No cycling this weekend...

I can't blame the weather. Alright, I can blame a week in Dusseldorf for taking it easy on Saturday morning, although I had planned to ride over Woodmansterne way to meet Bon. We hadn't arranged anything, but I could have called him or left a text and that way I would have committed myself. But I didn't call or text. In fact, sitting here now, at 1838hrs on a Sunday evening, Kylie Minogue performing at Glastonbury - "Put your hand on your heart and tell me" - I'm feeling a bit ashamed of myself for doing absolutely no exercise. I've slobbed about, I've taken the car over to mum's, eaten cake and biscuits, then changed a pair of trousers in M&S and there's not much else I can remember about Saturday.

As for Sunday, I had a golden opportunity to go cycling, but decided that a planned drive into darkest Sussex took preference and, ultimately, I kept the bike under lock and key. Once I'd abandoned the proper ride, which would have been to meet Bon on Woodmansterne Green, all that was left was riding the Woodland Trek. Well, I sent Bon a text, but he'd had a rough night and didn't fancy it. I texted back to say that I had some driving to do so perhaps cycling was a bad idea. Let's meet next Saturday, that seemed like the best policy.

Suddenly I felt 'off the hook'. I mooched around the house, still considering the aforementioned Woodland Trek, but time was ticking, time was running out. I didn't go anywhere, other than deepest Sussex in the car. On the way back I was feeling sleepy and had to stop in huge Tesco store in Pulborough where the shelves were empty in places. I bought a bottle of mineral water and a Bounty and miraculously I was able to drive again. This happened once before; I was feeling sleepy so I ate a Bounty and was instantly revived. Anyway, I got home otherwise I wouldn't be writing this. Kylie's still on and, to be honest, she's putting in a pretty lame performance. Even when Nick Cave joined her on stage, it was underwhelming.

Reading a great book at the moment, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. Brilliant, but I'm only on Chapter Four so I'll keep you all posted. I'm also reading Another Fine Mess by Tim Moore, which is all about a journey across America, through Trump's America no less, in a Ford Model T.

What's happening in the world? The Tory party leadership battle continues with two contenders left in the race, the obese buffoon that is Boris Johnson and the slightly more palatable Jeremy Hunt. I don't want either to win, but if I had to make a choice it would be Hunt. Also in the news, a pregnant woman was stabbed and killed in Thornton Heath, near Croydon, Surrey. The baby is in a critical condition in hospital. I've mentioned Glastonbury. Last night's performance by the Killers was good, especially when the Pet Shop Boys and then Johnny Marr appeared, but I haven't really been watching it. Kylie is still on, getting emotional. Worse still, that awful Chris Martin has just joined her on stage. That bloke is always gate-crashing other people's acts and he's so boring, not very rock and roll is what I'm saying. Get off the stage, you cock! I can't stand him or Coldplay. One person we should all try to get out of heads and minds is Chris Martin, the cappuccino 'rocker', the skinny latte of establishment rock, the clean-cut nob cheese of popular music. Oh, I do hope Coldplay won't be performing, I really do.

Church bells are ringing out from the Glasto stage and Kylie's performance is now confirmed as absolute girly bollocks. Especially for you, I wanna let you know what I was going through...no!!! Anything but that song. I suppose Donovan will be waltzing on to the stage in a second, let's hope not. Look, I'm signing off, it's all too depressing.

On the 0817hrs Dusseldorf to Paris Nord train (heading for Brussels)...

When I woke up this morning it was only 57 degrees Fahrenheit. Most of the week it’s been in the high eighties. That’s not to say it won’t get hotter as the day progresses. I’m on board the 0817 train to Paris Nord, although I’m getting off at Brussels Midi. I’m sitting in seat 14, coach 22, right at the back of the train, but the carriage is virtually empty, the seat wide and I’m as happy as Larry looking out at the passing landscape.

One thing I noticed on the journey from Brussels to Dusseldorf - and I’m now reminded of as the train slows down as we arrive in Cologne - is that the Germans really love their allotments. I’ve never seen such elaborate sheds, some sporting their own back gardens, most with net curtains; the Germans really make themselves at home and their sheds could easily double as houses, places where people could live.

We have stopped on a railway bridge over the Rhine, right in the middle. I remember walking over this bridge back in 2007, or thereabouts, but I can’t remember exactly why I was in Cologne, although it was probably something to do with the international potato processing industry or food manufacturing in some shape or form.

