onionbagblog

I needed an escape from the Estuary Wilds' punishing heat. Hey! How about a shortish bike ride over to Brightlingsea where I could cool off in some of the sea air breeze? Job’s a good ‘un.

The ride over to Brightlingsea was so-so. Some dickhead family in an open top sped past me going up Tenpenny Hill. The rather fat female in the passenger seat shouted out an obscenity at me.

I don’t think she counted for the fact that I was riding electric. The stupid family got snarled up in the busy Brightlingsea traffic. My electric bicycle had soon caught up with them.

Awkward.

I asked the rather rotund lady why she felt the need to shout out an obscenity at me, especially so having two young girls in the back of their crappy car. She pretended that she hadn’t said anything. My on-board camera begs to differ.

I was dithering but I think I will probably give her the benefit and not dob her into Essex Police. I don’t think shouting out PEADO very loudly at a cyclist is an offence.

Oh well.

Soon I was in Brightlingsea. The circus was also in town. A big top had been set up down by the seafront. It looked bloody hot in there as the scorchio conditions burnt through the big tent.

In cafe news: the cafe by the beach is still not built. I’m not entirely sure what the story is here. Construction started pre-covid, it then stalled. I suspect funding has run dry.

I took up a seat on a bench close by to Batemann’s Tower. A couple of smacks looked stranded out in the water, waiting for the tide to come in and rescue them.

I looked over across to Mersea Island and pondered life. I was bored after a couple of minutes. I turned to a Forest Focus podcast instead.

Half an hour later and I was pretty much done. I walked along the promenade. The wind had picked up, which was good news for the dinghies that were launching for a race by the sailing club.

The bicycle ride back to base was uneventful. I still find it astonishing that in 2026 dickhead motorists find it amusing to shout out at cyclists. Maybe I should start to answer back.

To the Table of Dreams! …on Sunday morning. We got our timing all wrong. I was in search of a wellbeing bollocks table tennis therapy session. Instead all I got was the bloody church bells doing my absolute nut in.

Oh well.

The next decision was which ball do we play with? Although the Estuary Wilds heat had already started to build, there was also a strong breeze blowing across the park.

We opted for the wind ball. Later in the day I remember that the wind ball was covered in dog shit when we played back at the Oval a couple of weeks ago.

The park was surprisingly quiet apart from the bloody church bells. The lack of activity only served to amplify the right old racket made by the people tugging away on their bell ends.

I stormed to a 2-0 lead, if that is, you can ever storm to a 2-0 lead.

I started to get cocksure. I’m going to win this, right? Nope. My 2-0 lead soon became a 3-2 defeat. The stupid dumb bells still hadn’t stopped by the time I was walking away in shame.

To the Sailing Club!… midway on Saturday afternoon for a friendly WivGigs social row. This was always going to be a chaotic row with plenty of jeopardy and confusion for us to overcome.

The Rowhedge Regatta was in full flow ahead of launching. We also had the tricky task of landing at the public pontoon to pick up a potential new club member who wanted to give rowing a go.

The session got off to a comical start when the cox unveiled an interesting new look. A new pair of waders have been bought by the club. They are a luminous yellow with navy blue boots on the other end. It’s hard to take a cox seriously and follow their instructions when they look like a character from Rainbow.

A little more serious was the launch. It was tricky to find some space when a car drove down the sailing club hard. I was surprised to see this happen, especially so when the fella taking his car, where it’s not allowed to be driven, was a prominent sailing club member.

I was placed on stroke for the afternoon. We took the strategic decision to head downstream at first to avoid all the confusion and chaos of the Rowhedge Regatta.

We had our rendezvous with the Come and Trier on the public pontoon. The Come and Trier came: he tried and I think he rather enjoyed himself. I would give eight, or possibly nine out of ten for his early efforts.

We were then back down to our main crew as we dropped off the Come and Trier once again. The weather had cooled down slightly and so this was a good opportunity to pick up the pace.

