Heading home...

The train journey to Milan was fairly chilled and I found a buffet car where I ordered a cup of tea. Most of my time was spent copy typing blogposts on to the blog proper and then doing not much else. Unfortunately, while I had a 'window seat', the 'window' was, in fact, a grey pillar, making looking out of it a bit problematic.

As the train drew closer to Milan it began to fill up, but my seat wasn't taken until the very end of the journey. The woman that sat next to me spent her time reading WhatsApps and watching a video about bears interacting with humans and being chased away by dogs.

I decided to pay a visit to the Bistrot again except that on this occasion I would go to the back of the place where it was possible to sit down at a proper table to eat. Not that it was much different from the front part of the place where people had to use computer terminals, like those in McDonald's, to order, yes, you guessed it, variations on a cheese and ham roll and all very unhealthy in the greater scheme of things. This time, however, things were different. The food was of a higher quality and involved actual vegetables, which I hadn't seen for a few days. I ordered chicken escalope with green beans and roasted potatoes, which were great but could have been a little warmer. I foolishly bought a bottle of Coke (I never drink Coke) and ended up putting it in my pocket to consume later. 

Sufficiently chilled, if that's the word, I decided to wander around the busy concourse having bought my ticket to Malpensa airport. I decided to get on the next available train, which was leaving from platform one as the ticket didn't specify a particular train. I was on the 1655 and it was crowded. The journey took around one hour and when I reached the airport I went through security, drinking that bottle of Coke, or most of it, as my suitcase sat on the security conveyor. Once on the other side I wandered a little and was pleased to note that I could sit down without having to buy anything. I sub-edited my initial blogpost about being on the train from Milan to Udine and then found a Pret where I bought a bottle of sparkling mineral water and the first decent cup of English Breakfast tea. After drinking the water I hoofed it to Gate E28, which somehow changed to E26 where I queued for the plane.

The flight was fine. I was in seat 1C, an aisle seat, but it was all good and the skies were clear. Coming into Gatwick was a bit choppy but we landed safely and soon I did the usual baggage reclaim bit before taking a cab home. I was home around 2300hrs.

Notes from Udine Stazione, 31 October 2025...

It’s 0946 and I am sitting in a fairly crowded cafeteria. Already I have eaten an almond croissant and a mushroom pizza for breakfast and I’m now tucking in to a filled pastry of some sort; I think it’s an apple pie. Last night, and no more than 500 yards from where I now sit, I was tucking in to a variation on a cheese and ham sandwich and by and large my diet has been this way ever since I arrived, ever since I set foot on Italian soil. So much for the Mediterranean Diet! Somewhere, someone has decreed, 'let them eat cake'.

I’ve spent the last three nights in the Quo Vadis hotel, a good 15 minute walk from here and, while it was clean, that was its only redeeming feature. Everything else was rubbish so let’s start with the WiFi, it was non-existent. It ‘worked’  to a degree but not enough for me to use my computer, it was extremely slow. So slow it rendered everything pointless, everything, that is, to do with my computer, which I haven’t used since I got here. I might as well have left it at home and saved the energy of humping it here, there and everywhere.

Then there was the shower which, again, worked, but was little more than a dribble. I would have preferred a more powerful shower, put it that way. However, by far the most annoying aspect of the hotel was the lighting, which was on an energy-saving timer switch. I first realised this when I checked in and asked whether I could use the bathroom, it was virtually next door to the front desk (not always ideal). In I went, dying to go after drinking a bottle of Pellegrino on the train from Milano (see previous post). While mid-pee I was plunged into darkness and had to shake a leg (literally) in order to restore the light. It was something I would have to get used to as the entire hotel was using the same system. My room, room 31, was not in the main hotel, but in a spooky annexe across the road. There was a wrought iron gate that required a key card to gain entry; once through the gate, a small courtyard leading to another set of wrought iron doors and once through those doors there was blackness. I could see nothing until I danced a jig and the lights came on. Perhaps that was the idea, they had secret infrared cameras filming the jigs of different guests and sat down over Christmas to view them. I then humped my suitcase up the solid stone steps and halfway up the lights went out and I was plunged once again into darkness. I had to dance once more, not a strong point I must add, and the light returned.

Throughout my stay at the hotel and without a suitcase to hump around I managed to get from downstairs to my hotel room door before the lights went out, but it was very, very annoying, even if it did add a little excitement to my daily routine.

When I went across the road to the main hotel building, I was even more disappointed. Three-star hotel, three-star breakfast I was thinking as I surveyed the cakes and pastries and the tinned fruit and realised that I had three days of this. Three days of sub-standard breakfasts consisting largely of, yes, you guessed it, cake.

Reluctantly I tucked in, but I resolved to find somewhere else for the most important meal of the day. What I found was better in terms of its surroundings and atmosphere, but the food was the same and this time included the aforementioned pizza and countless varieties of Lindor chocolates. This morning’s meal was my second at the bakery and now here I am at Udine railway station awaiting the 1125 train to Milan after a pizza, an almond croissant plus tea plus a filled pastry which, as I’ve said, I think was apple. I like apple pie but on this trip the amount of cakes and biscuits I've consumed is just too much to bear especially for me as I’m extremely weak-willed when it comes to cake, as avid readers will know.

I am awaiting the 1123 train from Udine to Milano Central which departs in about one hour from now and when I reach Milan I will take the train to Malpensa and fly home to London.

The Quo Vadis had its faults it was at least clean, spotless in fact, but I wouldn’t stay there again because of its location. Yes, only around 15 minutes on foot from the train station, but in a dreary part of town. I went to bed early on most nights and that was fine but only because I was travelling alone and it can be just that…very lonely, making hitting the sack the best option. Last night I watched a couple of episodes of Only Fools and Horses and then turned in for the night with only my thoughts to keep me company. For some reason I started to imagine myself as a guest on the Graham Norton show, entertaining film stars with comedic tales and observations. You might think I would remember my dreams, but I don’t think I had any to remember.

And now I’m sitting here watching fellow travellers go about their business, the clatter of crockery, the gurgling espresso machine and the radio blaring out rubbishy pop songs that I don't recognise.

I notice it is possible to buy the station café’s merchandise in the shape of a tee-shirt with the words Il Caffee della Stazione written on the front and an illustration of a train below. These, I figure, are the best kind of merch because it’s unlikely you’re going to find anybody else wearing it and that excited me! I’ll buy one, I must buy one!

But then, on closer inspection and without the reading glasses on, they're not tee-shirts at all, they are, in fact, paper bags in which to put cakes and pastries to take home. How disappointing. It's time I made my way to Platform 6 to board the train to Milano.

Notes from the 1735hrs train from Milano Centrale to Udine, 28 October 2025

I was going to walk to the station around 0545 trundling my suitcase behind me. Imagine the noise: those tiny plastic wheels on concrete pathways. So I took the cab instead and it arrived quietly around 0620. I had to be at Gatwick for 0705, which was easy and not walking to the station bought me time and meant that I could have breakfast. I made up a couple of crumpets (slice of bread-sized) and brewed a cup of tea and relaxed for a few minutes watching early morning television. My alarm went off at 0500hrs. One minute I was asleep, the next I was wide awake and wishing I was still asleep. I wasn’t.

