed in us by the folk we meet. It reinforces our well-travelled observation that 99.99% of folk we meet are good folk, and want to be seen as such.

But isn’t it a bit weird, staying in someone’s home when they’re not there? Initially, maybe, but once you get used to the idea, it’s fascinating. Absolutely without judgement, you can step into someone else’s life and try it out. You can see how other people manage day to day tasks, how they organise their homes. You can enjoy their art, read their books, try out new equipment (thinking pizza ovens and wood-fired hot tubs). Occasionally, you can steal an idea (infrared heating panels, pans with detachable handles).

We have great fun examining the layout of different homes, figuring out the alterations that have been made and wondering how we would live there if it were ours.

Every home is different, and we get to figure out the oven and hob, the heating and shower, the bins and recycling each time. Every homeowner is different, too. Some cook, some don’t, some are gardeners, some aren’t. There are quirks that need to be managed – turning on the pump to clear the flooded garden; watering precious citrus trees, not walking the dogs.

Sometimes it can be challenging; to find a pot that doesn’t burn the contents, to locate the scissors to open a package, to find a knife that’s sharp. To discover that there’s no way of making coffee in a tea-drinking household, or to know that there must be a corkscrew somewhere but not be able to find it. Some challenges are of our own making. Because we read a lot, we like decent task lighting; this can be difficult if a homeowner prefers soft mood lighting. And I will swear that not a single home has functional oven gloves that will allow a body to hold a hot dish with both hands for more than 5 seconds. Just saying’.

For us, it’s an honour and a privilege.

Tentative Steps

Posted on 14th November 2021 by The Navigator

”The happiest people don’t have the best of everything, they just make the best of everything.”

Sometimes, though, it can be tough to see the ‘best’. 20 months in, and still a long way to go, I’m still struggling at times with these new constraints. From a world that was as wide as my imagination and ambition to the limits now imposed by the pandemic and politics, by COVID and Brexit.

When lockdown started in March last year, it was a novel challenge to ‘make the best of’. My introvert self was actually quite happy to stay put for a while, make lists, get things done, learn new skills, catch up with friends and family via Zoom. We’re fortunate to live in a small town surrounded by plenty of wide open space for walks and rides, and I loved my (very) early morning rides around the county. We even got to grips with a few issues that we’d put off for a long time because we were either working or travelling; Chris had his worsening cataracts fixed, and I had surgery on both feet to remove increasingly painful neuromas.

Spring arrived, vaccinations were gratefully received, and things began to relax just a little. How to make the best of this? We weren’t ready to embark on international travels, but after a great deal of thought we reckoned that a few pet-sitting gigs would help us start to venture a little further. We’d done a number of pet and house sits back in 2019, and loved the ethos of the whole set-up. The home owners have their home and pets looked after whilst we score free accommodation in interesting places in return for looking after said home and pets. No money changes hands, and it’s all organised on a trust basis with reviews and feedback via the website.

When we first joined up, we thought that it would be something that would fit well with our long-distance bike touring; a while on the road, interspersed with a week or two in one place to look after home and pets. As the long-distance touring is off the table just now – at least in the way we were doing it – we’ve been organising ‘sits’ in the UK. We use bike, bus or train to get to the location, and to travel from one to another.

It’s a different lifestyle, interesting, challenging, and rewarding. We’ve met some wonderful people, we’ve made new friends. We’ve learned new skills, stayed in lovely homes, pottered in several gardens. We’ve had the chance to step into a part someone else’s life for a little while. We’ve been charged with the care of all kinds of pets, from fish and hamsters to Irish Wolfhounds and ex-racehorses. Not to mention the orange and lemon trees. We’ve learned the flexibility of travelling with our Brompton folding bikes, and have now got them well set up to carry the small amount of stuff we need to take with us. We’ve explored places that were completely new to us, and others that we’ve got to know much better.

We’d love to recover the freedom of our previous lives. Meanwhile, we’re thankful for what we can do, and we’re doing our best to “make the best of what happens”.

‘Trusted Housesitters’ is the site that we use. If you’re interested, you can get discounted membership here, and we get a couple of free months of membership if you join.

