Saturday morning: To Westerham – 22 miles

I have a new iphone and with a new iphone comes new apps, notably a health app, which monitors my sleep, offers tips on 'mindfulness' and tells me how many kilometres I've walked and how many steps I've taken. Except that when I jump on a bike, as I did yesterday morning, it gets confused and still thinks I'm walking, so I manually input distance information, which then shows up on a graph. All very technical, as my dad would have said.

Heading towards Botley Hill on the 269, Saturday 27th January 2018...

Yesterday morning I was awoken by the sound of birdsong. It was as if I was sleeping in an aviary. It was the health app doing its thing and waking me up calmly, rather than the sudden imposition of the daily news, courtesy of Radio Four, although, once I'd switched it off I jumped back into bed and listened to the news headlines, which I can't remember. This morning there was news of the tragic case of three teenagers killed by a car that came off the road at a bus stop. The driver was arrested, but the passenger ran off. No doubt he'll be found.

Saturday's ride was a trip to Westerham in Kent, a 22-mile round trip. The weather was perfect, not as cold as it has been, but cold enough to make wearing a balaclava cosy and warm.

The mornings are getting lighter. Only a fortnight ago my bike lights went on at 0700hrs – or thereabouts – and were switched off when we reached the bus stop about 40 minutes later. Yesterday they were switched off at the green before we even set off. It won't be long before summer comes, I thought, remembering Thin Lizzy.

We rode along the 269 and at one point the road opens out to fields on either side and that's when I always feel good, especially if the weather is fine, like it was yesterday. There was sunshine for a start and clearish skies. It was one of those mornings when the trees were silhouetted like in a painting and there was a sense of water colours.

The ride down was uneventful as both bikes performed well, although I think my chain needs oiling. We sailed past the bus stop and down the hill, under the M25 and into Westerham. Our old stop point has been turned into a memorial garden, for what or who I don't know, although I guess it could be for the person who died a couple of years ago when a car drove into a Costa Coffee outlet on the green. I don't know, but we sat there, like we used to in the early days and while we couldn't sit down because the benches were soaked through with dewy dampness, we stood there drinking tea and munching biscuits until it was time to head home.

The worst thing about riding to Westerham is the long and slow hill on the return ride; it's unrelenting from the word go, but the key is not to think too deeply about it and soon you'll find yourself approaching Botley Hill and the downhill ride towards Warlingham and then home. We parted at the green as usual, promising to be back in the morning.

Westerham's Memorial Gardens next to the Co-op...

It's Sunday morning now. 0655hrs to be precise. I'm listening to classical piano music when I should be getting up and making the tea for today's ride. My problem is I make myself too cosy.

The sign has been fixed.

• Sunday morning we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop (16 miles) the fast way and while we were there we spent a lot of time wondering why Southern Rail train drivers earn so much money: £38k for two years while training and then £68k/yr thereafter as a qualified driver, with the possibility to earn up to £75k with overtime. That's more than nurses and GPs, and some airline pilots don't earn as much as that. It all makes me wonder why it is that we're getting driverless cars before driverless trains. Alright, I know there's the Docklands Light Railway, but surely driverless trains are safer than driverless cars. And why should Southern drivers get paid so much, they're always on strike.

Pre-ride ramblings...