I was dropped off at the North Terminal and went to check in, except that the days of checking in with a human being were over, now the customer is expected to do everything, including putting the suitcase on the conveyor having attached the sticky label. Then it was off to security where I was told to make off my shoes. Once again, I cursed Richard Reeve, the shoe bomber, who languishes in an English jail where long may he rot. That man has caused many travellers many problems and will continue to do so. In short, I hate him and I’m sure I’m not alone.

I found a restaurant, Sonoma, and ordered a full English breakfast and a mug of tea. Oddly there were less calories than the healthier option. I smiled to myself. Once finished, I wanted to pay up and leave but there was nobody around. Earlier I had been asked if I wanted to scan a QR code using my phone and then order the entire meal without using a waitress. I didn’t fancy the idea as I felt that, sooner or later, somebody was going to be out of a job. Still, when I wanted to pay there was no waitress in sight so I wandered around in search of one whilst considering just wandering off and not paying. I always figure that the best way to get somebody to take payment is to act as if you're not going to pay, but I’m far too honest to go through with it. The waitress eventually arrived, I paid, but couldn’t tip them as, I was told, the tip wouldn’t appear on the receipt, meaning I wouldn’t be able to claim it on expenses.

The board said the gate would close at 0855 and it was getting on so I hoofed it to gate 46 where a queue had formed, giving me a chance to answer the call of nature. The flight was fine, very smooth all the way. I landed around noon, there was a mild delay at passport control and a longer than expected train journey from Malpensa airport. After that I spent most of the day at Milan Centrale station. The non-stop train to Udine (I say non-stop but I mean no change of train) didn’t leave until 1735 so I mooched around and I can’t say I enjoyed it. Unfortunately for me, I had left my Eric Ambler novel in the office and so had nothing to read, not even a newspaper. Not having anything to distract me, I was left dealing with the mildly irritating banal scenarios the world threw at me, all absolutely nothing in the general scheme of things, but annoying all the same. So minor I won’t bother you with them but suffice it to say it’s been a long day and I was glad to eventually board the 1735 Milan to Udine train, although I discovered that two perfectly normal travel adaptors simply didn’t work in the sockets provided underneath the seat and this means problems later as my phone only has 23% battery left and I’m sure I’m going to need it when I reach Udine and need to get a cab to the hotel. It’s unbelievable, two perfectly good adaptors and neither one fits the sockets under the seats. I brought two with me in the hope that if one didn’t work, the other one would, but neither work. I have switched the phone off and because I rely on my phone for everything I now have no idea what time it is although I do know that the train arrives in Udine at 2140, so not at all early. Once again, I feel the world starting to conspire against me. If the chargers don’t work in the hotel I’ll be uncontactable for the entire week.

I don’t know what time it is, it’s dark outside so I can’t see anything and without going on a trek I have no idea if there’s a buffet car on the train. I’m also travelling alone so there's nobody around to help me out. I’m baffled as to why the chargers don’t fit the power sockets, there is no rhyme nor reason for it.

Travelling by train at night is both boring and depressing. While I bought myself a copy of the Economist, it’s a little too heavy for an evening read after a day of travelling so I’ve resorted to writing in a notebook. I’ll transfer the contents to my blog when I reach the hotel. Next stop Vicenza, says a notice hanging from the roof of the carriage. The notice is basically a small television screen on the ceiling of the carriage, high up so everybody can see it. Actually there is a clock on the screen too, it’s 1915 – a small victory, I can tell the time so all is not lost.

Outside nothing but blackness. Inside, the sound of somebody blowing their nose while others murmur in quiet conversation with their companions. It is now 1917 and I am in train number 8993, the 1735 Milano to Udine train. Virtually everyone is playing with their phone.

I don’t know where my hotel is in relation to the railway station, that's why I’ve turned off my phone in case I need to use the GPS which, of course, uses up a lot of power. I’m hoping there will be a lot of cabs when we arrive at Udine, but I have experience of the rank outside the station and I know it to be, well, rank. Let’s see.

I bought myself two large bottles of Pellegrino in Milan and have finished one of them. We have arrived at Vicenza and I can’t see a thing outside the window. Next stop: Padova. It’s 1925hrs and there’s over two hours to go.

I keep thinking about checking out the existence of a buffet car, but I have a sneaky suspicion there isn’t one and if there was one, what would I buy? Am I even hungry? I could probably do without, but a walk would do me good. I can’t see anybody clasping paper cups of coffee so I’m guessing there isn’t one. The train is on time, says the television screen hanging from the ceiling. It’s 1929. Both my mum and dad were born in 1929.

It's 1935 and we’re arriving in Padova. I tried those two travel adaptors again, hoping somebody would tell me why they don’t fit or perhaps even offer me one that does work, but no, nobody’s going to be of assistance, it’s often the way of the world.

It’s 1949 and I’m guessing that if there was a buffet car an announcement would have been made or, at the very least, a note on the television screen. We’re about to arrive at Venezia Mestre. The worse thing is that I’m going to have another train journey like this one on Friday when I head home and it’s all because of one of my silly travel rules, this one my aversion to and avoidance of Ryanair who fly direct to Trieste from the UK. I just don’t like them and I never will. But because of that rule I am sitting here now looking out at the darkness and wishing I was already tucked up in bed. I suppose you could call this train the ‘red eye’. There are still people out there waiting for trains, holding cases or bicycles but certainly on their way home and this is when I feel homesick even if I haven’t yet spent one night away from home. The people outside are silhouettes, but there are more illuminated platforms that reveal the colours of their clothes and the plastic bags they carry. In fact, there’s one illuminated platform, the rest are fairly dark and, therefore, those awaiting trains are dark, colourless figures. The train is remaining in the station for longer than normal.

The train is travelling back in the direction from whence it came and yes, I know that was really bad phrasing, but it’s going back the way it came. Treviso is the next stop and I’m guessing that if we hadn’t gone into Venezia Mestre, the journey might have been a little quicker. I just heard ‘toilet out of order’. That’s all I need. Better keep hold of that remaining bottle of Pellegrino.

I’m in Coach 7, seat 32, a window seat, and while coach 7 was the lead carriage, the fact that it has now changed direction means that coach 7 is now the very last coach of the train, meaning that when we reach Udine, I’ll be one of the last passengers off the train and that could mean no cabs left at the rank and with my phone on its last legs and two, not one, but two faulty chargers, I could be up a gum tree, up shit creek without a paddle, in dire straits and I really don’t need it. It’s amazing how things conspire against me. ‘We are now approaching Treviso. Thank you for travelling with Italo. Goodbye!’

It's 2021 and the temperature has gone down from 16 degrees in Milano to just 7 degrees in Treviso.

Outside, ghostly and empty trains in sidings as the train finally arrives in Treviso and slows to a halt, it’s nearly half past eight. In one hour from now there will be just 10 minutes to go and hopefully I’ll be skipping to the taxi rank, a spring in my step and the sound of plastic casters on concrete annoying all and sundry. Next stop: Conegliano. We’re getting close to Udine! Once again, we are reminded that the train is on time.