Women and Cycling Clothes

Posted on 13th March 2021 by The Navigator

I was reading a blogpost by Sam B at Fit is a Feminist Issue, (recommended) about why she doesn’t see more big women on road bikes, and my attention was caught by the line:

“There are worries about … being seen in cycling clothes.”

Sam, it’s not just big women who worry about this. I would venture that there are many, many women who would love to ride a bike, but are discouraged because they think that ‘cycling clothes’ are part of the deal. I’ve been pondering this for a few days as I pedal my early morning circuit – without conventional ‘cycling clothes’. This is by way of a rather long comment on that post.

I’m Lesley, I’m 63, and I ride bikes. I’m not a racing greyhound. In pre-COVID times, as you can see from the stories in this blog, I rode many long-distance tours, 6 months or more at a time, camping and carrying all my gear. At the moment, it’s daily local rides. I don’t do lycra.

How did this lycra style of clothing come about? I think it came about because that’s what the male bike racing community wore. So anyone who aspired to be – or to look like – a bike racer started to copy the style. Then women started to do the same thing. Manufacturers have slowly started to adapt the lycra look to styles and colours aimed at women. It’s got to the stage that you aren’t seen as ‘serious’ unless you wear the uniform.

But wait a mo. Has anyone stopped to think that there may be other ways to dress while riding a bike? Clothes that might actually work at least as well, or better, than the lycra look – and be more comfortable for both body and spirit?

Lycra cycling clothing is clingy, revealing and synthetic for the most part. If there’s anything a woman of a certain age doesn’t need, it’s clingy, revealing and synthetic clothes. Yes, I know it’s meant to be breathable and wicking, but at the end of the day – and partway through the day – it’s sweaty and stinky. Unless you’re built like a racing greyhound, it’s unflattering, too.

When I’m out on my bike, I want to look neat and stylish; I want to be comfortable, both physically and mentally, on the bike and off. I want to wear clothes that flatter me. Perhaps most importantly, the clothes have to be functional; they need to keep me warm or cool, keep my dry in the rain and protected from the sun. And I really don’t want to look like I came from Planet Zog.

Over the years I have tried all sorts of combinations, and have finally come to a style that suits me. I’m sharing it to encourage others to think about other ways of dressing to ride your bike. If, in doing that, it means that more women will realise that lycra is not compulsory when riding a bike, brilliant!

From the base:

I wear a normal, properly fitted, underwired bra. In my experience, sports bras have a band that rolls up under my boobs and a style that pushes the girls together so there is a sweaty pit in between. Getting them on and off often requires the skills of a contortionist or the aid of an assistant.

I don’t wear padded shorts or knickers. I’ve found a saddle that works for me so that I don’t need them.

Most of the time, I wear regular cropped leggings that come to just below the knee; it’s the length that suits me best. I can pick them up for a few pounds at Aldi, the local discount supermarket. OK, maybe a touch of lycra here. When it’s cold, I add some full-length merino leggings over the top.

On top is a riding shirt of my own design. It starts out as a man’s no-iron cotton shirt from the thrift store. I adjust it to fit my shape, putting in some feminine curves, and shape the hem. I cut the collar down so it’s a simple stand-up. It’s long enough to cover my butt, and keep things modest; the sleeves are long and the collar is high to keep the sun off. It doesn’t cling, and dries quickly.

When required, I can add a merino vest underneath and a merino sweater on top. It doesn’t have to be technical – Costco do a great line in merino sweaters from time to time.

I don’t clip in. I use Powerstraps to keep my feet in place on the pedals, and I wear regular GoreTex lined leather walking shoes. I never quite figured the art of ‘pulling up’ on the pedals.

There you have it. Add waterproof jacket, leggings, gloves, scarf, hat, as required. I have pedalled tens of thousands of kilometres dressed like this. I’ve climbed to almost 5,000m in the Andes, ridden through high temperatures and humidities, and pedalled to work. It’s easy to take care of, the lycra doesn’t disintegrate, it isn’t stinky at the end of the day and it is easy to wash and dry. It works for me.