We have arrived in Cologne and loads of people are now standing to my right with their suitcases. To my immediate right is a south east Asian couple are trying to put their massive suitcases in the racks over the seats. Miraculously, they’ve succeeded and now a steady flow of people are pushing their suitcases in front of them. Just when I thought the journey was going to be silent, I can hear the apologies. “I’m so sorry”, “excuse me, sir” and “sorry about that”. These are all holidaymakers in shorts and tee-shirts and trainers, a world alien to me.

The train is edging out of the platform, we pass the Merian Hotel and the backs of apartment blocks and then Cologne Hansaring station on which more holidaymakers stand waiting for a train. The train picks up speed and it won’t be long before we leave the city behind.

The guards have been round checking the tickets, always a nervous moment for me for some reason, but all my documents were in order and now the food trolley, but I want for nothing; I’ve eaten breakfast and that’s enough until I reach Brussels Midi. Although I’ve just heard it’s complimentary and I have the choice of sweet or salty. No, I must resist and I do so easily - until I’m offered a croissant. “Orange joose, multi-vitamin?” He’s moved up the carriage as we pass through a town and back into the fields.

Outside the sun is shining, the wind farms are still and the skies are blue apart from one solitary cloud expanding like ink on blotting paper as it splurges from some kind of industrial plant. It’s lovely out there. Everything is bathed in sunshine, everything is still, blinds are down, umbrellas are up. All is quiet.

Some of the passengers are tucking in to their breakfasts, sipping water or fruit juice, and I’m looking out of the window at the woods where all is still.

I was up at 0600hrs this morning and I’d had a fairly good sleep, mainly because I was packing stuff away last night and didn’t hit the sack until around midnight. Compared to earlier in the week the heat of the night had gone, but I kept the windows open as it was nice to listen to the city before nodding off to sleep. I was in the hotel breakfast room at just gone 0630 having showered and shaved last night in order to save time in the morning. Mint tea, yoghurt, a couple of mini pastries, cereal and that was my lot. No scrambled egg or fresh fruit this morning. Check-out was quick and soon I found myself on the railway station passing the time by reading English newspapers. The very thought of going back there depressed me: Boris Johnson, Brexit and all those associated with it. I’ve avoided watching television all week and my only contact with the UK has been through the BBC website.

Ebbsfleet, I'm back in the UK and not happy about it...

We’re in Aachen. After a short stop the train lurches out of the station and I fall asleep only to awake at Liege, but I thought we might have arrived in Brussels. Panicking slightly, but knowing deep down that we can’t possibly be there just yet, I jumped up and asked the guard. “Liege, Belgium,” he says and with a sigh of relief I went back to my seat. It’s 0953hrs and we’re due to arrive in Brussels at 1035. 

Trains always make me sleepy, but that’s what’s nice about them. Liege is nice too, what I can see of it. The town is surrounded by wooded hills, but it’s a picturesque sort of place with tall, narrow, close-knit townhouses. And now we’re passing through Ans. Within seconds there are fields and once again the sleepy, sunny stillness returns and I am reminded of what my life knows as ‘the magical year’, 1989, when all was good with the world, the Berlin Wall came down and I enjoyed a fantastic holiday in Menton, South of France. We travelled there by train and I remember the return journey when the weather was similar to what it is now. This was before the recession hit and redundancy loomed and I felt angry with the world for the first time in my life. Up until the start of 1990 I had no real gripes with my position in the world, but after 1990 things started to go wrong and the United Kingdom of today was born and by that I mean a distrustful place full of career politicians and angry, bigoted people. Perhaps for others this awful world had arrived earlier, who knows? But for me, 1989 was the last of the good years, the end, if you like, of innocence. After 1989 I lost friends, I lost jobs and I lost respect, there was nothing but uncertainty in all spheres of life and it has continued physically, mentally, politically and professionally.

Cake and a mug of ginger orange tea...

Travelling through Europe as I am right now on a Thalys train, through the fields and towns and sitting here in comfort writing and admiring the passing countryside, I find it odd to think that my country, the United Kingdom, has voted to leave the European Union. When I arrived at Dusseldorf Hbf this morning I was wondering if there was any way of giving up my British citizenship and just becoming a ‘European’ of no fixed abode, meaning not British, not French, not German, just a European. I think I’d simply like to stop being British, it’s such a pile of poo, especially if it’s going to be headed up by that huge, obese buffoon, Boris Johnson. The thought of that oaf representing me is abhorent. It makes me angry, although I think the real cause of my anger right now is the fact that I’m going home. Sooner or later I’ll be returning to the United Kingdom and I’m not happy about it.

