A very organic approach to engineering, bamboo bicycles...
The back story, my Christmas present this year (from the current wife) was a two-day workshop building a bicycle, from bamboo! A pretty niche idea but I'd enjoyed making my fixie (click here for that tale) so much last year that Mrs Stuffy felt that I'd like this.
Bikes made from wood? I admit that it took me by surprise but apparently bamboo is a very strong and light material and anyone who has seen it used as death-defying scaffolding in the far East knows how much load, stress and movement it can bear. The company, www.bamboobicycleclub.org, sell kits (for home assembly) and also coached sessions in their studios in increasingly trendy Hackney Wick.
So I researched (well I googled 'bamboo bikes') various possible bikes and despite the obvious challenges, and the relatively small number of examples I decided to build a mountain bike, no real logic other than the amount of MTB bits I had lying around and a fortuitous, for them, marketing email from Chain reaction cycles offering a half price groupset. For the uninitiated that's the brakes, gears, pedals, cranks and chain, all designed to work together. A few late night drunken internet shopping sessions later and I had a bulging box of bits, saddle, handlebars, forks, wheels and tyres.
The workshop itself simply delivers (hopefully) the frame, 7 pieces of bamboo, custom designed to fit my bodily dimensions (normally a secret between myself and my tailor). These bamboo bits are bonded together with delightfully gloopy mix of hemp and epoxy resin to make a structurally sound bike frame capable (allegedly) of taking my not inconsiderable weight crashing down a hillside. Making it pretty and adding all the expensive metal and plastic to turn it from bits of wood into a rideable bike is phase two of the project.
Day 1
Thus it was that I arose at silly o'clock and schlepped on a Saturday morn to a chilly space filled with bamboo bikes, bamboo bike frames in various stages of construction, there I found two couples (dad&son and sister&brother) of similarly slightly bemused punters and James, our coach, instructor and bamboo evangelist for the weekend.
James had prepared aluminium jigs to hold the bamboo elements in the right place based on our physical dimensions and the type of bike we'd each selected. The other participants had opted for simpler challenges, road bikes, and James cheered me up by congratulating them on their wisdom in not taking on the technical challenges that I'd accepted. So far, so bloody typical,sorry, so good.
We picked out various lengths of bamboo, learning about fibre lengths, nodes, strengths and weakness and using various saws, knives, drills and jigs I then chopped pieces out of my fingers, thumbs and forearms until we had something that looked a bit like the pre-printed scale drawings we were supposed to be working toward.
Maybe it's James' laid back approach, maybe my choice of bike but it turned out to be a far more flexible and organic process than a classic engineering one, solving challenges and redesigning bits of the frame as the practicalities caused a series of minor compromises.
The others rushed on, unhindered by the need to consider fat tyres and disc brakes but by the end of day one we'd all assembled our frames, tacked together with glue, tape and in my case wishful thinking. Off home to shower off a bucketful of sawdust, stickiness and sweat, a sustaining supper and a good nights sleep.
Day 2
and a beautiful sunrise as I headed into London
So,here I am in sunny, chilly Hackney just a stones throw from the Olympic Velodrome, on day two of the bamboo bicycle workshop, the day which I like to think of as Gloopy Sunday.
The areas where the lengths of frame join are to be held together and reinforced by strips of hemp cloth saturated with epoxy resin, the basis of fibreglass. This layering and wrapping is similar to the process of making bikes and cars from carbon fibre, similar I think in the same way that TeamBreakfastBike working up an appetite on a Saturday morning is like Team Sky attacking the Tour de France.
The glooping, wrapping, slopping, sliding, slicing and taping was pretty much full-on all morning, but by late lunchtime we'd jointed all of our frames. We made a cursory attempt to lessen the amount of gum on clothes and skin and then strolled into the Arctic winds to a local Hipster hangout the Crate Brewery for some excellent pizza and engaging chat whilst the miracle of exothermic chemistry turned our squidgy matting into rock hard lumps of plastic and cloth ready to be sanded, smoothed, filled, sanded, filled, sanded, smoothed, polished, painted and lacquered.
The BambooBeast (as I've provisionally named it) is now back in my workshop, ready for the next phase...
I really enjoyed the two days with James and the team and I'm looking forward to the next week or two of organic engineering...