Strange dreams last night. Vivid but strange. One involved being in a house with a man, a sort of slightly overweight man, an American with short hair, not quite a crop, more woolly, a strange honey colour, but a nice guy all the same. I was going somewhere, I don't know or recall exactly where, but somewhere important to him, something linked to the military, possibly the air force. He gave me what I initially thought was an old flag, but it could have been a raggedy old tee-shirt as I swear it had flimsy short sleeves. It might have been made of cheesecloth or something similar, although I remember him denying it was a tee-shirt. It mattered not, but apparently whenever I reached my destination I should seek something out, what I don't know, but it would all make sense. Except that wherever it was I never made it or had no intention of going there. The next thing I knew I was on some kind of outward bound adventure with some work colleagues. We stood in a damp car park waiting for the doors to a car to be unlocked. It was one of those small cars with some kind of 4x4 ability and it was muddy and unkempt. Inside there were three seats from one side to the other and naturally I didn't want the middle seat. Two people were already inside and, unfortunately for me, they moved down so that I did get the middle seat. But I wasn't there for long, in fact I only remember taking my seat and looking mildly disgusted at the scuffed mud on the seats in front of me, the empty crisp packets. I was alone, walking along the street, somewhere unforgiven perhaps, the damp pavements, tall trees, big, old houses. A car being driven by a woman slowed in order to turn right into a driveway, which just so happened to be where I was headed. It was one of those huge places that used to be one massive house, but had since been turned into flats or offices, creaky wooden floors, winding staircases. As I turned right into the place she slowed and let me go first. There was an unkempt lawn, overgrown grass and lots of mud and tyre tracks and puddles. Gingerly I made my way towards the entrance, nearly slipping once, but managing to keep myself on two feet. There was some kind of security system, but I got through and there, behind a glass, was a colleague from the past. He said nothing, but I approached him and there was some kind of interaction. The ethereal quality of things was disturbed by the arrival of a large dog who eventually decided to lie on his back. I was mildly worried about the dog, but then I was awake and wondering what time it was – it was time to have my Saturday ride with Andy and it was only 0500hrs, an hour to go before I had to get up. The hour sped past and soon BBC Radio London news was blurting out of the clock radio – Tom Petty had died of an accidental drugs overdose. And now I'm downstairs, listening to Morning Phase by Beck, an album released in 2014 and connected in some way to his 2002 album, Sea Change, which I first heard in a coffee bar, Barista Parlour, in Nashville. Both are brilliant albums and I'm not sure which one I like the most. They're both laid back enough to play early in the morning, like now, but I've got to put some socks on, trainers, balaclava, make tea and head off in the dark to meet Andy at the Green. Sadly, it was not to be. An abort text followed by a phone call stopped the ride dead in its tracks – it was raining and it looks as if the weekend will be a wash-out.

Slow way to (ahem) the Tatsfield Bus Stop

In the winter months we're always riding to the bus stop and you know why, it's sheltered from the wind and rain. I didn't ride on Saturday, having arrived home around midnight on Friday. If you've read the previous post you will already know that I was in Lisbon.

Yours truly arriving at the famous Tatsfield Bus Stop...

So, it's Sunday morning and, as always, I could do with a lie-in, but I'm also well aware that I need a ride too. I'm dressed and ready to hit the cold morning air having eaten porridge with blueberries and banana and drank a cup of decaffeinated Yorkshire tea. Perfect.

Outside it is dark and cold and I didn't have the balaclava, more's the pity, but I set off for the green and soon I got there. Andy was there and, well, you know where we were headed. We went the slow way, which was more scenic and much safer than the alternative.

"I love the smell of woodsmoke," I said as we passed a huge pile of smoking wood chips.
"Wonder why they do that?" Andy asked.
"There must be a reason," I said and we continued on our way, none the wiser.

We wound our way around the quiet, narrow country lanes, down Hesiers Hill and up Beddlestead Lane and then sat at the bus stop watching the passing Lycra monkeys.

Tea drank, biscuits eaten we packed up and headed home, the fast way, and parted company on the green and another fairly lazy day lay ahead.

In Lisbon...

I've never been to Lisbon. I've been to Porto in the north of Portugal, but not the capital in the south. And now 'I've never been to Lisbon' is a phrase I can't use anymore, it's a tee-shirt slogan that simply wouldn't make sense.

I flew there from Gatwick airport on the 1040hrs TAP flight and once the plane had climbed through the fog that covered southern England like a blanket, there were blue skies and cotton wool clouds below us as we flew south west, across the channel and over a bit France before crossing the Bay of Biscay and then heading out to sea before sweeping round and back over the sea and into Lisbon. It was a great flight: smooth and the food was free! It wasn't a feast, just a roll (not sure what was in it, either tuna or chicken, but it was free, along with a small and sweet pretzel and a cup of tea (although they didn't provide the milk, more's the pity).

Trams like this one are all over Lisbon and in souvenir shops

Getting through security at Lisbon airport was fast and soon I was heading into the town in a cab where I was booked, for one night, into the H10 Duque de Loulé Hotel. It was a fantastic place and I wished I'd stayed for another night, but you can't have everything and, once I'd checked out yesterday morning and the day wore on, I started thinking about the ordeal of a late flight back to Blighty. I hate night flights and while the outward journey was absolutely fine, the easyJet flight home was, shall we say, a little choppy. Clear air turbulence, said the female pilot, as I gritted my teeth and got on with it; I mean, once you're up there, what can you do?

Typical Lisbon living...

