My left foot (revisited)

Things just happen, that's the way of the world, and often there's no way of telling if there might have been a reason, cause and effect and all that jazz. Sometimes, like back in October 2017, I awoke with my head spinning as soon as I jumped out of bed. That threw me, I can tell you. I gave up drinking and now, eight years later, I'm still on the wagon and have no intention of going back, even if it was simply an inner ear infection. In many ways, good things come out of bad.

My left foot is not a newcomer to this blog. If you go to the search bar at the top left of the page and key in 'my left foot' you'll get a few posts about it. I can't think of what triggered it. Last Thursday, after a swim, I went to a gym induction and was shown various pieces of gym equipment including a piece of machinery that looked as if it could dislocate my shoulder, now there's something I don't want, a dislocated shoulder. My brother suffered from one after using my Bullworker back in the seventies and, if I recall, he was dogged with problems for years and, I think, he had an operation to fix it. Once, I remember, he disclocated his shoulder whilst swimming in the sea and was a long way off the coast. Fortunately, all was fine. But listen, I don't want these problems. If I suffer any kind of injury linked to doing a specific sport, then I'm stopping immediately. I don't want to be put under for anything and would rather switch my sport to something a little safer.

Now I know there's no such thing as safe and that problems can arise from anything, like cycling, but that's not what I mean. I don't want to indulge in any sport that inherently has a specific injury attached to it. With cycling, yes, you can fall off, yes, you can be hit by a car and yes you can get injured, but there's nothing inherently problematic with cycling, your joints are supported, like they are with swimming (by the water) and by rowing and those are the sports I'd rather engage with; yes, I might be hit by a car, I might fall off, but such incidents are not directly the fault of the activity. Cycling, in other words, if you keep your wits about you, is pretty safe even if you cannot legislate against the activities of other road users or, indeed, your own negligence (like when I came off through nobody's fault but my own, ie I was riding too fast into a left turn. Not the bike's fault, not cycling's fault but my fault. I don't want to be engaged in a sport where the slightest wrong turn or twist will mean surgery. Count me out. I'm not a professional sportsman, I don't earn money from my exercise because that's all it is, exercise. I get paid for doing something unconnected with keeping fit, like most people.

So how the hell did I find myself unable to walk for most of the week? Your guess is as good as mine. Was it swimming? I doubt it. No, I put it down to foolishly 'trying out' the leg press and, as I say, fortunately, I haven't damaged my shoulders; again, I'm not a professional athlete, I don't earn my money from keeping fit, it's purely me doing my best to maintain a reasonable level of fitness, but the parameters seemed to have changed a little bit, forcing me and countless others to fret about not getting enough exercise.

While I have always rode a bike throughout my life, as a kid and an adult, my sport of choice used to be swimming and back in the day I was always told that 20 minutes of exercise, three times a week, was all I needed to keep fit. I swam between two and three times a week, normally with two half-milers and then a mile on a Saturday morning (God, I felt good after the Saturday swim), but that was it. Outside of my two to three swims I was happy and I didn't think of exercise in a fretful way. But over the years, in the same way that marketing people convinced us all that we ought to be drinking litre upon litre of water daily and people started buying those plastic or steel water bottles - I knew people who bought huge canisters and probably drank well over what they should have been drinking - the same has happened with exercise. In fact, I can almost remember the day that somebody upped the ante on exercise, claiming that it's a daily thing, at least 20 minutes, not just three times a week (which was more than enough) but seven days a week, no let-up and so 'going to the gym' became something that people started doing and of course people, businessmen, got rich out of people's obsession with being ripped or whatever it might be, but the gyms were full, people were making money and now if we take a day off we fret and worry about it and vow to double up the following week.

It's the same with a lot of things and we can draw many parallels. So let's see if we can break a few myths. First, I'm going to stick my neck out and say exercise three times a week is absolutely fine. At present I manage one swim and two rides per week. I'm thinking of adding a second swim or a third ride, but that's all. I don't need (and don't want) to be in the gym every morning, on a treadmill watching breakfast television, don't want it, don't need it. I'm happy with my two rides and yes, if I don't do them (like this week) then I get a little irritable as I don't like breaking the routine and missing out. I do believe in exercise and I enjoy it. I'd hate to be one of those people who go everywhere by car, even down to the corner shop to get a newspaper.

But let's get back, briefly, to those parallels. Phones. I used to have a Nokia 3310. I did it's job perfectly and the battery lasted forever. It was a phone, people called me, I answered, we talked, we hung up. I don't need a smartphone. I never use half of the apps and, if I'm honest, I hardly use the phone element of it. There was a time when people were always calling me, now not so much. I've often thought about buying another 3310 and ditching the iphone but I probably won't because I like to record my rides on Strava, I can do so much with it to be fair. That said, data is another one. Who needs it? Do I need to record my distances? Who for? Who's counting? Nobody. In the old days I used to go cycling and that was it. Keeping data on the rides is pointless and, of course, it leads to fretting, unless I can get paid for the number of rides I'm doing, in which case I'd better monitor them. There was a time recently when, if my phone was low on power I'd delay the ride so I could record my distance even though I knew my distance, my destination and roughly how long it took me without switching on the app. Now, if my phone is low on gas and I'm not meeting anybody who might call me en route, I don't bother charging it, I just go and come back on time and get on with my day. The key is to reduce the amount of fretting that takes place constantly. I've got enough of that with work.

There's no real knowing what I did to my foot. I went online and started reading up on what it could have been; tendonitis? Well, that's what I went to the doctor with and there's nothing a doctor likes more than having the words put in his or her mouth. "Yes, it looks like it," he said, and that's it I was labelled as somebody with tendonitis. Except that I wasn't happy with that. The last time I had something similar (a swollen and discoloured foot and a lot of pain and unable to walk) I found out later that I had cellulitis and was given a load of antibiotics to take for around a fortnight. So I booked another appointment with a different doctor. I told him about the many different times that my left foot had caused problems and he wanted to know why. So he sent me to my local GP hub for blood tests and an X-ray. On the former, no problems. In fact he later said it wasn't an infection but an inflammation. Fine, that was good to know. I'm awaiting the X-ray results. It has got better. I haven't taken any Nurofen since Thursday (today's Sunday) and I'm kind of walking again, albeit with a hobble in my step. I'll probably take the bike round the block (six miles) just to get some exercise, which I've missed this week, but it's good to take it easy once in a while and I've been sitting here all morning writing this, drinking tea and listening to Stomu Yamash'ta (currently In Zen Music Vol.1 and a track called Drizzly Step – kind of appropriate don't you think?). Yamash'ta is where it's at. I would recommend that you listen to him urgently. I plan to listen to him a lot more. I heard him first on Night Tracks on BBC Radio 3 and it's the most chilled you'll ever get.

I need to get back to writing and riding and swimming. This enforced break through injury is a little annoying especially when I look out the window and realise that spring is here. I've just noticed that the clocks have gone forward and that means that summer is once again upon us. Hopefully it will be bring plenty of bike rides and happy times. 

Swimming, cycling, improved weather...