Captain America, a bit of a ring doughnut, if you know what I mean,
Captain America, The Winter Soldier, it's a bit of a ring doughnut, if you know what I mean,
You don't?
OK let me explain, it's a veritable coruscating cornucopia of action, car chases, plane rides, jumping, crashing, car crashing, plane crashing, fighting, kicking, bashing, banging and crashing.
It's a Marvel comic book story but, (and here's the analysis during our drive home), the chap who plays Captain America (Chris Evans) is just not engaging.
I'm told he's pleasing to the eye of the ladies but he doesn't have the charisma (or the well-written amusing lines) of Robert Downey Jr as Iron Man, Chris Emsworth as Thor or even Christian Bale as Batman, they've all got charisma in bucket-loads but as the key figure he is out-acted and outshone whenever he shares the screen with Samuel L Jackson or Scarlett Johansen.
Hence the analogy, it's a well executed, thickly glazed, satisfying sugar rush, a delicious treat with a bit of a vacancy in the middle.
Wes does Grand Budapest, a movie, a madness, a mess? yes and well worth it...
So the film drought has ended and we've emerged, blinking and shaking into the watery spring sunshine, we've stretched, yawned, scratched ourselves and shuffled off to the cinema. I'm sure you're agog to hear what lured us from our movie hibernation. Now then O best beloveds, there are movies we (Mrs Stuffy and I) view because we've read a great review, there are some movies that friends are keen to see so we go along from a sense of kinship and fellow-feeling. There are movies that one or other of us are obligated to attend simply for the sake of continuity (why else would one keep indulging the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise?) and there are a few actors and directors who rarely let us down, (there are no bad films with Ed Harris in for example) And there are films that fall into the "we haven't been to the movies in ages and that's the least bad choice" box.
So, guess which category The Grand Budapest Hotel fell into? Well you're wrong, we like Wes Anderson, we don't necessary understand him, but we like what he does when he's near a camera, I love the stop-motion weirdness of Fantastic Mr Fox, the seemingly un-related and irrelevant bits, I have no idea what was going on in The Darjeeling but it made me care, even if I didn't understand it. We really liked Moonrise Kingdom, the serious kids, the childlike adults, the extraordinary beauty of the filming, the stillness, the frenzy, the retro colours, costumes and scenery, the inexplicable sudden appearance of a narrator, the self-indulgence of the director and (as in all his films) the cast list of assorted stellar mainstream acting talent mixed with the young, fresh, naif, newbies. I was going to mention that this is an odd offering but it's evident that's to be expected. This film defies pigeonholing, it's a recounting, in flashback, of the extraordinary life of a concierge in an unreal Europe, on the verge of an unreal world war, with unreal totalitarianism raising its ugly head, I'm not sure what, if any, political points are being made. It's a tale worth telling for whatever reason. It's the visualisation I really love in his films, the way Anderson mixes live-action, broad surreal shots and panoramas with so much detail, so much happening in them, the occasional model, not trying to convince that it's real, it's patently a model but it's charming nonetheless. This movie made me smile throughout and occasionally chuckle, it demanded constant attention, many, small subtle things happen, there's no telling what is or is not significant. The appearance of a big-name movie star may be hugely significant or a throw-away cameo. There's no telling what might be a red herring and I've come to expect no clear outcome, resolution or meaningful message. It seems to me that Wes Anderson makes very attractive, clever films to amuse and surprise and that's just what they do. Is this a self-indulgent movie? Probably but it's also an indulgent film and I really did enjoy being indulged. Did you miss the Haikus? Pastel retro tale Anderson does not fail to muse, bemuse, amuse
I've always considered myself to be a pretty open-minded sort of fellow, unwilling to judge without evidence or experience, always happy to try and understand another's point of view, preference, perspective and passion. That's what I've always considered myself to be despite all the evidence to the contrary. But I'm pretty sure I'm not a cultural philistine, I enjoy some art, I love a nice sculpture, I've dabbled with painting and music, I read voraciously, I'm a big cinema fan, but, If I'm honest, and I usually am, I've always had a bit of a downer on pretty much all things theatrical. I find actors on stage to be mostly shouty, wavy, overblown and self-indulgent which makes a theatrical evening with Mrs Stuffy, who loves a drama, an exercise in ill-concealed self-sacrifice (for me) and gritted teeth (her). But I've never seen a real live opera, not sure why, like maturity it's something that just hasn't happened for me.
