Great weather on Saturday, but blustery and cold on Sunday morning...

Is there any such thing as a good abort? Probably not, because the 'abort' is basically the termination of a ride, the cancellation of a bit of leisure time. Perhaps the phrase I'm looking for is a 'timely abort'. Although 'timely' implies of the moment and my abort this morning was certainly not timely: I didn't check out the weather, see that it was about to pour down and then rattle off an abort text to Andy. Far from it. Mine was, if you like, pre-meditated. I knew I was going to do it, although, admittedly, I hesitated because I wasn't sure. In the end, however, I sent the text because I knew there was a lot happening today and that a ride would just be too much.

Our bikes,  Beddlestead Lane, Saturday 30 March 2019

After sending the abort I jumped back into bed and then, around 45 minutes later, I got out of bed. The clocks had gone forward an hour. I had porridge as always and a cup of tea and then I messed around on the computer. Later I went out, bought a Google Chromebook, on which I am writing this note.

Yesterday was great. The weather was wonderful. It was almost like a summer's day. We rode the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, but never reached it. We cycled a fair way up Beddlestead Lane and stopped by the mobile phone mast on the right to take a different shot than the one we might have taken at the bus stop. We've run out of ideas at the bus stop, having taken every possible shot at least twice. We decided not to push on to the bus stop, but to stay put and drink our tea, watching the Lycra Monkeys exert themselves as we took in a few rays and sipped from our mugs of tea. I wonder what they must have thought as they puffed past us, exerting themselves unnecessarily, and spotting Andy and I, not wearing Lycra, taking things easy.  It was pleasant. There were blue skies and it was warm We discussed Brexit, quite sensibly, I thought, and then headed towards Clarks Lane, turning right instead of left. Andy parted company at The Ridge and, as usual, I continued along the 269, using the off-road path and then joining the road at the roundabout close to Warlingham Sainsbury's where I would later buy my Chromebook (they have an Argos store). We vowed to meet the following day, but didn't because I aborted. It was Mother's Day, people were coming over. Charged with the simple task of heating up a few pizzas, I messed up, probably because it had been so long since I last ate a pizza that I simply forgot the procedure. Anyway, I won't bore you with the details, but I will say that we only ate one of the three pizzas purchased.

Yours truly (left) with Andy Smith, who took both photographs

Sunday wasn't as pleasant weatherwise as Saturday. In fact, it was cold and rainy as I crossed the car park clasping my new Chromebook, but things started to brighten up in the afternoon. As I write this, the sun is shining.

I'll be back on the bike next week.

To the (ahem) Tatsfield Bus Stop (the slow way – twice!)...

I've just realised that it's Tuesday and I haven't yet written about the weekend's cycling. I don't know why, I just forgot. I've been fairly tired of late, weary, perhaps, is a better word: weary and pissed off for no particular reason, just a nagging sense of injustice and, of course, an annoying, murmuring anger bubbling up under the surface, probably linked with this shitty country and it's awful political classes. God, they've made a right mess of things, the Tories. Listen, I'm not going to go on about it, but I guess I'm like a lot of people, just fed up with fucking Brexit and Theresa May and Gove and Rees-Mogg and fucking Boris Johnson. The 10 o'clock news is on. Katya Adler is explaining that there's a lot of uncertainty ahead.

Flytipping at the bottom of Hesiers Hill

So this weekend we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, twice, and the slow way. On one of the days we rode down Hesiers Hill and found a huge pile of crap some wankers had dumped in the middle of the road. Who are these people? Fly tipping is becoming a regular problem for cyclists. Often there are road closures and I'm sure that they closed Hesiers Hill to traffic at some stage over the weekend. A couple of Lycra Monkeys were on their mobile phones calling the police. I took a photo and later tweeted the image, which was later retweeted by Andy, so here's hoping something was done.

It must have been Sunday when we saw the huge pile of crap dumped in the road. The weather, I recall, was pleasant, the skies blue. On Saturday there was drizzly rain, but we still went out because it was so fine it was almost unnoticeable. Saturday I was feeling really weary. So weary that I almost aborted. I'm glad I didn't. We managed to get two rides in, both around 17 miles. On both occasions, Andy departed at The Ridge and I rode the off-road path towards Warlingham.

Not much is happening, apart from Brexit and knife crime and racist attacks. The UK is quickly becoming the laughing stock of the world and I genuinely do feel ashamed to be British. Now I know how the Americans felt under George 'Dubya' Bush.

