It was a ladies bicycle or at least what I would call a ladies bicycle although given the trend for one fits all and unisex versions I could not be totally sure. In a more public location it could have been mistaken for a piece of street-art, an installation on which a whole TV documentary series, university thesis or a highbrow course could be based with long and authoratative discussions and arguments on the interaction between man, machine and nature.
I recalled the quite well known archive photograph of a bicycle now firmly set through the trunk of a mature tree, the crossbar running fully through the concentric rings of the heartwood. The story is a matter of urban myth or folklore where a young man ,out on his bike on a country road, first heard of the outbreak of the first world war. In his enthusiasm and impatience to sign up and do his duty for his country he threw his rather childish mount into a cluster of saplings. Whatever was the fate of the boy come man is not known to me but ominously he never returned to reclaim the bike and it was allowed to be merge with and become a part of what grew to be a large tree.
In the back garden of the house where the ladies bicycle was located it was just that, a bicycle in a back garden but slowly being consumed by nature. It had not been there that long because the chunky off road tyres were still at optimum pressure whereas you would expect a bit of deflation or dry cracking to the side walls of the rubber compound from neglect or the passage of time. I could not envisage someone going out of their way to regularly inflate the tyres on a 'just in case' basis and anyway the ivy which had claimed the bike for its own would not relinquish its firm, tendrill grip no matter how urgent wasthe urge to cycle down to the corner shop for milk, bread, cigarettes or the evening newspaper.
The donor plant was actually rooted in next doors garden but the wet, warm and humid spring and summer had excited the plant into an unprecedented bid to breach the boundary and seek out new territories. Gradually the new growths had spiralled up and around the bicycle as it stood idle against the fence, facing forward towards the passage way between the pair of semi detached houses and leading to the street beyond.
The thicker down tubes of the bike were gripped strongest by the stringy growths and were the fastest to emerge from shadows into a regular stream of sunlight. Lesser branches of the plant ran along the stays and into the rear gear cluster, up the front forks and even tightly spun around the handlebars and chrome bell. The bike would require major surgery in order to be free of the web of ivy.
The householder remarked casually upon my passing interest that he had meant to put the bike in the shed but had obviously pushed this farther and farther back in his mental list of things to do around the house.
I could not resist taking a photograph of the surreal scene before the bike would be completely enveloped in foliage and disappear to form the central backbone of a new hedge. There was the distinct possibilty of expressions of astonishment and amazement upon its discovery at some time in the distant future amongst those who knew nothing of its existence.
(A repeat from exactly a year ago)
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