The Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan

bourgeois bicycle budgets

Sun, 14 Feb 2010 21:03:00 +0100

Bikes: 2 x Raliegh Chiltern (circa 1990) 3 speed heavy steel beasts - £40 each, broken, from old cycle hire place in Barnstaple. £60 on parts to get them back to speed (and safe) Brooks saddles and grips kindly donated by Andrea at Brooks.

Trailers: 2 x Carry Freedom Y-Frame (large) £150 Modified with custom surfboard racks welded and bolted by max the steel man £40, B&Q garden mesh £5, zip ties £1, bungee cords £3, rack pads stolen from mikeys car, straps stolen from tim’s garage.

Camping gear: already owned or borrowed or stolen or picked up along the way.

Ferry (Plymouth-Roscoff) : £46

Camping fees: £0 (all the campsites were shut anyway)

So there you go, the Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan were cheapskates and you can be one too.

this is the end...so click here to go back and the read the story from the beginning...

Sat, 13 Feb 2010 14:52:00 +0100

this is the end...so click here to go back and the read the story from the beginning...

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Thu, 21 Jan 2010 13:00:20 +0100

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Thu, 21 Jan 2010 12:59:27 +0100

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Thu, 21 Jan 2010 12:58:16 +0100

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Thu, 21 Jan 2010 12:57:34 +0100

additional photography from James Da-Costa.

Thu, 21 Jan 2010 12:56:00 +0100

additional photography from James Da-Costa.

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Tue, 15 Dec 2009 19:43:55 +0100

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Tue, 15 Dec 2009 19:37:19 +0100

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Tue, 15 Dec 2009 19:36:40 +0100

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Tue, 15 Dec 2009 19:36:02 +0100

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Sun, 13 Dec 2009 11:48:43 +0100

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Sun, 13 Dec 2009 11:48:04 +0100

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Sun, 13 Dec 2009 11:47:25 +0100

disbanded

Sat, 28 Nov 2009 03:47:14 +0100

The bourgeois bicycle caravan bulges in the hot Capbreton afternoon and the streets, parks and beaches sigh in the easy aftermath of the Atlantic storm. The trailers are full, the side bags are full, every holding point is weighed down. Del is whistling, Bodean is making an inventory of his booty of film and Hellybutt is attempting to roll his r’s, because someone has just told him a story in spanish. Once the trailers are hooked to the bicycles and the surfboards are strapped on tight, the caravan pulls out of the small town like those days before.

That ol’ T.I.M.E. has come about when we are to be heading south to the first true basque city of Bayonne, then each of us part ways to home or further on and on. The final ride has the trailers brimming with all them treasures and it feels good and strong, and the dogs (for once) move aside when we come bouldering through. And the thoughts are probably about how nice it can be, to be ramblin’ in such a way and about the loot to be taken home. Del is away first - he is off to try and claim a hefty inheritance somewhere in outback Portugal. He said he may have to enter into a traditional style knife fight to exercise his right over the family manor. Jimmy Bodean, with lens so clean, has just received a telegram from Sir Howies Dukem. It describes the location of a puffin rookery, somewhere near the welsh quarter of buenos aires and according to Sir Dukem, “all the birds look rather grey around the gills”. As for Hellybutt - well, all he wants is to be drinking gin on the beach, with a pretty girl and to be writing a few more of them american haiku’s for nobody to listen to.

And so it goes…it sure has been swell, i suppose, and the caravan got a decent roll around the french countryside. And it doesn’t really ever end, does it? The search for the perfect picture, or a good tale - it’s all food for the mouths of us, we the hungry human babes.

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Thu, 19 Nov 2009 20:00:33 +0100

icarus of his eye

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 19:38:00 +0100

Del da Foster has thrown in the towel. The eternal optimist has crumbled and the falling debris will send ripples and then surges of terror throughout the caravan.
“May-bee - just mabee - there ain’t no ‘Wounded Gull’? Huh? Didyer every think of that?” slurred Del at Jimmy Bodean and Harold Hobart Hellybutt, who had been out shopping and searching aimlessly for the said ‘Gull’.
“Woah - Daddy-O!” yelled Bodean in disbelief, “You can’t say that!”.
Hellybutt picks up an empty bottle of whiskey, which has been rolling on the floor and has stopped against Del’s sweating head.
“Shee-it boy! You been moonshining up a goddamn storm!” Hellybutt tisks and sniffs the bottle.
“Ha Ha, Ho Ho. And there sure as hell ain’t no ‘magical carpet whirly ship caravan story to save the world’ Helly-butt! You stupid IDIOTS!” all out grief stricken laughter from a prostrated Del.
Apart from the drooling and regurgitation swooning up from the grounded Del, his words have cut the other two deeply. They sit and listen. Then they too turn to the bottle and the night turns into a journey of the purest self-loathing. Fleetwood Mac plays on and the darkest thoughts become all consuming inside the little flat in Capbreton.

Drip. Drip. Drippity. Then Bodean realises that he is awake. Lying half-outside the front door in fact. And a light rain is wetting his forehead. Instinct tells him to go down to the water. And there - through the haze of a wooden head - it is. The mammoth power of the ocean is one and the same with the wind and thundering clouds. At the crux of this whirring system objects are spun about. Wilting down, twisting and speeding towards the earth is the icarus of his eye. Seagulls, ganets, albatross, hooded plovers, the odd alarmingly large sea eagle, shags, even emperor penguins (God above only knows) are falling from the sky and are terminally wounded. As sad as this makes Bodean, he is equally overcome with joy. And he begins to take photograph after perfect photograph.

Then Hellybutt, upon hearing his comrade’s shouts, runs down to the beach. And what is this? The shore break is singing like a clinking ginger ale factory. There is a hundred-million bottles washed upon the shore. Sheer delight as he scoops up the bottles - green, brown, clear and blue, all kinds! - and then the popping corks reveal tales - beautiful stories about loving and fighting, moving on and staying put, laughter and sorrow.

Del stands further back and puts his palms out to feel the rain. He wonders if he could try his hand at taxidermy and also what the
street value of antique bottles is.

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Thu, 19 Nov 2009 19:35:26 +0100

"and so it goes, our instant photography turns analogue"

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 19:23:07 +0100

“and so it goes, our instant photography turns analogue”

- Bodean - stepping up the use of the poloroid film

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Thu, 19 Nov 2009 19:23:00 +0100