There was still plenty of river traffic around. The Wivenhoe One Designs that were out racing. We also almost came a cropper when a tacking small dinghy decided to zigzag whilst on a course collision with us. We escaped all the madness and continued pressing on downstream.

We heard some loud music coming from one of the remotest parts of the estuary bank. How bloody annoying, I thought. There was a rather romantic couple with their extremely loud Bluetooth speaker. My anger evaporated when the fella fired up Row, Row, Row Your Boat for us.

I’m never one normally for all the nature bollocks that take place throughout a row, but I did enjoy being tracked for a couple of minutes or so by a beautiful Essex Blue butterfly. It seemed quite content to bob along with us and enjoy the company.

I got to jump out of the boat at the end during the recovery. The cold water of the Colne was most pleasing on what was an incredibly hot and challenging afternoon.

Regatta season is upon us once more. On Saturday we made our way over to the other side of the muddy banks for the Rowhedge Regatta. We were already on the wrong side of the river, and so it made sense to make this short journey across to Rowhedge.

As ever I managed to get time and tide all wrong. We were far too early. Regatta stalls were still being set up. Crowds were on the low side as young families were making most of the calm before the storm, and enjoying a cup of tea and a slice of cake by the quayside. I rather liked this low-key approach, especially with the Estuary Wilds' sun beating down.

Tea and cake were taken on a park side bench overlooking the quay. I say tea and cake - tea was bought from the nearby Rowhedge community hut, whilst I had already had the foresight to make a trip to Lidl for a couple of currant buns at £1.50 all in.

TUCK IN!

The tea was most certainly fine and was brewed to perfection. These minor points matter to me. The price was only £3. That sounds around fair, although I do bulk when thinking that I pay £2.99 for 240 tea bags from Home Bargains. Never let the finer fiscal details spoil a good day out, Jase.

We took a wander from one end of Rowhedge to the other. You could sense that the excitement was starting to build ahead of an afternoon of racing to come.

Local legend Mike Lilley was handed the mic and officially opened the regatta shortly after midday. I very much enjoyed his parting message of “good sailing, good drinking.” Tell It Like It Is, etc.

All we needed now was some water for the racing.. The tide is a very deceptive. What looks like a pathetic trickle of brown water surrounded by mud can soon become a bloody great expanse of fresh water.

The only nautical folk enjoying the water shortly after midday was a group of half a dozen jet ski riders. They are the Pirates of the North Essex Estuary Wilds. No one really wants to see them around.

My limited knowledge of these estuary parts made it quite clear that there was barely enough water to launch a kayak, let alone power a jet ski. I don’t think I was alone in secretly hoping that the Hell’s Angels of the Colne might get caught up in some of the crap down below. Sadly that comical moment was denied as the currents came rushing in.

Some bagpipes could be heard a little further down the Regatta front. Oh dear. We had other responsibilities elsewhere. The bagpipes were our signal to disappear.

And so that’s another Rowhedge Regatta ticked off, or rather not, as was the case. Similar to a cheese and cider festival that we enjoyed around these parts - where there was no cheese, or even cider for that matter - we witnessed the Rowhedge Regatta without seeing any sailing.

To Firstsite!… on Saturday morning. I had a little spare time to kill whilst in sunny Colch. Window shopping is not for me. Ponsing around in an empty art gallery is where all the real action is.

There was a time when I was completely across the Firstsite schedule and agenda. Not one single exhibition was missed. I felt like something of a Firstsite completist.

Not so these days. I find myself less frequently in the strange hybrid town/city. I pop into Firstsite whenever I can, but I confess to not having a clue as to what is currently being exhibited.

That’s sometimes the best approach when it comes to art. Just go for a quick shifty with low expectations.

The low expectations approach worked rather well on Saturday. I wasn’t blown away; the art or arse game tended to move along the sliding scale a little more towards the latter.

Three exhibitions are currently showing. The first is the University Centre Colchester UCC Degrees show, To Be Continued. This hints very strongly at what is to come with some emerging local artists.