In under half an hour there will be just 40 minutes left to run (or ride) and that’s a heartening thought. I was under the impression that the man opposite me, or rather across the aisle from me, was English, but he’s not. I can now hear him speaking with a strong Italian accent in Italian so there goes my earlier hope that he might have helped me with my travel adaptor problem. It was never on the cards! Nobody can help and nobody will, in the same way that if you’re driving and need to get into another lane, nobody is going to let you in, you’re on your own, just remember to be equally as unhelpful when you’re in charge of the situation. Not that he was in charge of any situation, he didn’t even know what I was thinking to be fair.

The Italian has stood up and has put his jacket on. He’s overweight and in desperate need of regular exercise. I hope he gets his act together, but I sense he won’t. He looks a bit like the actor Michael Sheen and has a grey and bushy beard. It’s 2041 – exactly one hour before we reach Udine. The next stop is Conegliano and this is where Michael Sheen lives. It’s dark out there and everything is very poorly lit. I only spotted one person on the platform waiting for a train. The next and penultimate stop is Pordenone, then it’s Udine.

The train is still on time and I’m thinking about my last bottle of Pellegrino. I had two but drank one and now I’m thinking what a great decision it was to buy them. Drinking water staves off hunger and I’m now doubting that I’ll eat anymore until breakfast time. It’s a shame the train is on time and not early. How great to be, say 20 minutes early. It won’t happen, I know that much. It’s 2055.

Milestone times are being racked up! It’s 2100 and that means a straight 41 minutes to go. I can’t make out what’s happening, oh, sorry, yes I can, the train slowed and I thought we had arrived at Pordenone – we have give or take a few yards. ‘We invite travellers to prepare and collect their luggage. Thank you, and goodbye!’ It’s warmed up outside, it’s now 8 degrees. The train is approaching Pordenone, which is deserted, just one person on the platform. ‘Do not cross the railway lines’ advises a sign. Or ‘Vietato attravesone i binare’. I wonder if anybody boarded the train. Perhaps one solitary kid in a dressing gown like in the Polar Express.

The train very slowly departs Pordonone and everything out there is in darkness as we pick up speed and head for our last stop: Udine. Milan to Udine is quite a haul, especially late at night, but for me anything is better than flying Ryanair.

The train must have banked left as my full bottle of Pellegrino slid towards the edge of the seat-back tray. I just caught it and placed it on the seat to my left. It’s 2112, roughly 30 minutes to go. I’m amazed at the darkness. I haven’t seen any roads, no street lights, nothing.

There’s still a smattering of passengers left in Coach 7 as the train races though another deserted station and into the deeper blackness on the other side. It’s pure blackness out there, no signs of life, no street lights or high streets or tower blocks. I can see distant street lighting but it really is pitch black in the foreground and no sign of life at all. It begs the question: where is everybody? Do the Italians go to bed early? Is there nothing to do in these parts? 2019 and roughly 20 minutes to go and it’s all over. Apart from Ryanair, which will never be an option, I can’t think of how I could make this journey simpler. I could have taken three trains, but that might have been fraught with potential pitfalls, like missing a connection and not making it to Udine, who knows? I opted for the direct service but I’m beginning to wonder about the return trip. If there’s nothing until 1735 from Udine I might (in fact I will miss my flight). And yes, I know, I should have looked into this a little better, but I think I might well find myself on numerous local trains on Friday so I need to be up with the lark on the 31^st and on the ball. It’s 2025, roughly 15 minutes to go.

The train is slowing, there’s 10 minutes left to go but still nothing but blackness outside. Udine is a city, albeit a small one, and yet there is nothing out there.

People are readying themselves to leave and so must I!

Footnote: There was a cab outside and I reached my hotel in around five minutes. You can read all about the Quo Vadis Hotel in my next post.

Shattered dreams...

We all have memories that either fade or are diluted by time, they become unreal because it’s nigh on impossible to remember things exactly as they were. Often, if I go back somewhere, I’m astonished to find that the houses across the street, say, are closer than I remembered them; I might stroll around looking for shops in a long-forgotten high street and note that everything looks a little bit shoddy and not as I recalled it. The end result, of course, is disappointment and sadness that things have changed for the worse and that my memories, the ones lodged in my mind for decades, have now been negatively updated, superseded by something not as warming to my soul. Shit happens, and so it was that last week I took a trip to Lyme Regis in the South West of England with a mind full of memories from decades past that would, ultimately, be tarnished by the reality: that things ain’t what they used to be.

The Royal Lion, Lyme Regis, Dorset

Many moons ago I spent my honeymoon in Lyme Regis. We didn’t have the ready cash for one of those faraway adventures in Mauritius or the Maldives that are far more commonplace today than they were ‘back then’ so we decided to remain closer to home.

I’m guessing that I would likely be long divorced had my original intention of journeying to the Isle of Eigg off Scotland’s west coast, had materialised. The trip would no doubt have involved a choppy boat crossing from Mallaig, the prospect (if I recall correctly) of being off grid and the requirement that all food items would need to be pre-ordered prior to departure and later delivered to wherever I was staying. It simply wouldn’t have worked and I can imagine now how we both would have left the island irate and angry with one another and would likely never have spoken again.

A missing handle on the desk

Fortunately, a couple of days after an incredible wedding and without a usable car, we journeyed to Lyme Regis by train, jumping off at Axminster and taking a taxi to a small B&B (the White House) at the top of Broad Street where we had two weeks in a magical place by the sea. It was here in Lyme that Meryl Streep and Jeremy Irons had recently filmed The French Lieutenant’s Woman, a movie of a novel set in Lyme, written by local author John Fowles. and, at the time, still fresh in the minds of locals.

Broad Street was dominated by two hotels: The Royal Lion and the Three Cups. Back in the day, to stay in the Royal Lion or the Three Cups was a big deal. Both properties offered creaky floors, grandfather clocks and traditional British food of the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding variety plus some equally traditional desserts as this was long before the arrival of sticky toffee pudding and Key Lime Pie. With little in the way of disposable income, we dined at the top of Broad Street in the Mad Hatter's restaurant where equally traditional cuisine was just as good but not as pricey.

A nasty carpet stain...

A few years later and with friends, we could afford to stay in the Royal Lion a couple of times a year, enjoying every minute of it: the food, the creaky floors, grandiose sleeping quarters like the King Edward Room and the traditional Olde English Inn vibe of the place. There are plenty of similar establishments dotted around England like the Mermaid Inn in Rye and, I think, the George in Alfriston to name but two. The Royal Lion, however, offered a small swimming pool, which seemed out of place, but added to the entertainment value and we loved it.

I vaguely remember having dinner in the Three Cups, an ethereal experience if ever there was one - or perhaps it was just a long time ago. I remember a darkly lit restaurant, candle light, good food and service, uniformed waiting staff even, but sadly an experience that won’t be repeated. The hotel closed some time ago and remains so today, although there are plans to turn it into apartments. Personally, if I had the money, I would buy it and reopen it as a hotel.