 I went down with a bit of a cold and as a result I had to forfeit the ride on Sunday to meet Andy; that was the week before last, but last week Andy couldn't make it so I had to motivate myself. Fortunately, the poor weather seems to have left the building so I rode to Westerham last Sunday despite the fact that my original plan had been to visit the Velobarn, which seems to open when it pleases. I rode along Pilgrim's Lane and found the place to be closed, leaving me no option than to ride into Westerham, which I did, stopping at Costa, padlocking the bike outside and enjoying a very pleasant cup of English Breakfast tea in the sunshine.

The ride back, was as expected and when I passed the Velobarn it was still closed. Their loss, I was thinking, their loss. It wasn't long before I reached Botley Hill and then before too long I was home. In a complete break with tradition I quickly went out again to do the Norfolk Nobbler, a six-miler round the local streets, which can be quite a work-out. In total I rode 28 miles last Sunday and felt better for it. 

What arsewipes did this?

Last Thursday, the one just gone (6 March) I went for a swim at my local pool. Half a mile is a good distance, takes around 30 minutes, 32 lengths, and on a Thursday the pool is pretty much empty. A pleasant hot shower followed and because I'd parked my car in the supermarket across the road, there was no parking charges, meaning I could relax a little and enjoy my shower, which I did. 

I've been having a few problems with the pool membership. I was originally on a plan that was restricted to just one pool and this was causing issues because if I wanted to go more than once a week (I have to go twice a week to make it pay) it was difficult in terms of available times to go. So, I upgraded my membership, which meant I could use a pool slightly further away, but when I got there last Friday evening I wasn't too happy with the pool. All the changing rooms were damp, the locker system was different and basically, all the faffing around made me leave the place in a mild huff without a swim, although if I dig dip I'd probably discover that I wasn't really up for a swim and needed instead to simply relax. I'll now have to degrade my membership to what it was before and try and work out a different solution. I'm planning on one swim per week twice a month and two swims per week on the remaining two weeks. Again, not a problem.

During the week I had the bike serviced. I was initially having problems with the inner tube valve, which I simply couldn't undo in order to inflate the inner tube. I took it to the bike shop and he fixed it. I now have a new tyre and inner tube on the back. While I was there I asked him to fix the bottom bracket, which had well and truly gone, and he said I might as well get a service, so I booked the bike in. The brakes are now fixed, there's a new chain and block and the bottom bracket is fixed too but, as always, the price was almost that of a new bike, albeit a very low spec machine. For an extra forty quid I could have walked out of there with a new one. But hey ho. I didn't buy a new bike, I had my Rockhopper fixed and it's running smoothly as a result and that's all that matters.

I had a haircut during the week and asked for a number three. "That's a skinhead," said the barber. "I know," I said, and he got on with it. I feel much better after a short haircut and I look better too. Nothing worse than straggly hair, it looks so untidy, especially when it's greying. That set me back around £15, which was fine. Afterwards I went to Costa Coffee for an English Breakfast tea and a Bakewell tart. But I wasn't relaxed and after around 10 minutes I left and drove home.

Today, Saturday 8th March, I did a Washpond Weeble, just over 12 miles. The weather is great today, not cold, but I left the house late and decided to shorten the ride; I was going to head for Oxted or Westerham or, if it was open, the Velobarn but decided instead on a non-stop ride which took just over an hour. Riding through Washpond Lane I noticed that some arse wipes had set fire to a car and left it in a pile by the side of the road. I mean, what kind of arseholes do that sort of thing? It was, however, a pleasant ride and now I'm back home writing the blog, which I haven't been doing as frequently as I should. Oddly, when I checked the weekly stats for this past week, the number was well over 10,000 visitors, it's now around 6,000. I love it when reader numbers go up or whatever it is the figures relate to.

Outside the sun is shining and the skies are fairly blue, it's 8th March and the bees are out, the snowdrops and the crocuses are on the lawns and there are signs of daffodils too. In short, the summer is on the way and I love it. It means more cycling and that's what I like.

Tomorrow (Sunday 9th March) I'm hoping to see Andy at Sheree's Tearooms, that's around 17 miles, so 29 miles in total, I might even ride into Westerham afterwards if the weather holds and knock the mileage over the 30-mile marker. Who knows? I might not!

Jammed tyre valve aborts the ride...

There's nothing much to say about today's ride because it simply didn't happen. We were due to meet at Tatsfield village, as we do on a Sunday, and I was up and ready to rock at 0600hrs. Breakfast over, I dressed for the ride and then headed into the garage to jump on the bike. The outside temperature was just three degrees so I was wrapped up warm and looking forward to the ride as this week events conspired against me and I had to cancel my swim. Not a problem as I'm currently planning to upgrade (or even cancel) my membership because it simply doesn't work for me. I'm a little annoyed at the fact that it's no longer possible to just 'go for a swim' like I used to pre-pandemic. It was simply a case of walking up to the reception desk, asking for a swim, paying the money and then heading for the changing room, but not any more. Today you need to 'download the app' and book your session that way, which, to be fair is fine, but currently I'm limited to two days per week (Thursdays and Fridays, preferably around 1700hrs). This, however, is only possible on one day per week (Thursday) and for some reason I can't go on Fridays. So I want to change my membership so that I can use other pools in the area, one on Thursday, the other on Friday. But the people in charge of the leisure facilities are dragging their feet and I'm now considering cancelling my membership and starting again somewhere else, but that will mean a six-mile drive or ride to another leisure centre in another town. At the moment, however, I'm simply wasting my money so if I don't get any joy I'll have to cancel my membership and look elsewhere, it is what it is... click here for more.

So my ride today has been cancelled. I'm going to take the bike to a nearby shop and use the opportunity to have a new tyre and inner tube on the bike, the current tyres (front and back) are both looking a little worn so the whole situation is a positive one as I can also cycle from the shop to mum's and back, which is roughly 15 miles and that will do me a lot of good.

Christmas comes and goes...

Christmas has come and gone and it's been good. I wish it had lasted a little longer. I've enjoyed chilling out, reading books, going for a swim in a virtually empty pool, riding the bike, once through a blizzard and once in thick fog. I lost track of what day it was, and that was good, that's how it should be. I started writing this on New Year's Eve as the whole thing was coming to a close, one more day and then it was back to work and everybody had to knuckle down and get on with the new year, which, for most people, will be exactly the same as the old one. "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."

During the holidays I spent time in darkened streets, visiting cosy places like the Sevenoaks Bookshop, where I bought Over the Rainbow by Alex James, bassist of Blur and, of course, a cheese aficionado and farmer. I sat and watched Outdoor Boy on YouTube and other non-terrestrial stuff. These days there's nothing on 'normal' television that appeals. Who wants to watch Gavin & Stacey?

And yeah, it did all end and I did find myself back at work and it has been more of the same. An element of cosy remained in the shape of the fireplace, which I'm looking at now. The weather has been cold and the fire has made all the difference. We continued watching Outdoor Boy as it's one of those shows that makes us look forward to bedtime. I've been wearing pyjamas, that's how cold it's been, but wearing something warm and getting cosy has its drawbacks: I over-sleep and don't particularly want to get out of bed and go to work! I always struggle the week I return to the office after the Christmas break, but eventually everything clicks into place and normality reigns once again.

