To cut a story...

Biking from Manchester North was good, but very wet. And British. And somewhat tame. I pack it in and decide to get a plane ticket (sorry to the future inhabitants of the globe) to Barcelona in time for August 1 ....

Train Travel

A memory: In the train from Penrith to Oxford, travelling back the 300 kms I have biked, it is slightly depressing, the speed seems somehow sacrilegous. There is hardly time to see anything, let alone understand it. And everything closer than 5 metres is a blur.

Things I have grown accustomed to

Seeing Oaks as natives, Sycamores as noxious weeds
Seeing Red Squirrels as natives, Grey ones as noxious weeds

Everyone here seeing themselves as natives, Chavs as noxious weeds

Manchester

I only got rained on, lost about three times (Buxton information centre entirely unhelpful to cycle tourists heading to Cheshire), had to bike along the hellish A6, and fell off my bike into a muddy puddle while following tracks along the Mersey to Manchester. The shame!

But I´m happy to be here. Manchester is much less grimy than I expected. Perhaps it´s the good company. But the architecture is amazing. There´s loads of red-brick mills (industrial revolution again) which have become apartments, and a few blocky art deco things, but my favourite is the osentatious Gothic buildings, built with cotton money in the 19th century. The city seems proud too. Not as cosmopolitan as London, but quite left-wing. We walk past the spot where the Labour party (I know, I know) holds its annual conference and cousin Tullis shows me where the manhole covers are taped down to prevent terrorism. (Aside: I´m sick of the paranoia here, as the graffito in Oxford says, "closed circut TV is a crime". A ubiquitous crime, extending to country pubs and parks. In Coventry I almost have my hand luggage confiscated because I left it outside for a second and it´s full of bombs, apparently, at an airport containing around 50 people.) But back to the left wing stuff. There´s also the bafflingly eclectic People´s History Museum, containing a lock of Tom Paine´s hair, much info on the Suffragist movement, films of 1930´s football matches (with pitch invasions) and, my favorite, a chance to make your own badges. I make two. Mine has a picture of a needle and thread and the words 'please don´t raise my standard of living´. I make one for Tullis that says ´I love jamming´. Tullis is on a bit of a high, planning his trip to India. Apparently it is monsoon season, but his friends over there are assuring him he´ll be fine. The monsoons must have relocated here. I do not exaggerate to say there has been perhaps three days since I arrived in the midlands that it hasn´t rained. That´s how British towns get flooded, I suppose.

I am priveleged to hear the first recording session of the Noise Upstairs band (soon it will have a real name) It comprised Tullis on trombone and laptop Anton on guitar and effects pedals and Kate on cello. These music graduates made sounds like the swollen Mersey that flows through this city. Turbulent yet graceful.

As a last night out in Manchester, Tul reccomends the Nextmen (from London) at some club I don´t remember the name of. Innovative party hip-hop. I have one of those moments of realisation that I´m in a foreign country while riding in my first British cab, and then getting patted down at the entrance of the club. Weapons? No, they were looking for drugs... but they didn´t question the existence of a tealight candle in my pocket. Inside the party is great! a good vibe, and great sounds including a Dr Dre accapella mixed with a doubletime breakbeat. Thanks, Manchester.

Wirksworth-Manchester

It is time to leave old Wirksworth. (Or `Wazza´ as some call it). I´m glad of the company of Uncle Graham, who cycles with me to Buxton, in the heart of the Peak District. The name may conjure up images of our bikes ascending alpine pinnacles a la Lance Armstrong, but really it comes from the old English ´peac´ - rolling hill, and we biked along old railway lines. Mainly flat. And it was awes, man. We bike through the White Peaks - an area of limestone jutting like teeth from the green gums of pastures. Graham tells me that D.H. Lawrence (a local boy) calls this area the navel of England. It´s where the flat grain fields of the South give way to the hilly sheep and cattle pastures of the North.

A typical Ewan late start and it´s the mid-afternoon when arrive in Buxton. I fill my water bottles from the famous mineral water, flowing free like the speights tap in Dunedin. "It tastes metallic" Graham warns. Nonsense! Then, in understated English fashion, we part and I am travelling alone again for the first time in a month.