To Westerham for breakfast – and then a weekend of painting

Warlingham Green around 0730hrs on Saturday

Wednesday, 31 October: On Sunday morning I walked across Warlingham Green in the cold. There was wind and rain and it was very unpleasant. I felt thankful that I aborted as I knew a soaking was on the cards. I was headed for the Co-op as I'd run out of milk. I was home alone and had been since last Thursday, although, as I write this, the wanderers have returned and normal living has been resumed. I don't like being alone. It's fine in a hotel room, when I'm away on business, because I'm sharing the hotel with many other people, but being alone in the house simply doesn't feel right. When I'm alone in the house, I don't like going to bed, but I know I have to so I lock up the house in the normal manner, switching off lights as I do so, and then make my way upstairs where I have a choice of three beds. It's a no-brainer: my bed is the best, so I climb in, switch on Radio Four, listen to the 10 o'clock news and fall asleep, waking later in the night and noting the radio has switched itself off. I always leave the bathroom light on, mainly because, since childhood, I prefer to have a light on at night.

The weather is cold and while there's nothing wrong with our central heating, something is definitely up: one of the four nights I was alone I went downstairs to check it out and found it was off, so I switched it back on and returned to bed. On another night I slept almost fully-clothed, even with the heating on, it was freezing.

The reason I was trudging across the green around 0800hrs, possibly a bit later, was that I had aborted the ride late on Saturday night. The reason was simple: I'd committed myself to decorating the living room, a job that needed doing. I'd started around lunch time on Saturday having visited B&Q and buying the paint and brushes and white spirit. I sanded and washed the paintwork and then made the decision to go straight for the ceiling, a job I was dreading.

From Saturday through Monday I listened virtually non-stop to Radio Four, listening to a dramatisation of DH Lawrence's Women in Love and a spoof of The Archers, The Wainwrights, which was one of the funniest things I've listened to in a long while. Mix in Woman's Hour and a few comedy shows, including Just a Minute, and you'll get a fair idea of my extended weekend.

Andy at the Tudor Rose, note pot of tea...

A ride had been on the cards. Having spent a week in Tokyo, I had missed two weekends of cycling, so I vowed to go out on Saturday. With nothing much to rush home for I suggested breakfast at the Tudor Rose in Westerham so Andy and I got our heads down and rode there. A sausage sandwich, scrambled egg with mushrooms on granary toast and a pot of tea was most welcomed. The ride had been good, although I did lose half of my chain guard. It just snapped and fell off. Now I need a new chain guard and some touch-up paint for the frame.

The breakfast was good, it always is, but the ride home loomed large and neither of us wanted it. Riding out of Westerham is hard. It's a long hill all the way to Botley and we hate it. Who wouldn't? But when we reached the top, Andy took The Ridge home and I cycled along the off-road path of the 269.

It's weird arriving home to an empty house, but on this occasion it wasn't just returning to an empty house, it was also the prospect of decorating the living room that was nagging at me. Let's be honest, I didn't have to do it, but I'd been thinking about doing it for weeks, it seemed so straightforward. However, the prospect of doing nothing was shouting at me too. I could have a lazy weekend, go and see mum, then, perhaps, a stroll to Sutton, a browse of Waterstone's and then a mint tea and a cake in Caffé Nero. And who know's what after that? But the decorating nagged and nagged so, after visiting mum, I headed for B&Q in Sutton and bought all the stuff I needed: a huge tub of brilliant white Matt emulsion, two large tins of 'Timeless' – a colour that looks very much like brilliant white, but isn't – a few brushes, white spirit, sandpaper and a roller.

Scrambled egg, mushrooms and granary toast at the Tudor Rose, Westerham

Even when I got home I didn't want to do it, but I pushed myself and by the close of play on Saturday, I'd sanded and washed the skirting board. On Sunday, the prospect of painting the ceiling hit me hard, but I did it and then, on Monday, it was time to paint the walls. My aim was to finish by Monday evening, but I was about a wall and a third out and had to take Tuesday off to complete the task. It looks good, if I say so myself and now, of course, I have caught the bug. I'm viewing rooms as flights: the bathroom is a short haul flight to Dusseldorf, while the living room was most certainly long haul, like my recent trip to Tokyo. The hall way is probably akin to a flight to Greece or Moscow, not quite a long haul, but borderline. Anyway, it looks like the hall is next, but I'd rather do it alone, meaning I'd rather not have others in the house, it's far easier when I'm alone and don't have other people saying "you missed a bit" and so forth. It's also nice to listen to the radio. Actually, it's quite relaxing painting the house. The key is to keep the house well ventilated. On Sunday, I didn't bother opening any windows and ended up with a bad headache. On Monday, all the windows were open and it made a big difference. Another key is to keep things tidy, clean up as you go along and wipe up any paint spills immediately.

Decorating finished! A great job, if I say so myself...

The living room looks good and I feel good as a result.

Andy did go out on Sunday, but only for a short ride and he escaped a soaking, he told me. We're both on for a ride next weekend.

In Tokyo...Day Six – at Narita Airport

Checking out of the hotel and the journey to Narita airport was simplicity in the extreme: a short walk to Roppongi's metro station and then a train to station number 17 (Roppongi is station number 4). I was back on the Hibiya line all the way to Ueno and from there I followed signs towards the Skyliner train (Tokyo's equivalent to the Heathrow Express). I purchased a ticket and was allotted seat 11a in coach three – all the seats on the Skyliner are reserved and details of my reservation is on the ticket itself. This didn't stop me sitting in seat 3a in coach 3 and having to get up when the real occupant showed up at the next station. I apologised and shuffled along the coach to my rightful seat and then spent the rest of the 45-minute journey looking at the passing fields and houses as the train sped along the track towards the airport.

I could have flown to Vladivostok and taken the train...

At the airport, security was straightforward. It was so simple it was almost pleasurable. I unloaded my lap top in the usual manner, placed it in a tray (a very small tray compared with those you get elsewhere in the world). Nothing untoward happened with the scanner and soon I was heading for a brief stop at passport control. It all went smoothly and suddenly I found myself in the awful world that exists beyond passport control, where all the boring brands are waiting and where everybody thinks you're a wealthy bastard. I found myself getting irritated by this thought, I hate rich people at the best of times and I hate the big brands too – the perfumes, the watches, you get the drift. They didn't have the sports car raffle, which seems to be a permanent fixture at Gatwick airport in the UK. Again, the assumption is that everybody pines for an Aston Martin DB9 or something similar. Not me. Once you're in the driving seat, it doesn't matter what car you're driving as all you can see is a dashboard, a windscreen and the bonnet (and the road ahead). Give me the money instead and I'll buy a house on the south coast and paint it white and then just sit there looking at the sea – that's all I want from life: a beach, a sea breeze and a push bike.

I'd love to go on the rampage in Duty Free, smashing bottles of whisky and perfume and stamping on expensive watches, throwing Toblerones at the police, but of course this is little more than a fantasy, but one I would like to become reality one of these days. It's probably worth going to prison for, but I wouldn't want to pay back any money for my blatant, intentional and highly enjoyable criminal damage.