Today, there are, of course, other hotels in Lyme competing with one another and that was the case back in the day too, but the Royal Lion still has pride of place on Broad Street and the Three Cups remains little more than a sleeping partner across the road. The flames of grandiosity and quaintness and tradition at the Royal Lion, however, have flickered and gone out; exactly when (or why) I don’t know, but while the creaky floors are still there and everything is in place, the fire has gone out and what is left, in my humble opinion, is not worth writing home about. I don’t remember who owned the Royal Lion when I used to stay there, but today it is the brewer Hall & Woodhouse and some of the reviews on TripAdvisor leave a lot to be desired.

Nobody cleaned up the mess!

When I booked on Booking.com I wasn’t really thinking to tell the truth. I simply assumed the place would be the same Royal Lion I enjoyed all those years ago, but of course it wasn’t, things had changed and not for the best. There were many rough edges. In one of our two rooms a previous guest’s dental floss remained on the floor in the bathroom, a lipstick-stained towel was still on the rail, and in another room a handle was missing from one of the desk draws. There was also a stained carpet. Out on the stairs somebody had thrown a glass of wine at the wall, presumably in anger, and the stain was still there for all to see many months or perhaps years later. It's there now if you're in the area. At breakfast, uniformed waiting staff had been replaced by men with face piercings, cut-down jeans and calf tattoos. Standards had slipped. It was all a little unsavoury and once we started reading the Trip Advisor reviews it was only a matter of time before we upped sticks and went home a day early. But first, breakfast…

I ordered the full English and when it arrived I could tell by the quality of the sausage alone that little care had gone into its preparation; it wasn’t going to be what I remembered, put it that way. Mushy scrambled egg made matters worse; and believe me it’s rare that I don’t finish a traditional hotel-cooked English breakfast. The tea was fine but then it doesn’t take a genius to make a decent cuppa does it? The Royal Lion’s goose was well and truly cooked and we demanded a refund and left a day early. Having forked out just short of £700 for two nights in two rooms we were given £300 back. We thought it was fair enough but a friend said we should have received a full refund. It’s too late now so I guess we’ll have to make do, but sadly, the dream has been shattered. The Royal Lion has lost its roar and I sincerely hope that Hall & Woodhouse, owner of the hotel, isn’t going to continue pushing out the crapola  we endured. I can’t believe that an established South West of England brewer is going to sit on its laurels and continue to shatter the dreams of those who pay them a visit. In fact, I’d go further and plead with them to make some drastic changes immediately, give the place a huge makeover, up the game of the place. The rooms need more than a little TLC and the food needs a massive re-think.

A previous guest's flosser!

I had an inkling that dinner would be depressing to say the least. The menu was fairly expansive and I figured there was no way the meals on offer would be cooked from scratch by a brigade of chefs. No, we were firmly in microwaved, pre-prepared food territory, a long-time staple of brewery-owned managed houses throughout the land and I found myself wondering why the brewers have never learned their lesson. I spent six years as editor of Pub Food magazine and before that PubCaterer and during my time on both titles we, my fellow journalists and I, wrote many features about keeping the menu limited, making the meals fresh from scratch and not relying upon what were known as ‘frozen multi-portion entrees’, leave that to Brewers Fayre and other 'managed house catering concepts'. Clearly the brewers haven’t learned their lesson and perhaps they never will. In many ways, the Royal Lion is a pub with rooms, the word ‘hotel’ is superfluous. Perhaps we should have stayed in the Mariners up the road.

Within a few hours of what should have been day two of our short break I was heading home when I should have been in Lyme enjoying the sea and the Cobb and the Jurassic Coast, but no, I was on my way back to dreary South London and doubtless will never return to Lyme again.

My left foot... revisited (again!)

Last March I went down the gym and took an induction course. I'd joined the club to swim and then I thought I'd be clever and join the gym, which cost nothing extra so why not? While in the gym I tried various pieces of kit, one being something that required me to push my feet against something and I knew immediately that I'd injured myself in some way or other. Within a day or two I was proved right and I started hobbling around the place. So in the end I went to a local GP hub, had X rays and blood tests and nothing came back, there was nothing wrong with me, I must have just injured myself. But it's always my left foot. In the end the ailment left the building and I was back to normal again. If you check back on this blog there's virtually a whole month between my post on the subject and the next post, which was the time I rode to Sevenoaks and back and stopped off at Soprano's for lunch. Anyway, it was earlier in the year. We're now six months down the line and I must have done something (I know not what) to get the old foot ailment back again. This time I'm not going to see anyone about it because I don't think GPs know anything, they never have any concrete answers even if I'd dropped a piece of concrete on my foot, they'd still debate what was wrong and not give me any answers; it's the same with blood tests, they never tell you the results, presumably because nothing is wrong (that's what I was told, actually) so here I am, hobbling around. Well, not now, it's gotten better. Last night I awoke around 0130hrs (I've not been sleeping well). I came downstairs, poured myself a glass of water and dropped a Nurofen, just one, and then I had the best night's sleep ever, waking around 0800hrs and feeling that my foot was better. By and large it is, but I'll probably drop another Nurofen before too long. It's great to feel better, though, really great. My whole mood lifts when I'm feeling good, as I do now, but I'm not fit enough to get on the bike, perhaps tomorrow. I've had this foot thing back again since Wednesday. I was in town on Wednesday, Mayfair to be precise, and I was limping, but nobody I was meeting noticed (thank God!) as there's nothing worse than being recognised as the underdog, the disabled one, but as I say they didn't notice anything, I concealed it well. The last thing I wanted was sympathy. After a business meeting I chilled in a teashop in Shepherds Market. I'm not sure if there's an apostrophe or not, it could be Shepherd's Market, but not in the way that St James's Park has the double 's'. I sat there listening to some kind of Middle Eastern music and then left. I was going to read my book there, Eric Ambler's Passage of Arms, which is great, but the teashop or cafe or whatever you want to call it didn't have the right vibe so I refrained from reading and just sat there watching the guy outside with the shisha pipe, what a disgusting habit is that? Like smoking generally. Horrible. And I should know, I used to smoke. I started at around 19 years old, stopped when I was 25 and then 10 years later started again, for about a year, then stopped for good. Awful habit, but I just gave up, I'm one of those people, I can take or leave things, I don't think nicotine had anything to do with my smoking. I wasn't addicted, put it that way, I wasn't going to be wearing patches or chewing gum, I just smoked and then I stopped. I was more into the bits and bobs that went with smoking: the cigarettes themselves (Marlboro Reds were my favourite, or Camel or Benson & Hedges Gold); then there was the tin, when I smoked roll-ups I had a tin, full of Old Holborn, plus the papers, the Rizlas, and the Zippo lighter of course. Smoking was fun, but like all fun things it wasn't good for my health so I gave up, pure and simple, and I don't miss it, I just stopped. Likewise with drinking, I just stopped and I never looked back, never had any kind of cold turkey, I stopped and I haven't started, it's been nearly eight years. Okay, so it's Saturday morning and I'm watching YouTube videos of big waves and cruise ships capsizing (almost). Not sure what we're doing today. Somebody's coming round to collect a wicker chair that's languishing in our garage, we don't need it, but it's quite good and somebody's on their way round (we hope), meaning we can't go out until they've been and gone. As a result, it's one of those slobby mornings. After my four-part crapola lunch on Thursday (Marmite Sandwich, Mulligatawny soup, cheese and mustard pickle sandwich, chocolate HobNobs and tea) I kept up the trend with a breakfast of more HobNobs and a Marmite sandwich, no porridge for me today. Perhaps I'll keep up the crapola cuisine all day if we go out anywhere today. If the foot gets better perhaps a ride tomorrow, a 15-miler even! Who knows? Not much else to say other than next door got burgled and the burglars sound like they were pros. Doubtless they won't be caught, they never are: 'no arrests have been made'. I want that on a tee-shirt.

