Slow way there and back – to the Tatsfield Bus Stop

It's Tuesday morning. The day after the bank holiday Monday and last night some strange dreams. One involved watching somebody arrive by car at a shopfront that was shuttered up and covered in graffitti. There was a small door and the driver of the car jumped out, mistaking the place for a hotel. I wasn't the driver. I was a spectator wondering why somebody would mistake a shuttered shopfront covered in graffiti for a hotel. But then I became the driver, stepping through the small door into the dark and squalid surroundings inside. Drug users were in there and I was definitely not in the UK, but somewhere in the USA. Later the shop front changed. The shutters and graffiti were gone and instead there was a different, older building with two upright, rectangular windows and a wooden door between them. The name of Ortiz was over the door. I asked one of the occupants why he'd let himself fall into such a state of depravity, he mumbled an answer. I was certainly being held there against my will, as some form of punishment, but I wasn't always there. At one stage I wrote a note to the police, long hand, but never finished it. Then I found myself closer to home, in Westmead Road in the London suburbs where I used to live. I was driving and noticed that cars were reversing at speed towards me. There was some kind of commotion and it turned out to be a gunman in the back of a car shooting people at random. Later I encountered the gunman, who was now out of the car and on foot. I ran into suburban streets, turning left and right and left in order to lose him and then I woke up, it was light outside and the time was 0543.

Our bikes parked on Beddlestead Lane...

Poppies, thousands of them, in a field on Beddlestead Lane

That name Ortiz bugged me as I made my way downstairs to make tea and porridge, but all I could find online was a reference to boxing and a reference to horse racing. It had been a great weekend of cycling. We managed two out of three days and on both occasions rode the slow way to and from the Tatsfield Bus Stop where we chilled out in the early morning summer sun. On Saturday, as we drank our tea, a fog rolled in and that's why we rode back the slow way, which meant we'd have to tackle Hesiers Hill, not a problem. In fact, Andy's in training to ride up a few hills in the Caterham area so it was a good move in his books. I paced myself and rode slowly to the top where Andy was waiting and we continued the ride home.

Early morning summer sunshine on Beddlestead Lane

We didn't ride on Sunday and while I was going to ride to mum's early that morning, mum was in tizzy about visitors so I didn't bother. Monday we headed for the bus stop again and the poppies in a field on a sloping hill stopped us in our tracks. We were on Beddlestead Lane, close to the memorial to 'Skelly', a cyclist. A blanket of red covered the hill and I suggested that Andy should take a photograph. On Saturday we'd spotted the poppies but were put off the idea of trampsing into the field to take a closer look by the brambles and thistles that stood in our way as Andy was wearing shorts. Monday morning the poppies had intensified so we took a closer look but discovered a wide ditch, like a moat, stopping us from going any further. Well, we could have jumped, but then we'd have to jump back so we stayed put on the bank and took a few snaps, me on the iphone, Andy using something a little more professional.

A rural idyll...

Further along Beddlestead Lane a most unwelcomed sight: fly tippers had been at work. A pile of rubbish on the roadside: an old wooden chest of draws, a rusty old barbecue and many other bits of rubbish somebody had just dumped.

We continued on our way, chatting about this and that – bikes, photography, work – and it wasn't long before we reached our destination. Normally Beddlestead Lane is long and strenuous, but on both Saturday and Monday it was a little more chilled, which had a lot to do with the pleasant weather.