The Pub At The Top Of The Hill - Calley Arms
After my first puncture messing up the first bike ride with the Pink Lady, the subsequent rides was somewhat more successful.
To be honest, it could not have been much worse!
We decided, correction, The Pink Lady, decided we would take a ride out to a gardening centre. That worried me a little. It was not so much the bike ride itself, but the memory which flashed through to Fitrambler brain; the Pink lady had taken a look at the Fitrambler garden recently – commonly known as the Fitrambler jungle.
Some have suggested I put a sign up at the back saying:
‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here!’
Legend has it Boy Scouts have been known to get lost in there on bob a job week! Of course, as with all legends, it starts with something simple and then is blown out of all proportion – I once found what looked like a boy scout cap…
Anyway, back to the bike ride…
‘It’s a lovely day and I need a few bits and pieces,’ said she.
‘You need a few bits and pieces.’ Said I.
‘Yes, and it’ll be a nice bike ride,’ the Pink Lady.
‘So, we’re going out for a bike ride to a gardening centre to get things for your garden, purely for yours?’ I repeated.
‘Something wrong with your ears, Fitrambler, that’s what I said.’
‘No, no, not at all. Absolutely, damn good idea.’
I was alright with that, long as she had not got it into her head to encourage me to spend money on the Fitrambler jungle. One likes to know the parameters once is working to. Besides, spending good money on the damn garden is bad enough but the bloody work that leads to. Well…
‘I’ve set our dinner going so that it’ll be ready when we get back…’
On hearing that the saliva glands began to work overtime. I tried to think of a way I could forgo the bike right and get to the dinner bit very quickly…
‘Are you ready, Freddie?’ she asked, and I straight away knew I would not get away with any excuse not to go on the bike ride, not if I wanted to stuff the old chops later.
Not that I did not want to go on the bike ride, but the thought of a Pink Lady dinner was distracting me somewhat!
Anyway, bikes out and helmets on, we were off, with, as usual, the Pink Lady leading the way.
What I did not realise was that we were not taking a direct route! This would be something which would become common over time, me confusing what was exactly happening…
We cycled to Old Town, from Toothill via the old railway line, through the back of Coate Water and up towards Hodson.
I sort of recognised the route or at least have travelled parts of it before in a car. How the direction fitted in with our journey to the Garden Centre I did not know. But these were early days of bike rides with The Pink Lady and I trusted her to lead the way.
To be honest, my sense of direction is not always perfect. Unless there’s a decent and sensible landmark. You know the sort of thing, pub, book shop, or a good place for a scoff, then I have a little difficulty. Also, in the last twenty years I had mainly gone places in cars…
What I should have remembered, though, was there’s a bloody great hill Hodson way. But as I said, only ever done the journey in a car and usually hills are not all that much of a problem in a car.
What I did remember was there were at least half a dozen times when I drank in there. First time when I got my first car and drove out there with Neatentidy, and then several times with Blameworthy. I think it was one visit with Blameworthy when I got one of my few 180’s at darts. History in the making.
Anyway, we obviously start at the bottom and as things go on, the Pink Lady gets further and further ahead and I start to slow down. Let’s face it, the Pink Lady has been cycling most of her life – almost came out of the womb with a bike attached. Me, I gave up around sixteen and only began again at 49. I just did not have her level of fitness.
Since I bought the new bike, I only used a few gears, having previously been used to around three gears on my bikes. On this hill I found myself getting right down to the lowest gear and still bloody struggling.
It got to a point where I felt I was going sideways, quite dangerous with the occasional oncoming car. It’s that sudden look of fear as they come round the corner and you are almost on their bonnet; a look that says ‘I think I just crapped myself!’
Fortunately, from my point of view, the sight of the oncoming car gave me a momentary burst of adrenalin and I managed to get over to my side of the road before having an impromptu flying lesson!
Unfortunately, this sudden energy burst did not last and I ended up getting off and walking, which was not much easier as most of my reserves of energy had been used trying to cycle up the bloody hill.
By this time my lungs were pounding like set of electric bellows which were on overload!
Finally, and what to me seemed hours later, but was probably only ten minutes later, I am approaching the top and there’s the Pink Lady leaning on her bike looking quite relaxed and smiling.
Now I am sure that the smiling was just a sign of friendliness but how I felt at that precise moment, combined with what I had just gone through, made me a tad suspicious that she was being smug.
When I eventually found enough breath to be able to speak, I explained:
‘Had..to..get..off..to..get..up..the..hill, couldn’t…peddle…any further.’
The Pink Lady asked: ‘Why didn’t you use the gears?’
I paused, fighting the urge to say: ‘because I didn’t have any ****ing gears left!’
After all, it was not her fault I was in the state I was, well, not entirely, anyway. Instead I looked across at the pub.
‘Been in there,’ I changed the subject, still sounding like a heavy breather on an obscene telephone call.
‘Do you want to go in.’
