Cash needed to realise our vision

Just imagine:  you leave your house to cycle into Oxford, and are quickly channeled to a fully-protected cycle superhighway.  It's amazing - wide and well-paved, there's not a pothole in sight.

As you glide into town past the ‘Welcome to Oxford – Europe’s cycling city’ sign, you admire the design, a continuous, protected bike lane with careful routing behind bus stops and priority over side streets and at roundabouts.

And when you arrive to the safety, calmness and clean air of the motor-free city centre, there are ample options to park your bike right next to your destination, trailer and all.

It’s not impossible: all it will take is some political will… and panniers of cash!

And there’s the rub – with austerity in full swing, our roads in ‘managed decline’ and children’s centres closing, where is the extra money going to come from to transform Oxford into a cycling city?

Well, a good start would be the county council, as highways authority, committing to spending a percentage – how about 20 per cent? – of its £57m annual transport budget on cycling infrastructure.

And the council also runs public health, which should surely be investing in cycling, which a former chief medical officer called “a miracle cure”. Remember, a 2016 Highways England report said that Danish levels of cycling in the UK would save the NHS £17bn over 20 years.

Government could help too: the Department of Transport could put far more emphasis on active travel, beyond the limited budget and vision of the likes of the Cycle City Ambition and Local Sustainable Transport funds. And does Oxford get any of the £12m a year available to local bodies in England for Bikeability cycle training? Or the £100m of ring-fenced funding for cycling schemes from Highways England?

In fact, does anyone even know how much is actually spend per person on cycling in Oxford? The Government claims it’s presently over £10 per person per year following Cycle City Ambition Fund investment. However, such figures tend to conflate both local and national spending, and do not indicate long-term funding commitments. Compare the Dutch city of Groningen, which will spend £77 per head on cycling in each of the next five years.

Yet there is hope!

Robin Tucker, who chairs Oxfordshire Cycle Network, agrees that there is virtually no independent capital now, but he hopes that funding could materialise from a combination of national bids, developer funding, and smart use of the maintenance budget.  And he should know: Robin is also on the transport committee of the Local Enterprise Partnership.

He will speak at a free, open meeting organised by Cyclox on Tuesday, March 31, at 7.30pm at St Michael’s at the Northgate to tell us more. It should be a fascinating insight into the ‘wheels within wheels’ of political decision-making. Hopefully he will offer hope that there really is money if we know where to look for it.

The best books for 3 year olds?

When my journey as a dad started, my reading came to an end.

No more drifting off with Julian Barnes, relaxing Sundays with Alain de Botton, or bathroom appointments with the No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency.

Baby books were no substitute – if I have to read another Maisy Shops Online or That’s Not My Bloody Badger book I'll pen my own obituary.

But now baby has become toddler, amazingly, books are back!  They are different to adult novels: shorter, simpler, and illustrated.  Pictures are particularly important - it only dawned on me recently that whilst I look at the words, my daughter focuses exclusively on the illustrations - and at best these don’t just reflect the text, but add to or contrast with it.

Here are the top 10 gems I’ve discovered so far:

10. I Love You Little Monster:  Giles Andreae may be better known for Giraffe’s Can’t Dance, and this one verges on smoltz, but still gets me every time. “So when you get knocked down, my sweetheart / Look up at the sky without fear / For sometimes we need to be flat on our backs / Before starlight begins to appear.” Can any parent read this to their toddler and remain unmoved?

9. Billy’s Bucket:  this simple, imaginative story from Kes Gray / Garry Parsons has both father and daughter chortling, whilst gently reminding us that adults rarely know best.

8. The Hill And The Rock:  David McKee is famous for Elmer the elephant, but I find the stories rarely match the quality of the pictures.   This, on the other hand, couples his trademark comic-book style with a brilliantly quirky moral tale of making the best of what we have.

