I want to ride my bicycle!

I drive some thirty odd miles each day to work outside the Peak District. I am always amazed and impressed at the number of cyclists in the city centre during the rush hour. This also makes me feel guilty on two counts. The emissions from my “juice guzzler” is not only fouling up the panting lungs of this cycling fraternity but also adding to the not so gradual destruction of the planet. As a result I am excessively courteous to these guys (and gals) and envy their stamina and determination to keep fit whilst saving the Earth.

I want to ride my bike!

However, what really gets me hot under my cross bar is the recreational cyclist, or more precisely, cyclists. I can’t be the only Peakril whose heart sinks at the sight of a squadron (what is the collective noun?) of lycra clad peddlers, three abreast and twice as long as a bendy bus, traveling at half the speed. These fanatics clog up all main routes in the area forcing the hard pushed sales rep to make suicidal manouvres out of sheer frustration.

Bicycle Race!

There are other issues too. We live in a beautiful place. Fluorescent lycra is not beautiful, its disgusting! Not only is it appalling in terms of its colour but it is so unflattering! A friend and I, whilst out walking in demure greys, browns and khakis, stopped for a pint at a local pub for lunch. To our dismay we were met by a sea of tight fitting pink and yellow lycra at the bar. My friend, looking the first cyclist up and down, finally resting his gaze on the guy’s “middles” said, “Ah can tell weer tha keeps thy spanner!” It fair put us off our sausage and onion cobs!

Bicycle Race!

So, I have come up with some solutions. Regrettably this does add to the mountain of current “banning” legislation but the sacrifice would be worth it. License all cyclists. Those using their machines for sheer transport would pay nothing and receive a tax break. Recreational cyclists should pay Road Tax, I do! They should be fined for riding in any formation other than single file and then in groups of no more than three. Most importantly, and this would require local legislation, in National Parks all lycra clad cyclists should change into something that blends with landscape on dismounting.

So what is the collective noun, a nuisance, an accident waiting to happen, a frustration, a dazzle, a botty wobble, a turn off, a queen?

Suggestions on a post card please…………….!

Look at those Cavemen go!

Living in the town centre appeals to some, Your Humble Narrator included. It’s handy for the shops and the station, the library and the doctor but Matlock is very different by night than by day. There is a perceptible handover from shoppers, retailers and office workers, on the latter days of the week and weekends, to the “young”.

I have a friend who lives at the clubby end of Dale Road opposite the pleasure palaces. When there is nothing worth watching on the box we open the curtains, turn the lights off and swivel the arm chairs round to face the window. The next part of the drill is to open a more expensive bottle of wine and wait for the fun! The fun can take many forms, arguments over taxis, loud and aggressive young women making a “stand for their man”, fights, incoherent chanting, boys just tall enough to urinate in the litter bin outside the jewellers and best of all the occasional arrest. Many readers will find this kind of behaviour far from fun but consider this. These are the “young” enjoying themselves. This is what they go out for! But best of all is the wonderful feeling of security that engulfs the over fifties that comes from the knowledge that this, all this laid out before them, has got nothing to do with them. I feel like an emperor on a gladiatorial feast day at the Circus Maximus.

With a little poetic license, David Bowie’s Life on Mars was written for a November night on Dale Road.

“Painters fighting in the dance hall,

Look at those Cavemen go!

It’s the freakiest show.

Take a look at the lawman (bouncer)

Beating up the wrong guy.

Oh man, wonder if he’ll ever know,

He’s in the freakiest show ow ow ow…………………..”

I’ve moved away from Matlock three times and come back three times. A friend of mine I occasionally have a pint with in Matlock Bath who, at approaching forty, lives in the same house in which he was born, has a view on this. “You can check out any time you like but you can never leave.” Readers of my generation will recognise these immortal words from the Eagles’ 1976 classic, Hotel California.