The swimming has been good and I've enjoyed it. I'm still hitting a length a minute, which is good, although the pool is a 25-metre affair and in the past, the pools were longer, ie instead of 32 lengths to the half mile, they were 24 lengths or, in Cheam, Surrey, 27 lengths, so I'm not sure exactly what it all means, but let's say I'm doing the half mile in around 30 minutes and I'm sure I'll improve as the journey continues. You have to be organised when you go swimming, you need to remember stuff, like shower gel and having a one pound coin for the lockers although, for £1.50, I purchased as false one pound coin that I have permanently on my key ring. Then there's the car park. Perhaps I should walk to the pool, now that would be something, and it might take around 35-40 minutes, but at least I wouldn't have the worry of paying for the car park. It used to be straightforward, you paid 50p to park, a one-off fee, and then the leisure centre would refund it, but now you have to call a number and register your number plate and key in the number of hours you'll need. I always do one hour and it seems to be fine. After the swim I have a refreshing shower and then, after drying and dressing, I head out into the cold air to the car park and drive home. 

My plan is to combine swimming and cycling: two rides per week, two swims per week. That's four days out of seven getting exercise. I've yet to factor in the gym, but if I can do a couple of days at the gym I will, let's see how that progresses. The whole deal is £34 per month, which means I need to use the place at least twice a week to make it all pay. I'm still in the process of getting that bit right and the best way to play it (at present) is to swim Thursday and Friday and then cycle on Saturday and Sunday morning. The gym will come later.

This morning I fixed up the lights on my bike. I'm currently charging my rear light. The front light has already been charged and is now on the bike. I had to take off two handlebar attachments that had previously held front lights that have since been lost. One fell off during the ride and I couldn't find it. I'm amazed, thinking back, that I didn't hear it falling off, but I didn't; and I can't remember the fate of the other light, but it was similar. I think it fell off the bike and smashed into smithereens somewhere near Redhill in Surrey, but that's a foggy memory.

There has been bad news this year. I was round at mum's house trying to get her central heating working and suddenly I received a text from an old friend who informed me her husband, one of my best mates died. He'd been suffering from cancer for the past two years. We had drifted apart and hadn't seen each other for at least 30 years, but it was still a huge shock. There are certain people I regard as immortal and he was one of them. He inspired me to read more than I would have done had I not met him, he had a great sense of humour and we got on really well, but suddenly that weekly phone call went to every fortnight, then we might have spoken once a month, soon it was longer and longer and then it seemed odd even to think about calling him. I did, for a few years, call him once a year as we shared a birthday and on one or two occasions we spoke on the phone, but nothing came of it. Perhaps we'd both left it too long and there didn't seem any point, but that's life. Just to avoid any confusion, it's not my cycling pal Andy but somebody I first met back in the mid-seventies at college. After that text from his wife I spent a lot of time thinking about Andy, and I'm finding the whole thing unbelievable. I think I'll always find it unbelievable on some level, but it's happened, it's true and there's little more to say. I have referenced Andy on this blog once or twice. I remember him saying that had they cut out all the sound effects from Quadrophenia by The Who,it would have been a very tight single album. Perhaps, but I guess that  album is a story and the story needs embellishment. We all have opinions on stuff like that and who's to say that there's only one answer?

I'm hoping for a ride with Andy Smith tomorrow (Sunday). I know there might be fog and that's why I've put the lights on the bike as it's bloody dangerous without them. We'll be going to Sheree's Tearooms in Tatsfield, our first joint ride of 2025, and I'm looking forward to it. I'll have to set my alarm as I've been getting up late. Today I didn't get out of bed until 0800hrs so the alarm is important. I've just set it on my iphone so all is fine.

While I was hoping for a ride with Andy and it did happen, it was the first ride for me since Boxing Day and it was only 2 degrees Centigrade, meaning it was a little on the cold side. Being my first ride for such a long time and bearing in mind that I had new lights, the rear one needing securing to the saddle post, and adding in the fact that I left the house without my crash helmet and had to go back for it as well as having to look around for stuff to keep me warm, I didn't get moving until 0810hrs, which made me later than expected, late enough for Andy to have finished his coffee when I arrived. Yes, I should have left earlier as it seems to be taking me around an hour to get to Tatsfield. I was feeling a little out of condition and I struggled a little up Church Way and whenever there was a hill, like the one on the 269. As always, of course, having kitted myself out with lights, it worked out that I didn't need them, there was no fog, which was a shame as I was hoping I'd put them to good use. I'm sure the opportunity will arise, possibly even next weekend.

We chatted about writing, which was good. Andy's writing his autobiography, which is great. It's something that I should consider too. I bought Andy another coffee and we chatted on, leaving at around 1030hrs, possibly a little later. The ride back was just as cold as the ride out, and I kept the bike on the top cog at the front, which I hadn't noticed at first on the outward ride. I must have reached home at gone 1100hrs and then sat around drinking tea before heading off to Tunbridge Wells in the car, one of my favourite weekend destinations.

Vueling Flight VY6307 1350hrs Bilbao to London Gatwick Airport

I've been having strange dreams these past two nights, dreams I can't really remember a great deal about. One involved Mulder from the X Files appearing from inside one of those office water coolers, that was a bit weird, I can tell you. There were others, but I can't recall them exactly. None of them were fretful. It must have something to do with being ultra-chilled out last night in the hotel (see previous post). I really must make a point of reading more often instead of watching television. In fact, I haven't looked at any television or, for that matter, newspapers, since Sunday last week. In that sense, you could say that I've been minding my own business and simply getting on with the business of getting through the days, travelling from city-to-city by train, checking into hotels and engaging with various people along the way. That's probably why I'm so chilled out. I haven't been subjected to media crap, be it television news bulletins, talk radio shows like LBC or chat shows or awful programmes like The One Show with it's horrible presenters and guests. Already, you can see that by just thinking of them all, I'm getting a little ratty. That said, my current chilled out state of mind saw me sail through security without getting irritated and now, at 1100hrs I'm sitting in Giraffe on the air side of Bilbao airport sipping tea and eating, yes, I know, a chocolate croissant. I didn't want any of it, but I needed somewhere to sit down so that I could pass the time of day for a little bit. There's not much here to be honest, only Giraffe as far as I can see and couple of high-stooled bar operations. 

I awoke early and then fell asleep, waking again at 0724 or something along those lines. I showered and headed downstairs for another great breakfast and then I returned to my room to start packing away. This didn't take me long and then I headed for the airport in Taxi number 232. It was only around 20 minutes.

Outside, the skies are blue, which is nice to see and, oddly, I'm sitting in roughly the same place I was sitting the last time I flew out of Bilbao. How do I know that? Because there are four conifers that were there when I was last here a few years ago. On that occasion, I'd been further west along the coast at Aviles, green Spain they call it and it is green, not sun-scorched and barren like down in the south.

I'm flying back with Vueling and I have a window seat, seat 17F, that's on the right hand side of the plane. They're a good airline, I've flown with them once, possibly twice before. I do need to find out what gate I should flying out from, that should be on the notice boards soon I hope, in fact, I might go and look now just to see if I'm in the right place, I'm likely not to be. Hold on... I can't find anything that gives the flight details, it's not even on my boarding pass, although it might be Gate B10. I'm in Boarding Group Two and we start boarding at 1310hrs, that's a good two hours from now.

It's amazing how there are blue skies on one side of the airport and grey cloud on the other side. And guess which is which. Yes, you guessed it, the air side where the planes take off is the cloudy side. Of course it is! 