Andy took this shot of our bikes at the bus stop on Sunday

My bike is in need of a jet clean and hopefully I'll sort it out next weekend. Nothing worse than a filthy bike.

I really can't think of anything else to say or discuss. Oh, I'm reading a great book at the moment: All Together Now by Mike Carter, yes, he who wrote One Man and His Bike. It's a good book, but a little depressing as it deals with the state of the nation – not a good subject at the moment.

In Liverpool – at the Adelphi Hotel...

Somehow the phrase 'hotel and spa' seems wrong. Very wrong. It's the 'spa' bit that doesn't ring true. I mean, 'hotel' is obvious: it's a big building, a very big building, and there are lots of rooms in which beds can be found, tea and coffee making facilities and bathrooms; there are bars, breakfast rooms, restaurants, it's a hotel alright, and I'm sure that the hotel management can make a case for their being a spa. But please, put aside any thoughts of glamorous women in white towelling robes and those so-called 'infinity pools', you're not going to find Joanna Lumley, but you might bump into Ross Kemp or Stacey Dooley. And talking of documentaries, there was one done on the Adelphi, many moons ago and if my memory serves me correctly, an old associate of mine used to work there, in its hey day, before it resembled something from a grainy video filmed from a diving bell making its way through the grand ballroom of the Titanic. In short, the Adelphi has had its day, its moment of magic, and now, sadly, it is but a shadow of its former self, it's more than a little rough around the edges, it's a place you ought to avoid like the plague.

The dated bathroom in room 618...

When I arrived off the train from Euston, I must admit that I was looking forward to my one-night stay in this old stalwart of the British hotel industry, but then I didn't realise how low it had stooped and how the clientele of yesteryear had been replaced by an edgy, anorak-clad brigade of people who probably couldn't afford the Adelphi of the past. Queuing with me was a man with a neck tattoo and those horrendous earlobe piercings and everybody looked, well, down-at-heel, including yours truly, it has to be said. I suddenly realised that this wasn't going to be what I was used to and that I wouldn't be looking forward to breakfast, lunch or dinner in the hotel restaurant.

It's my own fault. I didn't have to spend just £36 for the night, my company can (and does) stretch a little further than that, but I thought it would be alright – it wasn't.

I picked up my key card and headed for room 618 on the sixth floor. The room was labelled a 'designated smoking room', but I didn't smoke and they hadn't even asked me at the front desk. I had no reason to assume that they would look at me and think: 'smoker'. There was a pungent whiff of stale smoke in the corridor and the room and I never got used to it or the general neglect. One of the beds had a wonky leg that had keeled over, there were scuff marks here and there, an extremely dated bathroom and I just knew I was going to get out of there and check-in somewhere else, like my old friend the Liverpool Marriott – not just a case of 'any port in a storm' I can tell you.

The bed in room 618 – not nice...

I switched on the television and started watching something while sitting on the edge of the bed, but soon I decided to head outside and find somewhere decent to eat. I found Brown's and sat there wondering what to do. It was all very depressing. One thing that had bothered me was a sign on the front desk that said something like: 'we will not tolerate violence or abusive language against our staff' – fine on the London Underground, but in a hotel? It provided a glimpse of the Adelphi's demographic and, ultimately, it stiffened my resolve to find somewhere else to stay. Fortunately, I had my overnight bag with me (it wasn't a suitcase, more a satchel, so the hotel staff would be none the wiser if they saw me leaving through the revolving door). I'd paid up front, so all I had to do was hand in the key card, but I didn't. Instead, I would come back the following morning en route to my appointment and 'check out'.

After dinner I went back to the Adelphi just to see if I could stay there, but the smell of stale smoke persisted, the general neglect couldn't be ignored, the warning notice on the front desk about violence to staff, the clientele, they all made finding somewhere else to sleep a top priority. As I walked up the steps towards the lobby, there were scruffy-looking people sitting outside smoking, there were people clasping cans of lager, and a coffee cup was just left there, on the steps, for somebody else to pick up. Nobody was going to pick it up.

Tissue paper left on the floor...

On my way down (and out) of the hotel, there was a sign on the elevator doors reading 'Out of Order' – of course there was! There was also some screwed up tissue paper on the floor and I'd bet on it being there now, four days later.

