May 27th – I guess a lost balloon is a reflection on the sadness of things, and that woeful feeling of loss a child develops when something is gone for good.

But it’s also a symbol of pollution.

I see lots of balloons as I ride around – town or country trapped in hedges, trees, verges, fields and scrub – and also in the canal. Eventually, it will deflate, and lurk, another piece of plastic detritus waiting to choke the wildlife and add to the building polymer poison time bomb.

I know it’s not a popular view but I wish these things we rarer.

March 30th – As I came back up over Aldershawe that afternoon I was exhausted. The week had been emotionally, physically and mentally enervating, and I felt flat, tired and weak. There had been a chord-change in the weather, too; it was chillier, a little overcast and there was a real bastard of a headwind. It probably wasn’t that fierce, but on top of everything, it just felt like another battle I didn’t need. At Cranebrook Lane, not far from Muckley Corner, I stopped for a snack and a drink, and remembered this sad little stub of a road. Before the great folly of the M6 toll, this used to be Bullmoor Lane; to save building another bridge, the road engineers instead diverted the sleepy back lane southwest, to meet Cranebrook Lane on the south side of it’s own flyover. I loved the bit of Bullmoor lane that was lost; it was a little hilly, had a good view to Shenstone, and I spent hours exploring here as a lad. When they cut it off, a piece of me, just a tiny bit, died. The lost lane is now just a gated farm track. 35 years ago, you may well have found an exhausted lad here. He’d dig for sweets or an apple in his saddlebag on his well-loved Peugeot bike, before heading off into the wind like I was about to. It seems as distant now as my first day at school. The watering eye must have been the wind.