7. Hairy Maclary:  Lynley Dodd creates simple and amusing tales and illustrations for cats like Slinkly Malinky and dogs like Schnitzel von Krumm.  She is also rare as a children’s author who can actually rhyme and scan, making these great read-out-loud favourites.

6. The Incredible Book-Eating Boy:  Oliver Jeffers’ Lost And Found is a classic, but the brilliant illustration and the cracking ending for this make it my favourite from his impressive output.

5. Kicking a Ball!:  Janet & Alan Ahlberg hog much of our shelf space:  Peepo! and The Baby Catalogue were early favourites, and Eat Peach Pear Plum should replace all nursery rhymes, which to me range from the merely inappropriate to the deeply unpleasant.  But as I’m trying to indoctrinate my daughter to love the beautiful game, I’ll just keep saying "Kicking a ball, kicking a ball, that's surely the purpose of life, after all".

4. Princess Smartypants:  funny, brightly-illustrated, and with a punchy message for my strong, independent daughter - Babette Cole will be missed.

3. A Bit Lost:  few words and a simple ‘are you my mummy?’ story, but Chris Haughton’s cracking and distinctive design makes this a pleasure to read over and over.

2. Paper Dolls:  Julia Donaldson is popular for a reason – she is wonderful.  I could include any number of her superbly-told, uplifting tales – Toddle Waddle was the first book my daughter could quote; Charlie Cook and Tyrannosaurus Drip are recent favourites.  This is no exception, with her faultless rhyme and scan, here with a particular deftness and a lovely ending.

1. Journey:  here’s a find.  No words at all, just super illustrations and a cracking story.  If you haven’t discovered it yet, get it!

Of course, there are bags of badly-rhyming, poorly-scanning rubbish, written in the mistaken belief that having the language skills of a 3 year old is a qualification to be a children’s author.  Writing for kids is different, but – as with music, theatre or films – it’s every bit as hard to do well.

But I’m happy to say there are plenty of great books for toddlers.  I’m not happy to leave out classics like Where The Wild Things Are or The Train Ride, or more recent favourites like Shark In The Park, Supertato, or How To Hide A Lion.  

And with lovely friends and family lending and giving us books, bargains a-plenty in local charity shops, and our criminally-underrated public libraries, I hope and expect to fully revise this list by the time I’m reading to my baby son.

Work to restore city to its role as cycling capital

Dear newly-elected councillor - first of all, congratulations!  Being a local politician is a pretty thankless task.  Budgets are tighter and demands greater.  The district/county split is confusing and unhelpful.  We understand that - and we'd like to work with you.

Let’s talk about cycling. You know the stuff about how great it is for economic growth, health, inclusion, clean air, carbon reduction… (if not, stop reading now and check out the Cycletopia vision on the home page of Cyclox).

So the question is, how can we actually improve things in practice, in your ward, on the streets by your house, for the people who voted for you (and those you want to vote for you next time)?

Segregated cycle routes are top of my personal list. I just want a reasonable share of the road, enough for me and my little daughter to cycle safely to the nursery or the shops without being scared of motor traffic. These routes really help people who are too nervous to cycle in traffic to take up cycling, boosting health, reducing congestion and improving our environment.

Both you and I will spend a lot of time on planning consultations. Please push a little harder on each one to ensure that people can get to new houses, stations and shopping centres, on foot or by bike safely and easily.

Funding is critical: the Department for Transport says that 'for every £1 of public money spent, the funded (cycling infrastructure) schemes provide £5.50 worth of social benefit'.

So please lobby for more cycling infrastructure. And can you start now by ensuring that, of the money already at your disposal – however squeezed it is – more of it goes towards cycling?

Maintaining our existing roads and paths is also vital. It would be lovely if every route were smooth as a cucumber! But at least could you make sure the worst craters (pot holes) in your area are repaired promptly and durably?

One of the great things about cycling is avoiding the stress and cost of parking a car. We just need some modest investment – and your political will – to make bike parking better. Perhaps you could commit to installing even just a couple of new bike stands in the most useful location in your ward?