It's nearly 2pm. Johnny and Jake are on the TV making their own chocolate and we're still waiting for the person to come round and collect the wicker sofa. She might not turn up, a strong possibility if you ask me. The plan is a drive to Guildford, which means I'll take a trip to Anderton's, check out the guitars. I'm off next week. I need a break I really do and when I go back I'm going to be different. I'm going to keep out of the politics and just do my job and not sit there working beyond the time when I can officially go home. I'm going to chill more at home, read in the conservatory and not constantly freak myself out listening to what other people think of this and that, which just makes me angry and rebellious when there's absolutely no need. In many ways I've been foolish. The moment I let others in, that was the problem. Leaving doors open is always a problem. My advice is close all doors, lock them, don't listen to others, just do your fucking job.

Give the man a break...

As I write this, Donald Trump, President of the United States of America, is winging his way across the Atlantic towards Washington DC and, of course, the White House. He must be whacked out, no time for a breather. He flew in Tuesday and then on Wednesday he was up with the lark and putting on a face for the public and the monarchy as he had to sit through a lot of tiresome pomp and circumstance in what can only be described as kind of blustery, cloudy conditions. Personally, I would have been wishing the whole thing further and longing for my huge bed upstairs in Windsor Castle. Oh! I would have been looking forward to the moment when speeches were over and the dessert and coffees were out of the way, just a few goodnights and then that great moment when he switches off the light and buries his blond head in the fluffy pillows. Hopefully, he didn't think too much about what the following day had in store for him: talks about business and politics and then a press conference. Who the hell in their right mind would be looking forward to that? Perhaps that's why he said in his speech that he's hoping his second state visit will be his last. I certainly wouldn't want to repeat the process unless I could have the option, perhaps, of a few days loafing around, getting up late and just hanging for a day or two until the jet lag lifted. But the trouble with being famous is that you simply can't do that; no sitting in a local Starbuck's in Windsor for Donald, sipping a cappuccino and munching a pastry with Melania, reading a book or a newspaper. For a start, he'd be recognised before he got through the door and what's the point in trying to lead a normal life if they open the store just for you, like Elvis? No point at all. I suppose they could have erected a Starbuck's somewhere within the grounds of Windsor Castle and populated it with friendly journalists and aides happy not to give the Donald a hard time. The last thing he wants is to discuss Epstein or Mandelson or free speech or Gaza or Ukraine. I bet he hates all that. I'm sure he'd much prefer to just sit there, froth on his upper lip, staring out of the window and considering going back to bed for an hour or two before the banquet. I know I would. And then there's the banquet itself. Perhaps after the Starbuck's he might not be that hungry, but what about all that food, it can't go to waste. And hell, what about the speech? He was last on and, therefore, the most anticipated, people watching his every move hoping he'll slip up, mis-pronounce something, say the wrong thing, stutter, there's so much that go wrong and he wouldn't be able to blame the jet lag because that's not what world leaders do, they are supposed to be super human, no room to mess up, no room to say 'fuck!' after getting something wrong, nothing he does or say will be forgotten for as long as he lives. Satirical news quizzes will 'have the clip' and will be eager to humiliate him and who needs that sort of pressure? 

If I go to the USA for a conference that starts on Monday, I'm flying two days earlier and very often it makes no difference; I spend the entire week nodding off here and there and just when I think I have it under control I have to fly back home. What a nightmare. Seriously, it is, so if I had to be in the spotlight on top of everything else, no way, not unless I had time to relax first. No fun. And that's what I'd want, even if I was the leader of the free world, I'd want to some fun, some down time, a mix of work and pleasure but not all work. But that's what Trump has done: all work and no play and we all know what that leads to, it makes Jack a dull boy. Or Donald.

I'm hoping that right now, just a couple of hours into his flight, that Trump is asleep, perhaps with some soothing classical music in the background. I wonder if he has his own room where he can lie there in the dark listening to Night Tracks on BBC Radio 3 (or at least a recording) and then waking up refreshed as the plane lands at DC. But no, he's probably sitting there signing executive orders or talking to his advisors or the press. No peace for the wicked as they say. And I wonder if he's planning a day off tomorrow? Probably not. It's not a life I'd like to lead and if I was already a billionaire (as Trump is) I'd rather be relaxing, playing golf and basking in the Miami sunshine doing anything but work.

Right wing television...

You know how it is, you're sitting there of an evening watching terrestrial television wondering whether there's anything better to watch apart from the BBC and other agents of the thought police and so you switch over to You Tube and lo and behold there's a whole new world of crap you can watch from extreme camping to pop star interviews and, of course, plenty of extreme right wingers guaranteed to make you angry. There's probably loony left videos on there too, but they don't appear to be as visible.

There's nothing better than a charismatic politician running a low-grade political party to get you wondering what you've been thinking these past few years and that perhaps you were wrong about this or that. Hell! You've been wrong about EVERYTHING!!! Throw in an issue that's bound to get the right wing agitated and a whole new shit show opens up and provides the entertainment you never thought possible.

How about trying to gain access to an illegal immigrants' hotel (that's asylum seekers if you vote labour) and never getting further than the front desk before 'security' - often people with false SIA badges and high viz jackets, themselves illegal migrants (or so you're led to believe) - stand in your way, invade your personal space and lead you (well, not you personally but the person filming the video) to exclaim, "Don't you touch me!" And then the tension mounts, the security detail follows the man around the hotel grounds until the police arrive and the man tells them that trespass isn't a police matter and kindly requests them to 'toddle off and catch some real criminals', ie the shoplifters who the police won't prosecute these days unless the amount stolen is over £200. Or burglaries where the police don't bother to turn up and prefer to hand out a police reference number so you can claim on your insurance. 

During the course of these particular videos you might hear from migrants who, you quickly realise, aren't fleeing a war-torn country at all but are merely in the UK to work or claim benefits or whatever else the UK has to offer these people. Being illegal has its benefits, we are told, but you can bet your life that if you tried to gain access to any country without valid documentation YOU, yes YOU, would get nowhere fast and you certainly wouldn't be given a four-star hotel and three free meals a day. 