‘No. Best not.’
It was tempting, so very tempting but there were several reasons for my sudden bout of willpower. The first was that if I got inside she would have to drag me back out again. After what I just went through to get up the hill my enthusiasm for cycling had taken something of a bruising.
Secondly, I did not have enough money on me to pay for a round; or even just one for me!
I got about five minutes rest before we were off again and I was trying to keep up with the Pink Lady again.
Beautiful To Look At, A Long Way To Go!
That day I got to see the Pink Lady’s jean-covered arse more than her face as I followed it through the country roads. There are many worse things in life but it would have been nice to have narrowed the gap to less that three hundred yards!
But it was a lovely day; impending heart attack to one side.
Luckily, it was only a short upward ascension before we travelled down a very steep hill. This was a hill leading into more familiar territory, Wroughton.
Ah, good old Blameworthy and I walked to that village many a time in those days, trying to slate our thirst with beer…
I just caught the Pink Lady turn left at the end from my vast distance behind her. I did the same.
If nothing else, the ride down the hill at speed rested me a little and dried the sweat which previously was pouring out of every pore, so to speak.
This hill, although a lot easier, was a little frightening. I was going at a hell of a rate of knots and relying heavily of the breaks on the bike.
A few minutes later we were going up another hill before going off in the general direction of where the Pink Lady lived. A puzzle as I thought we were heading to the Garden Centre; wherever that was?
As it turned out we had gone in a wide circle in order to go away from the garden centre then curve back round to be back on track. It was at this point I should have begun to get a little more inquisitive, shall we say, about what routes we were taking; something I would attempt in future.
There were several more hills (not on the scale of the Hodson one, thankfully) before we finally arrive at the Garden Centre and the Pink Lady decides it might be an idea to have a cup of tea or coffee?
A cup? The distance I travelled and the effort I put in I wanted a bucket of coffee!
My keenest on cycling was depreciated a little on this first ride, especially the hill bit. I did try an tell myself I needed to get my fitness up a lot more and I would sail up the hills – or at least that was the opinion of the Pink Lady!
Hmm?
That hill, the one at Hodson, was not going to be the last one or indeed the last time I would have to try and cycle up it.
A week or so later we took a ride out towards the Village in at the top of Liddington. We began the journey from the Pink Lady’s house, where she was working on the meal we would have on our return. I can think of no better incentive for a bike ride than the prospect of a Pink Lady cooked meal at the end of it…
Fitrambler in paradise!
This time it felt a lot more civilized as I seemed better prepared for the hills; to be honest, I do not think they were any where as bad or twisty. I think it was the twisty-thing that did for me on the Hodson hill. There’s no real way to take a run at (or should that be a ride at it?) and get up a bit of speed. Whereas, going to Liddington that option was there.
The Pink Lady still remained ahead for the most part but I consoled myself with the fact I was being gentlemanly; you know, ladies first and all that.
We dropped off at the Village Inn at Liddington but the place was closed, which was bad news. Not happy with that at all, really bad form.
How Dare The Pub Not Be Open - The Village Inn.
So after a five or ten minute rest, where, for a few minutes of that rest, it spotted a little with rain, we moved on. Within half a mile the sun peeped out from behind the clouds.
Onwards we went, to our next port of call which was Wanborough. This time our (my) luck was in and the Calley Arms was open.
Time for a snifter!
Once we double locked our bikes up in the car park, we moved round to the front entrance. Never been much of one for the back entrance, not in my nature…
Up against the wall was an old rusting bike which the Pink Lady took a liking to. Out came the phone and she took a picture of it. I was not quite sure what the interest was but I was getting a little impatient for my ale.
I mean, be fair, the bike had been rotting away there for years, no reason why she could not have taken the photo on the way out? Still, that’s women for you. What they want you have to do now, what you want can wait a while!
Not A Bad Drop Of Beer And Much Needed - The Other Calley Arms.
Anyway, once inside I managed to get away with two drinks before we were on our way. To be honest, I did not want too many because of the journey home. Although a fine and sunny day, it was quite windy on some of the country roads.
Well, too many beers and there’s a pressing need to drain the old python; and having a crafty pee near a bush or something with a wind that might change direction at any minute; bit risky. It’s bad as a wet fart in white trousers! Not good for the image!
If I remember correctly, that ride was about 25 miles, which I did not discover until we got back to the Pink Lady’s house. She has a Speedo-come milometer on her bike; oddly enough in pink.
Made me feel rather good, cycling all that way. Of course what made me feel far, far better was sitting down to the Sunday roast the Pink Lady had cooked…
The rides during that Summer often began from the Pink Lady’s house or the canal bridge. And quite a few ended with dinner or lunch (and a pudding, no less) at the Pink Lady residence…
A Fitrambler cannot ask for more in life…well this one can’t!
TELLING TALES 
Achtung Bono would certainly get my vote for the best album cover of all time. Achtung Bob would have been funnier though, with a track entitled ‘Capering On The Wrong Grave’.
