Strange dreams last night, but nothing to do with the weekend's cycling. I was in a foreign country, possibly North Korea. Many people were swimming in a large bay, but there was something wrong with the water: it looked more like the chlorinated water found in a municipal swimming baths. It didn't matter, though, I jumped in and had a swim, it was fine and much needed. Then I found myself in what must have been a ruined or bombed-out building. There were children climbing down from a precarious piece of brickwork. Suddenly, all was gone and I was in my old bedroom at the family home in Sutton. Work colleagues were there, two of them, one male, one female. I was peering into my wardrobe where there was a lot of graffiti, and there was a feeling that somebody else had once occupied the bedroom, somebody who was a bit of a character, a lovable rogue even. It certainly wasn't me. The wall on which the graffiti was written was in a bad state: peeling wallpaper, and I was looking into the space, which, for some reason, had a small, lead-paned window and I began to wonder whether it could have been transformed into a small room. I turned to my colleagues and said I could do with some paint stripper and then, of course, I woke up. It was 0523hrs and daylight was seeping through the patterned curtains.
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| Westerham green, Sunday 10th June 2018 |
Having returned late from Poland on Friday night, I enjoyed a lie-in on Saturday morning, but was ready to rock on Sunday. Andy was tired and suggested the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. The slow way is ideal if we want to chat as we ride along, so off we went, turning left at the roundabout beyond Warlingham Sainsbury's, chatting about the global steel industry and Donald Trump. Trump features a lot in many people's conversations these days. In fact, as I write this (later than normal – I've got a bit of catching up to do) Trump has met with the North Korean leader, Kim Jong Un, in Singapore – history in the making.
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| Westerham green, Sunday 10th June 2018 |
When we reached the bus stop, we did what we always do: sit and chat while drinking tea and munching biscuits, although I didn't bother with the biscuits so Andy ate mine. I'm addicted to biscuits and I'm trying to kick the habit, but it's hard. It was 0917hrs when I looked at my watch. It was later than we thought so Andy said he'd be heading back via The Ridge, which is just short of Botley Hill. I decided to push on to Westerham alone and rode leisurely down the hill into Kent.
We had no more tea so I could have visited the Tudor Rose, but I didn't have a padlock for the bike so instead I sat on the green, watching classic cars roar past on the A25. There was a group of bikers to my right and they were all kitted out head to foot in leathers. At one stage a team photograph was suggested and they all marched over to Churchill's statue where a cyclist sitting on the grass agreed to take the shot. The bikers marched back to their bikes and roared off along the A25 heading east. I sat there for around 15 minutes and then hit the road, not looking forward to the slow climb up the hill.
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| The off-road track along the B269... |
On the 269 I used the off-road path, which proved annoying as I was constantly ringing my bell to alert joggers or give way to oncoming cyclists, but soon I reached Warlingham Sainsbury's and rejoined the road, riding round the green and along the Limpsfield Road into Sanderstead and then free-wheeling down Church Way towards home.
The weather was amazing – another hot weekend – and I spent most of it in the garden tidying up the edges and drinking tea. Andy's not riding next week so it's down to me to motivate myself. I'll probably ride to mum's on Saturday and possibly Sunday too.