Right wing TV is a Godsend! Not only does it make you angry and anti-government - not that that would take a great deal - it might make you write something on social media that'll land you with a few months of jail time. Jail time! You could be one of Sir Keir Starmer's political prisoners for heaven's sake and that might lead to a whole new career, including a trip to the USA where you can meet that lefty JD Vance and tell him how hard done by you've been back in the UK where free speech is rapidly being eroded by woke politics. Oh no! You're not allowed to incite violence, but is that what you're doing? Probably not, you might be a little angry about life because you've been watching too much right wing television. You might be sitting there watching You Tubers walk around a provincial city centre goading drunks and crack heads into lunging at them, just for clicks, or so they can put their bodyguard to good use, proving that the UK is not a safe place to be because of anti-fascist protesters and so-called 'patriots' fighting one another on street corners. 

Surely anywhere is better than the UK. Somalia, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Algeria, Iran, Iraq, you name it, must be a little safer than Great Britain where the natives of these countries are fleeing war, or so we're told, they need a safe country but even when they land in one they need to risk their lives just a little bit more, crossing the channel in an inflatable dinghy for a night, a week, a month, a few years even, in a Holiday Inn or a Premier Inn where, who knows, they might meet Sir Lenny Henry, now that's Eldorado!

Do the migrants get given mobile phones and tablets? Are they paid £70 per week of taxpayers' money so they can buy cigarettes and drugs and then top up their earnings with a job in the gig economy? Who knows? Sounds like a great life! Wife and kids back home, the freedom to live the single life again, it can't be bad, can it? Fighting age men, we're told, but they're not going to enlist are they? They're more likely to be the enemy within, a secret army of their own that only need to be armed to make life rather unpleasant for unsuspecting Brits sitting in front of their televisions reading the right wing media while waving the union flag and watching right wing television. What was that? No, sorry, the Queen is dead.

Angry television presenters, angry You Tubers, angry people getting angrier by the minute as their country is invaded, yes invaded, by marauding gangs of men in grey tracksuits and top-of-the-range trainers paid for by the British taxpayer. It's a disgrace!  

And then, after you have finished your popcorn and noisily sucked out the last dregs from your clear plastic carton of Kia-ora orange juice, purchased from an imaginary usherette, you stop and wonder. Perhaps all of this IS the reality of the situation! You might find yourself agreeing with broadcaster Rylan Clark and take the view that yes, immigration has been good for the UK and for the NHS and that's all fine, but illegal immigration is a different kettle of fish because it's (ahem) illegal. You know that if you as much as stole a tin of baked beans from your local Tesco supermarket you would be slammed in jail for many years to come and lose your job in the process. Why, then, should somebody entering a country illegally be given a four-star hotel luxury life style for many years while their application for asylum is processed, not considered, but processed. Perhaps you yourself might consider throwing your own passport out of the window of a cross-channel ferry mid-journey and see how you get on when you arrive in Calais. Will you be fast-tracked to a luxury hotel, given a track suit and trainers and told that all your meals will be free until another passport is found and you can return home to the UK? Something says no, the most likely scenario will be your immediate deportation back to Europe's version of North Korea, yes, the UK, where comedians are arrested by armed police for inappropriate comments on Twitter. And you will start to question whether the UK still has free speech, like Sir Keir nervously said it did in front of Donald Trump recently. And when you arrive home, you'll switch on the TV and find Nigel Farage talking to Congress about the deteriorating situation in the UK. "Is it real or is it treason?" 

Union flags appear on lamp posts, all foreign-looking people are viewed with suspicion. Is that an HMO they're coming out of or do normal people live there? Who knows?

You wake up in the morning wondering why you feel bad tempered and then you make yourself feel even worse by watching coverage of Rachel Reeves, our beloved Chancellor of the Exchequer, who is planning to tax your house to pay for all the illegal immigrants in our hotels and unsuspecting HMOs dotted here, there and everywhere around the UK and you realise there's no escape unless you too jump into an inflatable boat and head across the North Sea to Scandinavia where everybody is happy even when it snows, but then you find yourself as headline news as one of many victims who died when their inflatable flipped over in heavy seas. Will you ever learn?

Will anybody learn, I wonder? A perfect storm is brewing politically in the UK with Nigel Farage's Reform party on the up and with Jeremy Corbyn's as yet un-named new party soon to be the left's answer to Farage. In other words, if, as Nadine Dorries was saying earlier today, that the Conservative Party is dead, then that means the Labour Party really needs to get its act together and fast. Yes, it has four years to do so (less if you listen to Farage) but if it doesn't get a move on then two extreme parties, one to the left, the other to the right, will be battling for power against the Lib Dems to be in Number 10. I don't want to see Corbyn or Farage in power or, for that matter the Lib Dems. So unless the Tories somehow get their act together or the Labour Party sorts itself out we, as a nation, could be in trouble. Personally, I want Labour to continue, but they must learn from their current mistakes. The UK electorate does not like extremes of the left or the right, but the left does itself no favours and always allows the right access to the seat of power by being pathetically woke (at present). The British public do want free speech, they don't want to see Irish comedy writers being arrested for a few controversial tweets about transsexuals, they don't like even the perception of two tier policing, they also don't want to be told that illegal migrants are more important than the British people. Reform with all it's extreme right wing baggage and it's threat to the NHS would be a disaster for the UK. Farage is a one trick pony, he's fine if he's talking tough about immigration, but that's about it: immigration and, of course, Brexit, which, in his eyes, was all about immigration anyway. Corbyn, while he means well, is not, in my opinion, leadership material and would equally be a disaster, particularly on the world stage. So the two mainstream parties need to get their acts together, immigration must be sorted out, the asylum hotels must go and a stricter regime needs to brought into play to calm the nerves of those who could vote Reform. Politicians generally must stop gaslighting the public (or the pooblic, as Angela Rayner might have said). I'm sorry to see her go, but she broke the ministerial code and that's her lot. 

I've said enough.

Wardrobes...

Wardrobes. Imposing monolithic structures that might seem harmless, unless they fall on top of you, full of jangling, unruly coathangers, have been centre stage in my life for the best part of 2025; and let’s say they’re causing havoc and generating a lot of grief. To be fair, on one level, I’m getting used to it, but on another it’s an ongoing ordeal.

The key problem is an absence of wardrobes. First, when we decided to refurbish our bedroom, it meant getting rid of wardrobes, banishing them from the house and the net result was chaos: clothes in piles everywhere and never knowing where we were at any given moment in time. “Have you seen my belt?” is one of many similar questions asked on a regular basis.

You only realise how useful something (or somebody) is when it or they are gone; and I don’t mean, when it comes to people, that they’ve died or anything nasty like that, I’m just saying that when you take something out of an equation, it’s absence is immediately noticed. Everything in life has a role to play, however big, however small, and wardrobes play a huge part in the lives of most people, and guess what? They’re taken for granted. Of course they are, the importance of most things in life is ignored and only comes to light when suddenly whatever it is isn’t there.

We won’t get into useful members of staff who, when they’re not there, show their true importance when it’s too late, but let’s talk instead about (ahem) wardrobes. For a start, they’re pretty boring to look at and, as I’ve already said, they’re imposing pieces of furniture that stand tall in a corner of the room, dominating their surroundings with the serenity of an elephant or, perhaps even a giraffe.

