To Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way!

Up just before 0600hrs and eating porridge before quarter past the hour, with tea. I was feeling chipper this morning, unlike Saturday, although I'm beginning to believe dear old dad and his words of wisdom about being 'out in the garden'. It's true, there's something therapeutic about it, being in the fresh air, doing things, like chopping down plants and shrubs that should have been chopped back weeks ago. Actually, it was Friday, not Saturday. Saturday was when I bagged up all the twigs and thistles and took them to the municipal dump; that's always a tad depressing. I get the feeling that the people I see down at the dump don't wash themselves. They turn up with a car full of crap in their grey track suit bottoms and lurid orange trainers and worn out old tee-shirts, pale, bloated stomachs exposed, and for some reason I think to myself, 'I bet you just jumped out of bed and came here'. I probably only think that because I too have done the very same, but not on this occasion.

Going to the dump is always miserable. There's the hassle of parking and then getting all the bagged up shit out of the boot, finding the right skip in which to sling it... it's a pain. But once it's done and dusted and I'm driving home, the boot empty, there's a feeling of accomplishment. Rubbish has been disposed of, the garden looks neat and tidy, something has been achieved, meaning I can relax a little.

Andy rides through an icy puddle on Saturday morning

Saturday there was no way I was going cycling, but I didn't realise this until it was time to leave the house. I'd gotten up around 0600hrs, just like today; I'd gone downstairs and made the porridge and the tea, just like today; and I'd made the tea for the ride, put four teabags in a mug and dispensed milk from the bottle into my special cycling bottle, just like today. But when push came to shove I simply wasn't up to it (see previous posts for the reason). So I sent Andy a late 'abort' text. Sending an abort text after 0700hrs is sinful because it means that the other person is likely to be out of the house and en route to the green, meaning that even if they'd wanted to lie in, even if they'd been hoping for an abort text before they left the house, it hadn't come and would only arrive once they were out in the cold, on the bike and on the way. I didn't feel good about it.

Having spent time in the garden yesterday, I had filled my heart and soul with hope and its little flame burned through the night and was still lively when I awoke this morning, at 0554hrs, minutes before Radio London piped up. I felt good and I was glad. Porridge eaten, tea finished, I found my boots, prepared the flask and headed outside. Last week I cycled along Ellenbridge feeling a little bit light-headed and when I reached the green I considered calling it day, but persevered and rode the fast way to the bus stop. Today I felt fine, just a little apprehensive, but all was fine and Andy was at the green when I arrived. We decided to head the slow way to the bus stop and the journey was fairly uneventful. It wasn't as cold as yesterday, Andy remarked, but that hadn't stopped me wearing the balaclava and four layers of clothing. Fortunately, there was no rain.

We sat at the bus stop and discussed cheap bikes with block brakes and how it's possible to buy one for £99. I said I'd put a new saddle on it and some decent gears and I might buy some new bars. Andy said that I had the opportunity to do just that last year, but decided instead to buy a more expensive bike (the Specialized Rockhopper 29). Yes, because I wanted something reliable and I wanted decent brakes, negating the entire argument about buying a cheap bike in the first place. Well, yes and no. The point was this: for what we do, a cheap bike would suffice, it's that simple. It's like owning an iPhone, nobody needs that much computing power.

It was time to head home.

"I hate the ride home," said Andy as we prepared to ride off. "I just want to be there."
"Yes, but that's the point," I replied. "The great thing about cycling is you cycle out somewhere and you have to cycle back."
"There's always a headwind too," Andy groaned.
"Yes there is and it's always on the ride home," I said as we pedalled towards Botley Hill and then put our feet on the gas along the 269.

At the green we parted company. I let Andy go first and then, delicately, I set off too. I was fine and I was glad to be out in the fresh air. While the weather was cold – let's make that 'crisp' – the skies were fairly clear and the light fantastic. Photographers' weather, Andy had said earlier, before admitting that he couldn't be bothered to get off the bike. "That means you're a cyclist, not a photographer," I said, but Andy said it was too cold to get off the bike. He had a point.

The Battle of Kiln Castle...Part One.