I ordered chicken with rice and noodles at the airport – the food offering at Narita leaves a lot to be desired, or is it something to do with the fact that I'm becoming a bit of philistine, expecting to find a Starbucks so I can enjoy a large mint tea and a piece of cake? I've just added another tea and a banana to my breakfast. The chicken noodles were consumed in Café Avion, or something like that, and the additional tea and banana in Bowl Bowl, a larger establishment. Café Avion was a little too cramped for me; Bowl Bowl was bigger and brighter and I sat at one of their Formica tables enjoying a last bit of relaxation before heading for the gate – gate 72.

That whole idea about taking the long way home: a boat to Vladivostok then the Trans Siberia to Moscow, another train from Moscow to Brussels and then the Eurostar to London took on a whole new life when I noticed that it was possible to fly from Narita to Vladivostok at 1540 with S7, a Russian airline. I was looking over from a galleried walkway at passengers waiting to board my flight, BA0006 to London Heathrow, when I was approached by an old man who was conducting a survey on why people travel to Tokyo. There was link to Tokyo 2020 when Japan hosts the Olympic Games. He ran through various questions and then gave me a tiny plastic model of Mount Fuji.

What never fails to annoy and unnerve me about flying is that whenever I head for the airport, the weather starts off fine, but gradually deteriorates as my departure draws closer. This morning as I sat on the Skyliner looking out at the Tokyo suburbs that whizzed past me, there was sunshine and relatively cloudless skies, but as time progressed the cloud thickened. Very, very annoying especially when a 12-hour flight awaited me. I'm glad to be heading home, but I wish I was there now and didn't have to bother with the flight bit. And when I arrive back in the cuntry, of course, I'll have to deal with the racist cab drivers or the crappy cab drivers who can't drive to save their lives or the useless cab drivers that have been known to take their customers to the wrong airport, not forgetting the taxi drivers that stop in the fast lane, get out of their cars and proceed to kick the tyres of their taxis before jumping back in and simply going the wrong way to the airport. Brexit has made all the racists who voted for it a little bolder. They are quite happy nowadays to express their views and always make the assumption that we're all racists at heart, without stopping to question that other people are not scumbags like them. Anyway, I must not work myself up into a lather over the issue. 

In Bowl Bowl, Live and Let Die by Paul McCartney and Wings comes on the sound system. "You used to say live and let live (you know you did, you know you did, you know you did...). But in this never-ending world in which we live in..."

Perhaps that's what I should do: live and let live. 

The flight home was smooth. Smooth, but long – 11 hours and 40 minutes to be precise. We chased the sun for a while, across Siberia, but then the night time caught up with us until we were almost in the UK when we were briefly greeted by the early evening twilight. During the flight, to pass the time, I watched Incredibles 2 and Unsane, which starred Claire Foy. Both movies were good. I then watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, not to mention an episode of Family Guy. The rest of the time I spent at the back of the plane, standing up, stretching my legs and chatting to the cabin crew, munching the occasional mini Fudge bar, a couple of chocolate digestives and a Miniature Hero Mars Bar. So much for healthy eating.

The flight was late taking off and we reached London Heathrow Terminal 5 just before 7pm – we should have landed at 5.20pm. I thought about a taxi, even called my racist cab company, but there was nothing doing. The only options were a black cab or the train and I knew how much the former would cost me so I headed for the Heathrow Express, took the Circle Line to Victoria and then the East Grinstead train, getting off at Sanderstead where a much needed lift awaited me. 

I slept well from around 10.30pm until 6am, got up, had breakfast and then thought I'd finalise my blogposts on Tokyo, this one being the last.

In Tokyo... Day Six – saying goodbye

It's 0620hrs on Saturday morning and I've been awake for about an hour. My mouth is dry and, fortunately, there's a bottle of mineral water in the room, left by the housekeeping staff. There's some kind of kerfuffle going on. I think it's outside of the building, but I can't be sure, somebody shouting, raised voices, some kind of altercation, but that's not what woke me up; for the past week or so I've had a dry mouth and a sore throat, not to mention a dry cough too, nothing a sip of mineral water won't cure. Either way I'm not ill – meaning I don't feel ill – and I don't appear to have a cold on the way, so all is well.

Friday (yesterday) was my last day in Tokyo. I had some business to attend to in the morning (in Osaki) but then the rest of the day was free, my job done.

A last chill-out in Precious Coffee Moments

Breakfast was at a coffee shop on Ebisu station, a quaint place, where I had a French toast and a mint tea, both very pleasant if a little unhealthy, the latter being dusted with icing sugar. When your hotel doesn't do breakfast, the only option out on the streets is to eat 'rubbish'. I say it's rubbish, that's not strictly true, but what I mean is this: I normally eat fresh fruit and porridge (as I'm sure I've mentioned in a previous post) but with that out of the question here, I'm reliant upon the delights of coffee shops, which don't always offer the most nutritious of breakfasts. That said, the French toast was really tasty and a little over-indulgent.

I was early. Very early. I left Ebisu around 0830hrs and arrived with plenty of time to spare in Osaki. It could only mean one thing: a visit to the Gate City Starbucks for something a little more substantial for breakfast. But again, it had to be 'rubbish' – in this case a cheese and ham roll heated in a microwave and accompanied by a mint tea (a 'grande' mint tea, meaning really large, but needed). I sat there reading Michel Houellebecq's Platform and writing a few notes, but also people watching. Nothing much to report as everybody was behaving themselves just like I was, sitting there with something to eat and drink, waiting, no doubt, for when the working hour kicked in. I wouldn't mind working in Gate City – basically, it's a huge building, a massive building, with offices and a central area where people can enjoy the delights of Starbucks and other facilities, including an Italian restaurant, or simply chill out at tables in the central area, eating their own lunches.

Hibiya Park, Tokyo...

Oddly, Gate City Ohsaki, as it's called, has an added letter H. Back at the train station it's plain old 'Osaki'. Earlier, at Ebisu, I nearly weakened again. I walked into the McDonald's opposite the station and seriously considered a McDonald's breakfast, but opted instead for that French toast in Antico's, the coffee shop.

Meeting over I headed back into town, not that I'd left the town. I now had free time and to be honest I wasn't really sure what to do with it; one thought was simply to hit the sack, get some sleep. I've noticed, all week, that if I sit still for a few minutes I fall asleep. The other day, actually it was Friday morning, I'd switched on the television and was watching a movie starring Owen Wilson and Eddie Murphy (dubbed over in Japanese and amusing for that only) and the next thing I knew I'd fallen asleep. For a split second I was in a blind panic, thinking I might have missed the meeting, but I must have nodded off for all of five minutes.

I dropped off my case at the hotel and then hit the streets again, taking the metro to Hibiya and checking out a small park with a lake and fountains. The skies were overcast and it was 'trying to rain' – to borrow an expression from dad. It eventually did rain, but I must have been back on the metro because when I emerged the pavements were damp, but that rain itself had all but stopped. In all honesty I was tired, I could feel it in my eyes, a kind of weariness that hit me in waves as I walked along the streets. I wasn't really that bothered about my surroundings. There were lots of people milling around, looking in shop windows. I was in another shopping district of town – there are many –but it was all passing me by, I simply couldn't drum up any enthusiasm. I wasn't far from Roppongi so I jumped back on the metro and headed for one last visit to Precious Coffee Moments where I sat and read Platform after ordering a cup of tea and a small chocolate, which was wonderful. In fact, I sat there for some time, just chilling out and wishing I could simply curl up in a ball and sleep with the jazz music in the background.