Until last night, (opera, not maturity).
Along with the lovely Sophie her ladyship and I whizzed up to the Albert Hall to experience Puccini's La Boheme, in the round. Curiously I have seen a few performance of operas on film, and Madame Butterfly (by the same dead bloke), once seen as a school trip, made, I recall, a real impression.
So I was prepared to be impressed, once more.
I'll start with the positives, the setting is great, I love the Albert Hall, the set was very clever, delivering a garret, a restaurant and a railway station, atmospherically and entertainingly. The scene in the restaurant was excellent theatre, dancing, roller-skating waiters, acrobatics, clowning and tomfoolery, great costumes, excellent choreography and some fine performances from a tremendously varied but well-cast troupe of bit players.
As an aside, surely everyone loves a roller-skating waiter? I'm not sure why they're not mandatory in all eateries.
So what's not to like? Well it sounds silly when I write it but it's the singing, technically impressive voices, both male and female but I found that the theatricality of the delivery, the sheer power of the voices, the focus on the delivery of the song failed to involve or interest me in the story, I just didn't care.
On the subject of caring, to the audience. There is a type of person who feels the need to demonstrate that either they know the opera backward or that they speak perfect Italian who telegraph each 'amusing bit' with a knowing guffaw, preemptive applause or 'better than thou' chuckle. Stop it you pretentious twits. No-one cares.
My enjoyment was also somewhat marred by the presence immediately in front of us of a chap who arrived pretty drunk and continued to get drunker throughout the evening.
Mrs Stuffy seemed surprised (and relieved) that this obnoxious gentleman made it through the performance un-smacked but I was focussed on understanding and appreciating the experience and had a hunch that I too might have enjoyed it a little more if mellowed by a glass or several.
Would I go to another opera? This wasn't an evening where one came away humming the songs, they were, to my discerning ear, instantly forgettable. Maybe I'd enjoy something lighter where I already love the music, Porgy and Bess, Carmen, Threepenny Opera but it does seem a very, very, silly way to tell a story, delivering "I'm going to the shops" dialogue in voices that could silence a stadium.
Best line overheard 'I didn't realise it was all singing!"
And incidentally, if I'm ever dying of TB get me some proper medical care, not a nice warm muff for my tiny frozen hands, bad medical guidance from Puccini there.
Sunday, ah Sunday, a restful day, a late alarm, a cup of tea, a gradual emerging from the snug cocoon of well-deserved rest, an amble to the paper shop, a leisurely and indulgent breakfast, a late lunch with family and friends, a glass or bottle or two, a recuperative, restorative, indulgent day.
So why was I up at 6:00 making up water bottles of electrolytes and energy, cramming croissant and banana into my mouth, squeezing my protesting body into snug lycra and meeting up with 70 or so whippet-thin cycling obsessives to ride 50 miles up hill and down dale across Southern England and 35 miles back.
There's a fine charity run by some lovely people, the 'Children with Special Needs Foundation'. Our chums, Gordon and Ann run it and they'd put an event together with the local Foxhills golf club near us to run an organised fund-raising 'sportive' (bike ride).
We'd assembled an equipe of nine bicycling friends and myself. I sorted out some team kit, branded long-sleeve jerseys (it is September) and we huddled at Foxhills at unearthly o'clock for coffee, danish and nervous laughter.
Our team, as you can see, was a good looking group and all in fine fettle as we set off with our ride guide 'John, a man who obviously has cycling coursing through his veins, (veins very evident on a man carrying nothing that remotely resembled body fat).
We set off well and passed a couple of the earlier groups, all was going well for the first ten miles until your humble correspondent, (who traditionally only shines on fast downhill stretches for some reason) had a bit of a 'coming together' with another of our team. He was mercifully unscathed, I however managed to buckle my front wheel, bend my chainring and pulverise my lower back. Our guide, John, was phlegmatic and parried all my attempts to get a ride back in the van, by summoning a spare bike and ensuring that all my many and varied excuses came to naught.