Most of the work in the Berryfield space was physical rather than artwork. There was an awful lot of fine detail on show. My only thought was that it must have taken a long while to produce all of this - which I guess is the whole point of a three-year art degree.

I haven’t got a clue what it’s all about but I don’t think that’s really the point.

The major exhibition, a little further down the bonkers banana-shaped art gallery is from an artist called Nalini. This is a photographic series that explores the history of her mother, her grandmother, and herself.

It’s very thoughtful in documenting how the three generations are interconnected using art as the building block. It was also a very personal exhibition. It felt more like flicking through a giant family scrapbook.

There were some fantastic photos on show, showing great depth and capturing inner city scenes.

At the other end of the scale there was also some macro photography, which was particularly impressive. The subject matter was very much less is more, focusing on the small and finer details of your life to tell a larger narrative.

By now I was on a mission; my mission was to tick off all three current Firstsite exhibitions. I made my way down towards the far end of the gallery for a major exhibition by the artist Godfried Donker.

The exhibition is called It’s a Numbers Game. It’s quite a mishmash of history, memory, sport, music, migration, trade, and popular culture. The blurb says it uses these themes to explore how people are connected across time.

A large part of the exhibition references the slave trade. It can be uncomfortable viewing at times.

I confess to rather enjoying the contrasting background colour schemes painted on the walls to hang the artwork, rather than the artwork itself. There’s a time and place for the bland white gallery spaces of London. Thankfully Firstsite has taken a more radical approach to offer something a bit different here.

Collage features heavily in the work. Some interesting ideas included extensive use of stocks and shares listings from the old Financial Times dating back to the early 2000s. Black imagery showing exploitation is placed over this. The message of finance and covert racism is staring you right in the face.

So that was Firstsite ticked off for another season. It’s always an interesting place to wander in and have a shifty as to what’s going off. Some of the main structural artwork at the front of house is in need of a refresh and update, mind.

A return to Park Run on Saturday morning. A pesky injury has kept me away from the unforgiving hills of Castle Park in Sunny Colch for over six months. I’ve found this really frustrating. ParkRun on a Saturday morning is what anchors your weekend. It sets you up for what is to come.

I arrived relatively early for me as I cycled my way over to CO1. Relatively early for me is any time between 8:58 and 8:59 ahead of Park Run getting going at 9:00 prompt.

Castle Park looked stunning in the sun. Some of the prim and proper civic flower beds are strangely empty this year. No worries. The rest of the park looked spectacular.

I heard the buzz of pre-ParkRun as I approached the bandstand. Before you turn the corner you can hear the excitement and mutterings building up. It’s similar to the start of play for a Test match.

A friendly greeting came from the stewards. I felt fighting fit. Gosh I’ve missed this.

The numbers were a little down when compared to the winter months. One minute or so into the race that’s not a race and it became clear to me: Christ, the Sunny Colch heat was punishing.

I always get a little confused with the course. I never know if it’s twice or three times around the mill circuit. Your mind can do strange things whilst you are running your arse off. Basic memory seems to evaporate from me.

A young kid pretty much tracked me around the entire 5 km course. We played a friendly game of cat and mouse as I pressed on ahead of him down the slopes, whilst he overtook me on the climbs.

The final stretched-out climb heading back towards the castle was a little too much for me. I tried to catch his tail. I failed. Mr. Chunder came close to making a Saturday morning appearance. Oh dear.

So that’s a return to ParkRun ticked off. The injury held up well. Like a fool I’m now going to be away for another couple of months with self-imposed ink action on my legs.

Live to run, run to live. Or something.

There’s some real gems in here - A Dream Goes on Forever, Izzat Love? Plus some also Gawd awful drug induced noise that shouldn’t have been committed to recording tape. He’s quite an artist, in every sense. I salute his experimentation, if not his style. Just Say No.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

I had a major fashion faux pas whilst out for a run this morning. Actually, the major fashion faux pas took place in the Lidl middle aisle yesterday afternoon. That’s where most of my fashion faux pas have tended to have occurred over recent years.

