When I lived in Glasgow, I made the maps for a couple of Ordnance Survey publications, notably “25 Cycle Routes in and around Glasgow” with Erl B Wilkie. The Southern routes capitalised on my knowledge of the little-used roads in the area, which I used for my training rides. I’m amazed to see that it’s still on sale, despite the later depradations of the M77, which chops up many of the quiet little byways in the area.
Fast forward to today- I have lived in Wales for eighteen years now and have discovered a few favourite routes here that I’d like to share. When I first moved, I made towards the west from Porthmadog along the sketchily provided Cycle Route through Pentrefelin and Criccieth. Cycle provision is less than enthusiastic in these parts and is applied in a half-hearted way. It improves towards Chwilog, once you are through Criccieth. Later, I discovered some gems north of the A487 that, while hilly and challenging, give some wonderful views and respite from cars, especially in the winter months.
I should mention the Lôn Eifion. A cycle and walking route using the formation of the old L&NWR Afon Wen branch, it runs from Bryncir to Caernarfon and is beautifully smooth and scenic, especially the southern leg. It’s a part of the NCR8, which takes a tortuous course to link up with it. Cycling the deadly A487 from where I live in Porthmadog is not something I’d be prepared to do, so I normally drive to the start- which defeats the plan, really. What the cycle route needs is for the disused railway formation south towards Afon Wen to be adopted- that would be very handy, but I am sure it would cost too much and be politically distasteful.
Anyway, for anyone interested, here is the first of a few of my favourite rides, mostly radiating from Porthmadog.

1. Porthmadog to Cwm Pennant.
Distance 33 kms approx  (20.5 miles)
Difficulty: moderate
A mixture of car free cycle track and quiet roads.

Starting from Porthmadog, at the car park beside the railway station, ride towards the swimming baths until you see a cycle track on the left. This goes along towards Lidl and eventually comes out at the back. Turn right, past an oil depot and carry on until you pass the Travel Lodge on the right. Take the left here until you reach the A497, where there is a cycle path on the opposite side.
The surface is a little grippier than the road and there are the occasional low-hanging branches or brambles in summer, but the council do maintain it, bless them. This route carries on to another roundabout- Penamser- follow the cycle track left. You pass a couple of lay-byes on the left, but the gradient is generally easy, just a slight uphill push, unless the wind is a headwind, which it often is …

Eventually, after under a mile, the road dips down to a railway bridge and the Wern Estate. Cross over with care here and take the rough track under the bridge which leads to the Manor. Almost immediately, take a left up a very rough, steep road, before the gate house. This passes two other houses (I generally walk up, although my partner has ridden it.). At the second house, it changes into a footpath- a delightful little byway through lovely trees and fields, which is charming in any season. Ride this with care as it can be muddy when wet, and has a couple of rock humps (although it’s fine on a mountain bike).
After a short while you come past a very old cottage, Pont Faen. It’s a Ty Haf now. Pass this, closely by the front door, (it is a right of way, don’t worry!) go over the slate slab bridge, through the very squeaky farm gate and then turn right to Penmorfa along the gravel farm road. Views of Allt Wen and Craig y Castell open up beyond the meadows to your left, seen between the trunks of magnificent Beech trees. It’s a shame that the pylons stride over the landscape here, but they are not too obtrusive. You will note that the road starts to go down a steep, slate surfaced slope- if you are not very confident, it might be best to walk this; it’s dangerous when wet. I find it fine on my mountain bike, but it makes me uneasy on my drop handlebar gravel bike.

The road veers right and passes the cemetery. After going through a gate, St Beunos church (1698) can be seen to the left. It’s in the care of the Society for Friendless Churches and is a fascinating place. The lychgate has deteriorated in recent years, but is still impressive, built (funded, I guess) by Mrs A M E Jones of Parciau. While the church is fairly dull externally, it has some interesting artwork inside, mostly by women. After the Great War, stained-glass artist Joan Howson (1885-1964) created the windows of St Cybi and St Cyngar in the porch. There’s also an elaborate alabaster wall monument to Sir John Owen, ‘the Welsh Muskateer’, who was buried here in 1666. Other work is by Constance Mary Greaves (the screen and Pulpit.) More about the church here.