That Bilbao airport has a Giraffe restaurant is great news, but I won't be using it for more than that tea and croissant and I won't be having any in-flight snacks either. The fact that I'm flying into Gatwick means (hopefully) no circling over the airport for hours until a slot to land becomes available. It also means I'm down the road from where I live. Well, not down the road, but it's much easier than Heathrow. I'll probably get the train to East Croydon and cab it from there.

I might come back here once I've established that my plane will take off from a "B" gate. There's a crappy 'jazz' version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen playing and it's not at all festive. I want my Christmas carols sung properly by a choir, not some second rate jazz band.

Christmas beckons. One more week at work, which should be pretty chilled, then I'm off and I can relax and not think about work stuff. I'll certainly be reading, as I've found a new author, although he's not that new, his name is Eric Ambler. He's old school, his novels feature people who sport a pince-nez and the last time I enjoyed a book of this ilk it was way back and it was Graham Greene. I love Greene, Our Man in Havana, A Burnt-Out Case, Ministry of Fear, The Quiet American, Stamboul Train, The Heart of the Matter, there's many of them and I've read most of them. Ambler writes along similar lines but without the obsession with Catholicism.

I'm going to take a wander, but might well come back here later to either add more to this blog post or to have something to eat, although I very much doubt the latter; more likely I'll be back here updating this post, but in all honesty I can't think of what I would add, I was clutching at straws anyway.

The flight home was fine, no turbulence and, once above the clouds, clears skies and even clearer skies as we approached the UK. We flew over Brighton and I could see the pier clearly and then, within a few minutes we landed. I was so engrossed with Eric Ambler's Epitaph for a Spy that I was the last person to get off the plane, well, almost. I found a Pret a Manger, ordered tea and an avocado and egg mayo baguette (my lunch) and finished it before catching the train to East Croydon and a cab home.

For all of my Spain posts I'll sort out photographs on my return to England as for some reason I had a technology meltdown in the hotel room and now I have to 'browse as guest' to be able to access the blog.

1737 Madrid Charmartin to Bilbao Abando...

My decision to dine at the Taberna La Taba was definitely a mistake. I had considered the restaurant at the Pestana but ruled it out for no reason whatsoever and decided instead to hit the dark streets of Madrid in search of something better. As explained in the previous post, what an error! A similar situation arose the following morning on the day I was due to travel to Bilbao by train from Madrid. I was under the impression that I would be checking out not long after breakfast and walking to Madrid Atocha where I assumed the Bilbao train would depart from, but not only was it not showing on the Trainline website, my suspicion was that something had happened and that there was no longer a 1205. When I spoke to the hotel receptionist and he tried the website, his suggestion was that the train might have sold out and, therefore, was no longer showing as available.

There were only two options left: one was to catch a train around 1330hrs – I think it was a little later – or catch a train at 1737hrs. Both would get me in to Bilbao around 2230hrs, but the earlier one would mean two changes. I decided to book the later train and then walked along the Calle de Atocha to the railway station to buy a ticket. When I got there I was told that the train didn't depart from Atocha but from Charmartin station which was on the other side of town, or, to be more precise, not anywhere near Atocha. This was of no consequence but it did mean that I had a day to kill in Madrid and the prospect of a walk all the way back along the Calle de Atocha, which boosted my steps to over 12,000 for the day.

I had lunch sitting outside, but kept my coat on, at the Restaurante San Millan where I ordered salmon with potatoes, some bread and a bottle of mineral water, the latter being almost too cold to drink in the winter air. The salmon wasn't the best in the world and there were a few worrying bones to contend with; I always imagine myself choking and somebody having to give me the Heimlich manoeuvre or, worst still, rushing me off to hospital for a tracheotomy. Fortunately I was careful enough for neither situation to arise but as I made my way back to the Pestana I began to wish I'd stayed there as it was a far better environment, far better food and nowhere near as cold as sitting outside, under one of those huge square umbrellas next to a gas flame that, admittedly, made things bearable. Furthermore, if I had stayed at the hotel I could have chilled out a little more (but not in the sense of temperature) and I could have enjoyed a pleasant lunch without fish bones and then simply sat there reading until it was time to go. But no, I chose the harder and more unpleasant option.

After lunch I made another stupid decision: taking a taxi to Charmartin station around 1430hrs... far too early for catching the 1737 train. I didn't like the railway station one bit, mainly because it was undergoing reconstruction in some way or other and everything was chaotic as a result. I had to go through airport style security again, which wasn't really a problem and when I came out the other side I found there was nowhere to sit and chill out for anything longer than a few minutes, ie half an hour at most. Oh for a Starbucks, I thought, keying the brand name into my phone's GPS and then following its confusing instructions which took me away from the station and into a region just behind it with three huge skyscrapers, one being a hotel, the others office blocks, and behind them a trendy development of shops and restaurants and businesses where I found a lot of 'young professionals' and a Starbucks where I ordered a large white mug of tea while I sat there like a spy photographing my receipts. I drank the tea and then, not wishing to drag my heavy suitcase any further, I took a taxi back to the station and then sat down in a small café watching the departures board as I sipped a cup of tea from a paper cup. Eventually the Bilbao train was announced as departing from Platform 20 (or was it 19? It doesn't matter) and the final train journey of the trip began. I was in coach 8, seat 19B, an aisle seat and most of the journey was in darkness so I couldn't tell whether the train was travelling through another interesting wilderness like the one seen from the window of the Barcelona-Madrid train. It was roughly a five-hour ride and pretty boring. Thankfully, I had two books (as mentioned in the previous post). On this occasion I continued to read Keith Richards' amazing autobiography, Life, and that kept my mind off the journey. When you can't see the outside world life can be very boring indeed. Passengers came and went and eventually it was just me in a group of four seats with a table in the middle. I paid a short visit to the buffet car and had a cheese and ham sandwich and a cup of tea (standard train fayre it has to be said, my diet whilst travelling has been pretty poor).

When we finally reached Bilbao Abando station, I took a short cab ride to the hotel, which was amazing. Very opulent and I have a huge room (room 710). It sports a massive bed, an amazing rain shower (the best yet) and a great restaurant downstairs on the first floor, of which, more later.

It was too late to eat anything so I decided to crash, working out the lights before turning in. As avid readers will know, I don't like sleeping in total darkness, never have, although at home we do turn off all the lights, but in hotels I like some light even if it's just the light from the city outside. There are many occasions where I test the lights and work out the level of darkness I can cope with and once this little exercise is over with I get on with the business of sleeping. The great thing about the Catalonia Gran Via is that the bathroom lights have many settings, one of which is so subtle that it's ideal for those who don't like total darkness, not that there's such a thing as a complete black-out as the curtains can always be drawn back. 