 As well as all this practical stuff, feel free to think big! What can you personally do to help restore Oxford as the cycling capital of the country?

In fairness, you could request something back. The likes of Cyclox can and will do more to reach out to you as a politician, to better understand your needs and challenges. Our first politicians’ bike ride takes place next month – come along, and you can tell us in person how we can help you.

Congratulations again. You now have the opportunity make a real difference for the people of your ward – and we want to work with you to achieve that. Now, please, let’s talk!

Home birth - for dads

It’s the most amazing experience of any dad’s life: when the woman we love gives birth; the moment we guide our first-born into the world; our transformation from man to father.

And the setting for this momentous event?

In this country, we are still nearly always surrounded by health professionals not friends, in the bleached blandness of a hospital ward rather than the familiar comfort of home.

Happily, Katja had other ideas.  She wanted a home birth, to keep things as normal as possible.  I’d heard mums (and dads) tend to be more satisfied with birth at home, and was comforted by anecdotes from colleagues and the reassuringly ordinary NCT homebirth group.

There may also have been a desire to avoid the delivery suite where she works.  She would have had great care, but there are some things even clinicians prefer not to share with colleagues…

The truth is that I basically went along with her wishes.  Though it helped that we live a couple of kilometres down the hill from the John Radcliffe.  Having said that, I’ve worked in plenty of hospitals, and generally they are best avoided unless you are ill (which Katja wasn’t).  I decided to do a bit of swatting up myself.

In short, for some women a hospital is completely appropriate: for high-risk pregnancies or complicated labours where there’s a danger to mother or child, a delivery suite with the dedicated staff and equipment is absolutely where birth should be.

But, whilst the definition is a little vague, most pregnancies are not high-risk.  In fact, many of the women who give birth in hospital delivery suites are not high risk.  Thankfully, everyone agreed Katja’s risk was low.

And then, just a couple of weeks before our birth, NICE revised its guidance on place of birth.  In light of new evidence that the rate of interventions is lower, and the outcome for the baby is no different, they concluded that many more women, including first time mums, should give birth at home or in midwife-led units.

If there had been any lingering doubts (there weren’t), the hateful Daily Mail’s response dispelled them:  the NHS, it thundered, “with maternity wards experiencing the highest birth rate in years thanks, in part, to immigration, is exploiting the concerns of paranoid middle-class mothers to save cash”.  I’m not sure if they saw my immigrant midwife wife as part of the problem or the solution (and she’s German too, which apparently is ‘different’ to Romanian).  Anyway, that did it:  home birth it was!

So how was it for this dad?

For me at least, it really helped that this was our home, our territory; women are meant to be offered choice whatever the setting, but it’s so much easier to have home advantage:  it helps football teams, it’s well known in business negotiations – and it applies to birth too.

In practice this meant there was minimal intervention.  The midwives were great, keeping back most of the time, with just the occasional check of baby’s heart rate – yet were attentive and quietly efficient when needed.

Once labour was fully underway, we began our pain relief starter menu:  lashings of squatting and swaying, a sprinkling of paracetamol, bathed in relaxing hypnobirth music – a good beginning.  We progressed to a main course of TENS machine accompanied by frequent glugs of gas and air (Katja claims neither were necessary, but she nearly belted me when I suggested taking them away!). 

Interestingly, for us the best relief came from the simplest sources.  Wrapped around Katja’s waist, the heatpack really helped, so I was kept busy topping it up in the microwave.  And the pool was great, though filling it with two and a half baths worth of 37 degree womb-temperature water stretched both our ageing boiler and my wits – in itself justifying the reassuring presence of Donna our doula!