They say you get what you pay for in life and you certainly do. A hotel room for £36 a night? There's no such thing as a free lunch, don't forget that. The Adelphi has had its moment in the limelight. Every dog has its day and in my opinion the hotel needs millions to be spent on refurbishment or, failing that, it should be demolished, turned into social housing, anything, but it's days as a hotel, surely, are numbered.

If you read this and are considering spending the night in the Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool, I would urge you to find somewhere else to stay. I headed for the Marriott.

Caked out!

Saturday was windy. Trees were swaying to and fro and there was drizzly rain too, here and there. Not pleasant. I had a bad cake day. It started early with two pieces of fruit cake 'round at mum's', not forgetting two Malted Milk biscuits I didn't need; then, later, I paid a visit to the Tudor Rose café in Westerham where I ordered a slice of Bakewell tart. It wasn't the best either, it was a sorry looking cake with a chunk of icing that should have adorned the top of it, hanging loose and revealing the cake underneath. I wasn't impressed, but then I haven't been impressed with the Tudor Rose of late. Whenever the owner isn't there, things slip, like the level of service and, it seems, the quality of the cake. There was also a stain inside my tea cup. After the Tudor Rose I had some driving to do, not much, but a little bit, and when I got home I (foolishly) opted for a pre-prepared prawn curry from Waitrose. Not the best thing in the world, but nobody felt like cooking, least of all me. I boiled up some rice and served up. The food was accompanied by some green beans (there had to be something healthy about it) and a glass of tap water. Not exactly the most glam meal in the world. Afterwards, I considered some Weetabix (two biscuits) for dessert, with honey on top, but as I opened the bread bin I spied some hot cross buns. All-in-all, a bad cake day and now, as I sit here writing this blogpost in the conservatory, the birds tweeting outside, the sun shining and blue skies, no clouds, I look ahead to a day that I intend to make cake-free. I can't possibly eat any more, seriously. Last week I did good. I managed a whole five days without biscuits, but I weakened on Friday and had an iced bun in the M&S café. The only bad thing I had last week was apple pie and custard on Tuesday, although that particular meal, in the Pop Inn Café, was not the best thing in the world (unusually, as it's a top notch caff in my opinion). My main course was chicken and mushroom pie with chips and peas – not good, but for most of the week I had sandwiches and I'd invested in some Be Good to Yourself chicken noodle cuppa soup, which saw me through and kept me away from the biscuits.

It started on Saturday with mum's fruit cake...

With so much eating going on, I was annoyed that I hadn't gone cycling on Saturday due to the heavy winds and drizzly rain, although in many ways one led to another: rain = no cycling = lots of cake. It's now Sunday morning and a ride is on the cards. The weather seems perfect and all I have to do now is make the tea, but what's this? A text? From Andy? A late abort? No, but Andy's running late. I suggest we meet at 0745hrs. The next paragraph will be after I return, so see you later...

Well, I'm back, feeling energised by a decent ride. I reached home around 0930hrs. We rode the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop as Andy didn't have much time and I wasn't up for a longer ride. There were blue skies and sunshine, but the trees were bare and it was still a little on the chilly side. All week it's been windy and rainy, but the summer is on the way. It's light now when I wake up at 0600hrs, but the clocks go forward next week – or thereabouts – and that will mean slightly darker starts for a short while and lighter evenings, but either way it means summer is almost upon us.

Andy said he'd taken every possible photograph at the bus stop, he'd run out of ideas, so we didn't take any and besides, my phone had run out of power, despite the fact that it showed 34% of the battery life still available. That's the problem with iPhones. I'd happily revert back to the Nokia 3310, but I do use some of the functions of my 'smart' phone, like Google Maps and email and texts, although I could get by without them if I had to, as most of the time it's little more than a call home saying something like "I'm on the way home" or "I'm at East Croydon station". The old 3310 had great battery life and they fitted in the smallest of places, like a breast pocket on a jacket. They were also indestructible, give or take. Once I remember jogging over Riddlesdown Common and taking a fall. The phone landed with a bang (like I did) the back came off, but that was about it; I simply clicked it all back together and it was fine.

How to take a bad photograph...

On the ride back, Andy took The Ridge and I rode along the off-road path of the 269, risking a puncture. The wind had brought a small tree down across the path so I had to lift the bike over it and re-mount. And now, of course, I'm home and I'm about to hit the shower.

