I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like – oh hang on….

For no particular reason, the moment I first rode on my bike without falling off came into my mind the other day. It was a hot summer in Theydon Bois, and I was probably around 9. My sister and I were round at the Watkins girls’ in Barn Mead. Their garden featured an excellent sturdy seesaw with not one but two seats on each end, and a paved path that went all the way round the house. I’d been very close to success for several days, and I can still feel the joy as I wobbled off on yet another circuit only to realise that Mr Watkins had let go of my bike. From then on, I rode it everywhere.

I got a new bike for my birthday last summer but was too busy to use it. A couple of weeks ago, my daughter suggested that we all ride over to my elderly parents rather than driving, so now we regularly make the three-mile circuit down to theirs and back again, sometimes taking a longer detour to increase the amount of exercise. They rely on us for the shopping and to feed the tortoise, which the children love doing.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve always struggled with living in the moment. Due to self-isolation and lock down, I’ve suddenly got a lot better at it. Yesterday afternoon, cycling down the lane past the bluebell wood, I came over all lyrical as the beauties of nature smacked me right between the eyes.

 Perched majestically on my gel saddle (middle age has its perks), I’ve got time to notice the sights, sounds and smells in a way you don’t in the car. Our bluebell wood is famous for miles around, carpeting the ground with a heady cloak of deep violet blooms. Golden dandelions are embroidering the grass verges along with celandines and oxlips. Birdsong is louder than the gentle hum of the A12 running along in a cutting adjacent to the bluebell wood. Whereas usually you’d have to stop for cars every few minutes, now the only people we see are other cyclists (“Afternoon! Lovely day”), walkers and runners.

Whizzing down the lane, we get to the sharp bend to the left past the nursery on the left and the Rosery on the right. The landscape opens out so that we can see the spire of All Saints soaring into the cloudless blue sky. There’s a dead blackbird lying sadly on the verge as we freewheel down The Street, Pettistree proper. Past the kennels, I notice they are completely silent. Not a yap, a bark or a woof to be heard.

Round a sharp bend to the left and we’re sailing past Dick and Rita’s Victorian barn, Jim mowing his front lawn and not practising the bagpipes and the Greyhound, our lovely local pub. Turning right down Walnuts Lane, Dave and Cath’s wisteria is coming into bloom. On either side of the lane, rich Suffolk soil stretches out, full of promise. The intoxicating scent of rapeseed drifts across the fields and in the distance, there are the scattered dwellings of Thong Hall Road.

The backs of the houses in The Crescent are getting closer. Zooming past them and shouting a greeting to two passing walkers, we reach the front of the primary school, which at this time of day should be alive with children and parents walking and driving home. It’s silent, but the beautiful tree by the Nursery entrance is frothing with white blossom like a spring bride. Right turn into Orchard Place where the verges are studded with daisies (so called because they were known as “days-eyes” in medieval times, opening as day dawned and closing again as the sun went down).

A year ago, we moved Mum and Dad from their home 85 miles away to their bungalow just a mile from ours. Thank God we did. Orchard Place is a true community, in the real sense of the word. When Dad had a fall last year, I rushed over to find Rex, one of the neighbours, sitting on his bed, patting his hand and comforting him. Tony and Sheila next door are always there for a chat and a cup of tea (not at the moment, of course). Margaret, and Beth and Alan down the road are friends and everyone in the road looks out for everyone else.

We drop the shopping off and have a chat, which is hard because of social distancing and Dad’s increasing deafness. “Ruth’s brought some cake, dear.” “What’s that? Snake?” “No, CAKE. SHE’S BROUGHT A CAKE!” No doubt the whole of Orchard Place can hear our bellowed conversations, but they’re probably having similar ones.

On the way back down Walnuts Lane, we run into our friends Clare and Lana walking the dogs. From a safe distance, we have a conversation full of laughter and jokes. It’s great.   

The sky is still a clear, startling blue and the blossom-clad trees arch up against it, their long slender arms clothed all in white. Wood pigeons coo seductively to each other from the trees. Pedalling back down our lane, a pair of dog walkers do the obligatory leap sideways when they see us coming and we direct them to the circular walk past Loudham Hall down our lane and through the farmyard.