Carrying on, past the row of cottages on the left, ride up the small rise past a garage on the right that repairs four wheel drive vehicles. The road then swoops down a tree lined lane, veers right and up the first serious climb of the day. It is short, but a handlebar gripper. It doesn’t take long to walk up it, if you don’t fancy riding- and be comforted in the thought that it is much steeper coming up the other side- and we won’t be coming back this way! The hamlet of Penmorfa is reached next. Climb up to the A487 and cross over to ride up a lane past a converted chapel. The road briefly joins the route of the old Gorseddau Tramway, a disused mineral railway coming from Porthmadog towards Cwmystradllyn and Cwm Trysgl. At the first tree shrouded junction, take the lane marked for the NCR8.

I won’t wrap this up, the climb on the NCR8 from here to Pen y Garnedd is another handlebar gripper- a handlebar chewer, actually. It rises for 1.6 kms or nearly a mile at varying steep rates of gradient. As Sustrans say in their leaflet, “attainable by those with a reasonable level of fitness”. Not exactly Alpe d’Huez, but quite a thought. However, the lane is beautiful and very quiet, and some lovely views open out the higher you climb. Your torment is nearly over when you join the Golan road at the top, passing through a farm. Turn right, and a short climb on a wider road takes you to the summit, for now at least. You can take a breather and enjoy the wonderful views of the Nantlle Ridge, Cwm Pennant and the Llêyn Hills- plus a bonus panorama of Moel y Gest and Cardigan Bay looking back from the top.
It’s all downhill from here, at least for a while.

Ride on along the fast, undulating road. Before the turning for Cwmystradllyn (another time) is a farm called Cefn Peraid, notable because we are crossing the Gorseddau Tramway again, which goes underneath the road here in a tunnel. The tramway has been nearby all the way, although for now, it will head towards the eponymous Gorseddau Quarry to the right. Carry straight on, until after 621 metres an old woollen Mill can be seen to the right. It is permanently closed to the public nowadays, but was once a corn mill. It was converted to a Woollen Mill in 1850, and still contains machinery such as looms, carding machines etc. A water wheel, to be seen at the rear of the complex, and later a turbine, powered the machinery.

A short while after the mill, a  turning to the left is encountered, signed for the NCR8 and Garndolbenmaen. Take instead the right turn. This little hamlet is Golan. The hill slopes steeply down past an old chapel on the right, then veers left after a small farmyard, now a Ty Haf. This is a delightful stretch of country, level and passing some lovely fields and hedgerows.

Approximately 767 metres on from the Gorlan junction, a turning for Brynkir Mansion and Tower is reached.
The Mansion is no more, although I have written about the ruins elsewhere. The 6-story Gothic tower was built in 1821, by Sir Joseph Huddart, who lived at the nearby Brinkir Mansion between 1812 and 1841. He was a high sheriff of Caernarfonshire and was knighted (on the Britannia Bridge!) for building the tower to welcome the Prince of Wales to the area. Some accounts say that the tower was built during a spell of "work creation" for men who had fought in the Napoleonic wars, which at least allows me to think more warmly of the man.
If you decide to take a look at the tower, it’s a steady climb up to the farm turning for the tower, about 445 metres. The farm road is a right of way, although the track after that to the tower isn’t, but I haven’t been challenged in 17 years.

Back at the junction, our route goes left, over a picturesque little bridge and past a delightful Georgian lodge house, Gatws Fawr. Turn right at the lodge house. You are now on the Cwm Pennant road. A succession of easy gradients takes you up into the cwm, past a steep gravel turning to the left which leads to the Hendre Ddu slate quarry, long disused. This is well worth a look, as there are stunning views from it, and a lovely pit- rewarding the steep climb up.  Back on the main route, Carry on for 1.81 kms to St Michael’s Llanfihangell y Pennant church. There is a lovely view of the church from the road, taking in the quarry on Moel Isallt.
The church is 17th century in origin and was considerably altered in the 19th century, with the west gallery dated 1847. Further restorations carried out in 1888. It is considered architecturally to be without merit and has been on the market for years.

This is the last stop before the fierce climb of Y Gyfyng, (which means narrow or pinch point) over the bridge crossing the Afon Dwyfor, and up to the old schoolhouse. We will climb over the threshold to the upper cwm, something of a handlebar chewer, but once over this, there are only small undulations in the road all the way to the end of the cwm. Over the shoulder of Moel Isallt, the magical part of Cwm Pennant begins. It follows the Afon Dwyfor until the mountains close in ominously around. At the head, the mist shrouded citadels stand above the shattered ruins of slate quarries and deserted farms, echoing to the cries of  ravens.