The shower in room 302 – best in the world

Just before 1800hrs I headed back to the hotel and called home and then I dragged myself back on the streets to find a decent restaurant for dinner. The thought did cross my mind of returning to the Hard Rock Café, but I found a really good Italian restaurant, Sicilia. It was down some steps. Once at the bottom I was met with a bustling restaurant and I had to wait for a table. Then I was sandwiched between two couples. I sat facing a wall and perused the menu, eventually choosing a shrimp cocktail followed by Canelloni and, of course, a Suntory alcohol-free beer. It was a pleasant meal, especially the shrimp cocktail, but also the main course. I considered dessert, but there was only vanilla ice cream and I kept thinking about that awful apple cobbler the night before (see previous post). After paying the bill, I considered a mint tea at the Starbuck's close to Precious Coffee Moments, but in the end I went back to my room, too tired to chill out, and started packing things away for tomorrow's journey home.

It is now tomorrow: Saturday morning and nearly 0700hrs. I unpacked the computer and charger just to write this post.

A few thoughts on Tokyo: it's a great place, a friendly city with an efficient metro system and friendly people too. Those who say the metro is complicated or complex must be a little thick. When I arrived at Narita Airport last Saturday I went all the way to my hotel in Roppongi in next to no time and I've been using the metro a fair bit since I've been here. Being in Tokyo is a bit like living inside a fruit machine, complete with the electronic music. Everything is colourful, but the signage – in Japanese – makes everything strange until, that is, you read the English translation (normally available at the metro stations). English translations aren't always offered and then I'm reliant upon the Japanese people and only some of them speak English to a level that means they'll understand me. But listen, it's not a problem. I've been here all week and while I did have trouble in one restaurant ordering a mint tea (again, see previous posts) by and large my time here has been trouble-free and I've managed to get around and get by.

The hotel has been fine too, apart from not offering any catering bar a bottle of mineral water left by the housekeeping team. However, if breakfast had been offered, I might never have found Precious Coffee Moments.  I still don't know if I've got to pay for the mineral water*, but I'll find out in a few minutes when I check out. Not having breakfast in the hotel has been a bit of a hassle as I've had to get up early, get dressed and head out in search of something to eat. Fortunately, I found Precious Coffee Moments, which was fine, and there are plenty of Starbucks floating around too, not to mention McDonald's, but I've managed to resist a McDonald's breakfast.

Antico Caffé in Ebisu for a French toast...

The food has been good too. I've eaten two Italian meals, three if you include the pizza restaurant, and I've tried Indonesian food too and dinner in the Hard Rock Café, which was great except for the dessert. I'm beginning to think I'm a bit of a philistine, sticking with pizza and pasta and seeking out Starbucks.

Tokyo is a safe city. At no stage have I ever felt threatened by anyone or anything. There is no sense of danger, not even late at night.

I've been here one week, to the day, not really enough time to fully appreciate Tokyo. I'd like to come back and spend a fortnight travelling around, not just the city, but further afield using Japan's highly efficient rail network, which is clean and punctual.

While my hotel room is limited for space, it's been fine, and as I've said before, I prefer small rooms to large ones. A wardrobe would have been nice, though, and a window that offered a view of some sort. Frosted glass is not a good idea. I wish I could have worked out the air con system, but instead I simply opened the window to get fresh air, but this caused the wind to whistle throughout the night, although nobody complained and I got used to it. If there was a big bugbear it was the 'no breakfast' thing – that was a real pain as it meant I survived on tea and toast or mint tea and some kind of rubbish food item, like a cheese and bacon roll or a French toast, although Precious Coffee Moments did the trick on most days even if they had difficulty understanding what I meant by 'mint tea'.

The absolute best thing about the hotel was the shower. I'll say this now, and I mean it: the shower in room 302 of the Act Hotel in Tokyo is the best EVER; it's so invigorating it beggars belief and I'm looking forward to having my last shower in a few minutes from signing off on this post.

... and here is that French toast. Tasty, yes, but not particularly healthy

I'll sign off now as I need to find somewhere to eat breakfast (perhaps one last visit to Precious Coffee Moments or there's always that Starbucks – or perhaps I'll head for Uedo and get breakfast there or at Narita Airport.

You know what I'd rather do? Take a boat over to Vladivostok and then catch the Trans Siberia Express to Moscow and then a train to Brussels and the Eurostar home, but that would take a week or two and at some stage I need to be back in the office.

* the mineral water was free-of-charge (I figured as a kind of compensation for not offering breakfast). But remember one thing: nothing is free, I would have paid for that water somewhere along the line.

In Tokyo... Day Four and Five – A few ramblings

Do you ever get those days when you stop and think about the most mundane aspects of life and find them incredible? Big questions about the meaning of life take second place to thoughts about bananas. I found myself sitting in a Starbucks for breakfast – one banana and a mint tea – thinking about the fact that I was on the other side of the world (compared to where I normally reside) wide awake while most of those living in the UK were fast asleep and what's more, I was eating a banana. I eat bananas in the UK too, but here I am eating one in Tokyo. Now I know it's really no mystery how bananas get around (by ship mostly, I'd imagine) but I suppose it's amazing that wherever you travel, however far away from home you are, you can still get a reasonably good banana – and find a decent Starbucks too. Perhaps it's not good, it's bad. The fact that here in Tokyo you will find all the big brand names (Apple, Zara, Gucci, they're all here, even Stella McCartney, and let's not forget McDonald's and Subway) is testament to the success of something we're all now starting to reject: globalisation. In all honesty, if globalisation means flying for hours on end and still running up against a Claires Accessories, then I don't want it either. Although, that said, when it comes to eating out in Tokyo, there are plenty of local, Japanese restaurants. Today, however, I did find a Hard Rock Café and a Tony Roma's. I ate in the former and I can't say I've ever enjoyed ribs, they're insubstantial and they make your hands sticky.

The streets of Tokyo on Thursday afernoon...

Back home, a lot of our bananas come from the Windward Islands in the Caribbean, which normally means St. Lucia, but where the Japanese bananas originate I don't know and, quite frankly, I don't care. I'd say the fact that bananas exist in Japan is amazing if it were true, but it isn't amazing at all; they were probably brought over on a container ship.

I'm sitting in Starbucks for a reason: I wanted a mint tea and something decent for breakfast instead of that slice of toast and a milky tea from Precious Coffee Moments. Although, in retrospect, that toast would have been most welcomed, but Starbucks don't serve toast. I miss Precious Coffee Moments, but hell, it's my day off, I'm not here for a rushed breakfast before heading into a conference hall, I'm getting ready to go check out a meeting venue for tomorrow, just so that I can be there on time. But more of that later. In a nutshell, I thought I'd take it easy, chill out, take a relaxed look around town, check out the shops and then visit some of Tokyo's sights (if there are any).