I slept fairly well and headed down for breakfast around 0700hrs. The breakfast, incidentally, was wonderful and well worth the 20 Euros I was required to pay for it. Fresh fruit, cereal, a cooked breakfast, tea, it was to die for and I can't wait for tomorrow morning as a result. The day ahead, I discovered, required two long cab rides of £120 each, it was the only way I could reach the company I had come to see and they were glad that I'd made the journey. When I returned to the hotel I had a few minutes before my last meeting of the trip, a very pleasant lunch in Zaka Restaurante, a short 9-minute walk from the hotel. Again, however, on the return trip, I managed to take a wrong turn and ended up walking for miles using the GPS on my phone. What was supposed to be under 10 minutes took almost an hour and I was feeling a little weary when I reached the hotel, so much so that I relaxed on the sofa in my room until around 1730hrs when I thought I would either go out in search of another restaurant or, what appeared to be the best option, go and sit in the downstairs bar on a cosy sofa and read Eric Ambler's Epitaph for a Spy. Now, if you don't enjoy reading, you won't understand this next bit. I started reading Ambler's novel and found it absolutely compelling, a real page turner, it was brilliant and it wasn't long before I was transported into another world. I was no longer in the hotel but in the novel and it was truly great. I don't think I've ever been so relaxed and so 'out of this world' as I was downstairs in the hotel bar. So relaxed that when the waiter came over with a menu I decided to stay there and not go outside, who needed to walk the streets for a restaurant when the food and service on offer in the hotel was far more acceptable? Not me! I remained in state of relaxation for as long as I read the book and even when the food arrived (baked salmon, 22 Euros, and a two bottles of sparkling mineral water, not forgetting a cup of vanilla tea, nothing excessive) I was still totally engrossed and had to almost physically separate myself from the fictional world created so admirably by Ambler. I've decided that I will read more of his novels as they are escapist but in a really good way, I'm not talking Lee Child or any of that sort of novel, or, dare I say it, Le Carre or other spy novelists, Ambler was/is in a class of his own. In fact, I was so chilled that I forgot to pay. I left the bar in a kind of trance of relaxation and it was only when I reached my room that I remembered and immediately took the lift back downstairs to do so, explaining that the meal was so good and I was so relaxed that I simply forgot. Not that there was any problem. I was staying in the hotel. The mark of a good writer is somebody who can take you out of yourself and Ambler certainly managed that. In fact, I can't think of a book I've read that kept me entranced for chapter after chapter. I've almost finished it! Similarly, it has to be said, with Keith Richards' book, although while fact is often stranger than fiction, it is understandably totally different. Both have the power to take the reader out of themselves, but I'm giving the prize to Ambler for dreaming up such a great tale.

I'm now back in my room and sitting here writing this blogpost. In so many ways, I have run out of track and will have to resort to flying back to London tomorrow. Earlier today I was told that there was a train from San Sebastien to Paris. I wish I had known this, but, either way it would have added another day to the trip and I need to be home. I missed my birthday to make this trip as, I discovered, did my colleague who, surprisingly, shares the same birthday, but it has been worth it. I rolled what could have been two trips in to one, hence being out of the country for a whole week, but tomorrow I return and I can't wait. Unfortunately, even Eric Ambler won't be able to take my mind off of the flight, it's already starting to bother me, but I'll have time to read at the airport so hopefully I'll be able to 'escape' again like I did tonight.

Taking the train to Spain: London-Barcelona, Barcelona-Madrid...

Travelling hassles often start before you even plan your journey and then they lie in wait for you further along the line, in many cases already ordained by the Lord. Then, when you book your tickets you're still not aware that anything is awry, but never be too sure. As the time of your departure draws near you might start to notice things, like brewing bad weather that might develop into storms. You will be thinking, well, that's 'up north', not down south, I'll be fine, but then, a couple of days before departure, as you snooze in bed and all outside is dark, you hear a strong wind and driving rain being swished around in the blizzard outside. It'll blow over before I go, you might say, confident that all will be alright, but you clearly forgot about the tree on the track or whatever other storm-related ailment is going to affect your day. And don't for one minute think that getting up really early, getting down to the railway station to get the first train, will save your bacon, it won't.

I had decided to take the 0709 to London Victoria or, failing that, the 0717, which would take me direct to St. Pancras International. There was nothing to suggest that there were any problems, apart from news reports about the severe battering various places around the UK were taking from Storm Darragh. When I reached the station a large lady in a colourful coat and pulling a small bright yellow suitcase behind her, came out of the station and told me, without me having to ask her, that there were problems with the trains. Clearly, nobody knew what kind of problems, but everybody was thinking back to the driving rain and the heavy winds and put two and two together: it was something to do with the severe weather we'd been having. There was only one thing for it, decamp to Purley Oaks station and catch the 0721 to London Bridge, actually, a kind of better option. Fortunately I had a lift and was dropped off outside the station. I humped my heavy suitcase up a flight of stairs and waited. Soon, the train arrived and off I went on leg one of my journey from London to Barcelona.

You might be wondering why I was taking the train and not doing my usual taxi to the airport (£100) and the reason was simple: I can't stand the hassle of flying, the racist taxi driver to the airport or the foreign taxi driver taking me to the wrong airport, the two hours of waiting around at the airport assuming that 'security' had been smooth running. Often it's not and you have to go straight to the gate, no time to chill out. Then the nervy flying situation itself, will there be turbulence or won't there, the problem of what happens if a huge heifer decides he (or she) is sitting next to you, everything about it is horrible and I hate it. So, I booked trains instead of planes: London to Paris, Paris to Barcelona, Barcelona to Madrid, Madrid to Bilbao and then, sadly, a flight from Bilbao to London Gatwick airport. I much prefer Gatwick as the alternative is often London Heathrow and all the hassles that causes, circling around over the airport until there's a slot to land, it's so infuriating waiting and waiting before you hear "cabin crew prepare for landing" and even then there's no certainty. It gets even worse when the caption says "ten minutes to landing" and I look outside the window and think to myself there's no way he's getting all that way down in ten minutes. Somehow he tends to manage it, but whatever you might say, flying is horrible in the extreme and I really cannot stand it. I much prefer a train that takes you into the centre of the city than another taxi (£100) from the airport to wherever I'm staying.

So, I'm on the train, the 0931 London St. Pancras to Paris and from there I have just over an hour to cross from the Gare du Nord to the Gare du Lyon. The journey on Eurostar is pretty uninspiring and even when you're through the tunnel and in France, it's still not brilliant, there's little to see. It took three hours and because the journey was so non-descript, I can't remember much about it. I don't even remember if somebody was sitting next to me or not. I can't remember if I had an aisle seat or a window seat although I think it was the latter as I'd have hated to be boxed in by another passenger. The television celebrity Eammon Holmes was on the train. I spotted him in his wheelchair on the platform and then never saw him again. Presumably he was spending a few days in Paris, but I don't know for sure. 

It took three hours to reach Paris and then, when I got there I was faced with a huge queue for taxis. I was offered a motorbike taxi and refused it and then wandered back into the station in search of the Metro. While there was a little bit of hassle trying to locate the right ticket machine I somehow managed to get it right. I headed for the metro platform and reached the Gare du Lyon where I found my train, the 1442hrs to Barcelona, which was going to take in the region of six hours. I remember sitting next to a girl who spent the entire journey watching movies, one about women who were pregnant, but because I was only occasionally glancing at her laptop screen, I couldn't really make head nor tail of what was going on.

It was a long journey and at times it became tiresome. I broke up the time by heading for the nearby buffet car for lunch and then later dinner. For lunch a cheese and ham sandwich plus a vanilla yoghurt and for dinner later, around 1800hrs, a pasta dish and another vanilla yoghurt, plus, on both occasions, a cup of Darjeeling tea. Again, I didn't spend a great deal of time admiring the scenery outside of the window. It was, after all, fairly average. 

