Timperly too

I have much to do. Several applications. Massive sale on Sunday. Possibly moving in to a new place. Checks to send home. Of course, a lot of this is dependent on the post, and would be a bit easier were it not for the major postal strike currently underway.

I recall the first mention of possible strikes were long ago. Last year (or, more likely, early this year), a study was presented that the large majority of British post offices were not yielding a profit, and thus 55% should be shut down. (my own experiences with the British post may be relayed as somewhat surreal: Manchester, a city of 500,000 and metro area of several million, manages to have a main post office about the size of Flushing's. The other post offices in the city are literally hidden in the back of conveniences stores) Perhaps it's just me, but the idea that every entity in a system must make a profit, everything not directly linked to growth and prosperity must be discarded, that idea is bogus. Let's make music for the heck of it, let's forget about it helping math scores or opening up timid students. Let's listen to our bodies, and exercise when it tells us to, and eat the foods it's yearning for, not simply chug down an alfalfa smoothie because the experts recommend it. Let's keep post offices in rural areas open, they may not yield a profit, but they get the pension checks to the elderly. If you want to cut the profit, why don't you stop selling cards and wrapping paper, and focus on mail service?

In lieu of present circumstances, I thought it would be enjoyable to take a bike ride. Catherine's parents have been kind enough to lend me a bike, and England has been kind enough to build the Trans Pennine Trail, a set of paths covering 200+ miles from Coast to coast (Irish Sea to North Sea). I only trekked a small portion of that, making my way to Timperly, a small town near Sale and Altrincham. Because it is more a conglomerate of diverse paths, it becomes rather difficult when the methods (bike, foot, or horse) are broken up, and I ventured into the village, back around, and eventually into anyone-but-me-knows-where. Sometimes wide paths, sometimes narrow, sometimes a B-road, sometimes the slimmest of trails. The return was far more enjoyable, as I looked up over the rolling hills. Cheshire is supposed to be one of the most beautiful counties in England, and making one's way with farmland on either side, rolling hills crested by manor houses, I can believe it.