The remainder of the fifty miles to Farleigh, near Croydon passed pleasantly and with much challenge but I can't deny that I arrived at the lunch stop with a spring in my step, a spark in my eye, a quip on my lips and sadly, a twisted wrenching muscular mess of excruciating pain across my lower back.
Along with the other, "that's quite enough for me" retirees I made my way back on the team bus while most of our team survivors set off on the 35 mile return leg. Luckily by the time they arrived back I'd done a serious quality investigation of the complimentary prosecco and was poised to attack the excellent hog-roast.
Special mentions for my colleagues in the team should go to Dean, who was 2nd over the finish line, bro-in-law Graham who rode his mountain bike the whole way and now "never wants to see that bike again, ever". Chef Winston had an 'orrible fall at 50 miles, minutes from lunch, lacerated a leg (his own) but manfully bled the 35 miles home. Steve C and Dave B who kindly called it quits and came back on the bus to stop me feeling lonely, Anna, (Mrs Shouty) rode an excellent ride and Richard and Glen, (the other XLshirts) who were a delight to ride with, kept me motivated and only ever slagged me off when they thought I was out of earshot.
All in all a fun day for a worthy cause
and as I lie here, wracked with pain, supine and suffering, I'm really looking forward to next time, if I can get my bike fixed, and get a bit fitter, and find anyone willing to ride with me, etc. etc. etc.
Saga, not holidays for old folk, an update on the Landy
Yes it's a saga,
I can't complain, (but I probably will anyway) I bought the Land Rover a couple of years ago to practice my rusty engineering and mechanical skills and both my skill-set and wallet have been stretched as I've sought to identify and rectify the many challenges presented by a thirty year old semi-agricultural lump of corrosion and attitude. Thanks to dozens of spare parts dealers, (many of whom are now close personal friends) and the awesome power of eBay to locate and purchase, well, everything really, we've gone through a couple of thermostats, a new battery, two starter motors, a new heater valve, a de-coke kit, a new radiator, half-shafts and bearings, brakes, brake piping, an exhaust, new electronic ignition set-up, plugs, leads, air cleaner, a new coil, two thermostats, four gasket sets, CV joints and as of last weekend a new water pump, well I met this chap and he said, "overheating? that'll be your water pump mate" it wasn't but it is nice and shiny, and very, very hot. That's another nice thing about the Landy, every other man in the world knows what's wrong with it. I must say that it now does run beautifully for the thirty minutes it takes to approach the sort of temperatures found at the heart of the sun. I may have to get onto ebay and buy a drawing board so that I can go back to it.
But I have a plan ... it's not very manly, I'm going to ask for help ...
I am, oh gentle reader, acutely aware of the responsibility I have to you, my adoring and adorable public and I've a few areas where, let's be honest, I owe you updates as we trip, you and I, hand in hand through this delightful, and much delayed Surrey summertime.
The delay of summer is key to this particular post, an update on the bee situation here at the barn. Despite struggling valiantly through the winter you will recall that our little chums fell foul of a false spring and shuffled in their thousands off this mortal coil. I took the opportunity to do some beehousekeeping and I cleaned, repaired and refurbished the hives with fresh foundation (the beeswax basis of their building and honey storage).
I've had a colony on order from some chaps in Gloucestershire but they were suffering, as we all were from the weather induced delays to the start of the serious beekeeping year. In the meantime I'd established a 'bait hive'.
I'd collected all the manky old frames and foundation in a hive base (a box basically) and stuck that up on the roof of one of the barns.
The thinking here is that if a wild colony or more likely another beekeeepers bees decide they're a bit overpopulated, or they need to refresh their queen then half the colony and the old queen skedaddle and look for a new place to live. Putting a smelly old hive in a high place makes it an easy bit of house hunting for the bee estate agents and much to my surprise my bait hive collected a swarm about a week before I was due to collect the new colony from Gloucestershire.
So, in short order I was making a precarious dusky ladder ascent and transferred an indeterminate number of bees, of unknown provenance and yet to be discovered temperament from the idyllic location they'd selected for themselves and moved them, despite their protestations, to a more convenient, for me, locale.
Then within a couple of days I delivered unto them their new neighbours, a thriving colony of rural bees of italian extraction. Thus far both hives seem to be responding well and thriving despite a hectic and stressful couple of weeks for your correspondent, still very much a tyro apiarist, acutely aware of how little I know and how much I need to.