Labour lasted eleven hours, and I was also kept busy bringing cold coconut water for Katja (and catching it in the bowl when she threw it all up!).  My back massages appeared to help, thought I knew when to stop as my hands were unceremoniously brushed away.  And my encouragement to breathe seemed to work, though after a few hours I was boring even myself (and irritating Katja, who informed me we’d now entered the pushing stage!). 

Overall it was great:  rather than stressing about when to go to hospital, I spent much of the labour with the cat on my lap next to the pool!  But it wasn’t all relaxation for dad – my biggest challenge of all was to repeatedly change the music as Venga Boys kept creeping onto the playlist...

Only occasionally did I did get a bit wobbly:  as the baby approached, Katja asked the midwife to cut through the remaining membranes with a rusty coathanger (in my mind – actually a perfectly sterile and expertly-applied ‘amni-hook’).  Then the head appeared but quickly decided to go back inside; and moments later the calming blue water turned a worrying red.  A glance from our kindly doula and a quiet word from the chilled midwives reassured me all was well. 

After hours of labour, the moment of birth happened quickly, and was wonderful.  Baby emerged with her hand by her face (‘waving’), so needed a gentle nudge from the midwife, who then guided her into Katja’s hands – so it was proud new mum herself who lifted our baby from the water; what a special moment. 

Suddenly, after nine months of patting a bump, I was holding my pink, gurgling, bright-eyed daughter.  I’ve no idea where her long dark hair comes from, but her eyebrows and frown looked dad-like to me, and I was predictably smitten.

That wasn’t quite the end of it.  After a while to get all the goodness, we clamped the cord and I was allowed to ceremonially snip (hack) it apart.  She weighed in at a hefty 4kg, making me even more respectful of her amazing mum – who at that moment was quietly delivering the placenta on the sofa!  Baby’s waving on entry had left mum with a bit of a tear, so the no-nonsense midwives quickly stitched her up on the kitchen table – how cool is that?

So as dawn approached, and after a celebratory sip of champagne with our doula and the midwives, we were left alone – tired, delighted, holding our beautiful, healthy baby girl – and happily in our own home.

Seychelles island 4: Bird Island, by land, sea and air

Of all the islands, it was one just a single square kilometre in size and a half-hour flight north of the capital which stole our heart.  Without doubt, this was one of the most fantastic twenty-four hours we’ve ever had.

You can reach the island by air or sea, but as this was a special, short-stay treat, we flew - perhaps an appropriate way to reach Bird Island.

But this was no Airbus: just four of us wedged into the tiny plane, feeling every gust and bump of the air-current.  It was fun, though - if a little unusual - to just lean forward and have a little chat with the pilot in his cockpit.

Arrival was similarly personal – the owner wandered over to welcome us on the grass airstrip, and her assistant smilingly explained “no aircon, no windows… and this  is your tv”, gesturing to the view of the island!  We loved it - not least as we were greeted in our room with a bottle of fizz and a lovely note from Zia & Madeleine (whose hugely generous treat this was), on the back of one of his fantastic photographs of the island.

We were here primarily for the birds, but first we admired an amazing specimen of land animal:  the giant tortoise.

When sailors first started landing on the Seychelles in the eighteenth century, they blithely killed and ate them.  Luckily a few were also taken as pets, and over the decades – centuries – there was a gradual appreciation that these are incredibly special, long-living animals.  Sadly, by then they had nearly all been butchered, and this gentle, peaceful creature was completely wiped out from all of the Indian Ocean – except, fortunately, for one remote island of the Seychelles.

Happily we now live in different times.  Today there are several giant tortoises on Bird - they’re not easy to tell apart, but we were reliably informed that Esmeralda is the world’s oldest at 170 years.   She gently lumbered around, ignoring us as if she had all the time in the world, which I suppose she does.  Or maybe she was just unimpressed with humans – it took us an awful long time to realise, only recently, that Esmeralda is in fact a male!