On reflection Matlock is populated by two types. Those “born and bred” and those of us whom, by fate, were washed up here and captivated by the area’s natural beauty and a lifestyle that is a shade different from the run of the urban, or suburban, mill. Locals tend to stay, the defections arising mostly from the bright young things who drift away each autumn to our university towns and cities. The youngsters who stay on in our little Shangri-La are, I believe, disadvantaged. Yes, the majority lead a sensible and comfortable life in a beautiful place with all the basic amenities but they never see the big picture, rarely traveling beyond Chesterfield, Derby or a prefab’ Spanish resort. They should be encouraged to move away before deciding whether to make a home here or not. The area is culturally wealthier because of those who moved in. There has always been a vaguely bohemian feel to some corners of the Matlocks and, under scrutiny, it appears that these have been populated by outsiders. Since Victorian times the Dales has attracted, writers, poets, artists, actors and musicians. It still does. Equally, if our town is to retain its individuality it needs its locals too.

However, locals can be suspicious of those beyond Darley Dale, Kelstedge and Matlock Bath. A one time stoker man at County Offices and latterly inn keeper of a village local I once knew believed that villagers of Ible still ate their young. He, I fear, was and is not alone. A friend of mine with whom I used to enjoy a drink in the County and Station in Matlock Bath joined a noisy debate about Europe by the bar one night. Tossing his cigarettes on the bar he exclaimed, “Europe! Theer’s fowk in Cromford ah can’t be doing wi’! T’onny good thing to come aht a Cromford’s Carline’s sausage!” at that he stared lugubriously into his beer unaware that he had summed up everyone’s thoughts.

So what is it about this town of charity shops, hairdressers and tattoo parlours that captivates us? I guess it’s different for each individual. What I do know is that the majority of us are volunteers not conscripts and, if you can suspend disbelief for long enough, the A6 really can be a “dark desert highway”, no problem in February with the “cool wind in your hair” and I’ve never known what “colitas” were, but I bet they smell just like chips in Matlock Bath on a Sunday evening in late May. “up ahead in the distance I saw the Venetian Nights!”

Remember….

“We are all just prisoners here of our own device.”

Retail Therapy

Funny place Matlock isn’t it? Especially on a wet Sunday afternoon. “Wilko’s” is busier than ever

selling all those essentials that we managed perfectly well without before Sunday trading was permitted. “Worldspan” is packed with shoppers buying Spider Man tea towels, note pads and doggie duvets. The seemingly dozens of Charity Shops enjoy a brisk trade in bric-a-brac and second hand clothes. “Matlock Antiques”, my favourite, smelling of death and Radio Three, is positively teeming with folk in search of… well what?? To be fair, a goodly portion of my home has been furnished from here but I kind of know what I’m looking for before I go in. Others are prepared to buy, on impulse, the most bizarre selection of items.

However, whether we’re spending a quid at Worldspan on twenty dragon motif coat hangers with built in power torches, a new Harry Potter ice cube tray at Wilko’s, a Carpenters cassette tape from a charity shop or a Suzie Cooper “style” Corn Poppy tea service (one saucer cracked) from Matlock Antiques we’re all doing the same thing. Yep…………retail therapy.

You see, the really interesting thing is that at the same time that the Sunday Trading laws were changing car boot sales really took off. It makes sense really, the more you buy, the more you have to get rid of. Equally, the demand for house extensions, conservatories, loft conversions etc has rocketed throughout this period. You know why now, it’s to accommodate more and more stuff that we go out and buy on wet Sundays in Matlock. Your really serious retail junkie looking for a big fix will head off to Tansley car boot as the first sparrow yawns, do a garden centre on the way back to Matlock before getting stuck in to some significant therapy in the town centre. Failing that they’ll rattle off down the A610 to IKEA and trolley up some real bargains.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m the same as anyone else. I love a bargain, can spend a couple of hours in Masson Mill marveling at the selection malt whiskies, novelty fudges, obscure DVDs, slippers and “designer” clothing situated on the top floor so that overweight people like me can’t get at it. I have passed many a happy afternoon in this way but I come away with a sense of melancholy. When all’s said and done what happened to family Sundays at home. Fun in the garden or round the table, visiting friends and relatives, picnics, jigsaws, card games, communal cooking, the list is endless. Family Sundays used to be good. Mostly, I believe because families talked to one another. Now it’s a different matter, families have lost the art of talk. Remember that, when you dump your kids in the crèche at IKEA as you head off with your big blue bag, measuring tape and jotter pencil and with meatballs on your mind.

The next time it’s a wet Sunday don’t do it. Stay at home get the jigsaws and the dominos out, ban all TV and games consoles. Play, talk, sing, make each other laugh, cook together and you’ll sleep better and you know what, so will your kids.