Survival, likelihood of honey and all other considerations will depend on how well the ladies and I settle into our ongoing regime and how well they like their new waxy palaces, I'll keep you posted.
A Springtime synopsis, colony collapse, cars and cubs, not necessarily in that order
So, my dear readers it is way past time for a bit of a catch up, I've been remiss for many reasons, all, if I could be bothered to explain them to you, would be both valid and understandable so just take my word for it ok?
Anyway, pull up a chair, open a bottle and let's run through the news from the barn.
We've sad news for my bee-keeping followers, it's been a horrible winter and a worse spring for the little honey monsters but they seemed to have coped until the recent false spring which triggered a colony collapse, despite my best efforts to supplement their foraging with sugar syrup and my desperate attempts to deliver 5000 failed attempts at resuscitation.
I've now cleaned the hives and burned all the existing frames, (and many, many tiny corpses) and have built new frames and moved the hives to a new location where they sit awaiting the delivery of two new colonies, one from my local chum Ian and one from a breeder in Gloucestershire. Let's hope for a bee-friendly summer.
Tennyson assured us that springtime triggers a young mans fancy toward love, mine, sadly, tends more to thinking about fixing the Land Rover. I've tried everything to prevent the constant overheating problem, well, everything except the solution prescribed by my friend (and ex-Land Rover project manager) Keith.
He advised replacing the radiator, but I, of course, being very wise, tried everything else, several times in many cases. Finally I bit the bullet, launched myself into the steamy bazaar of Land Rover spare parts one finds on eBay and sourced a "very similar to" from China by way of Dunstable.
The radiator sat in a box for a month as I manfully prevaricated but finally, spurred by the faint glimmers of sunshine through the trees I embarked on a couple of hours of sustained wriggling, spattering, hose coupling, draining, clipping, flushing, binning and bracing and the old girl is now running sweet as a nut and we're roaring about the farm on the first day of summer (official). I've also found that, as you can see in the photo, lowering the windscreen can triple the number of slow-reflexed flies trapped in my welcoming teeth and eyes.
The chickens and I, well, enjoyed isn't the right word but we've built a healthy loathing for our cunning near neighbours over a series of fox-related adventures recently.
We've repelled incursions, thwarted tunnels and as the girls snooze in snug if odiferous safety I've passed many an evening, shotgunned up, and wrapped around a glass or two, waiting for Brer Fox to slink into the designated combat zone.
Fortunate timing and a German-made fox-trap have promoted a couple of predators to vulpine heaven but I suspect that the German fox may be a good bit smaller than his Surrey cousin. Looking at the imagery from the infra-red camera it seems that our enormous UK based Wonder-Füchse are looking at the trap and thinking, "ooh dear, that looks a bit snug."
So the trap has been most effective at delivering square meals to the young cubs who disturb our repose nightly with their merry chorus of yipping and yapping.
Frankly they are too damn cute at the moment for me to do the sensible thing and dispatch them to foxy-purgatory. Six times now I've had to release a snarling but dewy eyed little bundle of grey cuteness. Foolish I admit but what can I do? as they get rangier and mangier I'll rescind my cub-friendly policy.
The mantra of 'build a better mousetrap' seems to be appropriate here so project big-fox-trap was launched last week.
I've been converting a large dog cage (for transporting pooches to vet and show) into a state of the art fox-box. A weekend with angle-grinder, cable-ties, bike gear cables and a 250 piece Meccano set (thanks again eBay) has resulted in the production of a home-made varmint trap which now sits in the wood awaiting its first not-so-lucky visitor.
So that's you all caught up dear reader. I'm penning this on the second day of sunshine this year, really penning it too, sitting in the sun with paper and pen, how terribly retro.
As the unfamiliar yellow orb in the sky beats down on my milky-white extremities and bronzes them to a livid summer pink I wish you all well.
It's a countryside dilemma for me, I'm by inclination uncomfortable with the taking of life, (obviously I'd make an exception for folk who drive in the middle lane of the motorway) but I do enjoy a bit of shooting, the taste of game, I believe that as a cook I should be prepared to eat what I kill, and kill what I eat ( this works surprisingly well for pheasant and partridge shoots where I rarely manage to hit more than a couple of birds on a good day). But I did go through a vegetarian/Buddhist phase in my twenties, (yes really) being at one with all life and I still feel a little uncomfortable taking a life be it vermin, (rabbit, rat, squirrel, TV presenter, that sort of thing) or game bird, I can do it, I do, but there's a certain undeniable discomfort.