Later I let myself down again. I found myself in the Brewhouse Restaurant at Knole, a National Trust property. I ordered swede soup and bread, which was very tasty, but then ruined it by ordering a scone with cream and jam. Fortunately, a long walk followed, which took away my guilt.

The bike needs a jet clean, urgently. It's covered in mud and is looking in need of some TLC. Next week I'll pay a visit to the Esso garage on the green. Until then, goodbye dear readers, have a good week.

Heavy winds gave me an excuse not to ride...

I hate finding excuses not to ride, but heavy winds seemed like a good one. I'd had a good ride yesterday (see previous post) and that seemed to be in my favour as I considered whether to send myself an abort text or not. I knew Andy wasn't going, which made it all easier, but I still wanted a real excuse not to go out. Fortunately for me, when I looked out of the kitchen window at the tall conifer at the top of the garden, I could see it was raining. That'll do pig! So I didn't ride to mum's, I drove there, listening to John McLaughlin's Extrapolation, bringing back memories of driving to the coast in the late eighties/early nineties and walks in the Suffolk countryside. There was rain on my windscreen, which brought great comfort as it meant that I had good reason not to embark upon the six-mile ride from Sanderstead to Carshalton. I felt, in a way, justified to be sitting in my car, even if I did spot a cyclist battling the elements earlier on, having just left my house – and he was wearing shorts!

All was well at mum's, things were orderly, as they've always been. I enjoyed two triangular pieces of fruit cake and a cup of tea, plus a couple of tiny chocolate biscuits. While I opened the box of Elizabeth David Mints, I put the lid back on, scolding myself for even thinking about it.

Mum's clock radio was on Medium Wave – or so she said. She wanted FM and wondered whether I could sort it out. She has an old Roberts radio, but it's seen better days and I think she wanted the clock radio to be promoted so she could retire the old 'wireless'. When I took a look at the clock radio I discovered that it was already on FM, but I decided not to disappoint her. "There you go, mum, fixed it," I said, moving it on to her bedside table. She hurriedly took the Roberts radio away as if a car was waiting downstairs to take it to a care home.

I went downstairs to use the mildly claustrophobic bathroom adjoining the 'new room', which is really an old room, it's just that it was once new and the name stuck. The new room. I was still living at home when the new room was constructed and it quickly became the new dining room where we had breakfast, lunch and dinner. Things have moved on, though. Today, dinner is often served in the 'lounge', the 'through lounge', which was knocked through in the seventies.

Soon it was time to go and this time there was a sense of relief that I wasn't going to be donning helmet and old rucksack and heading out to mount the bike. The wind was strong, swaying the branches of some big trees, including Mrs Tillman's horse chestnut that lurched dangerously back and forth over the railway line. My car was parked outside and I knew that John McLaughlin's Extrapolation had a good 15 minutes left. I said goodbye to mum and told her not to stand on the doorstep waving me off, it was too breezy, too cold. I drove down to the bottom of the road, turned the car round and drove back up and as I passed mum's house she was still on the step waving as I passed.

Long way to Tatsfield Village...

It's light when I wake up these days. Summer is coming, but first there's spring. Some of the blossom trees are in bloom, some not. My blossom tree is still bare, but my California lilac in the back garden is starting to bloom, it's all looking very promising. Today (Saturday) was cloudy and dull, there was no rain, but I'm not sure what tomorrow holds. Andy won't be riding so I'll probably ride to mum's early in the morning.

Our bikes in Tatsfield Village. Pic by Andy Smith

Today I left the house around 0710hrs, I was running a little late. Fortunately, the puncture I fixed last Saturday had remained fixed. Both front and back tyres were rock hard and believe me, it makes a big difference. I found riding up Church Way slightly harder than usual, just because I missed riding last weekend, first because of the puncture to my rear tyre and second because of Storm Freya, which arrived on Sunday. The whole day was a wash-out, which meant no cycling. Miss a week and you soon find yourself out of condition.

Andy and I decided to ride the slow way to Tatsfield village and when we got there we did the usual: we took out the tea and biscuits and had a chinwag. I'm off the biscuits at the moment (I eat too many during the week). I've also stopped putting milk in my porridge, but the annoying thing is that eat too many biscuits during the week so I'm compensating by doing a lot of walking at lunch times. I'm averaging 12,400 steps per day and on one day I managed over 15,000 steps. For some reason I'm always hungry.