On 4th November 1974 an important battle took place. It happened in a place called Sutton, in Surrey, at the far end of a suburban semi-detached garden, and it symbolised the end of an era. The era in question was that of playing with toy soldiers, something that my brother Jon and I had been doing for many years. It was, however, time to grow up so we thought we'd have one last battle and, thanks to the availability of fireworks, it turned out to be a battle to remember. In fact, ever since that day, every year, Jon and I call each other or send texts or leave voicemail messages to commemorate the day. The texts often have a war theme. "At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them" might appear on the screens of mine or Jon's smartphone. Voicemails tend to be poor renditions of the Last Post.

Black Cross Fort

As kids, Jon and I both owned toy forts. Mine, christened Black Cross Fort, was a huge wooden construction painted white with black crosses, hence the name; Jon's fort was a rough-surfaced affair and more squat in appearance than mine, but they both dominated opposing alcoves in our bedroom. Oddly, you might think, our forts and their respective armies were not at war with each other. Far from it, our soldiers were often out on the town together drinking 'crates' (not bottles, crates) of whisky in the Hotel Sinaraji, which was mum and dad's Ercol side cabinet in the living room. Most evenings, the key characters from either fort could be found in the hotel's piano bar swigging the hard stuff into the early hours and miraculously never falling over afterwards.

The journey from fort to hotel was precarious. There were no trains or buses, no planes either. The soldiers had to jump into something resembling a large skip suspended by ropes at all four corners and lowered from a great height into the abyss. Basically we dangled them over the upstairs landing in a 'skip' made of Meccano and lowered them to the hall floor below. There would have been a point where they entered mum's line of vision, if she was in the kitchen making cakes – as she often was – and normally their mid-air presence was not a welcomed sight. But too late, they had arrived at their destination and it was only a matter of minutes before the rowdy bunch of toy soldiers from many different periods in history, descended upon the Sinaraji, ready to order their first crates of whisky.

After what can only be described as mob-handed drinking they would make their way back to the skip and be transported to their respective forts, Jon and I would have tea and then hit the sack too.

The precarious journey to Hotel Sinarajee

The political situation surrounding the Battle of Kiln Castle was fairly straightforward: the rebels were once the incumbent armies in both forts, but they were ejected by a group of Queen's Guards, some medieval soldiers, including "Jester", and a bunch of North American Indians, led by a variety of colourful characters including HRS Harlow, an American Cavalryman; HRS Stonehalle, a Queen's guardsman who was rarely seen off his horse; and "Chiefy" an American Indian who sat cross-legged smoking (ironically) a peace pipe. There was also Wyatt Earp, the famous sheriff, but this one was made of metal and was regarded as immortal – or rather indestructible – by those who followed him.

The rebels were led by 'Kayak', a disgruntled, bare-chested North American Indian who carried the burden of being named after a canoe. Over the years, Kayak and his merry band of rebels, consisting of knights from The Crusades, German stormtroopers and British paratroopers from the Second World War, launched attacks on both forts with a view to regaining control of what was once their home. It wasn't easy especially when you consider some of the unhinged individuals charged with the task of protecting the fort from invasion. Consider, for instance, the Jones brothers, all corporals and Queen's Guardsman. They were four brothers, identical quadruplets, all of whom were crazy enough to tie their ankles securely to the chains of the drawbridge of Black Cross Fort and then swing down from the battlements and head butt those who dared to invade the fort. Consider also the Shot brothers, J Shot and T Shot, who, as their names suggest, were crack shots; and spare a thought for "Jeepy" so-called because he owned a Jeep and was rarely seen out of it. These men were the heroes of the forts and, sadly, they all met with an early demise, some not even making it to Kiln Castle.

A typical rebel, courtesy of Timpo Soldiers

Early demises were always the result of outright stupidity. One of the Jones brothers, for instance, engaged in an extreme sport: skydiving without a parachute. He thought he was clever. Not for him the 'skip' to the Hotel Sinaraji, oh no, he jumped into the abyss with the sign-off of "see you in there." One day, having been decapitated after landing badly, he (not surprisingly) died, and was replaced by one of his brothers, all of whom were nicknamed 'the nutters'. Their nuttiness, however, was rewarded: they were all highly decorated soldiers.