This is my opinion; other opinions are valid. Find your own style, and rock it and enjoy riding your bike!

Quilts of Covid X

Posted on 20th September 2020 by The Navigator

We’ve been at home in Scotland since we returned rather abruptly from Portugal in mid-March. We haven’t been travelling since then; we’ve been keeping our heads down, staying very local, and getting to grips with a lot of new projects. This is the story of one of them.

I made this quilt for the chaise in our sitting room. The chaise, a gift from Isobel, is beautiful, but it has a hard back rail in need of some padding. The fabrics in the stash were unpromising – a little dull, formal perhaps. And definitely not normal quilt stuff, being wool-type fabrics for the most. I tried a sample block – then another, and another. Slowly, it became something quite different. And the quilt’s story has been expanding in my head as the quilt itself has grown.

I’m not a quilter. I’m a sewing meddler. I do a bit of dressmaking, usually altering an existing garment, or unpicking and re-making as something else. My first quilt came about in May 2020 through a combination of lockdown and a large stash of fabric scraps.

This is the second (fabric) quilt I have created. Quilts of Covid II to IX are mostly barn quilts, and that is another story. Many stories are sewn into Quilt X. I shall find a way of physically attaching the stories to the quilt – somehow!

The main creation and assembly was done using Flora, my Singer 99K sewing machine. Made in Clydebank, Scotland, in 1952, she’s older than me. She’s been with me since 1971, and together we have tackled hundreds of projects, from silk christening gowns to canvas tents.

That table I work at is a huge dining table, Victorian, inherited from Isobel when she moved to a smaller house where there wasn’t room for it. It fits perfectly in what I call ‘The Atelier”, and has become the focus for all kinds of projects. For the first time ever, I can cut stuff out on the table instead of on the floor.

All the fabrics came from ‘the stash’.

The small pattern ‘Black Watch’ tartan was given to me by Barbara, left over from one of her projects. About 1995.

The grey and green fabrics were given by Janice when she moved back to New Zealand a couple of years ago; I suspect they’d been in her stash for some time, too.

I bought a bag of Harris Tweed offcuts in Oban when we stayed there last year to pet-sit for two beautiful Husky/Wolf dogs. The offcuts proved perfect for the effect I was aiming for. I was given a couple of the iconic labels for my finished projects, and one is attached to the front of the quilt.

The bright ‘windows’ come from some material I bought to make sofa covers, maybe 15 years ago; it wasn’t tough enough for that, so has been lurking in the cupboard ever since.

The backing – well! I bought this in Montrose when I was newly married, in 1980, to make curtains. They were never made; then we moved to a house that already had curtains, and there wasn’t enough material to cover the 3m drop anyway. Some of it got made into duvet covers, and I used some last year to make covers for the chaise. This was the last piece, and there was only just enough – I had to patch two pieces together to complete the job. Only the tiniest offcut remains.

The binding was made from my last pair of uniform cargo pants from my job at Historic Scotland before I retired in 2018. The strips were carefully cut to avoid the worn patches on the knees (weeding) and the seat (cycling to work). I couldn’t resist attaching the little logo alongside the label.

The batting or wadding came from Sandra, who is an experienced quilter; when she heard I was having a go at making my first quilt, she sent me a bale. It’s been enough for both quilts, and had the advantage of reducing her own stash before she moved back home to Australia in July 2020.

I was given the gold embroidery silk used in the label by Isobel who had inherited a big stash of silks from family members.

The design is known as “Log Cabin”. Those bright windows at the centre of each block are said to represent the heart, or the home.

After the main assembly was done with Flora, the Singer, I hand-quilted the whole piece, securing the top to the batting and backing. Quilting thread was my only purchase for this project – from Laura, at Fabrication in Haddington. The binding was also finished by hand, while sitting in the sun in St. Mary’s Pleasance in Haddington. The label is my own unskilled embroidery on a patch of those cargo pants.