On recent foreign trips (to Nashville and Rotterdam) I stayed in hotels without wardrobes or, for that matter, desks and it’s not great. On a low level it makes the room look untidy as other pieces of furniture need to be employed to do the wardrobe’s job; so I employed the other bed in the room of my Nashville hotel, leaving jumpers and shirts and socks on top of it in a plastic bag, but also on wooden pegs in the wall facing the bed there were clean shirts hung up and ready to wear. The Rotterdam trip was only a couple of nights, but it meant that similar make-do tactics were employed.

Meanwhile, at home, the chaos became the norm and, like most things in life, I realised I could get by without them, although in my case alone that’s strictly not true as my wardrobe, the one that will be replaced soon, remains to this day. Initially it was wheeled on to the landing but then it rolled back into the bedroom and now it's back on the landing. Two new wardrobes are now in place. 

Tonight I will most likely empty out my old wardrobe and place my ‘stuff’ in the new one and then a semblance of order will be restored.

That hotels are dispensing with wardrobes (and desks) is a worrying trend and probably means I need to up my game and stay in a better class of inn as the day will come when hotels dispense with beds. There will be just a room and a bathroom and in the corner, rolled up, a couple of sleeping bags and ground sheets. Perhaps they won't leave them in the rooms, they'll have them downstairs on shelves behind the reception desk, like when you visit an ice skating rink or a ten-pin bowling establishment: you would be given your sleeping bag after signing for it, just like when you pick up your bowling shoes or your ice skates, and then you would have to hump them upstairs to your room, unravel them and, ultimately, sleep in them, before checking out in the morning and handing it back. You heard it here first!

In Barcelona...

Lying on top of the bed in room 207 of the Villamarí Hotel in Barcelona, I felt a bit like Martin Sheen in the opening scene of Apocalypse Now. It was hot. Very hot, and while there was air-conditioning, it wasn't enough to coax me under the cover, even if the cover itself was a wafer thin sheet. Outside, the whirr of mopeds on dusty streets and I was thinking of nothing in particular, just lying there contemplating – somewhere in the back of my mind – how I was going to play things.

Breakfast was obviously top priority, as was a shower. It didn't take me long to remember that the Villamarí's was, arguably, the best in a long time. I'd certainly have to go back to Tokyo and the power shower that almost pummelled me in to the room below to get anywhere close.

The view from room 207, Villamarí Hotel, Barcelona.

On my desk a large plastic bottle of Font Vella got me thinking about mineral water. Is it all the same, I wondered, but with different labels, the same water from a spring somewhere in the world but badged up differently? It was a thought I pondered while staring up at the ceiling on which there should have been one of those propeller-style fans, just like in Apocalypse Now. I almost felt the need to say, "Saigon, shit," but I refrained and instead got up and poured myself a 'glass' of water, even if I had a paper cup.

There was nothing much else on the the desk: a few papers, a pair of glasses, a notebook, business cards and a small USB stick, not forgetting a large apple I had purchased from a local super mercado the night before. I had already eaten two of them and now I found myself debating whether to eat the third one before breakfast or leave it until later.

Through the net curtains there was a tree-lined street, and beyond the leaves and branches, a peach-coloured building with black wrought iron balconies opposite making me wish (as I always do when abroad) that I lived here in the heat, perhaps living out some fantasy life, mistaken, perhaps for a spy and running from an eager assassin and hoping to catch the night ferry from the port to God knows where, just like in an Eric Ambler novel. I might own a crumpled lightweight suit and a battered leather briefcase, but not much more, just a family photograph and a portable typewriter.

Whenever I'm in a foreign country, and particularly in Europe, I often find myself in my own spy movie, although it's not the same without a watch. I didn't have one on me, they're all at home in my bedside cabinet sharing draw space with my miniature crystal ball, bronze pig and other stuff I keep meaning to sift through, but never do. Had there been a watch on my wrist, I might have glanced at it occasionally when out on the street for that all-important watch shot. It's not the same with an iphone as I would need something with a second hand and classic numerals; and the brand name would need to be visible too (for that all-important business of product placement). It doesn't have to be anything fancy. I remember Michael Douglas in Falling Down (my all-time favourite movie) wearing, if my memory serves me correctly, a Lorus watch.

The Villamarí is a nice hotel and there's very little to complain about, which is a good thing. But there is always something and, to be honest, it is quite a big thing, but it is not confined to the Villamarí.

One thing I don't believe there is enough of in this world is trust...and for good reason. The fact that I have to take my laptop out of my case at airport security, the fact that I had my shaving foam confiscated on Wednesday and had to spend the last two days shaving with soap (which isn't as frothy) is all down to trust. We can't trust each other to behave like human beings. There are people out there who want us dead. Who needs an eager assassin? Whenever security asks me to take off my shoes, I immediately think of Richard Reeve, the shoe bomber, and my thoughts are not pleasant.

On a lesser level, hotels tend not to trust their guests and I hate that. While the shower in my room is amazing, there is a problem: the soap dispenser is screwed close to the wall and there is no room to press the plunger in order to extract the soap in a sufficient quantity to make having shower gel worthwhile.With the water powering its way out of the shower head at force, and soaking everything in sight, including that little white towel that is supposed to be a mat on which to stand when exiting the shower, I'm stood there like somebody from a submarine disaster movie trying to close an airtight door, fiddling with the plunger of the shampoo dispenser and only managing to get a tiny amount of gel into the palm of my hands; and what little gel got through was washed away by the powerful jet of water coming from the shower. I surrendered and allowed the water to drench me for a few invigorating moments before leaving the cubicle, treading on the now soaking wet 'mat' and carefully making my way out of the bathroom.

The question is: do hotels really distrust their guests so much that they have to screw the shampoo and shower gel containers to the wall to prevent theft? Why don't they screw other things down too, like the bed? I could easily arrange an elaborate plot to steal my hotel bed. All I would need is a few colleagues in high-viz jackets to help me carry it downstairs and into the back of a lorry. And what about the kettle and the portion packs of tea and coffee, the awful non-dairy creamer and the aforementioned paper cups? They could all go in my suitcase. I could strip the whole room!

It's the same with coat hangers. Oh, for proper coat hangers with a hook! But no, it's those funny ones that take an age to hook up, and I always end up in the wardrobe (if there is one) jangling about with a gang of unruly coat hangers. Actually, talking of wardrobes – and bearing in mind that I have written a lot recently about hotels without them – the wardrobes here at the Villamarí are a little narrow, they're almost doors placed on the wall for no reason. I want a proper wardrobe, something I can hide in if that eager assassin passes by, although the noisy coat hangers might give away my location.

And what about minibars? This doesn't apply to the Villamarí, which had a small fridge with a couple of miniature bottles of mineral water inside, but don't you hate it when there's a fridge and it is locked, as if to say "keep out, we don't trust your sort with alcohol." What can I say? Have some trust and we will all be happier people.

However, let me put it on record that the Villamarí is a fantastic hotel. The above problems are common to most hotels. I would definitely return as the staff were very friendly and helpful, the bed was comfortable and the breakfast was good, as was the location – a short cab ride to the beach, but otherwise bang in the centre of town.