J Shot was a short-lived character, but his demise was slightly bizarre. Once a year Jon and I used to visit the south coast with our sister and parents and we always took a toy soldier with us; the bedside cabinets in our respective rooms would be their 'hotels'. I imagined mine as a Swiss chalet where J Shot would relax after weeks of fighting Kayak and his band of rebels. Unfortunately, he never returned home and was feared lost on the vast expanse of pebbles on Felpham beach. To this day he is probably still alive, like some old Japanese soldier who thinks that the Second World War is still raging. T Shot returned home alone.

Early occupants of both forts joined Kayak's rebel forces to fight the
occupying forces of both forts

We can discuss Jeepy's demise later on as he perished, again through his own blinding stupidity, at the Battle of Kiln Castle. In a way you might say his death didn't matter as the Battle of Kiln Castle was the last 'game of soldiers' and as Jon and I were effectively playing God with our soldiers' lives, it was down to us who lived and died, meaning we could have saved him – the storyline could have been changed. In Jeepy's case, probably true, we could have saved him, but Corporal Jones' decapitation and J Shot's mysterious disappearance were out of our control and in the hands, no doubt, of the real God. Where J Shot was concerned, we still both console ourselves with the thought that 'he's out there somewhere'.

When punishment was meted out to 'rogue' soldiers and enemies of the forts they were both terrifying and laughable. In the case of the former, a common punishment for the rebels was to have their limbs burnt off. Kayak himself had only one stumpy arm for this very reason. Conversely, another form of punishment was to be hung out on the washing line swathed in toilet paper. This once happened to Chiefy who might have joined the rebels, I can't remember, but for those who were literally hung out to dry it didn't seem to bother them. Invariably there would be others in the same situation, suspended high over No Man's Land (the back garden) with nothing else to do but engage in small talk.

"Alright?"
"You mean apart from being covered in bog roll and hanging thousands of feet in the air?"
"Yeah, obviously."
"I'm fine. Bit of a cold coming on, but mustn't grumble."
"That's all I need, to catch your cold."
"I'm through the contagious stage."
"How long are you out here for?"
"Not sure, they never tell you, do they?"
"No, but it can't be that long, can it?"
"How long have you been here?"
"This will be my second night."

Over the years there were various skirmishes, numerous attacks on both forts, many trips to the Hotel Sinarajee and countless battles, but the Battle of Kiln Castle would be the big decider. Whoever won would be the ultimate victor and rightful owner of the forts.

Kiln Castle was located in No Man's Land and it would take days of marching to reach it. Part two of The Battle of Kiln Castle will examine the build-up and discuss everything from the weather conditions to the men themselves.

It's good to be back on the road...

I simply had to get back on the bike. It's almost been one month since Andy and I last enjoyed a ride and I was beginning to feel that the exercise might do me some good.

I went to bed last night around 2130hrs, far too early, perhaps, but I was feeling a little weary. Early nights, however, tend to mean early risings and I found myself awake around 0430hrs. I dragged it out for 30 minutes or so, but by 0500hrs (or thereabouts) I was out of bed and watching the news channel. David Cassidy is in hospital with multiple organ failure and Malcolm Young of AC/DC has died (he was suffering from dementia).

The plan was to head for the Tatsfield Bus Stop and at 0700hrs I opened the front door and hit the cold air. The skies were clear, the outlook was bright, but it was a bit chilly. With an element of trepidation I cycled along Ellenbridge, feeling a little uneasy. When I reached Elmfield I considered turning back, but decided to persevere. Church Way was the main obstacle, but I sailed along and soon found myself on the Limpsfield Road and en route to Warlingham Green.

When I arrived there was no grass, just a sea of mud. Last night there had been celebrations surrounding the switching on of the Christmas lights. There were tyre tracks everywhere and a makeshift stage was still in situ. Andy arrived five minutes later and I was feeling a little uneasy on my feet. There was a moment when I considered calling it a day there and then. I almost did, but figured I should see how things go and head, at least, for Warlingham Sainsbury's.