Today was the first day that I felt sort of ok. All week I've been waking up in the dead of night or simply not sleeping at all thanks to jet lag. But this morning and, indeed, last night, I got a decent night's sleep and not the usual broken up affair. The trouble with acclimatising is that there's no point, it's soon time to head back home and suffer all over again. I can't say I'm looking forward to the return flight. I wasn't too keen on the outbound flight and now I've got to repeat it all again. Still, it'll be good to get back to the UK and hail a racist taxi driver to take me home. In fact, talking of racist taxi drivers, I've given up taxis for that reason alone. I don't want to sit and listen to some idiot going on and on about immigration and Brexit. As Stewart Lee said, not all Brexiteers are racists – some of them are cunts.

Hard Rock Café in Tokyo...

When I get back home I'll have to restart my exercise programme (cycling and walking) and try and stop eating cakes and biscuits. I've given up drinking, so I'm darn sure I can sort out a few cakes. I've also got to repeat my old habit of eating well, certainly enjoying a good breakfast in the morning. For the past five or six days it's been toast and tea, so everything's gone out of the window in terms of the 'usual routine'. My multi-seed porridge and blueberries for breakfast are but a distance memory at the moment; and last night, after a relatively healthy day food wise, I went and ruined it by discovering that Tokyo has a Hard Rock Café. It started off well with Atlantic salmon, mashed potatoes, carrots and brocolli, but took a nose dive when I ordered the apple cobbler, smothered as it was in a caramel sauce and garnished with a blob of ice cream. Afterwards I found a Starbucks where I purchased a large mint tea and sipped it slowly while deep in thought about God knows what. For some reason, I felt that the mint tea would cure me of whatever ailment that apple cobbler might have given me.

I fly home tomorrow (Saturday 1255hrs) and, as I just said, I'm not looking forward to it. Twelve, possibly thirteen, hours on a plane: that's a meal and three movies and then around three hours of twiddling my thumbs. Let's just say I hate it. Fortunately, I've got an exit row, like on the outward journey, which means more leg room, but these days, when I have to fly for more than a couple hours, I start to get irritated about not being allowed to fly business class. It's a boring old saga so I won't bore you with it, not now at any rate, but suffice it to say that I'd like to get a decent sleep, but I end up not sleeping at all and when I get off the other end I feel like shit. Let's not go there, it's miles too boring.

A hearty meal in Hard Rock Café...

It's getting a little confusing. Yesterday (Thursday) I sat in a Starbucks with a mint tea and a banana twice: the first time was in the morning prior to a day of checking out the city of Tokyo, first a mission to Osaki to check out where my meeting was to be held on Friday (that's today) and then I found myself in the same Starbucks last thing at night, again with a mint tea and a banana, but this time it was something to do with that awfully unhealthy dessert I'd eaten in the Hard Rock. As I sat in the Starbucks yesterday morning, I felt bad about not being in Precious Coffee Moments where, ironically, I drink tea. The reason I went there for breakfast was to move away from the milky tea and toast breakfast and eat something a little healthier, hence the banana.

On Wednesday night, talking of unhealthy eating, I found a pizza restaurant that fitted the bill of what I was looking for: it wasn't a noodle bar, there wasn't any photographs of the food outside and it was more like the sort of place you get back home – there was music, a pleasant vibe and I could relax a little, which I did. There's nothing worse than trawling the streets looking for something to eat (I do this all the time, it doesn't matter what country). The truth is I don't really know what I'm looking for, or rather I do know, but finding it is the problem. I normally look for somewhere to chill out and relax. And here in Japan it's avoiding the places with the photographs of the food and places where there's somebody standing outside cajoling passers-by to come inside. Prior to finding the pizza restaurant I'd peered through many windows hoping to find the right place, but everywhere fell short of my requirements. I was looking for ambience mainly and a place that looked like it might offer decent food and service. I don't want somewhere too crowded and noisy or too cramped, I certainly don't want photographs of the food and I won't tolerate anywhere that's too dark. I want to be able to see what I'm eating.

Sadly, all the big brands are in Tokyo...

The street on which the pizza restaurant resided looked promising. It veered off from the main street at an angle. It was dark and illuminated here and there by lanterns. It had a certain inviting nature about it, so I took a chance and strolled past small noodle bars, slightly more inviting than those on the main drag, and right at the end of the street I found the pizza place. I knew it was going to be good and took a seat at the bar, but not 'the bar' – there wasn't any optics staring at me, no upturned bottles of whisky or rum, just an exposed kitchen, masses of stainless steel, an espresso machine and pizza chefs busily working on customers' orders – although being mid-week, it wasn't that busy. It was a Wednesday night and there was only a handful of customers. I ordered half portions of two different pizzas (based on the theory that variety is the spice of life) plus a couple of non-alcohol beers (Suntory appears to be the favourite here in Tokyo. It's really good and while I've considered taking some home with me, in retrospect, I think it would be a bad idea. Nothing's THAT good). Making a decent non-alcoholic beer is an art form that the brewers have yet to perfect, but Suntory comes pretty close and, it seems, have cornered the market here in Tokyo. It was only in the Hard Rock Café that they didn't sell it (I was offered a Kirin instead).

At the pizza joint, I made small talk with one of the guys working behind the servery area. He told me he owns a Harley Davidson 883 Hugger, my dream bike, but he wants to own a Triumph (why, I don't know, but he seemed to like all things British: Jaguar, Range Rover and so on). He studied politics at university, managed to get a good job in television, but quit to return to the pizza restaurant because he couldn't hack sitting behind a computer screen all day. He now intends to make a career out of being a restaurateur of some description, much to the initial dismay of his mum who, he said, remained silent about his decision for many days before finally being comfortable with her son's plans. But I'd imagine she was concerned for his future welfare (aren't all parents carrying around that mindset?).

Personally, I always feel envious of people capable of making such a drastic decision and sticking with it, having the courage of their convictions. I would have stayed at the television job and would have certainly taken my parents' advice. I can hear my dad now advising me to stay put and not to be so silly as to think I'd have a future in the restaurant industry. I would have been grateful to have been offered the TV job in the first place, I certainly wouldn't be jacking it in to work in a pizza restaurant. But that's me. I wish I had those sort of 'guts', the guts of a gambling man, the guts of somebody with bags of self confidence. I'm always firmly of the opinion that whatever decision I take, it will be the wrong one. Not that working in the hospitality industry is a walk in the park; it's hard work and long hours for very low pay and in the UK it is often regarded as a subservient profession. That's why the Brits prefer to leave it to migrant workers who regard the low pay as alright, although now we have Brexit, let's see if those Brexiteers who moaned at the migrants for taking their jobs are willing to roll up their sleeves at McDonald's and start cleaning the fryers at the end of a long shift.

Osaki – a kind of posh version of London Docklands

Technically – although there's nothing technical about it – Thursday was a day off. I'd tried to get on a plant visit, which would have taken up the entire day, but had been unsuccessful, so the day was mine. I did need to see how easy (or otherwise) it would be for me to reach the offices of a big company I was visiting on Friday, so I set off early, first for breakfast in a Starbuck's (the aforementioned mint tea and banana) and then I explored a bit of the city. I started off at Roppongi underground station, travelled a couple of stops to Ebisu and then switched to the JR line, which is not part of the metro system, more a kind of Overground train the runs in a circle around the city, meaning I had to pay separately. It was a couple of stops, possibly three, to Osaki, which was a bit like Docklands, but slightly more exclusive, and I made my way to the building I needed to locate. It was easy: an 11-minute walk from Osaki station, so that was dry run sorted, so to speak, now all that remained was the real thing on Friday.

Later, I resisted the temptation to eat Chinese in Osaki and instead pushed on to a place called Shibiya where I found an Indonesian restaurant for lunch. After what was an enjoyable meal of chicken curry with rice and a small cake for dessert, not forgetting a non-alcohol Suntory beer, I headed back to the station and stopped off at two guitar shops, one selling Fender Stratocasters and the other specialising in bass guitars. I was there for all of five minutes before pushing on further to Shinjuki, Tokyo's answer to Oxford Street. I checked out a few stores with no intention of buying anything and when I got back to my hotel I discovered that there was a Hard Rock Café close by and headed in the general direction. It would be good to have something a little wholesome, so once seated I chose Atlantic salmon with mashed potato, greens and carrots – that was the good bit, the bad bit was the dessert of apple cobbler, which might have been fine if it hadn't been drenched in caramel sauce. A little custard would have sufficed, but no, this was just awful. I say awful, I finished the lot, it was very tasty, but it was awful in the sense of not being very healthy. I might have given up drinking, but I've got to give up cakes and sweet things too.

In Tokyo... Day Three – searching for breakfast

It's 0420hrs on 17th October 2018 and I've just woken up, suddenly, after what can only be described as an aggressive, violent dream. I regained consciousness feeling aggrieved. The dream involved a row about something out in the open air, in a field in which there were some rocks and a grey concrete path running along one edge. To one side of the path a wooden fence, bushes, the backs of houses. I'm in the UK, but exactly where I don't know. There are two, possibly three, people on one side of the argument and me (and possibly somebody else) on the other. For some reason I threaten throwing rocks and a battle of sorts commences until a passer-by suggests it's unreasonable behaviour and threatens to get involved. Tensions ease and suddenly I'm in Tokyo, lying in bed staring at the ceiling and feeling anxious.

Yesterday morning when I woke up I realised I wasn't happy with the hotel's 'no breakfast' policy. Generally, I don't like 'no' policies and prefer to use the word 'yes'. Where the no breakfast policy is concerned, I wouldn't mind so much if going out for breakfast was a straightforward affair, but it isn't. Not only is there not much open at 0700hrs – just people preparing to open up shop and office workers making their way to work – but the major problem is one of language. Put bluntly, my Japanese is non-existent, which makes communication with people whose grasp of the English language is equally poor very difficult, although eventually we get there and all is well.

My hotel – where small is beautiful...

I have my principles when it comes to food and I won't eat in a McDonald's unless it's a life or death situation. However, yesterday morning, as I strode purposefully along Tokyo's Roppongi streets, I found myself inextricably drawn towards a two-storey building housing a McCafé and a conventional McDonald's on the first floor. Standing in front of the brightly-coloured menu above the servery counter, I checked out the photographs of 'the McDonald's Breakfast' – a kind of tray affair with scrambled egg, hash brown, a pork (or maybe it was beef) patty and a McMuffin with egg (something of that order). The restaurant was fairly crowded for 0700hrs and is open 24 hours.

As I stared at the menu, weighing things up in my mind, the servery assistant stared back at me wondering what my decision might be; I took a step back, signalled that I wasn't quite sure what to do and then walked over to the window where I looked down and saw Precious Coffee Moments below me. The reason I was in McDonald's and not across the road, in what is turning out to be my favourite little café, is that the café's menu is limited and I wanted something more substantial. On Monday morning, my breakfast consisted of a BLT – quite a nice BLT, but a little on the insubstantial side in terms of overall size (a bit like my hotel room).

I decided not to worry about the language barrier, throw caution to the wind and ask for a peppermint tea, which was another problem I was having. It was easy to order a mint tea in a Starbucks on Sunday afternoon, but would my request be met with frowns at Precious Coffee Moments? There was only one way to find out.

"Milk?"
"No, mint. Peppermint?"
"Milk?"

The person behind the counter frowned and pointed at photographs of cups of tea. "Milk?"

In the end I gave up. "Yes, milk," I answered.

Precious Coffee Moments – it's my favourite place...

I was handed a small plastic tray, quite a dainty plastic tray as it happened, imitation wood, but obviously plastic, possibly Melamine, and on the tray was a white cup and saucer, a small receptacle for the discarded tea bag and a wrapped tissue. The tea was very milky. So milky that I figured it was a kind of latte in the world of tea, the 'tea equivalent' if such a thing exists. I wasn't 100% sure of what to expect in terms of the taste experience, although I had a pretty good idea. In short, I wasn't impressed and with nothing else to do – no newspapers to read – I opened a notebook and started to write a version of what you're reading now. I was working on the basis that if anybody looked over my shoulder at what I was writing, they wouldn't be able to decipher it.

Toast and a hard-boiled egg plus milky tea...

In addition to the tea I had ordered what I thought was buttered toast. I wasn't wrong, but the toast, a huge slab of bread about two inches thick, toasted on top with butter melting through it, was accompanied by an egg, a white egg, cold to the touch because it had come straight from the fridge. I hadn't noticed it on the photograph at the counter when I made the order. I started to wonder: was it a hard-boiled egg or was it raw? I was in Japan where culinary traditions are way different to what they are in the UK and I figured it could be a raw egg. How to find out without making a huge mess? Perhaps it was some kind of Japanese breakfast delicacy that everybody knew about except me. Tentatively, I picked up the egg and lightly tapped it on the table. The last thing I wanted was raw egg on my face and all over my shirt and trousers. How would I explain that away at the conference I was about to attend? "You'll never guess what happened" I might start off as my colleagues scrutinise the mess they see before them.

Fortunately, all was fine, it was a hard boiled egg with a wonderfully yellow yoke, but surprisingly little in the way of taste, which I put down to its refrigerated state. Had it been warm and seasoned with salt and pepper, it might have been better. Prior to cracking (and eating) the hard-boiled egg, I heard myself saying, not out loud or even barely audible: "I haven't flown 12 hours in a plane to be left with egg on my face and all over my freshly creased shirt and trousers."

My hotel not only 'doesn't do breakfast', it also dispenses with a wardrobe, offering instead two coathangers and a couple of hooks. As you might imagine, my room – make that cell – looks like a teenager's bedroom and I am quite literally living out of a suitcase and relying on the creases in my shirts falling out as I walk the short distance to the conference venue.

This time a less milky tea and plain toast...

After eating the egg and the toast I realised that I was still hungry. Don't forget that when I normally stay in a hotel, breakfast is the best meal of the day. I look forward to the servery crammed with pastries and bread rolls, the iced display of yoghurts and the colourful array of fresh fruit, not forgetting the hot food, the sausages, baked beans, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, bacon and diced and fried squares of potato. I pine at the little boxes of cereal – my hotel treat a small box of CoCo Pops or even a soup kettle full with porridge oats. I have a bowl of porridge, not the whole kettle, I hasten to add. But not today. I am limited to a hard-boiled egg and a very thick slice of buttered toast and now, perhaps, another slice of toast but without the egg. I returned to the counter and this time ordered a 'normal' black tea and, of course, the toast.

Later, I foraged for food, like a squirrel looking for the nuts he'd previously buried but had forgotten where. Fortunately conferences have tea and coffee breaks and when you're in a Grand Hyatt you can bet the snacks on offer are pretty much top shelf – chocolates, mini pastries, tiny biscuits, Madeleines, chocolate mousse. I stocked up and realised it would be a bit rich to complain (as I have done here) about Japanese breakfasts. I really can't moan, can I? People are different the world over, they have different habits, different traditions, different ways of life, and I was fortunate enough to be in their world experiencing it first hand. I figured the full English breakfast could wait for a few days – not that I eat a full English breakfast.

Where tea and coffee break snacks fill a gap...

It's 0531hrs, a full 90 minutes since I awoke baffled and aggrieved. I have two choices: go back to bed and try to sleep (for all of a couple hours) or remain awake, put on some clothes and check out what Tokyo's streets have to offer at such an ungodly hour? I think I'll crawl back to bed.

In Tokyo...Day Two

I never know whether it should be Day One or Day Two, but I've called this post Day Two because, theoretically, I was here yesterday too. It's odd being in a place where, technically, I'm living in the future by eight hours. When I woke up this morning at 0600hrs – yes, I finally did fall asleep and I can't remember any strange dreams – I realised it was only 2200hrs on Sunday evening back home in the UK, so I'm living in the future. I'm living in a box too, and by that I mean the size of the room. At least it's not made out of cardboard.

Room 302, Act Hotel, Tokyo – it's small!

One big plus point for the hotel is the shower. It works, that's the main thing, but second to that, there's a kind of shower fitting in the ceiling measuring something like 10in x 12in and it's what I would call a proper rain shower. I switched it on and was greeted by an invigorating downpour of warm water, it was like standing in the rain during the monsoon in India. It was absolutely wonderful and such a downpour I could hardly hear myself yelping with delight at the experience. Well, alright, I wasn't yelping, I was probably saying out loud something like, "Wow! Wonderful! Excellent!" The usual stuff that might confirm to others that I'm barking mad or simply pleased by small things, which I am. Take my new Peter Storm walking shoes (I thought they were trainers, but they're walking shoes). They're brilliant: comfortable, they lace up well, they fit well, they look good, I love them and I've just taken them on a stroll around Tokyo.

I was showered and dressed by 0700 hrs and I went in search of the hotel's breakfast room, until I discovered that there wasn't one. The mild-mannered gentleman on the front desk said, simply, "Outside, outside." I'd have to go in search of breakfast and very nearly weakened and ended up in a McDonald's until I spotted a place called Precious Coffee Moments (Estd: Kobe 1933). They even had an English menu, which helped, believe me. I ordered a BLT and a black tea, no milk, and sat there listening to jazz music while watching Japanese commuters make their way to work. They've got power points and free WiFi too so my plan is to head back there very shortly to do some work, although one might question why I want to do that when I could simply stay here in the room, but being cooped up in this tiny 'cell' all morning, without access to water or tea, might prove problematic, and besides, working is something best done in a conducive environment and Precious Coffee Moments seems to me like the place to be.

Dessert at Hills Café Space, Roppongi...

Sadly, when I got to the Precious Coffee Moments café I found I couldn't access the WiFi so it was all academic, and Japan is not the sort of place where you ask for somebody's help on what could be a complex task; I just knew it would be more trouble than it was worth considering the language barrier in the café. I did, however, get some work done and then, after dropping off my lap top in the hotel, I went out in search of the Grand Hyatt, strolling off first in the wrong direction before realising that it was very close to where I'm staying. I then took a wander around the Roppongi Hills shopping complex, which demonstrated to me that however far I travel, I'm never more than a few feet away from a Zara, Adidas, Reebok outlet, not to mention (as I have already) McDonald's and Starbucks (I've found two of the latter now). There's also Armani and I've spotted Stella McCartney's name too. They're all here basically.

Lunch was the best meal of the day at Hills Café Space where I enjoyed a kind of Thai green curry with a no-alcohol beer by Suntory (and very good it was too). I finished off with a cherry cake and a Moroccan mint tea and then continued to wander about for a bit. That's what I tend to do: I wander about looking for places to eat – once the work has been done, of course, I'm not simply ambling about all day doing nothing, but let's not talk about work, this blog is all about having a good time and I enjoy ambling about, whether it's on a bike or wandering around some strange city somewhere in the world – in this case, Tokyo.

Colourful Roppongi at night...

Right now I'm back in the room considering another one of those refreshing rain showers and in the end I had one: perfect. There was work to be done and a cocktail reception to attend and the latter involved a trip to the top of the Mori Tower to check out the view of Tokyo at night. I should have taken a photograph, but there was too much in the way of reflection so I didn't bother. Later, after a quick change into jeans and a fleece, I headed off in search of something to eat. It was getting late, but that didn't stop me from wandering around trying to find the right place, which is difficult here as a lot of the places seem to exhibit photographs of their food offering, which I've always steered away from, and it's hard to walk into a restaurant with confidence because it's difficult to work out whether it's a good place or not. At the higher end of the market it's easier because there's decor and vibe and surroundings and, of course, pricing, and let's not forget that Tokyo isn't cheap. However, if, like me, you're not drinking alcohol and you're dining alone, then it's considerably cheaper than it could be. The downside of being 'the loner' is that it's very depressing, sitting on your own, playing with the mobile phone and then simply eating your food and leaving the restaurant.

I chose a place called Tango Trattoria and Restaurant and it didn't disappoint. They seated me at the bar, the only solo person in there, and I ordered pasta with bacon and peppers, which was chilli hot, along with a couple of Suntory alcohol-free beers, which, like lunch time, was very good. Desserts didn't tempt me further so I asked for the check and left. This place had a nice vibe, a pleasant, friendly and efficient waitress, decent food and a good selection of background music. I could have stayed there longer, but decided to heat back to the hotel.

On the way back I noticed how colourful Roppongi (which is a district of Tokyo) can be after dark: plenty of colourful signs and lots of hubbub – taxis picking up and dropping off, people walking in all directions, touts trying to get you to visit their bar and so on. I'm now back in the hotel and ready for what will hopefully be a good night's sleep, or at least better than last night. I was thinking this morning that Saturday and Sunday turned into one huge day without sleep. I was reminded of my late teens and the concept of FriSatSunday.

I'm amazed that I had so much wakefulness. Today should be slightly better and then the real work starts in the morning, but not before an amazing shower, easily the best I've ever experienced anywhere in the world.

In Tokyo...

After losing an entire night's sleep, I seem to have found a new lease of life – but I know it's a false economy and a very temporary situation. My original plan was to reach the hotel, having flown from Heathrow Terminal Five with British Airways to Tokyo's Narita airport, and immediately hit the sack. But it seemed like such a waste, arriving in a city like Tokyo, for the first time, and simply going to bed. So I took a wander, as I'm prone to do, in search of somewhere to eat lunch, albeit a late lunch at around 3pm. Not that I was that hungry. I'd touched down around 11am (Tokyo time) and then had the faff of making my way to the hotel – without using a cab (which I am told is very expensive).

Ueno station on the Hibiya line heading for Roppongi station

Getting around was easier than I thought. To reach my hotel, which is in the Roppongi district of the city, I took the Skyliner train to Uedo, changed on to the Hibiya line and rode all the way to Roppongi station. In the carriage people came and went, nobody said a word, but there was a general politeness about everything and it gave me a tremendous sense of calm. There was nothing threatening about the situation and everybody was relatively well turned out, no scruff pots, not like in the UK. When the train arrived at Roppongi, I jumped out, walked about 100 yards, turned right and then right again and there it was, my hotel, my conveniently located hotel, no more than a few steps from leaving the subway; it's great when things work out so smoothly.

A train arrives at Narita Airport – not for me, mine's next...

I don't want to make too big a fuss about it, but the room is, well, let's say tiny, compact and bijou – alright, you'd be hard pushed to swing a hamster, let alone a cat. But everything works, it's clean enough and what else could I possibly wish for in a hotel?

Mint tea and a chocolate chip cookie...

I was in the room for all of 15 minutes, feeling fidgety, restless and, no doubt, in need of a long sleep, but that urge to do a little exploring, albeit miniscule, proved too much so out I went in search of a restaurant I'd both understand and enjoy. To be honest, I didn't fancy anything too 'Japanese' – not at the moment at any rate, just something straightforward and westen – so I skipped the noodle bars and a rather odd-looking pizzeria – and ended up in, of all places, a Starbucks, and only for a mint tea and a chocolate chip cookie, and then I went back to the hotel to try and get some shut-eye, but as you can tell, I'm up, out of bed and typing these very words you're reading.

One of many things I don't understand is this: why do some Japanese people walk around with surgical masks on? What do they know that the rest of us don't? It'll bug me until I ask somebody. I'm going to crawl back into bed now and see if I can get some sleep. Needless to say I'll be back soon.

I say I'll be back soon, it's now 1010hrs and I'm awake. The sound of voices outside in the corridor clearly disturbed a light sleep. My daughter has texted me a photograph of Karl Pilkington because she thinks (quite rightly) that I'm an idiot abroad. I am. This room, room 302, really is very small, although in all honesty, it's no smaller than the smallest bedroom in my house and they've managed to cram a lot in. The bathroom squeezes everything one might need: a shower, a toilet, a washbasin and outside of that there's a bed, a flatscreen television, a desk space and a small, square window of frosted glass, affording no 'view' whatsoever, it barely opens more than a couple inches. There's a mirror in front of me and I can see my naked self, illuminated by the halogen glow of the computer screen from the waist up. I don't like what I see, I never have, but does anybody really look at themselves and think 'oooh, very nice!' I don't think so. There's a full-length mirror by the door, but I'm not going to get up and stand there, although I'm sure I will as soon as I walk to the bathroom (in that sense it's unavoidable).

Dimly-lit hotel corridor...

It's ironic that such a small room has a minibar and that it's empty. There's also a coffee machine but no coffee. In essence, this hotel must be familiar with the phrase 'the bare minimum'.

I have just opened and taken a swig from a plastic bottle of still mineral water left on the desk by the hotel. There's nothing to suggest it's going to cost me any money, but I won't find out until I check out  in a week's time, as I assume there will be a fresh bottle tomorrow once the cleaner has been in. My guess is they will charge me, but I might be wrong.

Outside of the room, the corridor is dark and dimly lit and despite the voices earlier on, it's one of those places where you don't really see anybody, apart from at breakfast time. In fact, I'm really wondering about breakfast time and what it will bring. I can't imagine a full Japanese breakfast will consist of sausages, egg, bacon and tomato with a literal sprinkling of fried mushrooms and a few slices of toast. I hope it is like this, but I seriously doubt it. Not having a hearty breakfast is going to be very disheartening as it will mean I'll have to seek out some kind of restaurant outside. Earlier, I passed a Wendy's burger kiosk, but whether it was the actual American chain, I don't know and besides, I'm not a burger sort of guy and who wants to eat breakfast walking along the street.

There are more voices in the corridor, Japanese voices. At least I'm making that assumption; they might be Korean or Taiwanese or Vietnamese, who can tell the difference? Well, they can, I guess, but I'm no expert of the region.

It's quite strange being in Japan. It's a long way away and the plane travelled across the desolate Siberia and then across the ocean. I feel odd being so far away on the other side of the planet and again amazed at how it's only a 12-hour flight away. Not that a 12-hour flight is in any way a short flight. I found it fairly taxing and passed the time watching movies: Leave No Trace was good and so was a British movie, Ghost Story. As always, more for comfort than anything else, I watched Toy Story 1 and after that little lot there was about three hours to go. Two meals were served on the flight: chicken with rice and then breakfast, the full English, which was very enjoyable. During the flight I also skimmed through a copy of the Daily Telegraph that I picked up in a WH Smith at Heathrow.

From where I emerged on to Tokyo streets...

If there's one thing I can't stand it's those situations, like yesterday, when I get to the airport and find I have to go straight to the gate, no time to chill with a cup of tea and a cookie or, better still, a proper meal. I had to make do with a chicken salad sandwich, which put me in a bad mood, knowing that I had a good 12 hours on the plane. As always, the plane was packed, but I was fortunate enough to have an exit row seat, which meant I could stretch out my legs in front of me.

Long flights are bad enough, but they're even worse if there's nobody you know on the flight enduring the same ordeal. I was flying alone so I only had myself and my thoughts and they were fretful. I'm glad I had the movies to distract me and in that respect, they were all worth watching.

I should really be getting some sleep, but I feel awake. Back home it's a quarter past three in the afternoon on a Sunday and oh how I'd like to be there, probably going for a drive to Chartwell or some sleepy Kent village for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, or perhaps even further afield, like Felpham, to the Lobster Pot followed by a walk along the beach. But no, I'm here and don't get me wrong, I'm not ungrateful (not everybody gets to be in Japan on a Sunday afternoon, apart from the Japanese, of course). In many ways, the fretful, unrelaxing state of mind I found myself in on the plane continues in this tiny hotel room, which instead of flying through the air is flying through time. A long night ahead awaits me, it's an ordeal and it won't end until the morning. In a sense it's not sleep, it's another flight and I still have eight hours to go. All I can do is get through it. I might give mum a call.

There's an eight-hour time difference between Tokyo and London. In London it's now around 3.27pm on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Watching the fog...

I had plans to start talking about 'history in the making', but that would have been misleading. The truth is that history hasn't been made at all, it was just another cyclist on the way to see his mum. Another Dawes Galaxy, perhaps, or another recumbent cyclist on his eccentric way to somewhere, but nobody knows where.

What the hell am I talking about? We were sitting at the Tatsfield bus stop, watching the fog. Believe me, it's better than watching paint dry. In fact it's quite educational: watching cars without lights disappearing into the murk, watching cyclists without lights (Lycra monkeys, of course) disappearing or simply cycling past us without a care for their own safety. Why don't people switch their lights on when there's fog? Some did, but an equal amount didn't. The biggest idiots were the Lycra monkeys.