We rode out of Tatsfield and it looks as if by next week the daffodils will be in full bloom along Approach Road. We turned right and rode along Clarks Lane towards Botley Hill. Andy went home via the Ridge and I rode along the 269, moving on to the off-road track to avoid the speeding cars. I was going to hang a right and ride down Beech Road to avoid the 269, but decided to risk the off-road path all the way to Warlingham. Right now I have no idea whether I have a puncture, but I'll find out in the morning.

I was home before 1000hrs, had a shower and got on with my day.

At last! Somebody who gets it! Thank you, Nick Cohen...

"On its own terms of regaining control of our borders, it [Brexit] has failed. Migration from the EU has fallen but migration from the rest of the world is at its highest since 2004. Given that the Brexit campaign specifically appealed to public fears of Islamist terrorism and Syrians, Iraqis and Turks pouring into Britain, it strikes me that Leave voters’ prime concern was not the arrival of French accountants and Spanish nurses." 

Nick Cohen, The Guardian.

Puncture halts ride and I hope for a lull in tomorrow's predicted bad weather...

I reckon I've missed the ride this weekend. There's some nasty weather coming in from the west and I think today, Saturday is going to be the only day we get a ride in. But it was not to be: I went through all the motions, of course. I made the tea, sorted out the milk and the tea bags, chucked the lot in my rucksack and then headed outside to jump on the bike. But no, there was a rear wheel puncture and while normally this wouldn't have phased me (I would have simply fixed it, arranged to meet Andy a little later and all would have been fine) today I had to get back early, so the lost time led me to abort the ride.

A randomly selected shot of Badesi beach in Sardinia on a windy day in 2016

I decided it was best to fix the puncture and set about the task calmly. As I write this, the bike is now repaired and both tyres have been pumped up hard. I hope I get to ride tomorrow, but if the weather is anything to go by I seriously doubt it, but you never know. If a ride is on, you can bet I'll be soaked by the time I return home.There might be a lull in proceedings that gets me out of the house, but I'm sure that, somewhere along the road, the heavens will open and I'll get wet, but let's see. It might be one of those freaky situations when I somehow escape an early morning cold shower, who knows?

While I'm here, what's been going on of late? Well, not much if the truth be told. I've been working ever since I returned from New Delhi and I'm not travelling anywhere until early April at present, although there might be trips to Vienna and Milan on the agenda, not sure yet. Having just returned from the garage after fixing that puncture, there's also a lot of clutter in there that needs to be sorted out and let's not forget that I need to decorate the hallway. I was reminded of this when I spied the paint brushes and the roller on the floor in the garage alongside two tins of paint. It's got to be done sooner or later so I need to put aside a weekend.

Mum had her hip replacement on 31 January and now she's fine and walking around quite normally. Amazing really. She's 89 (90 in November) and she's sailed through the whole thing without (touch wood) any issues. Things have gone back to normal as we no longer have to spend the nights round there. I used to spend Saturday and a day in the week over there and Jon and Chrissy (my brother and sister) would fill the other days. It's strange sleeping in my old bedroom and oddly not the same anymore. I prefer to be here in my own home six miles east of mum's.

Mike Carter has a new book out (All Together Now?) and needless to say it's fantastic. There will be a review here on this blog just as soon as I've finished it. The book I read before Carter's latest was Douglas Coupland's Girlfriend in a Coma, which was a little strange, and prior to that, Michel Houellbecq's Platform. He's got another book out in the UK later this year called Seratonin, which I'm really looking forward to; I first read Houellbecq back in 2007 – Atomised – and with everything that's going around Brexit, he's kind of part of the zeitgeist, which is all good.

Not much else to report, so I'll sign off. The photograph accompanying this post is of a beach in Badesi, Sardinia. It has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that I went on holiday there a couple of years ago, which was good.

I have nothing more to say other than here's hoping I get a ride in tomorrow.

Sunday – Storm Freya means no cycling

Bad weather had been mentioned once or twice on the television. So-called Storm Freya was on its way and it was due to hit on Sunday. I woke up at 0600hrs and immediately took a look at my neighbour's conservatory roof. The puddle was animated by rain so I immediately sent Andy an abort text and spent most of the day looking out of the window or reading Mike Carter's All Together Now, not forgetting a drive (as opposed to a ride) to mum's. It was a lazy day and a weekend without cycling.