At the roundabout I was feeling reasonably good so we headed into the wilderness – alright, the 269 beyond Chelsham. It was a wonderful day, albeit a little cold, and soon I was saying to Andy, "let's head for the bus stop". The original plan had been Botley Hill, but I figured having somewhere to sit down would be far preferable to standing up by the roadside.

I was tempted to use the off-road path that runs the length of the 269, but then I remembered something important: it's been a whole year and I've had no punctures. None whatsoever. So why tempt fate on the off-road path, which, in days past, was the cause of many a puncture for Andy and yours truly.

It was good to reach the bus stop where Andy produced the biscuits and I brought out the tea. We sat and chatted about photography, wedding photographers in particular, and how some of them give their clients thousands of unedited images from which to choose from; I called it a 'scorched earth' policy and suggested that it was only the crap photographers that would give people so much to choose from. They probably took thousands of images on the premise that some of them were bound to be good.

A few Lycra monkeys passed by as we sat there drinking tea and munching biscuits, and soon it was time to head home. I was feeling fairly good as we set off in the direction of Botley Hill. When we reached the green, I said goodbye to Andy and then chilled for a bit before setting off. I walked 50 yards before jumping back on the bike and heading for home.

Now I'm back in the house, the sun is out and all is well. I'm so glad I made the effort because the exertion has made me feel good.

Here's to next weekend's ride.

Dizziness means no cycling – but I'm on the mend!

This sums up how I've been feeling...

Just been to the doc's. Basically I'm fine, the old blood pressure is normal (or certainly within the realms of not needing medication) and all I'm saddled with (for a few more weeks) is mild dizziness, caused, I'm told, by an inner ear infection, probably picked up on that BA flight from Dallas to London (see previous post). I can't say the past two to three weeks have been particularly pleasant. First I was off work for a week, sitting around at home, which would have been nice had it not been for the stress of feeling dizzy every time I got up; although, that said, it was nice as once I was up and about I was fine. I remember one excellent day when I visited the Waitrose Café and enjoyed a cup of tea and an almond croissant while reading a chapter from 1984, which I'm on the way to finishing, I hasten to add.

Feeling dizzy, of course, made cycling a no-go sport. In fact, I haven't been on the bike (bar a test run around the block on Saturday) since 22 October, a Sunday, when Andy and I rode, the slow way, to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. I was thinking about going yesterday, but I wasn't the full ticket so I made do with a walk to the Waitrose café and, you've guessed it, an almond croissant and a read of the newspaper. That involved a good 40-minute walk, the first 20 minutes of which were uphill.

Buffoon – sack him now!

I drove round to see mum yesterday too (and on Saturday) and that meant a slice of her excellent Christmas cake, yes, she's made them and they're ready to eat. The one I was eating was a spare, possibly even a 'test cake', but I can vouch for it's tastiness. It's been a bit of a 'cakey' weekend. Saturday I was round at mum's and eating a chunk of the festive cake, yesterday I was there too (eating another slice of cake) and let's not forget that almond croissant in the Waitrose Café. But I'm not going to get uptight about it, it's rare that I indulge in a 'cake fest' and I've got the excuse that I was in recovery mode.

Had a chat with Andy yesterday on the phone and he went out Sunday locally, but we're both getting back on track next weekend and meeting at the usual place at the usual time, so here's to next weekend.

Gove – just sack the - - - t

What's been in the news? Well, the thing that really annoys me is Boris 'Buffoon' Johnson, our laughable foreign secretary, and Orville lookalike Michael Gove, both of whom should be sacked for their handling of the Nazanin Zachary-Ratcliffe case. In a nutshell she's been languishing in an Iranian jail for over a year and the plan is to get her out and reunited with her child and husband. The poor woman is suffering, is on the verge of a nervous breakdown and now it looks as if her sentence might be extended thanks to the foolish words of that idiot Boris Johnson and then follow-up lunacy from Gove. Both men should be booted out of the Government, that's my view. And they should appoint Rory Stewart as Foreign Secretary.

Anyway, look, I've got to go, but talk again soon and here's to getting back on the bikes.