I did spend a great deal of time reading Life by Keith Richards, which is absolutely wonderful. I've got two books on the go at present, one being Life and the other Eric Ambler's Epitaph for a Spy, which is equally good. As darkness set in and the train ploughed on towards Barcelona stopping at places like Bréziers, Montpelier Saint-Roche, Narbonne, Perpignan and so forth, I was getting tired of the journey and just wanted to get off. I remember feeling this way when there was around two hours still to go and longed for the moment when we arrived, but it seemed an age away. People came and went and some stayed to the bitter end, only getting up to go to the bathroom as I did on one occasion, yes, just one momentous occasion when I could have done with not having anybody outside waiting to go in, but it was much worse than that as the person waiting was the girl sitting next to me back in coach 14. There was only one thing to do. I emerged sheepishly and walked in the opposite direction to where I was sitting, I simply couldn't face any disparaging expressions and fortunately I didn't get any. How bad might it have been if she'd remarked, "God! What have you been eating?" Well, had she asked me I would have told her that junk food had made up most of my food consumption that day, from a pain au raisin to a cheese and ham sandwich to a poor quality pasta dish, not forgetting vanilla yoghurts and two cups of Darjeeling. She said nothing and nor did I.

When I eventually disembarked I trundled my way to the taxi rank and headed for Motel One, a hotel I last enjoyed in Vienna back in 2017. Let's say this about it, it's basic in many respects and fairly cheap too, but it's also very pleasant. I like the decor, the darkness, the video of a roaring log fire in every room (until, of course, you turn on the television). I was in Room 414 but they decided to confuse matters for the sake of being trendy and called it room 4.14, which was a little confusing at first. The room looked out on to flats across the road. There was a rain shower (which I wasn't expecting) but they're never as good as you think they're going to be, not a patch on the one in my room in Tokyo a few years ago. I had very little in the way of complaints. I hadn't paid for breakfast and so I had to pay when I went down in the morning. To be frank with you, it wasn't that good. There appeared to be a great selection of food on offer, but in reality that wasn't the case. On day one I was a little disappointed with the fresh fruit in a bowl, it looked very dry, but the worst thing was the lack of decent cereals. Cornflakes and two different types of granola plus a container billed as muesli with fruit that was really just uncooked porridge oats. I opted for the latter reluctantly and added some sliced banana to give it some flavour. This I repeated on the morning of my departure after two days in room 4.14. There wasn't much around the hotel either, but ultimately it didn't matter.

The check-out time was noon and I missed it, for the first time ever, I think. I'd been working downstairs on my lap top and later, as I went to my room, I found my entrance was blocked. A red light instead of a green one meant I couldn't get in my room and had to go back to the front desk to plead for another hour, just enough time to shower, get packed and get out. I decided to walk to the nearest Metro station where I journeyed on two lines to Barcelona Sants railway station. There was a train to my chosen destination of Madrid at 1500hrs using the train operator Renfe. I queued for a ticket, which set me back 48.50 Euros and then I went to the Comos restaurant and ordered paella (what else?) and a yoghurt. For some reason there's a lot of yoghurt on display in certain types of restaurant in Barcelona.

What really annoyed me (there's always something) was the airport style security before boarding the 1500hrs train to Madrid. I journeyed from France to Barcelona without the need for a scanner but there I was doing what I normally do when I'm at an airport. In all honesty, it wasn't that bad and soon I was on the train and waiting to depart. Initially I sat in seat 17b because it was dark on board and I didn't see that 1 before the 7. I was supposed to be in seat 7b so I picked up my belongings, including my heavy and cumbersome suitcase which I'd somehow manhandled into the overhead shelves that ran the length of the carriage (carriage 3) and moved to where I should have been sitting.

The time is 1634hrs and we've just departed from our first stop. The light outside is starting to fade and again the scenery ain't up to much. The stop was Zaragoza something or other. The train quickly picks up speed and I'm thinking about finding the buffet car if one exists, which I'm sure it does. The train is fairly crowded, but when is there anywhere that isn't these days?

The conditions outside are almost desert-like and the skies are misty-looking. I'm not sure how long the journey is, but I don't think it's that long. I reckon at most three hours, but I might be wrong. I think the longer journey is the one to Bilbao, which is tomorrow at 1205hrs. Right now, however, I am intrigued about the landscape outside of the window. It's basically a desert of some sort, devoid of everything bar small, round, green bushes, but nothing else, no houses or cultivated land, the occasional wind farm, but nothing else. I tried Googling what it might be, but the computer (my computer) wouldn't allow me access to the search engine, claiming that bad actors might be trying to access my laptop. There are occasionally signs of a road but they are few and far between and I figured it would be a great place to camp, literally miles from anything and anybody. It doesn't look like farmland, more like moorland, but it's huge and has been going on since leaving Barcelona. It looks as if the next stop is Madrid Atocha station, but it could be hours away, I just have a hunch that it's not. I'm loving what's going on outside the window, the point being that nothing is going on as there isn't anything to go on. It's desert-like, moor-like and it goes on forever. In the distance, looking out of the right hand side of the carriage (in the direction of travel) there are some mountains hemming in a little bit of the desert, but the mountains come and go and the desert just carries on. On the left hand side I can't see any mountains, but instead just a flat landscape peppered with these tiny bushes. There are a few electricity pylons and now, on the right hand side, I can see something industrial, a large crane, perhaps, but now a steep bank obscures my view on both sides and when the bank ends, more barren scrub land as flat as a pancake and in the far distance some mountains almost obscured by mist. Above are grey clouds, it's all very mysterious and I love it.

We've been through a couple of shortish tunnels and as we emerged the desert continued, a little more hilly than before but still very much desert on both sides of the train. And suddenly, on the right hand side at least, there was a brief sign of life in the shape of buildings, some in the process of being built, but now the bank has returned and I can't see anything. Soon, another tunnel, but it's short-lived again. There is still a lot of desert but now there appears to be a town or a small city or the start, perhaps, of urban sprawl, but also plenty of industrial goings on. I can only guess we're approaching Madrid, but my view is once again obscured by steep banks. It's 1733hrs and if I'd taken time to look at my ticket I would have seen that we're due to arrive in Madrid at 1745hrs so just under three hours in total. Sometimes I think I must waltz around half asleep.

On my travels today I have met two beggars, but I simply don't carry cash with me, although I've been sorely tempted to ask if they take credit cards. The joke would be on me if they said yes.

I took a taxi to the Pestana Plaza Mayor hotel and it's a little bit on the posh side, roughly double the price of the Motel One in Barcelona. To be honest I could do without all the pampering by the staff. I hate being called sir and having somebody carry my luggage to the room, as if I'm going to provide a tip to the porter. The room, room 406, again on the fourth floor is poncy and it seems a waste as I'm only here one night. This is the sort of hotel that has white towelling gowns and slippers for its guests and I hate it, there's a minibar with nothing worth having inside it, a coffee machine on the desk (actually, the Motel One didn't have a desk, a major omission, but this one does. There's no bathroom here, just a shower, but it's all very posh, far to posh for me, I hate poncy places at the best of times. 

I went to look at the pool and it's far too hot down there for a swim, and it's too dark. There's a poorly equipped gym (no exercise bike) and I think a sauna. I don't like it and would prefer a walk. 

I'm annoyed with my taxi driver. I gave him a tip and he didn't include it on the receipt, the bastard.

And now I'm thinking of food. There's a restaurant downstairs that's fairly reasonable and I get 10% discount apparently. But I'm thinking of going out for a walk as I've spent a lot of time sitting down since Monday and it's getting to me.