The Lidl middle aisle is ace for sporting goods. Why pay over the odds for running tops and shorts that you’re only going to sweat your arse off whilst wearing? Simply buy at Lidl, sweat your arse off for a year or so, and then buy and replace. Talk about fast fashion, etc.

And so on Thursday I clocked in the cheapo aisle some UV tops. Great, I thought. These are just what I need to keep the pesky sun rays off my lovely ink sleeves. Even better when the price said two for £6.

I got to the self-checkout. Beep. Beep. That’ll be £12 please. WTF? Always read the small print, always read the correct pricing labels, even in the Lidl cheapo aisle, Jase.

Oh well. All is not lost. I got home and surveyed my recent purchase. Oh Gawd. It turns out that they are actually more aquatic wear rather than outdoor physical running wear.

They look as though they’re designed for an afternoon of splashing around on Clacton Beach rather than pounding the mean streets of C07.

No worries, I thought. As long as that magical UV is working its wonders, I could probably still get away with these as running tops.

Friday morning came and the grand road testing of my aquatic tops that are not really aquatic tops arrived. Christ, they stank. I’m not sure what’s been used in the material to keep them waterproof but it didn’t half pen and ink.

They were bloody tight as well, but I pressed on. Around one minute into the run I was absolutely soaking wet. I was looking a right dick.

At least the aquatic kind of lives up to the tagline; although they didn’t keep the water out, they certainly kept the water within.

Hey hoe. We live and learn, even in the Lidl cheapo aisle. I’ve had the brainwave of reverting back to what these are supposed to be used for. I go rowing; I go kayaking. Occasionally I even go paddle boarding. Maybe a Lidl cheapo aisle aquatic top is labelled for what its intended purpose is.

To the Table of Dreams! … late afternoon on Thursday. We were a little rushed but a recent downpour had just finished. You need to make hay and get those spin shots in whilst the sun still shines, etc.

Unfortunately the table of dreams didn’t have quite enough time to dry out; one corner of the table still had a puddle. We were without a cloth.

The tactic soon became clear: TWAT the ball into the puddle so it would just die flat on the table. In the end it became more tricky to try and complete this manoeuvre than just play a conventional winning shot.

The sun was now incredibly strong. One end of the table was almost unplayable as you couldn’t see a bloody thing, even with the shades on. Time was also very tight; I had to cut my losses and walk away losing 2-1.

The reason for the sharpish getaway was because we were booked in for a Thursday social pickleball session up at the tennis club. We made the short bicycle journey up towards the top of the town, trying to put our pickleball heads on.

Switching from a very very short form of bat and ball to one not quite so short was quite technical. I can put a spin on for table tennis but not for pickleball. I didn’t know at times if I was Arthur or Martha.

There was a good turnout for the Thursday social. We had eight people playing two games of doubles. We were able to switch around after each game, with losers staying at the bottom. I didn’t move all evening.

One particular loss was so brief that we had a little interchanging between the foursome and played a second game whilst waiting for the other to finish. I was playing with the king of spin this time; we managed to pickle our opponent’s 11-0.

A return to the 10 km estuary running route on Thursday morning. Woh, I have bloody missed this. At a push it’s my fave running route - and yep that even trumps the well-trodden and well-tested King of Clapham Common.

My calf injury has kept me away from the 10 km since last September. I managed a 9 km route around the University at the weekend. What’s another extra 1 km? Surely I can manage this?

The heat was already building by the time of my mid-morning run. This led to an interesting aroma down by the estuary, as the baking mud was starting to evaporate off all the other shit that it collects.

I passed the army of nursery pram pushers by the sailing club. The girls do a great effort in getting their little ankle biters out and about. It looks bloody hard work as they double up with pairs and often triplets of prams.

The tide was low. Parts of the trail were overgrown. I wanted to take it easy so as not to have any scratchings on my legs ahead of another heavy ink session, which is imminent.

I reached the Creek. The field had a dozen or so sleeping cows. It looked quite the life.

I took it easy on the back leg of the route towards Alresford. 10 km was crossed off in what was a semi-decent time.

I’m back!