It won’t be as good as Achtung Bono – nothing (except Robert Robinson) is.
It’s not all bad news though. Young Blameworthy Junior has just rushed down the stairs to inform me there’s a new Half Man Half Biscuit album out on September 26th. It’s called 90 Bisodol (Crimond) and includes the tracks: Something’s Rotten In The Back Of Iceland; Tommy Walsh’s Eco House; Descent Of The Stiperstones; Excavating Rita and The Coroner’s Footnote.
I’ve never been an avid Coronation Street viewer but the plots have become so absurd of late that I can’t watch without getting angry.
As for Doctor Who, I loved it as a child and enjoyed many of the newer episodes. I just feel that the absurd, almost abstract complexity of the plotting has lost me
Bob – with his florid speech and slightly peppery temperament – would have made a great Doctor. Not as unlikely an idea as it might sound, either; Bob worked as an actor in the 1950s and 1960s. He was in a play with John Osborne and Jill Bennett.
‘But what puzzles me,’ I can imagine Bob saying to Davros, ‘is why that business with the Daleks and stairs didn’t cross the mind of an intelligent chap like you at the design stage.’
Was there any particular character, or storyline, that caused you to finally lose patience with Coronation Street? I’m surprised you ever bothered with Doctor Who in the first place. Robert Robinson would have made a good Doctor though. Could have taught those aliens a thing or two.
In the meantime, I feel the need to mark another key milestone: this was the week I finally lost any patience with two TV shows I have been watching since childhood. Coronation Street and Doctor Who. I am sadder about the decline of the latter, of course, but both have been part of the furniture forever and are to be no longer.
I thought you said he’d been cremated.
Oh, how I long for Mrs. Gowithit…
To bring us back to reality with her misspellings and suchlike…
It might surprise you, but it is easy to establish ones superiority over one who dances – nay, capers – on the grave of Robert Robinson
I understand it perfectly GloomLaden; it’s all about the desperate need to feel superior. Which is actually quite funny in itself. If you understand what I mean.
Bob didn’t tell jokes, he was witty. It’s the sort of distinction you’ve never understood, being happier with the proletarian gag. Wit, like literature, is about observation of human eccentricity and the channeling of wisdom and character through anecdote(or plot, in the literary instance). Jokes are about fat, red faced vulgarians laboriously setting up for punchlines from which the only fun to be derived is in their anticipation. When Bob says ‘The thing about proverbs is that they’re always proffered after the fact: no-one tells you to look before you leap until you’ve leapt.’ it is funny, well put and true. When some bloke in a pub tells a joke – ‘The other day I had a ploughman’s lunch. The ploughman was furious.’ it is a crass pun which closes down, rather than opening, futther discussion.
I wasn’t suggesting the joke was a Pratchett original. It goes way back beyond Campbell Bannerman and probably cropped up regularly during drunken conversations between George III and the Earl of Bute. When was joke telling ever about being genuinely funny? I’m sure even the remains of the Pratchett mind would be capable of producing thoughts far more original than St. Bob ever managed during a whole career. Bob merely regurgitated the sort of dull, tweedily predictable utterances which his followers expected of him.
Come along, Blameworthy, you know as well as I do that somebody somewhere was doing that ‘make it snappy’ gag back when Campbell Bannerman was Prime Minister. Pratchett puts some feeble spin on the gag, but didn’t originate it.
And I don’t think even Pratchett would assert his claim to literary greatness. He would make the all too common mistake of ranking number of satisfied customers above the quality of achievement. Besides, he doubtless has other things on what little is left of his mind.
Now, SIR Terry Pratchett (knighted for services to literature) was a man who wasn’t ashamed to use old jokes in his excellent novels. When the character of DEATH is told he ought to get a proper job, he goes to work in a fast-food takeaway. A clever-clogs young man comes in and says ‘Get me a crocodile burger, and make it snappy’. DEATH swiftly serves him the burger with a genuine small, live crocodile inside. Being DEATH you would expect him to take everything literally, but you also get the impression that, unlike Fitrambler, he was joking, and did intend it as a means of comeuppance to teach the man not to be dumb enough to repeat appallingly old jokes.
SIR Terry (knighted for services to literature) is a man who really made the most of his talents and achieved great things. Unlike Robert Robinson, who was only admired by a small band of smug, pompous, pseudo-intellectual recluses, SIR Terry (KFSTL) has millions of fans worldwide. All those discerning literary buffs couldn’t possibly be wrong now, could they? So eat your heart out Bob, if you’re still capable.
I always felt that Alan Titchmarsh had great potential as an English novelist but he has yet to fully develop it. He is still a young man though, and may still be capable of writing a truly classic novel. If only he wasn’t so preoccupied with all that gardening malarkey.
Thought I didn’t; probably a little drunk then. Often was in those days. Ah, yes, happy days….