While Cwm Pennant is on the unfashionable side of Snowdon, and little visited, it's beauty is well-known to anyone who has been. The bard Eifion Wynn, in his famous poem about the cwm, wrote:
"Why God, did you make Cwm Pennant so beautiful,
And the life of an old shepherd so short?"

Jim Perrin, in his book about the hills of Wales wrote about the cwm: “Here is a landscape where every field corner is thick with ghosts.”

As you descend from the Gyfyng climb, you pass Pennant Methodist Chapel, built in 1834. The chapel was rebuilt in 1870, in the Simple Round-Headed style of the gable entry type, but by 1998 Pennant had fallen into disuse and is currently under conversion to a Ty Haf.

Riding along a narrow but well maintained road here, meandering between fields and the river is a pleasure after the climb from the bridge at Gyfyng. Even in summer, there is rarely much traffic along here, except on Sundays, when it seems to be favoured by locals having a post-lunch drive out.
Before the next bridge over the Dwyfor there was until recently a picturesque public footpath from Plas y Pennant farm, leading up to Chwarel y Plas and the Nantlle Ridge. Access to the path has been lost since the house was converted into a Ty Haf.
Remains of mines abound in the woods to the left. At the next bridge across the Dwyfor there is a gate across the road. To the left of this is a footpath to the famous Cwm Ciprwth mine, with it’s water wheel still in place- well worth an excursion, although it will take a couple of hours on foot, and is a strenuous climb. On the way, you can take in the remains of the Gilfach copper mine.

Once through the gate and over the modern, concrete bridge, the final section of the cwm opens up- and it is stunning. Fairly level going now, with the amazing view of the Prince of Wales slate quarry ahead and the majestic peaks of Moel Hebog and Moel yr Ogof to the right. Ahead lie Mynydd tal y Mignedd and Trum y Ddysgl, sharp, threatening, cloud scraping  peaks. It is the delightful thing about this ride that you can get so close to these peaks without actually having to scale them. (I think we’ve done enough climbing already!) Finally, a little pull up to Braich y Dinas farm, where often the friendly farmer opens the gate for me and unlocks the final magical stretch of half a mile to the end of the cwm. I sometimes try out my Cymraeg on him, and so far he hasn’t laughed… at least to my face.

I haven't provided a map for this final section, since it is obvious; you just keep on the road heading for the end of the cwm.

There are often cattle loose on this stretch of road, but I haven’t had any problems with them, apart from having to navigate round their leavings on the road. Cow and sheep poo are the devil to remove from gravel tyres! The end of the cwm road comes too soon, but you can have a snack and a drink from your bidon while surveying the remains of the Dol Ithan Gethin quarry on the side of the hill opposite. A track leads from the car park here up to the Prince of Wales quarry, high above- another worthwhile excursion if you have a few hours to spare. I have seen folk on mountain bikes negotiating the Gorseddau Tramway that runs a few hundred feet above here on it’s way to Cwm Dwyfor, but honestly, I wouldn’t recommend it.

Now it’s time to retrace our steps. The climb back up to the Gyfyng isn’t as bad this way, it’s a little more gentle. Then it’s a civilised meander down to the Gate house, Gatws Fawr again and on along the road to Golan. But our route has one more surprise. The climb back up to Golan is pesky. Slightly longer than you’d expect and just a little too steep for comfort. Once over this, there’s another slightly uncomfortable pull up to the summit at the cemetery, nothing too difficult, though. And then, it’s downhill all the way back to Porthmadog!

Turn left down the NCR8 towards Penmorfa, taking care going down as it is steep and you can soon build up quite a speed.  When you reach the foot of the climb, don’t go down to Penmorfa, but turn left along the formation of the Gorseddau Tramway. This is a cycle route, although with a few more gates than I’d like. It skirts the petticoats of the Allt Wen ridge and passes a couple of old slate mines high up in the woods that once used the Tramway to send their produce to Porthmadog. This is a special stretch of the route, the trees give dappled shade in summer and the surface is good enough providing you ride a gravel bike or a mountain bike. The Old Tramway comes out at the Hospital, where you negotiate the car park and ride down past the school and on to a short stretch of the A487, before crossing back on to a cycle route towards Porthmadog. Now we are back on the tramway as it heads under the new by-pass, finally sharing space with y Cyt, the old canal as it runs behind a housing estate back into Port. Turn right, scoot along the pavement for a couple of metres and you are back where you started.