On the other hand, over the past three years or so, I and many of my friends and family have enjoyed the superb eggs produced by my chickens. However as is often the way the local vulpine population have equally, on occasion, enjoyed my chickens. I've invested heavily in replacement chickens, wire-netting, bird-netting, infra-red camera, cement, fenceposts, stones, blood, sweat and tears, I've done fox repelling, fox proofing, fox scaring and since our local vixen has discovered that she can bite and wriggle her way through chicken wire I've spent many joyful evenings cold, wet and irritable hiding in the woods with a twelve-bore on the off-chance.
After startling the fox a week or so ago with her jaws on one of my birds, a very close call, pure chance and a lucky escape for the black hen, I spent an hour or so chatting to some chaps in Germany (good practice of my very minimal German language skills, (basically Würden Sie bitte Englisch sprechen) and I selected and ordered a fox trap.
Inevitably once Paypal had taken my €uros and my new German chums had dispatched the item I happened to glance out of the window toward the chicken run as I was off to bed and spotted the tell tale reflection of fox eyes in the darkness. I knew she'd be well away by the time I was booted and and armed but ever the optimist, grabbed wellies and weapon and headed out. Madam fox had, for once, miscalculated and as I approached, Nemesis in a ski-jacket, she was still trying to wriggle through the wire. She'd jumped in from the top of the fence through the bird netting but escaping that way was too much of a leap for her. Bad day for Mrs Fox and I dispatched her as quickly and painlessly as possible.
Inevitably more foxes have appeared at the Barn, they're territorial and if you remove one, the gap gets filled, the occasional night time yipping continues unabated but the new intake have not yet worked out the vixenish methods for coop entry, I'm sure it's just a matter of time. The trap has arrived from Germany and is set up and baited (had a tin of pilchards sitting in the larder for way too long) but recent video capture suggest to me that caution prevails for the moment and the fox I've seen on the video below looks too damn wary and frankly too damn big to get in the trap.
We shall see.
I felt a little uncomfortable taking out Mrs Fox, after all, she was just doing what a fox does, but she has taken the lives of eight of my birds over the years so I think it was about her time, I'd spent a lot of effort making it as hard as I could for her and she persisted.
I should mention the previously unplumbed depths of depression, the peaks of angst, the highs and lows of emotion occasioned by ones daughter, a mere lass of seventeen summers passing her driving test.
Pride ? Oh yes, pride that she has finally attained the government measured minimal level of ability that enables thousands of frickin' halfwits to venture, every day, onto the Queen's highway in partial and occasional control of a ton or so of killing machine with the sole apparent intention of driving me into either a ditch or terminal apoplexy. So a little pride but also an all-consuming terror that my little girl will now be out there amongst the aforementioned halfwits, so vulnerable without my all-encompassing and paternally powerful protection. Then there's the conflict around independence of transport, if she can get around without reliance on public transport or my chauffeuring services then maybe I'll see more of her? Hang on, wait a minute, what am I thinking, she's a teenager, with a car, obviously she'll be ferrying her chums from gig to movie to bar to club to beach to ???? And I'll never see her again, until she runs out of petrol money, obviously. It's tough being a dad.
I've made candles on and off for many years. Buying wax in bulk, wicks, fragrances, colouring on-line and maintaining a variety of jar, 3-wick and votive candles for our domestic consumption. I love the barn on these dreary autumn evenings, lights low, the fire ablaze, candles throughout the place, the scent of vanilla, sandalwood, ginger and spices mixing with the woodsmoke.
We're currently burning our way through a couple of apple trees that fell in the heavy wind and rain, it burns really well and is very aromatic. The scents of flame and fire mix with whatever I'm cooking up for supper and, for me is one of the real upsides of this season. This weekend I had the urge to make some candles but for the first time I've also made candles from our own beeswax, a by-product of this years honey harvest. The wax recovered during the honey extraction has been enough to make eight candles and I'm sure they'll add a little mellow honeyed ambiance to any upcoming repast with chums.