The project was accompanied by audiobooks; principally Ailsa Piper’s ‘Sinning Across Spain’, read by Ailsa herself, and her book of correspondence with her friend Tony Doherty: ‘The Attachment’, read by both of them. Both wonderful books, and they are permanently stitched in to the fabric of this quilt along with so many other memories.

Haddington, September 2020.

Carretera Austral

Posted on 31st January 2019 by The Navigator

That legendary road. Everyone responded ‘How lovely!’ Or ‘Beautiful’ when we responded to their questions as to where we were headed. So – we were looking forward to this bit.

As we approached the mainland again on the ferry, we started to see mountains and snow – we were definitely entering a different zone. In glorious sunshine, we rolled the short distance from the ferry dock into Chaitén. A tiny place, with wide streets and low houses, sea on one side, mountains on the others. Our campground was in the garden of one of these wee houses. Reinforcing the difference was the number of overlanders and touring cyclists in town – 6 cyclists in our campground, more scattered around town in hostals and other backyard camping spots.

Picking up some petrol for the stove from the Copec gas station the following morning, the attendant didn’t blink, filling up our MSR bottle to the requisite level. He’s done it many times.

And off we went. A wide, smooth, paved road, with wide shoulders. And next to no traffic – 4 vehicles per hour until about 11am, then maybe one per km after that. That’s the sum of vehicles from both directions. We got to feeeling that this was a very special cycle path, which allowed occasional motorised vehicles. And many cyclists. A nice feeeling not to be the only oddballs on the road. And what is really different is that these cyclists are not just Europeans – a large majority are locals from Chile and Argentina. The whole tourist infrastructure acknowledges the cyclist’s presence, from shops that sell small amounts – 2 eggs, 30ml tubes of toothpaste – to the large number of little tenting campsites.

Carlos from Colombia – he and his brother Christian are streeet performers – travelling with a unicycle, amongst other equipment.

And yes, it feels just like you’re pedalling through a National Geographic article. The wide and spectacular views change by the moment. There are shades of Norway in the steep mountains, of New Zealand in the heavily wooded slopes, of the Alaska Highway without the bears and mosquitoes. But mostly, it is like nothing else, with huge natural forests of cedar and southern beech.

The wide and smooth was interrupted in a few places where the asphalt hadn’t reached – areas prone to landslides, and steep and winding sections. The ripio is generally fine, and well maintained; no trouble at all, except for the loose material on the curves… so the series of hairpin bends on a very steep section caused us to have to push. Even keeeping one’s footing on the steep bends was a challenge. There was much swearing.

It didn’t help that we tackled this section at the end of the day, after 70km and a significant amount of climbing. You know how it goes: do it now, it’s just a hill, get over it. Peak heat, peak traffic, peak dust, peak flies, tired. And a gap in campground provision at the end, so a wild camp with a bucket wash to wipe off the worst of the dust. Then, glorious asphalt again.

To Chiloé

Posted on 24th January 2019 by The Navigator

There was a difficult choice at Puerto Montt – to take Ruta 7 from the start on the mainland, or to take a ferry across to the island of Chiloé, go to the other end and take another ferry to Chaitén, back on the mainland, 200km after the start of R7. The Chiloé route won on the promise of some different indigenous culture and the avoidance of a significant stretch of ripio – unpaved road.

The island is attractive, with rather less cultivation than we’d beeen seeing. Plenty of southern beech forest, and land looking like ‘less favoured areas’ of Scotland. The tourist board has obviously been selling the line hard; sadly, we found little in the way of the promised indigenous culture. Perhaps it reappears around 15th January with the main flush of tourists. The campgrounds were open, but we were still generally alone.

Spectacular sculpture on the approach to the Chiloé ferrry

This was a first – a full car space just for our two bicycles

Unexpected stickers on a Chilean vehicle!

A brilliant day depends more on your attitude than on the sun 🙂

Ferry slips we have known… This one was particularly interesting because there was no queueing system, nor was there any space for vehicles to wait, other than in random roadside parking spots nearby. The ferry is not a roll-on, roll-off – trucks had to be reversed on, and smaller vehicles had to be turned on the deck. Much innocent amusement was afforded.

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