Upcycling

“So I don’t think that I like grease and sparks quite as much as I like knitting and baking” Kate said as she handed over a box containing the various pieces of her vintage ladies shopper bike.  She’d found the dilapidated Hercules Balmoral online and proceeded to disassemble and strip the entire bike with the intention of refurbishing it, but now it looked like the task of reassembly was going to fall to me.  I took the opportunity to break down and rebuild my own bike, which had been my Dad’s mountain bike that he used to ride alongside me when I was a child, and come the start of the summer we had two good-as-new bicycles.  Her bike looked classic in black with a brown Brookes saddle and a wicker basket; mine looked like Frankenbike in green and black, with various boxes bolted on and a rack to hold my surfboard hanging off one side.

Kate and I used to live an hour's drive apart, she on the south coast of Cornwall and me about 45 miles away on the north coast.  It seemed like a nice idea for our first roll out last summer to be an overnight bicycle camping trip leaving from my home and travelling to hers, pedalling the coast roads and the cycle trails and stopping off at beaches along the way.  We’d upcycled our bicycles and we upcycled an awful lot of steep hills as we wound our way down the Cornish coast.  What follows is a photographic journal of our trip, shot entirely on 35mm film by Kate and myself:

We should've caught the ferry at high tide.

Long hills and lots of luggage.

Coasting downhill to the beach.

The Upcycling chalkboard.

Kate checking out the distance to our campsite, just the other side of that far headland.

Cyclo-shortcuts to avoid the holiday traffic. 

 Camp.

Washing the road off with a quick sunset bellyboard session. 

Fuel. 

We stopped at backroad farm-stalls to buy fruit and lunch provisions. 

 Two and a half foot at eight seconds with a light nor-westerly wind.  I probably needn't have bothered hauling my surfboard along with me if I'm honest.

A polite reminder to myself for all of the "up" bits.

Can you overflow a bike?

It turns out that Kate's house sits at quite some elevation.

The Last Lane.

The Finish Line.

A big thanks to the team at Babes&Bikes in Wadebridge for sorting out our gears and brakes (and giving my probably quite questionable workmanship the necessary once-over) before we set off on our journey, and to various colleagues of ours for the help and advice that they gave whilst ridiculing how heavy I'd made my bike.

Outside Food: Camp Stove Hash

It's May and, despite the long fingers of winter still doing their best to cling on, the weather is by-and-large improving.  For the next six months the light is green for living a more complete life outdoors - eating, sleeping and doing all of the fun stuff in-between out in the fresh air.  So, over the summer months, I hope to drop in a few posts featuring recipes that are best enjoyed when prepared and eaten outside - and I'm going to get the ball rolling with a dish that I have a personal (and so far unbroken) rule to never cook and consume under a roof:  Camp Stove Hash.

Camping food often falls into two categories:  dehydrated or boil-in-the-bag "mystery meals" that were invented for astronauts and are now eaten by kids on Duke of Edinburgh expeditions, or food that doesn't need a lot of preparation or cooking like tinned ravioli, packet couscous and stale sandwiches.  Camp stove hash is another story, with easily transportable ingredients that make a brightly-coloured meal that I'd probably pick off a cafe menu if given half a choice.  It's a two stage process though - so the first stage can be done at home before setting off if you anticipate working up a hunger and wanting to refuel as swiftly as possible.  Prior preparation and all that…


Stage 1:  Potato Wedges

• Potatoes - quartered lengthways, par-boiled, dusted with salt, pepper and a heap of paprika and then shallow-fried in batches until crispy. 

Stage 2:  Camp Stove Hash

• Equipment: Camp stove, pan, pocket knife and a wooden spoon.  Fork and fresh air to eat with.
• Ingredients: Potato wedges (see stage 1), onion (optional), chorizo sausage (the ready to eat sort), small bottle of cooking oil or butter,  bag of spinach, salt, pepper and paprika. 
• Method:  Find a level, sheltered, spot out of the wind and get your camp stove lit.  Heat a touch of oil and roughly cut your onion straight into the pan taking care not to add any bits of finger or a thumb to the ingredients.  Soften.  Cut the chorizo into slices about as thick as a pound coin and add these, allowing them to release their bright red oil and crispen up.  Tip in as many potato wedges as you want to balance out the dish or satisfy your hunger and stir the whole lot together, breaking down the wedges a bit and combining all of the ingredients - add a little more paprika at this point if you fancy it.  Heat through.  Add spinach a handful at a time, stirring it in and allowing it to wilt down before adding a bit more.  Season to taste.  Keep over the heat for a few minutes then share it straight from the pan.

Have Creek, Will Paddle

All set and ready to shove off.

The old canoe had almost as many cracks and patches on its inside as it had on its outside.  Luckily none of them matched up so we took a punt on it, packed our bags into the space between the seats, and pushed off.  No water came in.  Phew.

Green through the green, shot from the shore by Kate.

We set off from Durgan, a tiny hamlet with a pebble beach just inside the mouth of the Helford River on the south coast of Cornwall.  An hour’s paddle up the river sits Tremayne Quay and that was where we were aiming for.  Tremayne Quay was built in 1847 by local landowner Sir Richard Vyvyan in anticipation of a visit from Queen Victoria however in the end she never came and the quay has remained a quiet, hidden away, little secret.  It's quite difficult to get to by road, but comparatively easy by water.  The quay and the woodlands surrounding it were bequeathed to the National Trust in 1978 and these days it is one of the few public moorings on the upper reaches of the Helford River.

We paddled the open Canadian canoe in between the yachts moored on the river at Helford Passage and were soon on an open stretch of the river.  The unspoilt woodlands on either side overhang the water making the riverbanks look like giant clumps of moss.  Away in the distance up stream the quay is just about visible but we’re paddling with the pushing tide so it doesn’t take us long to get there.  As we near the old grass topped stone structure a small flash of iridescent blue streaks away into the creek to our left…a kingfisher?

Straight out of the seventies.

Once the canoe has been beached on the gravel at the far end of the quay, Kate and I climb out and unpack our camping duffel bag.  We pitch my tiny two-man a-frame tent (which alongside the 1970’s style canoe makes our set-up look like a step back in time) and sit down to absorb the calm surroundings.  It is so, so, quiet. 

As the evening draws in I wave my fly fishing rod around a bit and remember why this whole business is called fishing and not catching before going to look for the bag of groceries that we bought with us. 

Dinner was cooked in the glow of a paraffin lantern and eaten with our wellingtoned feet hanging over the edge of the stone dock, before Kate beat me at backgammon and we turned in for the night.

Fishing not catching, shot by Kate.

Being beaten at backgammon.

In the morning we woke up with mist pushing up the river from the sea, making it seem like we were sitting inside what felt like a giant Tupperware box.  Every so often the long, low, blast of a fog-horn from one of the big ships floating out in the bay was audible from way off in the distance. 

After breakfast and a walk along the riverbank to the old boathouse Kate and I pushed off and floated back down river with the dropping tide.  We heard the Helford gig before we saw it, emerging out of the mist in front of the shadow of a ship like some sort of pirate movie.  It just added to the feeling of having gone back in time, if only for one night.

A "spit stop" to brew tea on the return journey. 

 G'Arghh!