If the tortoise was adorable on land, its relative was just beautiful in the water.  I steered clear of the stingray, but was immensely privileged to float directly above a hawkbill turtle for what seemed like an eternity, as she grazed peacefully on seagrass, as gently oblivious as her landlubbing cousin earlier.  She (or he) was utterly beautiful.

A word about snorkelling, as it was my first time. “You see and experience things… in a way that is completely different from any other.  You are in nature, part and parcel of it, in a far more complete and intense way than on dry land, and your sense of the present is overwhelming”. 

Roger Deakin’s description in his remarkable book ‘Warterlog’ is true of swimming, and even more so of snorkelling.  I was amazed by the experience:  the mask means you see and breathe as normal, and the buoyancy of your body lets you totally relax, flinding an equilibrium which leaves you floating in the perfect position, just below the surface.  I’m no swimmer, but with the simplest of snorkelling gear I could glide like a fish, changing direction with the merest wave of a hand or tweak of a foot.  Now I think I understand TS White when he said “there is practically no difference between flying in the water and flying in the air”.

Which brings us to the main residents of the island - those who swoop through the skies.  I've always envied birds, as they often seem to have the best of everything - happy waddling over land, diving into the sea, and mastering the skies.

And the bird-life here was truly exceptional:  the vibrant red Madagascan fody was the brightest, the white-tailed tropicbirds the most elegant – and their chicks, safely hatched at the base of treetrunks, easily the cutest!

I was particularly struck by the high-flying frigates, who bore a strong and slightly sinister resemblance to prehistoric pterodactyls.

But the stars are the sooty terns.  Hundreds of thousands crammed into a colony at the far end of the island, the sheer numbers amazing and ultimately hard to comprehend.  I was dazed – and hugely impressed.

Best of all, the island is now an official nature reserve, so there is no threat to these birds – and they respond by flying, swimming or walking all around you.

On land, sea, and particularly in the air – Bird Island really was an experience of a lifetime.

Seychelles island 3: The riches of Silhouette

Our final island stay on the Seychelles is Silhouette, which boasts a veritable abundance of riches.  True to its name, it cuts a dramatic shape as the shiny catamaran slips into the executive harbour, opening up the Indian Ocean’s most densely vegetated island. 

Thankfully Silhouette has no cars, and only one hotel – though it alone displays richness in the way only a high-end Hilton knows how.  My first (and likely only) stay in such luxury delighted and embarrassed me in equal measure – but after all, this was our honeymoon.

Turning to me with her priceless smile, my new wife simpered “oh schatz, isn’t it just divine? – though what if we were hit by a giant tiramisu?” Tidal waves are unlikely here, but we were inundated with heart-attacking waves of the most delicious cuisine.  And if the rich food didn’t give you a cardiac, the hefty prices would ($12 for a small bag of minibar nuts, anyone?).

In fairness, the island has a history of enrichment.  The first recorded landowner, Fancis Hodoun reportedly buried treasure deep in the forest – though this is said of most islands here.  The well-healed Dauban family then bought Silhouette – part of it, allegedly, in exchange for a violin – and went on to make a fortune from their plantations.  Their success is still visible in the lavish wooden house, now home to the deluxe creole restaurant Gran Kaz – and by the simple rusting slave bell down the road.  

So perhaps the Hiltons are just the new colonial masters?  Yet I couldn’t help noticing that there was a shiny new health centre for less than a hundred locals, and I’m sure the brightly-painted school could cope with far more than the present five pupils.  In fact, the only music and laughter we heard came from the staff quarters, us five-star guests seemingly weighed down by our richesse.

Yet there was so much to relish.  The wealth of biodiversity was stunning:  this tiny island  is a trove of over 2,000 species, including the rarest mammal on earth, the critically-endangered sheath-tailed bat.  Most of the land is mountainous forest, with mangrove, takamaka and endemic palm trees mixed with plantation cinnamon, coconut and breadfruit, plus a plentiful sprinkling of perfumed frangipani and flamboyant flame trees.