Thanks to Eric Jones for the photo of Gatws Fawr, under this creative commons licence

Thanks to Petra for the use of two of her superb photos.

Ty Haf means a holiday home.

The book is finished! The cover has been designed and produced by my hugely talented partner Petra Brown- and we are going through the final proof stages now.
I am desperate to see the book published, as it's been an ambition of mine for so many years. It won't be long now...watch this space!

I’ve been back to Manchester a few times, to ride on the trams, visit the Lowry centre and examine what remains of Trafford Park Industrial estate (not a lot). But I hadn’t been back to Piccadilly station until last week- for the first time in about forty years. The occasion was to meet my daughter, who was visiting us from Edinburgh- where she lives now. It was exciting to be back at the station, hearing the train announcements and seeing just how busy it was. The station staff were a lot more pleasant than my last visit in the ‘eighties; the surroundings were too.

As we drove along Fairfield Road towards Piccadilly I saw a shiny modern bus coming towards us- a 219- much like the bus in the photo above. Glimpsing the route indicator had a strange effect on me. As if I was in some tacky Dr Who episode, I was transported back in time. The hoardings advertising perfume and electric cars alongside the road dissolved. Modern developments faded away like smoke, to be replaced by derelict old warehouses, throwbacks from the canal age. For a few fleeting moments, the bus was an old Mayne's half cab, emitting a haze of diesel- as I found myself in the sombre, fume laden air of another time.

Maynes could never compete with their successors, Stagecoach for frequency of service, especially with all the works in the area playing havoc with schedules, although their buses were always on time and clean as far as I remember- although that could be my rosy glasses. I don’t know the full story of Mayne's and their demise but I guess after all this time, things are for the better. There’s a Mayne’s AEC like the one above on display at the Manchester Museum of Transport- we must visit, hopefully when/if we survive the Covid peril. I always wondered what those AEC Regents were like to drive, as at that time I was driving an ancient AEC Mammoth Major 8 legger, for a demolition company in Manchester- helping to knock down those aforementioned old warehouses, I’m ashamed to say.

Safely back home in Porthmadog, I consulted my books about Manchester's transport to check just how rose tinted my memory had been. I have rather a lot of bus and railway books, mainly thanks to people like Nick’s Railway Books in Machynlleth, who always seems to have something I can’t resist. I didn’t see the true significance of the book below until I got it home and saw who it had once belonged to: Nigel Dyckhoff, a well-known author of railway books about Manchester and the Cheshire lines, several of which I have. His bookplate and signature are inside, and it’s nice to think of him looking through the album. He was a Mancunian and a very successful businessman…railways and model railways were a spare time passion for him.

The book is a fine overview of the fifties, picturing many locations that are now altered beyond recognition. The photos, by A. C. Gilbert and N. R. Knight are exemplary. I confess to having spent many hours poring over them, especially those of places once familiar to me. There’s a photo of a Gorton K3 2-6-0 coming through Stalybridge Station- I remembered seeing one once in the same location, probably in the middle sixties. I asked a railwayman on the platform what it was, being unfamiliar with the type as I’d just moved from Crewe. He replied “It’s a bloody demic*, lad, that’s what it is.” I then had to ask one of my new school friends what a “demic” was… they were very amused.
*Demic: Noun.  A thing that is worn out or broken. (Mancunian colloquialism)

Talking of Railway titles about Manchester, here’s another book from my collection. By the well-known photographer Tom Heavyside, who must have had the opposite of a mis-spent youth, as all he seems to have done is take railway photos in the ‘sixties. All day and night, judging by the number of books to his credit. Some might say that I wasted my youth on cycle racing, drawing, trying to snog girls and playing music- but then perhaps Tom Heavyside did all that as well, you never know. Some people can multi task. This is one of the Ian Allan colour albums and is a nice compliment to the Gilbert/Knight volume. I don’t put too much store on colour, sometimes steam locos look better in black and white- but there are some cracking shots within. Both books are all the more impressive when you consider that the photos were taken on old fashioned film cameras

My experience this week in Manchester is a reminder that if you take your eye off something, things often change. Not always for the worse, either. Looking across to the city from the Macunian way (“The Manchurian Way” as a friend used to malapropise it) the place looks very dynamic and exciting. It has it’s own problems, of course, and has just been kicked in the goolies again by the government as they break ever more promises. But from what I saw briefly the other day, it’s still a bold and busy place.