Friday during the day was fine. After hitting the sack around midnight on Thursday I awoke refreshed and ready to hike around town with the international man of mystery. The Lisbon Bike Share scheme was considered, but only briefly as we found walking a far preferable option. We headed down the street towards the sea and emerged on to a huge square with restaurants lining its left and right sides. Later we would enjoy a light lunch, but right now we headed to the seafront, turned left and then wove our way around narrow, steep lanes looking for a church that we never really found. But that was of no consequence because we did find a pleasant coffee shop where we both had a cappuccino and then made our way back to the main square to meet a pal who never materialised. But again, it didn't matter. We sat there, people watching and chatting about this and that and then, having paid for our lunch (a chicken wrap and a non-alcohol beer, the international man of mystery had a salad and a coke) we headed off, with a guy called Sam, and continued to wander about. I bought a fridge magnet and then we found ourselves in a rather strange coffee house that seemed to double as an antique shop. We had another cappuccino and then carried on milling around the city until it was time to congregate back at the hotel.

A view of Lisbon...

The weather had been fine, certainly better than in the UK. There was sunshine, blue skies and cotton wool clouds and the temperature was around 15 degrees, unlike in Prague, roughly this time last year, when we were treading carefully over icy pavements.

The main square with the sea behind me...

At Lisbon airport there was chaos. There was a big queue for security and then, after my suitcase cleared the scanner I restocked it and then forgot it was open when I picked it up. The contents of the case fell noisily to the floor. Unlike in Paris, when I last pulled this stunt, there was no applause as I self-consciously picked up my stuff and rammed it hastily back into the case. What a cock.

Room 905, H10 Duque de Loulé Hotel, Lisbon

Then the day's caffeine kicked in. I'd been off it for the best part of three months and those three cappuccinos earlier started to make me feel a little weird. I bought three bottles of mineral water and drank them in quick succession as I felt very hot-headed and might have had a temperature. I felt a little better as we queued for the flight at gate 214. And then, of course, there was the flight home and that clear air turbulence I spoke about earlier. I hate it. I sat by the window but there was nothing but blackness outside so I just sat there and waited for the flight to end, which it eventually did, and earlier than expected. We landed around 1015hrs, cleared security, hired a taxi and then headed for home. I don't know about you, but I can't just go to bed straight from the airport so I sat up and watched television – Glam Rock on the BBC. I hadn't eaten anything since that chicken wrap at lunch time. Well, alright, I had a coconut cake with one of the coffees mid-afternoon, but that was it, so I found a teacake in the bread bin and followed up with a couple of cheese rolls, and a decaffeinated tea.

View from Room 905, Duque de Loulé Hotel

Those cheese rolls were a good choice. Later I had a really weird dream, which is what eating cheese late at night is all about. Jack Black was in the dream. He was on a dance floor in a club somewhere, wearing beige chinos and a flowery shirt. Then he was on a chat show – or at least I think it was a chat show – sitting on a circular leather sofa. For some reason, I was there too. There was a man with a severely deformed face. In the beginning he wore mirrored sun glasses, but when he took them off you could see his awful deformity and then he started to spew his awful, extreme right, bigoted, racist views. At that point I woke up. And here I sit, at the living room table, pissed off to note that Friends is being re-run on Netflix and that awful Phoebe is singing Smelly Cat.

Cold weather continues...

Saturday was cold and so was Sunday, but coldness wasn't the reason for my abort. Sadly, I stayed up too late on Saturday night and I just knew that I needed more sleep so I aborted. There were also a few commitments that I needed to keep, so I didn't go out. When I eventually set foot outside I realised just how cold it was and felt kind of glad that I didn't go for a ride. Andy braved it and that made me feel even worse about not going; he's got a plan that involves trying to go cycling on both days of the weekend. To be fair, we've done pretty well: the last two weekends we've riden out on Saturday and Sunday, another reason why I feel bad about not going. It's likely that I'll only be riding on Sunday next week too. Why? Because I'm anticipating a late night next Friday and that will put Saturday in the pot – unless it's one of those occasions where I find myself awake at some ungodly hour and get out of bed and think 'I'll go on a ride'.

As I write this it's 0640hrs and I won't lie: I've been sitting here thinking 'ride to work, ride to work, there's a train strike'. But I know that riding to work is a real hassle and I've already started to think of what I'd need to pack: a pair of trousers, my shoes, a shirt, the list goes on and besides, you know how I feel about riding to work, it's not good. Fine if the office was down the road, but it isn't. It's a pleasant ride, but having to go to work at the end of it is the problem. Once a week to work? I've thought about it, let's be fair, but it doesn't take away the hassle element.

Andy's camera spots a light aircraft in somebody's garden...