I took a stroll, mindful that it was dark (not dangerous) but I was more concerned about finding my way back. I spent my time peering through the windows of restaurants trying to assess if they were too pricey or not and eventually settled on Taberna La Taba, which wasn't that upmarket, in fact, I realised when I was handed the small A5-sized laminated menu that it wasn't really up to much. Put it this way, I could have made a better paella. It arrived in the standard paella dish but really it was just yellow rice and chicken pieces with chopped up green beans and a few butter beans. It filled a hole but that was it. A cold sparkling mineral water arrived, plastic bottle and all and I sat there munching on some padron peppers and a couple of ham croquettes while I awaited the main course. I considered dessert for all of a minute and then asked for the bill.

Once outside I tried to retrace my steps. The GPS on my iphone said I was five minutes away on foot and I felt fairly confident that I would find my route home, but no. The phone ran out of power and I wandered aimlessly trying to remember how to get back to the Calle Imperial. In the end I took a cab and when I reached the hotel took a shower and read a bit of Epitaph for a Spy by Eric Ambler. I've got two books on the go at present, the other one being Life by Keith Richards, which is brilliant.

I'm really not keen on the Pestana Plaza, it's poncy and everybody thinks I'm impressed. I'm not. I've eaten in some of the best restaurants in the world and slept in some of the most amazing hotels. I don't like poncy hotels with too much going on in the room. I don't need a hotel where you need somebody to show you how to operate the air con and the lighting. Give me basic and cheap any day. Or something like Motel One, I'm sure there's one here in Madrid, I wish I'd checked.

It's now the morning, just gone 0600hrs and I'm showered and ready to have breakfast, which is going to cost me 19 Euros. I had to pay 14 Euros at the Motel One in Barcelona so this better be good. I take a train to Bilbao departing Madrid at 1205hrs. My meeting here in Madrid is from 0900hrs to 1000hrs, my plan is to come back to the Pestana Plaza and then cab it to the station to buy a ticket.

Joined a fitness centre...

One thing about cycling is it's relatively stress-free, you go into the garage, get the bike and ride off. You can ride anywhere and any distance and you don't have to worry about parking tickets and the like or that you've forgotten you need a one pound coin to lock the lockers.

Joining the gym was easy enough. I went online, filled in my details and hey presto! I was a member of Waddon Leisure Centre. Great! So today with Storm Darragh in full swing I decided not to get the bike out but instead go for a swim, how much of a hassle the whole thing could be. Actually, it never used to be a hassle at all. Parking was free back in the day, you didn't need an app to book, you could simply rocked up at the front desk, stated "one adult swim, please" and off you went. And back in those days it was always good to have some cash in your pocket because the so-called cashless society didn't exist.

Swimming is quite pleasant. Today I swam half a mile!

So I booked myself in for a 1000hrs swim and around 0940 I drove to the leisure centre full of the joys of spring, even if it was tipping it down and there were strong winds. 

But, of course I was going to be hit with a tsunami of shite, first in the shape of Ringo Parking, a company that doesn't give anybody the chance to actually call them, it's all automated. Somehow I managed to do it, booking one hour of parking and then headed into the leisure centre. 

"Hi, I booked in online for a swim and here I am, but how do you know I'm me?"

He asked for my name and I told him and he said it was fine. He said something about giving me a card on my way out but I forgot and so did he, perhaps I'll pick one up the next time I'm there, but I'm not sure there will be a next time, it all depends on whether I get a parking ticket.

The next problem I had was not having a one pound coin for the locker. To be honest, I forgot all about the need for one, but hey ho, the problem existed. I'd already spent a little time in a blizzard trying to listen to parking instructions and now I was faced with not having the necessary coinage to secure my locker. I decided to put everything in the locker except for my phone and bank cards, they could come with me and wait by the poolside, no problem. Now, at last! I was ready to enter the water.

I swam for God knows how long, but I counted 32 lengths, which is half a mile, and then I got out, picked up my towel and my phone and headed for the changing rooms. I tried a shower cubicle so that I could "get my kit off" and have a proper shower, but there was no hook on the back of the door and floor was wet so I headed for the communal showers that faced the pool and stood there for around five minutes, not really thinking about the time, which, perhaps, I should have been.

Changing after a swim is a hassle I'd forgotten about: drying my feet and then standing on a wet floor and having to dry them again, it's a right balancing act. Eventually I was ready, or almost, so I checked my phone. There was a text from the parking people: I had under 10 minutes before my parking expired. What the hell do I do? I hastened the process of drying and dressing and probably got out of there around 1100hrs. My parking ran out at 1057hrs. I figured cameras would tell them I was over by three minutes and I'll be really pissed off if I get a ticket. In fact, if I do, I'll cancel my membership and possibly reinstate it in the new year. I've thought about riding the bike to the leisure centre, but that kind of defeats the object of signing up in the first place. The idea was to avoid getting a soaking during winter storms and bad weather. Ironically, of course, when you go swimming you DO get a soaking. You get far wetter than if you were on a bike in the rain, but that's not what it's about. Who wants a cold wind and rain on the road, it's not only unpleasant, it's also unsafe. So that's why I signed up. The gym is good too, I took a look and there's a load of kit in there, I'll try that at a later date.

On riding the bike here, well, would be defeating the object, especially if it rained on the way there or back. The whole idea of signing up was to avoid getting a soaking in the cold weather but if I'm going to get a soaking on the bike because I wanted to avoid the parking fiasco, well, there's something not right about that and why the hell would I cycle to a gym to use an exercise bike when I could just cycle back home and get the required exercise without using the gym. So many conundrums, but I'll be well pissed if I find I have a £60 parking  for being three minutes over my allotted time and if I get one, then I'm kissing goodbye to the membership I purchased the other week, I'm just not having it, I'll put up with the wind and the rain and the cold, get myself a decent front light and make do, but let's see. I hope I don't get one.

I'm quite pleased with my half-mile swim of 32 lengths. Swimming is supposed to be the best exercise you can get and it felt good.

To Oxted...

I left the house late. I can't remember the exact time, but probably after 0900. I could check this just by looking on Strava, which recorded the ride, but it's on the other side of the room and I've just about made myself comfortable in front of the laptop. I'm never 100% sure where I'm going when I leave the house. I could go anywhere, there are many permutations, but I had in my mind a trip to Oxted where I could roll up at Caffe Nero, order a mug of tea and an apricot croissant and sit there reading. I'd bought myself a copy of The European as Trump is heading back to the White House and I wanted to read what some left-leaning commentators were saying about him. Not that I didn't know what they were saying about him. So I headed off, in the wrong gear at first (I had to circle the road a few times as I cranked the bike in to the right gear). I headed off in the usual direction: along Ellenbridge, up Church Way and then the B269 all the way to Botley Hill. Cyclists aren't liked by the car drivers on the 269. There have been times when somebody in a car on the 269 rolls down the window and shouts some obscenity or other. Today, no obscenities, but sometimes they honk their horns loudly and that always makes me jump, which, of course, was their intention.