I have a flight to catch at 1255hrs, but there might be enough time to take a brief walk before hailing a cab and heading for the airport. There is a plaza de toros up the road and it's been converted into a shopping centre. I might take a look as window shopping beats killing bulls any day.

For more visits to Spain, click here and here.

Another country, another hotel without a wardrobe or desk...

 ...but again, I find myself getting used to it and not, I hasten to add, penning an angry Trip Advisor post. In many ways, the cheaper hotels in this world are so much better than the corporate brands and the cosseting they offer with their concierges and porters and "this way, sir" and all that jazz just because you're paying through the nose for a room. I'd rather give my money to the homeless. It's all so false, like business class on planes. I flew Club (or whatever it's called) to Vienna a few years ago and I sat on the border with Plebland (only a grey curtain separating me from the proletariat for heaven's sake)... but beyond the grey cloth divide they were being served their tea in paper cups (I had bone china) and nobody was calling them sir. I wonder if they're told that in training, "In economy, no reference to sir or madam." I think if I was cabin crew I would go out of my way to be hospitable to those in 'coach' (as the Americans call it). I would even go as far as calling them 'sir' or 'madam' in the hope that some pot-bellied, golf-loving CEO with an unhealthy-looking paunch would blow his top and have to be escorted from the plane.

No, not one of those statue people, a proper non-human statue!

So the hotel, an easyHotel, is basic. So basic that there's no wardrobe or desk or chocolates on the pillows in my room; or even a common area downstairs where, like the Moxy Vanderbilt in Nashville, I could sit and write and read or listen to live music. But I know what easyHotels are all about and besides, when I booked my stay in Rotterdam, the only alternative was a bed in a hostel dormitory of, say, eight or 12 other beds. It wouldn't work, put it that way. The easyHotel was bang in the centre of town, there was no cosseting, no, 'yes, sir' – nothing so vulgar – just ordinary people in jeans and tee-shirts on the front desk, a vending machine by the lifts selling all of life's necessities and that was it. My room, room 607 on the sixth floor, was fine. The shower wasn't brilliant but it did the job, there was a pillar between the bed and the window, and the ceiling, I noticed, was high, but only when I was lying in bed, it was a little closer when I stood up, but still fairly high.

With easyHotel there was no compunction to 'engage' with anybody, it had a certain anonymity about it, which is what I like; I can come and go as I please, no questions asked, and being bang in the 'centrum' I wasn't far from restaurants and, like now, a Starbucks. In fact, hats off to Starbucks, a coffee retailing brand that has an established offering, it does what it says on the tin and loyal customers know what to expect. I've been in here answering emails and doing stuff that needs doing, in addition, of course, to drinking a couple of large mugs of English breakfast tea. I'm glad that Starbucks exists because, like other coffee retailers, it provides a service, it picks up where hotels without desks left off and it helps people when they're in nomad mode, like I am at present. I'm on the later train home to London today, leaving Rotterdam at just before 5pm and getting home around three hours later (there's no headwind with a train). Unfortunately I've got to change in Brussels, although it's good in many ways as it means I don't go through passport control until I reach the Belgian capital. I suppose that means I could leave Rotterdam now and seek a different Starbuck's, but in all honesty, I love this place and the easyHotel where my suitcase is stored in a locker, and I'm happy to leave it there until I'm ready to head home.

I haven't been to Rotterdam for a very long time. I flew here the last time and I remember the aircraft, a Dart Herald, had difficulty unlocking its landing gear (there were emergency vehicles on the tarmac but all was fine, thank God!). And by that I mean the plane landed without incident, thanks to a member of the crew who somehow managed to hand-crank the undercarriage into position. It was an old plane, but not, I hasten to add, a Sopwith Camel.

A couple of days ago, walking nonchalantly along a darkened street full of restaurants, I spotted, to my surprise, a huge rat lolloping along and heading straight for one of the eateries on this particular stretch of road. I was going to bring it to the attention of those al fresco diners, who were blissfully unaware, enjoying the early summer heat, but decided not to. Fortunately, I'd eaten earlier, but it kind of put me off so I vowed never to eat in any of the restaurants – there were lots of them – along that stretch of road close to the easyHotel. A rat for heaven's sake! Not that I haven't seen them before. I remember once in Chicago I saw a few of them darting from one sidewalk flowerbed to another and they weren't small rats, they were huge, like the sort of thing you see in horror movies (and on the streets of Rotterdam).

Rats aside, I've rather enjoyed my short time in Rotterdam. Being as there was no hotel restaurant and, therefore, no breakfast offering, I consulted my Microsoft Co-pilot (AI at its best) and asked if there were any places offering the most important meal of the day. The robot on the other end of the line said yes, there were some interesting establishments I should check out. One of them was a place called Lilith Coffee, a café with that female touch that makes the world a better place. By female, I'm not saying 'girly', that wouldn't have worked at all. This was more Kate Bush than Doja Kat. There were old typewriters and other bric-a-brac, not forgetting a painting of a naked woman with a snake, that lent Lilith Coffee a bookish vibe that I found calming and joyful. I liked it so much I came back for more the following day, choosing exactly the same dish from the menu – a 'mango bowl (EUR11.50) consisting of bananas, strawberries, berries and oats and, presumably, mangoes. Very tasty, very healthy, and I left with a skip in my step (on both occasions).

Lilith Coffee opens at 0900hrs and being as I've been going to bed early (around 2000hrs) I was up with the lark and ready to stroll along Nieuwe Binnenweg to this fantastic place, but each time arriving too early. Not a problem because Vlahmsch Broodhuys was open at 0800hrs so in I walked and ordered an English breakfast tea with an almond croissant on my first visit and a different kind of bun on my second. What a chilled establishment it was, and even more so when you realise that they sell jars of white chocolate spread. White chocolate spread! I've never seen it in the UK, but it's alive and kicking here in Rotterdam so, after tasting some, I bought a jar and a smaller jar of forest fruits jam.

The vibe in Vlahmsch Broodhuys was different to Lilith Coffee, but both establishments had the calming feminine touch and, therefore, what it takes to make my life that little bit better. They both get top marks for all the usual stuff: good service, happiness, decent food and, with the former, of course, that white chocolate spread. I forgot to ask them whether to 'refrigerate after opening'.

Check out from the easyHotel was (ahem) easy and soon I was a nomad, a temporarily homeless person wandering the streets. I should have taken the earlier Eurostar home but because there was uncertainty surrounding my meeting, I opted for the later train and now, here I am, in Starbucks, writing this article with plenty of time on my hands.

One quick mention of another excellent restaurant needs to be made. Super Mercado, a Peruvian restaurant where I dined last night before strolling back to my hotel for yet another early night. What an excellent place. If you find yourself in Rotterdam (it's so easy to type 'Rotherham') then I would recommend this place. Try the grilled salmon with asparagus.

There's lots to say, loads in fact, but I'm thinking it best to sign off and get on with whatever else I need to be doing, like checking emails 'and sich like' (as they say in The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists).