Hitch-free

It was a beautiful, warm autumn Saturday on the coast path from Weymouth to Lulworth Cove.  We walked along with hardly a care in the world.  Except, that is, the nagging thought of how we were going to get back.

I guess that, not so long ago, there would have been a bus.  But such services have shrunk in response to financial cuts and the seemingly inexorable rise in car use. 

I’d rung a taxi firm, who would be very happy to take us back.…for £35.  Which seemed even steeper than the Dorset cliffs that we had scrambled over for 12 miles.

So we began to consider hitching.  It seemed a good plan, but when we reached Lulworth, I began to have my doubts.   It’s one thing having a romantic notion of sticking your thumb out.  But doing it seemed rather harder.

We considered standing at the exit to the car park.  But it seemed so public, and we feared the humiliation of still being there after an hour, watched with amusement by the queue at the ice-cream kiosk. 

We decided to walk out of the village a little way, and found a quiet spot just before a lay-by.  And, much to my astonishment, the first available car stopped.  In fact I was so taken aback that I assumed they had pulled up for another reason, and I continued standing with my thumb out while Annie opened the door and started chatting to the driver.

She was from Canada and couldn't have been more friendly or accommodating.  She diverted from her intended route to take us to Weymouth, dropping us right back at our car.    

Perhaps we were just lucky.  Although, as we reflected, we would have presented a good bet as hitch-hikers go:  a reasonably-presented, friendly-looking couple in their late 50s.  I guess most people just assumed that our car had broken down.          

Cycling for health

Me, too.  I am one of what seems to be a large number of Olympic confessors who was, to say the least,  lukewarm when we won the bid, and doubted the organisers’ ability to put on a trouble-free show. 

We have all been proved gloriously wrong.  Instead I found a passion for watching sport on TV  - I can hardly believe I’ve just written those words – and my life seems just a little empty at present without the daily fix.   

In the warm after-glow,  there has been talk of the importance of competitive sport being re-introduced into primary schools.  And sports clubs are reporting a huge rise in the number of enquiries. 

It will all jog down, of course.  But I hope that what will remain, aside from the relative few who will be committed and athletic enough to seek the highest ambition, is a general change in our attitude to exercise. 

All the studies point up the importance of regular moderate exercise.  And one of the easiest way to do this is by walking and cycling.     I try to build one of these into every day of my life, and Annie and I miss it if we don’t get a daily walk in.  We start to feel refreshed almost as soon as we start our steps up the lane.  

We went to Weymouth to see the Olympic sailing on the last Saturday, and cycled in from the outskirts.  The road along the promenade, usually jammed with cars,  had been closed to all traffic apart from walkers and cyclists.  How liberating to be able to walk and cycle in the town right next to the sea, without the noise and danger from vehicles.   

I’ve got a suggestion:  why not make it permanent? 

Why not transform our road infra-structure to give priority to walkers and cyclists in our towns and cities?  Instead of spending £33bn on  a new high speed train line to Birmingham, why not invest that money on dedicated cycle paths and walkways?   

Would that not be the most egalitarian Olympic legacy?

Hanging on

It's a common enough sight, but always strikes me as submissive and particularly absurd in the sort of parky weather we've been having recently.

I'm talking about couples who walk along, the man with hands thrust deep inside pockets for warmth while the woman holds his arm, hand at the mercy of the weather.

It seems a strange way to go about. I 'get' hand-holding, which seems rather charming and equal, not least in the hand-exposure stakes.

 By contrast, the public woman-on-arm seems so passive : an indifferent male burrowing for warmth while the female hangs possessively on in the cold.