Andy went on a local ride and on the way he found an aeroplane in somebody's front garden. It hadn't crashed or anything, it was just there, and the weird thing is this: he didn't spot it, his Go-Pro camera did; it wasn't until he reached home and played it back that he noticed it. I've just read Andy's blogpost on the subject and again, pangs of self-guilt for not hitting the road yesterday. The thing is this: I don't know about you, but if I'm out late, when I get home I can't go straight to bed. I have to chill a little first, either by watching a bit of television or, in my case on Saturday night, listening to a bit of music, going through Spotify looking for old albums I remember listening to years ago, that sort of thing, and that's why I didn't hit the sack until gone midnight (shortly after sending the abort text). You live and learn.

Right now it's Monday morning. I was up early at 0538hrs and I'm sitting here now writing this and listening to Beck's Sea Change album. In fact I haven't stopped listening to it ever since Christmas morning. In fact it's funny how having a long break over the festive season introduces new things to my life, new routines if you like. Over the holidays I made a point of being up early, being downstairs, listening to music while messing around, like now, on the computer, checking out Twitter, firing off what I think are humorous comments here and there, checking the email and so on. I spent a lot of time over Christmas reading Bruce Dickinson's autobiography, which I've almost finished, and a lot of the reading was accompanied by Beck's aforementioned album. I'd sit on the sofa with a peppermint tea (yes, a peppermint tea) and read in between visiting relatives and eating. It was so chilled and long may it continue. Right now, though, I've got to get ready for work. There's a train strike, as I've already mentioned, but the trains normally run okay, let's see...

Biting cold wind on the return ride down Beddlestead Lane...

I considered an 'abort' this morning – for all of a few seconds. Once I was out of bed and making the organic porridge (with blueberries, sliced banana and raspberries) I was feeling a little more positive about an early morning ride after being back at work for a week. But it didn't stop me from being sluggish and slow. I texted Andy to say I was running late (because I was running late) but once out and on the bike, cycling around the neighbourhood in the dark, I recovered my determination just in time for Church Way, an uphill slog along a wet and rain-soaked road. It had been raining overnight and as I made my way along the Limpsfield Road, which was surprisingly busy, I took in the last of the Christmas decorations that lined the road. This was, after all, the last of the 12 days of Christmas. Later today I would be dumping our Christmas tree in the back garden, stage one of the process that will see it leave the house for good – until next year. Andy and I worked out that there are 353 days to Christmas.

On the 12th day of Christmas, Andy needs to ditch the tinsel

We rode the predictable 'slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop' only because it's relatively close-by, is covered and has seats, protecting us from the elements. Today's biggest problem (apart from the constant threat of rain) was fog. As we inched our way towards Beddlestead Lane, past the huge, black puddles that lined most of the roads we rode along, a fog seemed to be rolling in. By the time we reached the junction with Clarks Lane it was fairly thick and it got thicker before thinning out, shortly before we packed our stuff away and prepared for the ride home.

While the outward ride was a little cold, it was nothing to the return journey. The temperature had dropped considerably; so much so that we decided to ride back the slow way, based on the premise that the cold wind would be less severe along Beddlestead Lane than it would be on the 269. It was probably the right thing to do, but I've not experienced such a cold blast of icy wind as I did this morning riding towards Hesiers Hill and preparing myself for the uphill climb, which isn't a walk in the park at the best of times. The cold wind was so unpleasant that I longed for the balaclava sitting at home in the hallway cupboard. It was so cold I had to slow right down until I reached the bottom of Hesiers Hill when the temperature rose a little.

Hesiers, as always, was a struggle, but a fairly short-lived one, and soon Andy and I found ourselves weaving our way around the narrow lanes heading towards Chelsham and the short ride from there to the green. "Same time tomorrow?" said I. "Yes," said Andy, and we both headed for our respective homes. For me the remainder of the ride was fairly pleasant. The temperature had risen, the rain held off and it wasn't long before I was in the warmth of the house, chilling, reading Bruce Dickinson's autobiography while listening to Where the Eagle Flies, an album by Traffic, followed by Carole King's Tapestry, all good stuff.

Happy New Year (to all my readers!)

It's New Year's Day 2018. Outside everything is still, even at 0911hrs. I woke up at 0832hrs having got to bed around 0100hrs. I 'saw in the New Year' alone – meaning I was the only one still awake – watching a bit of Jools Holland and then switching to Nile Rodgers on BBC1. The thing I hate about watching Hootenanny, apart from the name, is that mildly corny music-head snobbery that surrounds the programme and, worst of all, the fact that it isn't live. That means it is recorded during the week and that when everybody says 'Happy New Year' it's not really, it's probably something like 27th December, possibly earlier, but either way it doesn't sit comfortably with me; I'd much prefer it to be properly live.