There hasn't been any rain of late, but instead just a dreary greyness. I rode down Titsey Hill with my hands on the brakes and later rolled on to Granville Road heading for Oxted's high street. As usual it was busy. People walking to and fro and doing what you might expect people to be doing on a Saturday morning. I headed uphill towards the Caffe Nero and parked up outside a charity shop, padlocking my bike against a chunk of tubular metal designed specifically for people (cyclists) to do just that. I queued and eventually ordered an English breakfast tea and the aforementioned apricot croissant. I found a seat, opened my copy of The European and read Matthew D'Ancona's article on Trump in between sips of tea and mouthfuls of apricot croissant. It was great. I loved every minute of my time in the coffee shop and afterwards reluctantly headed outside for the gruelling journey home up Titsey Hill, but not before a quick look in the charity shop where I checked out two books by Iain Banks, one being Canal Dreams and the other I can't remember but they both grabbed my attention and I will read them. I didn't buy them, but I suppose I should have as they were something crazy like 30p. And then it was time to head home. I jumped on the bike and rode back down the High Street, heading back up Granville and then towards Titsey Hill, wishing I didn't have to do it, but I did and besides (as I kept telling myself) it's only 15 minutes of pain and it would be over, which it was and soon I was back on the 269 heading home.

I reached home around 1230hrs and sat down for a bit, drinking tea and eating bread and marmalade before heading outside and mowing the lawns front and back. It felt really good. The mowing took my mind off of things that had been bugging me. The rear lawn was large, the front lawn not so large but I managed them both and then I decided to clean the mower, get rid of the grass that was adhering to the blade and the underside of the mower. I'm determined to look after my new mower and try my level best to keep it in tip top order. I cleaned the whole thing and put it back into the garage and locked the door and then I came into the house as the light was beginning to fade and read another article from The European before watching Episode One of Series 9 of Shetland. I love Shetland, probably because I have this urge to go live there, not that I ever will, but I just imagine myself in a house by the sea, a real fire roaring away and me just being there without a care in the world. In all honesty I felt good. I hadn't felt this good for a long time. There I was sitting on the sofa watching Shetland, drinking tea, dunking a couple of Digestive biscuits and just loving every minute of it. I switched to YouTube to watch a few Steve Wallis videos, which made me feel even better. I love Camping with Steve, I love stealth camping and I like a good dinner. Tonight, a takeaway from Wagamama. I don't normally like Wagamama but I had a Katsu curry and it was wonderful. 

A lot of stress had been lifted and I was feeling great, I was feeling relaxed and at peace with the world... for a change. Normally, certainly of late, I've been preoccupied, stressed, unhappy and depressed and I'm not kidding myself that it won't return, but today, right now, I feel good.

Tomorrow, I'm heading for Tatsfield to meet Andy. We always enjoy our Sunday meeting and our chat and I am looking forward to it. There's nothing better than doing two rides in a weekend. I've had many weekends where I've only managed one (like last week's ride to Tatsfield) and probably the week before also; I used to record all my rides, but I don't anymore and that's another sign of my general despondency. I need to get back to writing more as it's good for the soul. But let's not get fretful, today's been an amazing day and I put it down to the ride and the lawn mowing, a strong sense of achievement mowing the lawns and especially cleaning up the mower afterwards. 

Coming home...

On my last night in Linz I took a stroll through the city in search of a decent restaurant. I walked up side roads in my quest and eventually stumbled upon Gottfried. It looked good, had an upmarket vibe to it and when I got inside and was handed the menu my suspicions were upheld. It was an upmarket establishment  with oddly depressing lighting that grated a little. It was also full but a table was found and I sat there looking at my fellow diners, some young, some old as I perused the menu. I wasn't going to pay 42 Euros for risotto and I didn't fancy a steak for 36 Euros so I settled for lemon chicken at 26 Euros. As I don't drink (it's been eight years now) I ordered a large bottle of mineral water and then awaited the arrival of the chicken. It was, in my opinion, awful. A small and thin piece of breast meat burnt around the edges and accompanied by mushy vegetables, mainly peppers, and, oddly, a sprinking of nuts. I noticed that somebody next to me had the same dish and I was tempted to lean over and say something disparaging about the meal, but decided not to. I declined dessert and left and then slowly walked back to my hotel. It was Halloween and there were plenty of people out and about dressed as witches or ghouls.

Breaking through the clouds heading for Vienna on Tuesday.

When I reached the hotel I couldn't be bothered to pack and eventually hit the sack. I didn't have to be up at the crack of dawn the next day, but I'm very much aware of how time simply runs away. I still had an early breakfast but this time, in addition to my healthy muesli, I ordered scrambled egg and a few sausages, two cups of tea and two small custard pastries (I love custard). And then the big debate, do I head for Vienna and the airport or hang around Linz for a while? In short, the latter, but I didn't really do a great deal of hanging around, no coffee shop for me; I packed up my stuff and then decided to walk to the station and not take a cab, it took around 20 minutes. 

Vienna railway station on the outward journey...nobody around.

It was a bank holiday and everything, even the coffee shops on the station concourse, were closed. I jumped on a train around 1000hrs, or just gone, and sat there looking out of the window in a state of preoccupation. On arrival in Vienna I took a train to the airport and after a little bit of faffing around doing the job of the airline staff (printing out a ticket for my suitcase, loading my suitcase on the conveyor) I headed for security, which was straightforward. Soon I was through and again time had run away. I had enough time to eat a snack lunch and then headed for the gate where I tried to charge my phone but none of the power points in one coffee shop worked so I had to move to the adjacent gate and use its power points. This meant that every five minutes I had to get up to make sure that my gate wasn't boarding. I was told that boarding wouldn't begin until half an hour before departure time and managed to charge my phone to 64% before I eventually did board. A woman sitting at the other gate agreed to watch my phone while I checked the situation at my gate, she was Dutch and on her way to Sarajevo but wouldn't be leaving until gone 10pm as she had missed her flight.We chatted briefly and then I unplugged my charged phone and queued up at my gate.

Lunch at Vienna airport on Tuesday

The flight was smooth, just like the outward journey, but it was dark so there was nothing to see. I started reading the National Geographic, which I'd purchased in one of the shops at the airport. The whole issue was dedicated to stress, something I have a lot of at this present time. I didn't order anything to eat or drink as I had a bottle of mineral water and that sufficed. The flight took around two hours and while we circled over Heathrow for some time, we eventually landed. I had the same seat as I had on the way out, seat 12F, an exit seat, and there was only one other person on my row  and he sat in the aisle, so we had an empty seat separating us. There was no turbulence, which was good, and towards the end of the flight we were all given a free chocolate, like on the way out a few days earlier. The difference was that the return journey's chocolate, wrapped like the one on the outward journey, was nutty. The chocolate on the outward journey was circular and didn't include nuts, I much preferred it, although the crew on the return journey were more generous and gave us two chocolates, not just the one. To be honest, when it comes to chocolates on planes you're better off flying Finnair as they offer Fazer chocolate, which is the very best in quality.

Everything was smooth running, passport control, baggage reclaim and then the Heathrow Express (I had bought a return ticket). I took the tube to Victoria and a short taxi ride from East Croydon. When I reached home I watched, yes, A Curious Life. It was much needed. I went to bed late and awoke this morning around 0700hrs, back to my normal breakfast and, thank God, no sausages.

The trip had been good and I'm glad I decided to go as I think I did myself a lot of favours, professionally speaking. I was in Linz to moderate a panel discussion and after a lot of preparation I think I managed to pull it off. I'm also glad to be home.