I didn't have a great childhood, although compared to some people you hear about, I guess I had it pretty easy. My parents were mostly self-absorbed, too busy thinking about themselves to pay much attention to me. They weren't always indifferent- in fact, my Dad often stood in the way of my Mum attacking me with various blunt instruments, her hands mostly. Yeah, my Dad was OK most of the time. He just liked a quiet life. He bought me comics, and sometimes stole things for me- like a platoon of model soldiers, or one time, a circus lorry and crane.
I retreated into my model railway, or read library books about railways. If I could get out without them seeing me, I would sit on the railway fence, watching for the heavy freight trains that stumbled past near the farm every evening, blunt engines like sick horses with a load that they couldn't master. Of course, all this was before I got my bike. After that, like an infatuation, trains were done with for a while. I was off, riding with my mates- or the Glossop Velo.
But, these arguments, back at the house. God knows what they were about, but they seemed to kick off every night. Mum's voice would open proceedings, a sharp exclamation followed by a stacatto, machine-gun stabbing. I couldn't make out what she was saying, just the general effect, like a knife. Then my Dad would start up, rumbling, a slow reverberation into which Mum would verbally jab, as if cutting his words into shreds. Nobody could get the better of her in an argument- Dad must have been a glutton for punishment.
I imagined I would come down the next morning and there would be scraps of paper on the floor, with Dad's words like "sorry" or "no, I meant.." discarded like dried potato peelings.
Things usually ended with a slammed door; my Dad off to the pub, or his mistress. Come to think of it, a slammed door was the nearest we ever got to a discussion in our house.

Autumn Evening from Childhood

Eight years old.
Lying in bed
a dog barking from somewhere
marking the territory of
dusk, the diurnal outlier.
Aware of earth's
quiet progress
I'm trying to fix the day before it turns.
But it's foxed, edges
blackened by the passage of time's engines,
lost to memory's register.

Waiting for sleep,
I listen to the slow considerations
of a distant train.
Struggling with gravity
a conversation with the welkin
punctuated by mis-step and slip.
Discourse resumes
as sheets press against my legs
the counterpaine's
unseen freight.

It was then the voices began
downstairs.
A discussion growing reckless
a night train gone rogue and disorderly
adrift along the timetable's margins.
Something low resonated like an idling diesel
A whistle shrieked among wreckage.
Volume rose like a difficult job
Until the door slammed.
Then a sighed deflation, air from brakes
workday arrangement of furniture
as the house settled again to shadows.

The dog barked, marked as normal
the mutability of territory.


Copyright Falcon Blackwood 2021

I've recently finished watching the superb S4C series "Craith" ("Hidden" in English). For those who have yet to see this, you have a treat in store. Three whole series of Cymru Noir goodness in the vein of "Y Gwyllt" and "Requiem" More of a why-dunnit than a who-dunnit, it's packed full of atmosphere and superb dialogue from finely drawn characters whose arcs develop and intensify as the series unfolds
 
Sadly, this series is the last- although I struggle to see how the production team could improve on this offering, so perhaps it's wisest to quit while you are ahead. As always, it stars Sian Reese-Williams as Cadi John, the humane but very focussed DCI who leads her team, struggling to make sense of the latest spate of brutal killings. She is backed up by her sergeant, Owen Vaughan, (Sion Alun Davies) and an ensemble cast of fine Welsh actors, many of whom have been along for the whole run.
 
It's a little different to the usual style of detective features. Edge of the seat stuff at times, sure- and you get drawn in to the world very quickly, but there are few blue light chases or showdowns. The emotional roller coaster of the story develops slowly, the Snowdonian settings distil a sense of loneliness and isolation. It's not a trailer for the North Wales Tourist Board, that's for sure; while the mountains and landscapes never look less than majestic, they brood under grey skies and gallons of all pervading rain. Each series has sharpened the focus on families and people living with a sense of dislocation. Wales can be like that- remote villages, tiny hamlets, cut off from civilisation. Things going on out of sight up unmarked lanes. Paradoxically, there's also a pervading sense of home, of hiraeth.
 
This final valedictory set opens with Cadi returning from an interview. It becomes clear that this must be for a promotion, away to Liverpool. Her father has died and she travels back to her Dad's island home on the Menai Straits to help sort out her Dad's possessions before the house is sold. Or rather, she doesn't, as her sisters have done all the work. Cadi has been too busy with policework- and her interview. Typically, there is very little dialogue in the first fifteen minutes, everything is conveyed by cut scenes and gestures. Proper drama. There's a shady priest, too good to be true, who is helping a girl who has made some dodgy decisions (Lea Pryce, sister of Mali Pryce, one of Dylan Harris’s earlier victims from season one). The council are trying to relocate her from her too-large family home (the same location as season 1) now that her Dad's in stir.
 
Brothers Glyn and Siôn Thomas are next. Siôn (Sion Ifan) is a deeply troubled character, haunted by his past. I kept being distracted by the resemblance to John Martyn that Sion Ifan displays but his performance is pitch perfect. He and Glyn have a deep bond, both dependant upon each other. Glyn, a man with learning difficulties, is played by Justin Melluish- a wonderfully acted role, fragile and vulnerable, yet with strengths that eventually shine. He's prey for some knuckle dragging local bullies, but is touchingly concerned for his pigeons, which he keeps near the house.  The brothers' scenes have a troubling vulnerability set within the seedy house that they share. Already, mysteries and doubts are stirring, Sion seems to have done something very bad- but is it the murder of Ifan Williams, a no-good boyo from his youth?
Ifan Williams has a widow who doesn't seem too fussed that he is dead, but she is devoted to her son. They live on a farm with Ifan's mother, caught in another dysfunctional relationship. Some of Ifan's dodgy dealings emerge that put the farm, their home, at risk.
 
There are six episodes that slowly unfold the story until Cadi steers through the darkness towards a solution. Typically, she wants to know why, even after she's got the collar. I won't give away the story except to say that what struck me most was the character development  and the story arc throughout the run. Owen Vaughan, for instance, is a rather gauche sergeant in episode one, season one. He has an affair with a member of the team, to Cadi's disapproval. Then he decides to stay with his wife, who is expecting a baby. You can almost sense him grow up, take on the mantle of a police officer and become comfortable with himself. There's a touching scene near the end where he hugs Cadi as a farewell gesture, then says "Enough of this, I never liked you anyway!" He has been the vehicle for humour throughout and the chemistry between Davies and Reese Williams is very clear. Reese Williams' genius is that she brilliantly conveys a person who has smouldering conflict within herself, trying to keep focussed and compassionate yet pulled in different directions by ambition, love and belonging.
Very appropriately, all the loose ends are tied up in the last episode. I was quite prepared for them not to be, but I was glad, particularly for Cadi.
 
I recommend this series unreservedly- fine viewing.

I'm a very keen comics afficionado- anything from Gold and Silver eras (strictly in affordable compilations, though, I can't afford the originals!) through to the latest issues. At its best, the writing when coupled with expressive artwork, really pushes all my buttons. 
This DC compilation is not to be confused with a certain popular TV series...rather, it features Gotham City Police Department as they go about their day-to-day stuff. I have always been a big Batman fan, but had been warned not to expect too much of the Bat in this volume. Now why did they say that? He was all over it. His shadow stalked almost every page, with the cops wondering, should they turn on the Bat signal, thinking about not turning it on, or what was the procedure for doing so anyway? Trying to keep the Bat away from the investigation, determined to clear it up themselves...I thought that this would be me, if I was one of those cops. Gotham's finest, going about their mundane daily investigative tasks, finding stray cats, writing car theft reports and more paperwork- while the Bat hoovered up anything heavy duty or bizarre that came along. Why wouldn't they resent him?
I come from a family of cops, my Grandad, my uncles, my Dad- even my Mum worked as a cop before she met my Dad...so I know that the majority of police work is dull routine slogging. Cops often don't have time to dig into cases because they are overworked, underfunded, constrained by resource managers...that's even before you factor in the lazy or corrupt ones. Yet we have a fixation with the idea of detection in so many (excellent) comics and TV series. We've turned it into a genre, an art form- and I love that. I've bought into it, hook line and sinker. That's what made this title so attractive. You have these stock characters looking like like cops from central casting, cleverly drawn with a grubby, noir Kojak style, wisecracking and then getting all fussed because one of their number is outed as gay. I thought we were over all that, and could accept people for what they are, but apparently Rucka and Brubaker think not. But apart from that one hiccup, the whole thing works so well. I don't know, maybe I was reading it ironically, but I loved the book. I was even slightly disappointed when things got a bit "costumed hero" in the last story. I did kind of want the cops to solve this one without my beloved Bats, and for a while, it seemed like they just might. Montoya was in a hopeless situation, framed up in the best Frank Cannon style but eventually the Bats takes over and makes it all look so simple.
I loved the interplay between the cops and the implied presence of Batman, which somehow made him seem all the more awesome and mysterious.
I can't wait to read the next in the series. Incidentally, I know a couple of folks have dissed the artwork in this book, but for me, it was brilliant. A definite five out of five.

I used to be a copywriter. There we are, it's out. For over 35 years I wrote editorial and advertising copy as if I was the writers equivalent of a pit pony, unregarded, begrimed with ink, poorly treated, dragging strings of sentences out into the light and then being replaced if the copy was lame. Of course, it was often lucrative, which made the lack of respect from my employers (usually advertising agencies) bearable.
In those days, I read everything I could, in order to be able to access the current lingua franca of the consuming masses. In my spare time, kicking back in the stable, I also read detective novels.

Nowadays, I think of myself as a proper writer, (even though I haven't had anything published yet)- but I still chow down on detective novels. I guess it's comfort reading -and anyway, I can't break the habit. I read other stuff, of course, proper, high falutin' literature, dontcha know, but detective novels are fun. I started out with Ruth Rendell, P D James and Josephine Tey before graduating to Ian Rankin, Peter May, Peter Robinson and Val McDermid.

Lately I have been sampling the fine writing of Craig Russell. His "Lennox" series features a hard-boiled private eye written in the first person- the books are a blend of Chandleresque adventure stories crossed with something of the style and substance of William McIlvanney.

I am a huge fan of McIlvanney, of course, but his writing is so fine that it gets in the way of my enjoyment of the story. I keep having to take a step back to admire yet another amazing description, metaphor or image. Sometimes I think his work is like altitude training- it soars to rarified heights where it's difficult to breathe for long.  McIlvanney was a wonderful writer, but perhaps I'd appreciate him more if I wasn't trying to write myself.

Craig Russell is also a writer with a superb turn of phrase. He does for 1950s Glasgow what Jake Arnott did for 1960s London using a similar assortment of dodgy gangsters, bent coppers and the wonderfully seedy underbelly of post war society. I think what sets this apart is not only the brilliant re-creation of the period but the strength of the characterisation and the blackly comic asides that permeate the book. For instance, the stories feature a slow-witted heavy called "Twinkletoes Macbryde" whose u.s.p. is a speciality with bolt cutters and feet. Macbryde tries to improve his vocabulary daily from the "Reader's Digest" -  Russell's genius is that at the end of the book you actually start to feel fond of the big galoot.

There are five books in the Lennox series- of course, I started with the last one, "The Quiet Death of Thomas McQuaid" but it was enjoyable reading the other books in the series, finding out the characters back stories which stand on their own within each book.
Russell has also written the "Jan Fabel" series, set in Germany. They are rather more gothic in style albeit just as exquisitely written, but not my cup of tea.

The first in an occasional series about my love of cycling and cycle racing.

I've had an all-encompassing passion for cycling since I was eleven. There have been other passions of course; trains, buses, comics, music- to name but a few. However, these other brittle fascinations faded slightly at eleven years old when I discovered I could, with considerable difficulty, ride my Dad's bike. It was an ancient, massive, rod-braked Frankensteinian monster of a machine, half "Hercules" and half Raleigh. The old man was the village bobby and it was his sole transport, this being a few years before Z Cars. The Her-Ral was light years away from being a Ford Zephyr six, let alone Bodie's Capri. I fell off, at speed, down our steep driveway and bent the already rakish handlebars, so that was me, forbidden to go anywhere near the Her-Ral again.
A fabulous green Raleigh was promised that Christmas "if you pass your eleven-plus", a condition that I faithfully delivered on, because that was my part of the bargain. Dad took me to see the wondrous bike in the village cycle shop and I gazed at it, mouth watering at the sparkly colour, the orange lining, the chrome wheels. To me it was a two wheeled evocation of the fabulous express locomotives that plied between Crewe and Perth, those that my illustrious Uncle Walter drove. I'd ticked a few off in my Ian Allan combined volume that summer.
Christmas came, but the bike didn't. I couldn't complain, I got a couple of presents, but I really wanted that bloody bike. I'd have happily have given everything else away just to be able to ride aboard the green dream machine. I asked my old man, what had happened? He told me some cock and bull story about the shop selling it to someone else- I had the uneasy feeling that something was going on. Were my parents hard-up, in financial trouble? Probably, since back then in the 1950s, policemen were paid in washers and farming wasn't much better. I think I would have understood if they had actually told me the truth. It felt unfair.
I know, this sounds like I was a whiny spoilt child- and maybe I was. But I kept quiet about the bike business after that, figuring from the look on my Dad's face that he wasn't too proud of what had happened. A year later, my Uncle Gerald turned up with a battered Triumph "Palm Beach" for me that I instantly fell in love with. I don't know where he'd found it, but it was mine! I rode it around the local back lanes with my mates, along miles and miles of canal towpaths, back in the days when you wouldn't see anyone on a towpath- or if you did, you'd better make yourself scarce. The Palm Beach was handy. I started to explore further afield, into Derbyshire. I remember climbing a ferocious hill, (all the more impressive since the bike was a three-speed) and marvelling at the view of distant Manchester from the top, a dark cloud of smoke like swear words hanging above it. I could hear Skylarks, Peewits and Curlews. The skies in Derbyshire were blue and I had a bag of Hula Hoops in my jacket pocket. My world was complete.
Things went on like this for a blissful year or so, miles of two wheeled freedom. I started riding up to see a friend from school who lived in Mottram, a few miles up the road. We were building a model railway together and I would go to his and ride back home after working on the layout, or he'd come to mine and I'd ride partway back with him for the hell of it. Then one evening, as I rode back home, I heard a strange, rustling, swishing noise behind me. I turned to see a band of brightly coloured mythical creatures- two-wheeled centaurs, perhaps, who passed me at great speed, their brown legs ablur. They moved as one body and appeared to be joined together at the shoulders, so closely were they riding. The spell was broken slightly when one of the riders at the rear called out "y' alright, kiddo?" as he rapidly swished into the distance.
Who were these gods? I asked at school the next day and one of the lads told me that it was the "Glossop Velo" cycling club, on one of their training runs. This olympian sight could, apparently be witnessed every Wednesday and Saturday. But the thing was, I didn't just want to see them- I wanted to ride with them. No matter that I might as well try and  ride with the Wild Hunt, or the Valkyries, for all that I could keep up.
I waited the next Wednesday at the top of the hill and tagged on at the back as they passed. I pedalled furiously, swept along in their slipstream for a mile or so until I started to feel unwell. My legs began to lose all feeling and my lungs were threatening to explode. I drifted off the pack, like a fly that had tried to land on a Japanese Bullet Train. I pulled in to the side and hung my head over the handlebars, dizzily, desperately trying to bring my breathing back to normal.
I wasn't daunted, though. I was back the next week, buzzing moth-like at the flame of the "Velo". By then I had transformed my Palm beach into a white simulacrum of  Tommy Simpson's machine, using some old paint I'd found in the shed. I had taken the mudguards off as well, since the "Velo" riders didn't have any. I reckon it probably slowed them down.  My Dad said:  "What yer want to do that for? Yer'll get a wet arse if it rains!" I didn't care. I was riding in search of the gods. To be a part of that mighty horde, if only for a few minutes, was reward in itself. To hell with the infidels.
After a month, I did manage to keep up for a few miles, until their superior gearing and legs began to tell against my scarce reserves of bike and body. But one of the gods took pity on me, and encouraged me to keep up.  Some of the other riders would chuckle and say "come on, Eddy, where's that sprint of yours?" (Referring, of course, to the great Tour de France legend, Eddy Merckx). One night, as we passed under Dinting viaduct and I had begun to see double with exhaustion, the god known as Ron made the suggestion that I could come on a Sunday club run, see if I liked it. There were all sorts there, he said, and gave me the time and location of the start.
Somehow, despite my cycling induced delirium, I managed to remember this and was there the next Saturday. As if I wouldn't be!  The folk turned out to be a fine bunch, from seventeen to eighty in years and the ride, a fifty mile tour of the Peak District, was at an easy pace. Turned out that the gods I'd seen on Wednesdays were the elite racers, one or two of whom rode in the national squad and at least one rode professionally a few years later. Ron, my acquaintance from the pack, was there for the club ride and we chatted easily. He was probably about seventeen or eighteen to my thirteen, a big gap at that age, but he was generous with his time and his advice. I joined the club that day and bought a club jersey. promising to pay for it at the next club meet.
The next Wednesday I was back, knocking myself out with the elite racers and lasting a couple of miles before boiling over and pulling to the side. But this time, I was wearing a Glossop Velo jersey...