As if the land didn’t hold treasures enough, the marine life was equally stunning.  Swimming with dartingly-inquisitive snappers and dazzling Picasso fish was a huge privilege, whilst their shy, silver cousins the Milk fish coyly peaked from banks of seagrass beyond.  Ignoring guests’ inflated boasts of hunting or eating these prized creatures, the perfect combination of snorkel and seawater allowed us to bathe in a vast aquarium teaming with tropical fish.

My lasting impression of the island was one of wealth:  the lush, verdant forest; the abundance of valuable fish; the dull, monied guests; and the lingering taste of deliciously decadent, heart-stoppingly rich tiramisu.

And so, as the now-familiar silhouette faded behind us, I faced a final irony:  the island’s name turns out to owe nothing to its dramatic shape – nor to Air Seychelles in-flight magazine – but rather  to Etienne de Silhouette, an eighteenth century French nobleman and Controller General of Finances for Louis XV. 

Which I found to be just a bit rich.

Seychelles island 2: No compromise on La Digue

So where would you go for your holiday of a lifetime?

For me, I want cultural heritage, fresh and tasty food, an interesting language – the stimulations of a new civilisation.  But I’m also looking to walk and ride through beautiful, unspoiled landscapes, away from the stresses of work, the noise and pollution of cars, the persistent drizzle of our north European  island.

For her, it’s rather more simple: hot sun, clear sea, golden sand. 

Who said it’s women who are complicated?

As we were going to north-east Germany to be married, I hatched a cunning plan:  no need for the expense, stress and pollution of a flight; from here we could explore the castles and Hanseatic towns of the north, indulge in as much Kaffe und Kuchen as we could stomach, and gently brush up my language skills. 

And how about his for genius:  Katti’s hometown is on the main Berlin to Copenhagen cycle route, so our holiday of a lifetime would be a gentle tandem ride, far from work, cars and the vexations of daily life.

All this, and no compromise for her:  our ride in the August sunshine would take us to the wonderful, underrated coastline of northern Germany and Denmark.  Sun, sea and sand - perfekt!

However marriage, I am learning – as with any relationship - needs negotiation, cooperation, even concessions – without compromise. 

So we went to the Seychelles.

Not that I begrudged two weeks in the paradise islands of the Indian Ocean.  It was just that, after a week of relaxation on stunning, deserted beaches, I was ready for a change of scenery.  And very specifically, I had developed an idée fixe that, just as I would cycle on my wedding day, so I would have a bike ride on my honeymoon.  I can be a bit obsessive-compulsive, but it’s all about give and take, right?

La Digue was the middle ground we needed:  just off Praslin, the second-largest of the Seychelles, it's tiny gem of an island. 

For her, the beaches were indeed stunning – apparently Anse Source D'Argent is the most photographed in the world.  The sun shone, and waves crashed impressively, if a little too much to get to see much marine life through a snorkelling mask.

For him, a bike ride!  Wonderfully, La Digue has resisted the creeping motorisation of the main islands, and is a haven of cycling, along with walking and the odd oxcart. 

First we headed north, stopping for breadfruit chips and a chat in French to a wizened Creole guy, who advised us against my planned cross-country route.

Locals know best, so we changed course, and struck out on the gently rising path across the middle of the island.  It was bliss – just a gently winding path through palm, almond and takamaka trees, sun on our faces, the tinkle of a bike bell, and some rather large spider webs.

Reaching the far side of the island, we struck out on foot through the hot sand to find Petite Anse.  We had to climb a rocky outcrop to get there, but it was so worth it:  probably the most perfect beach we’d seen, completely to ourselves and stretching way into the distance.  The waves and sun were strong, but this really was a special place.

As we free-wheeled back down towards the picturesque harbour to find our boat in the turquoise water, I had to admit that I was quietly happy to have been persuaded to choose the Indian Ocean and leave the Baltic for another day.

Perhaps I should compromise more often?