New Year – time for reflection, says Andy

So it's 2018 and the anti-climax that is the 'new year' is upon us; basically everything is the same as it was 24 hours ago except that there are people with pointless hangovers waking up in strange places and considering making their way home, or just waking up with a sore head and stumbling down to the kitchen for a pint glass full of cold water and something for their headache. I, on the other hand, can smugly report no hangover because I didn't drink a thing, apart from a peppermint tea. It all goes back to that dizziness thing I've been complaining about, which is still there, I'm just managing to avoid sending the room spinning by not getting up suddenly, not turning my head too fast and being a little careful. I'm not drinking because I don't want to add to the problem, although, by and large, like at this very moment, I don't have a problem.

In fact, on the dizziness front, a friend of mine texted me yesterday to say that his daughter has it too. The only common denominator between her and me is that we both had transatlantic flights just prior to getting dizzy. As I said, I don't have a problem now because I'm sitting upright and it seems to go when I'm out and about and standing upright. At night, though, I still sleep with three pillows, which seems to help, and the only time I might possibly experience any issues is getting out of bed. As a result, since it first occurred back in late October, I sleep on my left side and still get in and out of bed 'carefully'. I know that one false move and the room will spin. There is, apparently, something called the Epply Manoeuvre that can be done by a doctor – after two or three sessions the dizziness is supposed to go. I still might go and see my GP again, but I'm fine.

Trying in vain to keep my saddle dry...

On the cycling front, it's been good. For the last two weeks we've rode twice a week, Saturday and Sunday, although we didn't have our traditional Boxing Day ride and it's too late to go out for a New Year's Day ride. I was planning to see Bon today.

Today is Monday. Yesterday and Saturday we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way. There were heavy gusts of wind along the way on both rides and on Sunday a bit of rain too. In fact, it must have rained heavily during the night before both rides as there were huge puddles, some spanning the width of the road in front of us.

We had mum's Christmas Cake on Saturday and the good old Belvita biscuits yesterday. In a way I'm looking forward to the cake going for good. Alright, I've had one piece per day since around 27th December, but it'll be good not to have the temptation. That said I fancy a bit right now, but I'll resist as I've just enjoyed a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea.

Riding the slow way to the bus stop has always been a bit of an ordeal, but it's easy to blank it out, either by the heads-down approach or by chatting our way out of it; the great bit is passing the mobile phone mast and having just 75 yards or so to go before reaching Clarks Lane.

Yesterday, the combination of wind and rain meant that the seats at the Tatsfield Bus Stop were damp. Andy sat on his gloves, I sat on my rucksack and all was well. We discussed ways of modernising the shelter by adding an awning at the top and, perhaps, a small gated wall at the bottom to prevent the seat from getting wet during windy, rainy weather, but somehow we didn't think Tandridge Council would take our requests seriously.

Riding along the 269 in windy, rainy conditions is not good, especially if the puddles straddle the road like they did this weekend. The temptation, of course, is to avoid the puddles, but that means drifting into the middle of the road, which is not good when you consider that everybody else, on both sides of the road, is doing the same thing. The alternative is the off-road path or riding back the slow way, but taking the latter option means climbing Hesiers Hill, which takes up valuable time. Yesterday, on riding through what amounted to a small pond, I took a soaking on my right leg half way along the 269, just before the downhill stretch on the return run.

Coughlans opens early – worth knowing

We'd left later than usual yesterday. I'd texted Andy suggesting we met at the green at 0800hrs, not the usual 0730hrs. I needed to chill a little more than usual. Andy agreed. In fact I think we both considered sending the dreaded 'abort' text. When I hit the air I noticed it was raining so I texted Andy, just in case he too had rain. Let's face it, the aim of that text was to kind of abort the ride, but we both knew it was only 'spitting' a little, so the ride continued. Luckily, the only real heavy rain hit home when we were safely undercover at the bus stop and, unbelievably, it cleared up before we packed up and headed for home.

We parted at the green, but we'll be back next week, same time, same channel (as they used to say on American television).

• It's amazing what you don't notice while cycling. The photo below, taken by Andy's 'on-bike' camera shows a car passing me yesterday as we both rode back along the 269. It's a dangerous road and when you get cyclists and motorists coming at you in both directions there's not a great deal of space; and let's not forget that there is an off-road path we could be using.

Yours truly on the 269 yesterday morning...

My only worry about the above shot is that I'm wondering how far that car could move further to the right without drifting into oncoming traffic. He's given me what, about 4ft clearance? He's not exactly pushing me on to the grass bank. Just a thought.