Bee update, honey, health and Her Majesty's inspectorate of beekeepers...
It has, gentle reader, been too long, do I have excuses for my lack of blogging, of course I do, are they credible, do you care? Probably not, so, in the style of an ineffectual liberal democrat party leader I shall simply, and sincerely, apologise, and get on with the job at hand. Today we shall be talking about honey, yes indeed the hardworking team in the Oakwood hives have, bless their little yellow and black socks, been industrious (which does kind of go with the job description 'bee') and surprisingly productive. Why surprising? Well it's been a bad summer for bees generally, lots of rain, occasional cold, minimal sunlight, very little blossom staying in place in storm-wracked orchards. My girls however seem to have thrived. I was planning on leaving them alone, to weather the summer and winter as best they could but beekeeping and cycling chum Ian suggested that it might be worth having a look, he's very wise, sure enough, 10 frames of capped, golden honey ready for the thieving. Now, the extraction process is not a complicated one but there are a number of things that can make it easier. The caps that the bees place over each morsel of honey are cut off, the frames are loaded in pairs into a bucket fitted with an ingenious manually operated spinning mechanism which, in theory, with a lot of effort from the beekeeper, spins the golden harvest toward the walls collecting in a pool of sweet goodness at the bottom. You then take out the frames with the beeswax and cells intact and jar up the honey.
Simples yes? No. That only works if you've used the right sort of foundation, thus giving the bees a strong wired base on which to construct their honey stores. If, like me. you made the mistake of putting unwired foundation in, you end up with a waxy, honey melange as the spinning throws everything out of the frames. It's not the end of the world but it is the start of a three stage, very messy, filtering process which covers the floor, the very helpful brother, the walls, some of the ceiling, much of the conservatory, any passing family or animals and all furniture within 20 metres with sticky, stubborn goodness. Despite the tough lessons learned and the rivers of honey wasted through my incompetence, mischance and the sheer bad design of much beekeeping equipment we did manage to extract about 25 lbs of some rather lovely honey, to be given to family and friends as presents, and to flavour my occasional toast and porage. I do owe an enormous debt of gratitude (and a couple of jars of honig) to mein deutsch bruder Chris who ably assisted me through the whole honey extraction process, to, as they say, a very sticky end.
I was contacted shortly after this glutinous marathon by a lady from the government who'd spotted my hives whilst checking up on a neighbouring farm and was looking to inspect my girls to ensure an absence of horrible bee diseases. Having just done the extraction I was pretty sure they were in good shape but despite my general antipathy to any form of governmental interference I arranged a visit and a very nice lady turned up. She was obviously very experienced and, suited up, the pair of us went through the process of checking the health of the bees, the good news is that my little apiary is home to a very health load of bees, she was very helpful and full of advice but she did get stung once and I naturally enquired "how often does that happen"? apparently "pretty much every day," good grief get another job woman!
So despite the weather, it's been a good year for the Oakwood bees, the more healthy hives there are the better for our fruit and veg health and emboldened by success (truthfully it's all down to the bees, Ian the bee man, Chris the honey king and a little bit of me) I've just ordered a new queen and starter colony for next spring to populate my third hive.
I've mentioned my admiration for the works of Mr Woody Allen before, and despite his somewhat repellant views on step-parental care I stand by that judgement. In a rare moment of solidarity the very lovely Mrs Stuffy counts his delightful Vicky Christina Barcelona as one of her favourite films of all time. Mrs S is particularly fond of the way he portrays a place in such a way that even cities one knows well are presented in a very natural but effortlessly romantic and attractive way. I adore his wordplay but I'm also with her on the scenery thing, one of my abiding movie memories is the Gershwin sound track that accompanied the opening monochrome views of his Manhattan.
In many ways, Paris is one of the stars of this movie, presented lovingly by Allen in an opening montage of beguiling images and then throughout the film and the years in such an idealised and alluring way that it had me planning to move there within minutes.
Following the travelogue opening, the arrival of the actors is compromised somewhat by the unnerving realisation that Owen Wilson is actually playing his part 'in the style of Woody Allen" close your eyes and you could be listening to a slightly more laid back but no less nasal and staccato version of a young Mr Allen. It very quickly starts to feel natural and works surprisingly well with Wilson's diffident charm.
