the best and worst of the morning traffic. The last couple of days have been as fine as they were unexpected, but I gather it’s all back to normal tomorrow. The local petrol-head show has been cancelled, due no doubt to somewhat soft conditions underfoot before dozens of classic cars and other rusty, oily machines go on display. I quite like the idea of a fleet of tractors being needed to haul them all out the field, along with those that want to spend the day peering in windscreens and under bonnets.
Meanwhile The Grasshopper’s been battling slowly up the hills between the hedgerows, cranking along to the accompaniment of skylarks overhead and a distant great tit. It makes such a difference to be out without headwinds or gales,; the morning songs bringing cheer to even an old wheezy heart of stone.
But three traffic related encounters stick in the mind. The first involved a transit van, emerging from a gate. He paused to check the traffic then emerged. Then he stopped fully across the road, needing such space to allow his trailer of junk to clear the gates so they could be closed behind him. So the old man on the ‘bent had to stop and dismount, and wait.
sorry about that, came the mutterings. How much more high viz yellow, how much bigger a flag do I need, wondered I. Would he have stopped for another transit?
Then there was the tractor, towing a tank of diesel. He came up behind, struggling uphill was I, nowhere to go, not even a passing place. But I hugged the edge and he nudged into the soft muddy verge on the other side, giving room a-plenty, and off we all went, the tractor somewhat quicker than the ‘hopper.
Next up was the shiny black SUV, again a single road though a little wider this time. He too approached from the rear, but seemed to be biding his time, hanging back. At a little widened part, the verge well used where cars pass, I slowed, gave up my hard earned impetus and freewheeled, leaving maximum passing room. But no, this plonker didn’t want to pass, for he drew up beside me, and kept pace with me, giggling like a low IQ pre-teen, giving me no space on the road and probably filming silly-looking cyclist for display on his faceache or I’m-a-tube site or whatever.
So knowing the steep descent looming, I regained the middle of the road and never saw him again. It brought to mind the episode of the half-full can of juice thrown at me through a passing car window a year or two back. And we give these people the vote.
Then along came Mr Farage to brighten up proceedings.
Now after the tractor passed I caught up with him again, grafting away at some work on the next junction, digger in field, van at road side, with tractor and driver blocking the road. The driver of course knew I was coming, and when he eventually saw me cresting the rise, he jumped back into his cab and reversed trailer and tractor out of my path. Decent chap, unexpectedly so.
Then I saw his registration plates, PL the interantional code. Glad to have you around chaps. I’d rather have the tractor man than the van and SUV driver Mr Farage. You can keep them.