If you’re still with me, you might be wondering why I’ve written about a bike ride in the Suffolk countryside. I’ll tell you. It’s because it’s taken a pandemic to make me realise that community means different things to different people, but to me, it means valuing the people I know, relying on my friends and neighbours and knowing that they can rely on me and truly taking in the beauties of the place where we live. Trundling along on a bike, you can’t help but see the tiny details of the trailing pink flowers on a wall, the tough stalks of yarrow and the carpet of wood anemones on the grass verges.

When this is all over, if I haven’t learned to slow down, to appreciate where I live and to enjoy the moment, then you are fully within your rights to tell me I’m an idiot. This enforced isolation, slow living, simpler routines have their drawbacks, but I’m determined to find the good and the encouraging. I live in Suffolk with its big skies and open fields, and I know how fortunate I am. But community is everywhere if you look for it, and I hope more than I can say that when this is all over, we don’t forget about it.

Please, stay safe and well and enjoy your community, wherever it is.

 Images by Pixabay

Sax on the balcony

It’s been quite a week. My last post managed not to mention the C word at all, instead looking back fondly at loud nights and sticky carpets. There was a sad lack of loo rolls and pasta in the UK this time last week, but as I write, we are now going back to the type of rationing not seen since the Fifties. Here at Big Word Towers, we are the proud owners of 8 actual toilet rolls, a couple of packets of kitchen roll and endless supplies of newspapers. One way or another, the five derrières residing here will make it through. And who needs pasta anyway?

But as I often say, let other pens dwell on guilt and misery[1]. There’s plenty to worry about, if we choose to, lots to question and second-guess. The truth is, none of us know what’s going to happen. As I write, I’ve just heard that all schools and colleges will be closing on Friday afternoon. This may mean that my last child at primary school won’t have a Year 6 play, reward trips or sit her SATS at school. Today, as I watched the children running around on the field playing football, swinging off the gym trail and rushing round in the bushes, I realised that this might be almost the last time for us. I’ve spent the last 13 years at that school and it could be coming to an end, abruptly, unexpectedly. In the grand scheme of things, however, this is not big news. I’ll feel a pang on Friday, but there are other more important things to dwell on.

If you turn your eyes away from scenes of people fighting each other in supermarkets for the last packet of tagliatelle, you’ll see heart-warming examples of community spirit, compassion and kindness. Last week, I heard a story on the radio that warmed my heart. A music teacher in Italy, confined to barracks as everyone is, came out on to his balcony and played, “Ode to Joy” on the saxophone to lift his neighbours’ spirits. You can see him here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVmOuQMsrQM. In the last few days, Italians all over the country have come out on to their balconies to sing, play an instrument or wave and smile at their neighbours. The Italians are a fiercely community-minded nation, big on family, celebration and good food. La passeggiata, the traditional walk in the evening has been replaced by community singing and playing from balconies, and by the posting of encouraging messages.

Closer to home, I’ve been encouraged by the many Facebook groups set up in our village and nearby to help the elderly, isolated and vulnerable keep afloat at a very difficult time. Yesterday afternoon, I read a post on Facebook which made me smile and feel emotional all at the same time. The lovely Christina Johnston (you may remember her from this blog: https://bigwordsandmadeupstories.blogspot.com/2019/11/hitting-high-notes.html) is a self-employed opera singer. All her concerts have been cancelled until September. Rather than wallowing in self-pity, or letting fear rule her life, she has chosen instead to share her beautiful voice with others who can’t get out. She’ll be singing outside Mill Lane Nursing and Residential Home in Felixstowe this afternoon and then again in Ipswich. She has offered to sing outside any nursing home or establishment where elderly or vulnerable people are self-isolating. She sings like an angel and she is generously sharing her gift with those who are stuck indoors. Here’s a link to her singing – enjoy it and feel free to share. Beautiful things are rare in our world at the moment and they need to be celebrated. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8za2_4T00jM

The good has to outweigh the bad, or else who are we? What makes us human? As I was about to hit, "publish", another story of kindness popped up. Our local greengrocer in Woodbridge (that lovely one on the way to the Thoroughfare, for the benefit of local readers) is not only offering free local deliveries, but took on all the stock from the Friends' (PTA) group at a local primary school for resale, saving them from a massive loss. 

We don’t know what’s going to happen. These are frightening and uncertain times. But if we can focus on the good – the unselfish, the giving, the altruistic amongst us – we will get through this, together. 

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[1] Not my own line. It’s Jane Austen. But a quote from one of the classics adds such a touch of class to one’s blog, don’t you think?