His gentle style and the well-crafted unlikeability of every other American character makes Owen Wilson a sympathetic and attractive lead player and there seems to be a subtlety in his performance not evident in previous outings with such great film presences as Jennifer Aniston, Jackie Chan and Ben Stiller, he obviously needed a quality story and quality direction to shine. (the previous statement may be found to contain traces of sarcasm)
The essence of the story is his nightly transition, (which is very nicely handled) from the Paris of today to the 1920's version populated by Stein, Hemingway, Dali and Picasso, not to mention the lovely (apparently, she does nothing for me I'm afraid) Marion Cottillard as passing muse to most of the artists of the time. It's a lovely tale and well managed and I'm sure I picked up very few of the artistic and literate in-jokes that peppered the dialogue. It may be that this is a film which rewards a second viewing with easy access to Wikipedia.
I found little to dislike in this movie, and much to enjoy, it is beautifully shot, cleverly written and, in these troubled times a very welcome 'happy movie', For me this is a proud addition to Woody's portfolio and pleased me on many levels, if you're an Allen fan, a Francophile, a supporter of intelligent cinema or you just fancy a quality, pleasant movie experience you will, like Mrs Stuffy and I, come out having a conversation, an animated conversation, an enthusiastic, engaged animated conversation rather than,as with so many films, "did you enjoy that?" followed by "s'all right".
A Parisian haiku (with apologies to my many francophone chums, and an anticipation of at least three corrections)
L'ecriveur pensant
Cherches le siècle d'or
Mais, c'est maintenant,
... an aimless wander through the dusty and moth-eaten corridors of a once beautiful mind, alternating between grumpy optimism and cheerful misanthropy...
Ramblings from the dusty and neglected corridors of a once beautiful mind, alternating 'tween cheerful misanthropy and grumpy optimism, enjoy, or enjoy not, as you wish ...
So I researched (well I googled 'bamboo bikes') various possible bikes and despite the obvious challenges, and the relatively small number of examples I decided to build a mountain bike, no real logic other than the amount of MTB bits I had lying around and a fortuitous, for them, marketing email from Chain reaction cycles offering a half price groupset. For the uninitiated that's the brakes, gears, pedals, cranks and chain, all designed to work together. A few late night drunken internet shopping sessions later and I had a bulging box of bits, saddle, handlebars, forks, wheels and tyres. 
The workshop itself simply delivers (hopefully) the frame, 7 pieces of bamboo, custom designed to fit my bodily dimensions (normally a secret between myself and my tailor). These bamboo bits are bonded together with delightfully gloopy mix of hemp and epoxy resin to make a structurally sound bike frame capable (allegedly) of taking my not inconsiderable weight crashing down a hillside. Making it pretty and adding all the expensive metal and plastic to turn it from bits of wood into a rideable bike is phase two of the project.
James had prepared aluminium jigs to hold the bamboo elements in the right place based on our physical dimensions and the type of bike we'd each selected. The other participants had opted for simpler challenges, road bikes, and James cheered me up by congratulating them on their wisdom in not taking on the technical challenges that I'd accepted. So far, so bloody typical,sorry, so good.
Maybe it's James' laid back approach, maybe my choice of bike but it turned out to be a far more flexible and organic process than a classic engineering one, solving challenges and redesigning bits of the frame as the practicalities caused a series of minor compromises. 
The areas where the lengths of frame join are to be held together and reinforced by strips of hemp cloth saturated with epoxy resin, the basis of fibreglass. This layering and wrapping is similar to the process of making bikes and cars from carbon fibre, similar I think in the same way that TeamBreakfastBike working up an appetite on a Saturday morning is like Team Sky attacking the Tour de France. 
The glooping, wrapping, slopping, sliding, slicing and taping was pretty much full-on all morning, but by late lunchtime we'd jointed all of our frames. We made a cursory attempt to lessen the amount of gum on clothes and skin and then strolled into the Arctic winds to a local Hipster hangout the Crate Brewery for some excellent pizza and engaging chat whilst the miracle of exothermic chemistry turned our squidgy matting into rock hard lumps of plastic and cloth ready to be sanded, smoothed, filled, sanded, filled, sanded, smoothed, polished, painted and lacquered.