Our bikes – my Rockhopper (left) and Andy's Blast – close to the bus stop

So we're sitting there, sipping tea, watching the fog when somebody turns up and has the audacity to ask me to move my rucksack. Naturally, I oblige and we engage in small talk. He'd cycled from Biggin Hill en route to Warlingham – not a million miles from where we'd set off earlier – to see his mum. I was reminded of my own 'urban rides' to mum's (haven't done one of those for a while) although that said, it's Tuesday as I write this, Tuesday 9th October at 2241hrs, and earlier today I'd seen mum and enjoyed a slice (or three) of fruit cake. But let's get back to last Saturday and the fog and the stranger, who, it turned out, was a nice guy.

We were sitting there at a later time than normal and it was all my fault. I'd switched off my alarm and had forgotten to switch it back on. Result? I woke up at 0700hrs instead of 0600hrs (after a broken night) and had to text Andy to say we should meet at 0800hrs, half an hour later than usual. So naturally we were later and that's how we met this new guy. We never exchanged names, but we did exchange pleasantries, told him we'd been coming here for almost a decade, told him about our other routes and then it was time to say good bye. We watched him disappear into the murk of the fog.

"I wonder if he makes a good sausage sandwich?" said Andy.
"Or a Bakewell tart," I added.

It was all because our recent conversations had focused on Phil and how we never see him anymore.

"He's gone over to the dark side," said Andy.
"Forever," I added.

There wasn't much more to say on the subject and soon it was our turn to pack up and head into the fog. Andy was going home via the Ridge and I stuck to the off-road path on the 269 due to the fog.

Fog ahead. At Warlingham Green 0800hrs

Sunday was another late start. This time Andy sent me a text asking if 0800hrs would be okay. Of course it was okay, I texted back, and settled in for a little more relaxation. I'd been up since 0600hrs and was glad for the lull in proceedings, so glad that I almost missed the 0730hrs departure time.

We decided that a short ride would be the order of the day. I had things going on and needed to be back early so we headed for the good old 'cottage' – a short ride along the 269 and then a left turn into the fields, following an off-road gravel path. When we got there the seating was damp, but it was good to be back at the cottage. Being as the place is right off the beaten track it was tranquil apart from birdsong.

"Imagine if you'd spent the night here," I said.
"If you had a sleeping bag you'd be alright because you're off the ground," said Andy. "It's the ground that's damp," he pointed out.
"I'd pitch up a tent over there," I said, pointing to the woods surrounding the cottage. "Keeping out of sight is crucial."

I found myself wondering why I have this 'camping out' fantasy, this strange yearning to sleep under canvas. It's been with me for years and was bolstered somewhat by reading Mike Carter's One Man and His Bike. Mike combined cycling with sleeping in a tent in a mammoth cycling adventure around the coastline of the United Kingdom. It's one of my favourite books of all-time.

Looking at the fog...

We drank tea, we dunked Belvitas and we chatted about nothing in particular, apart from camping wild. I had to get back so we mounted the bikes and headed off. I raced up the gravel track to the main field, the rear wheel slipping constantly, and then, when I reached the top, I lost momentum and had to dismount. I walked for a few yards and then jumped back on. Andy and I rode side-by-side to the gate and then we both used the road, not the off-road path, to reach Warlingham (it's faster, but also much more dangerous). That said, there was no fog on Sunday morning. In fact, the weather was very pleasant, much warmer than Saturday morning.

Talking of the weather, it's starting to creep towards winter. Last weekend I realised I needed a scarf before heading out – but couldn't find one. If I recall correctly, the week before it was very cold. I think it was around 6 degrees, but it got warmer as the day got older. The pattern seems to be cooler temperatures first thing in the morning, but then rising temperatures as the day progresses, so much so that there are blue skies and sunshine. Today, Tuesday 9th, was an amazing day. Sunshine, heat, and it's mid-October. Not that good weather in October is rare. I remember a ride to the lakes with Andy back in, I think, 2010, when the weather was wonderful, just like a midsummer's day. I've also got a photograph somewhere on this blog of Woodmansterne Green in November – with plenty of leaves still on the trees.

This weekend, the one just past, was good. We managed two rides, albeit both of them were later than usual, but sometimes a slower start is better.

Here's to the next ride...

Slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop – twice!

I was riding a mountain bike along a precarious trail with big drops on the left hand side. On the other side there were gypsies (no tramps, no thieves) chasing wild horses. Later, once I'd woken up and washed and shaved, I crossed a small pedestrian precinct where a man tried to hand me a small leaflet.

"Do you believe in the after life?" he asked.
"You never know," I said, not stopping.
"Then let's have a chat," he added.

I didn't stop, but I did consider handing him a business card that I had picked up in Newcastle last week in a ruse designed to make him think I was part of the Society for Psychical Research. I'm not and I didn't.

Last night I found myself on a plane to Los Angeles. The plane swooped low over the city, which looked deserted and unreal, and out to sea before circling and landing at the airport. It was raining and I was staying in an upmarket hotel. Out on the streets I was thirsty so I stopped for a soft drink and then found it was 0430hrs in the morning and I had been dreaming.

Andy's Blast at the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

It had been a good weekend of cycling: two trips to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way. The weather has definitely changed. On Saturday as I made my way to the green to meet Andy I wished I'd wrapped up warmer. A scarf would have been a good idea. On Sunday I found something to keep my neck warm on Sunday's ride.

Saturday's ride along Beddlestead was very pleasant, not the normal slog, and it was similar on Sunday. We had considered the Cottage for Sunday's ride, via the slow way along Beddlestead Lane, but why almost reach the bus stop and not go there? So we did. As we rode along we discussed Phil's disappearance (we simply don't see him anymore).

"He's gone over to the dark side," said Andy.
"Never to return," I added.

If the truth be known, we all missed Phil's sausage sandwiches and found ourselves reminiscing about the summer of 2015 when he produced a perfect Bakewell tart. Happy days, we thought, as we stared at the long grass in need of a cut. Andy watched a mouse scuttle out and waddle his way under the seats in the bus shelter. Moments later he reappeared, went back into the long grass and then re-emerged and made his way across the road, narrowly avoiding being squashed by a passing car. He found his way to the opposite bank and disappeared.

Lycra monkeys passed in both directions, some heading down the hill towards Westerham, others riding towards Botley Hill.

Rays of sunshine on the slow way route...

Both days were characterised by blue skies and the temperatures gradually rose, but not to the levels of August. It's that time of year for deceptive weather, when it looks bright and warm, but is, in fact, scarves and jumpers weather. I need to kit myself out with new cycling gear. At the moment I'm wearing red leather Converse All Stars, skinny jeans and a grey hoody; I look like something from an inner London housing estate and it must stop.

The Specialized Rockhopper is performing well. I'm keeping it oiled and in good nick all round, but I have got a couple of scratches on the frame that need to be touched up. In fact I must remember to get the paint.

It's Monday at 0815hrs and the sun is shining bright in the garden behind me, but it's not that warm. When I woke up it was just 6 degrees and it's expected to rise to 13 degrees. Winter is on the way, it's 1 October and this month, according to Andy, British Summer Time comes to an end. Of course it does: the clocks go back later in the month, why was I so surprised about that? I remembered one October when there was scorching hot weather. We rode to the lakes that day on what was probably a last blast of summer sunshine. For more details of that great day, click here.

Gearing up for the ride home...