Trendy, yes, but a great piece of cake!

When I arrived at Brussels Midi I found that I had to pay to take a piss. I remember reading somewhere, I think it was Chomsky, who said ‘they’ - the man - would charge for the air we breathe if there was a way. They make it complicated here just to take a wazz. First you have to buy a token and then insert the token in the wall and magically a door opens. I’m sitting in a cafe now, a place with a weird name, like EXKI It’s a bit trendy, but not too much and I’ve just purchased an excellent slice of cake and a ginger orange with vanilla tea, it’s great! I’ve decided that for the month of July, no cake, no chocolates, no biscuits. Thirty one days of abstinence should sort me out. I feel as if I’m putting on weight so all the crap has to stop, pure and simple.

In Dusseldorf...in the sweltering heat

I arrived in Dusseldorf around 2000hrs and walked the short distance to my hotel, the Novum Madison. Check-in was reasonably straightforward, although I hadn't bought in to their breakfast offering. This I quickly rectified and was surprised to be given a key with the number of my room on a blue piece of plastic or Perspex or whatever it's made from.

Room 416, Novum Madison, Dusseldorf

Reaching the room proved a little confusing. In fact, even now, I'm not exactly sure what floor I'm on. I pressed the button in the lift for the fourth floor, assuming room 416 would be on the fourth floor, but it's confusing. Anyway, eventually, I got there and found a relatively basic room with pine furniture, a safe that doesn't open, probably because the previous guest left it that way. I was reminded of my recent trip to Pittsburgh and decided not to mention the safe to the guys on reception. Who knows where I'd end up later in the week?

The view from room 416, Novum Madison

I dropped off my bags and headed straight for my favourite restaurant, which is literally a five-minute walk away: Parma ham with melon (I know, very seventies, very droll, but I fancied it) a non-alcohol beer and pasta arrabiatta. They'd run out of non-alcohol beer, probably on account of the hot weather, so I ordered a bottle of mineral water instead and decided not to have dessert. The bill was only 30.10 Euros.

There's an entrance to my hotel across the road from the restaurant, very convenient, I thought, and when I reached the lifts I decided it would be less confusing to take the stairs and possibly less hassle too. The lift appears to be slow and it takes an age from when I press the button for my floor for the doors to close, that's another reason why I hopped out and took the stairs. Besides, the exercise will do me good, I thought, as I started the climb.

Much needed...

Back in the room, I flicked through the television channels, but found nothing in English, even The Big Bang Theory was dubbed over in German and it was weird to see Sheldon Cooper speaking a foreign language. It was around 2100hrs that I hit the sack. I'd left the window open because of the heat and listened to the city: the sound of passing cars, the distant conversation of anonymous individuals on the streets below, the rumblings of trams. I slept through until around 0400hrs and then lie there awake listening to the outside world. At one stage I got up and texted a colleague. "It's fucking hot". That was at 0427, before I decided to go back to bed. The birds started to tweet outside, but it was still dark. Soon it lightened up and now I sit here writing this at 0610hrs. Breakfast is served from 0630 so I'm going to take shower and head on down there.

The heat continued throughout the day. It was so hot that I had to return to my hotel room for another shower in the late afternoon and change my shirt, and then I headed back to the other side of town to continue my working day, which didn't end until gone 2100hrs. I took a taxi back to the hotel and had an enjoyable conversation with the driver. He was a photographer and a cab driver and had been doing the latter for some 20 years. He enjoyed his job and was currently working a five-day week because of a big convention in town, the one I was attending. He lived in Leeds for two years and knew the Yorkshire region well. I told him I loved Dusseldorf and would love to live in the city, which he took as a compliment. It is a great place, very friendly.

Also much needed...

I couldn't stay in the room for long, it was far too hot and there was no air-con. Fortunately, it's possible to open the windows, but I still had to get out and decided to go for a walk as the daylight faded. I found myself in a small supermarket, Rewe, and wandered around, checking out peppermint tea and bars of chocolate, but not really thinking about the hot night ahead. I left empty-handed and had to return to buy two huge bottles of Felsensteiner 'medium' mineral water. The 'medium' refers to the fizziness, which is subtle.

The area around the hotel is not the best, but then anywhere near a railway station is normally pretty grim. There were sex shops for all persuasions and table dancing joints and places of that ilk, not to forget a few shady characters sitting on benches alone or congregating in groups. But they didn't seem to bother anybody and more normal people mingled in the twilight, drinking or dining alfresco outside the occasional bar or cafe. Nothing appealed to me, apart from a bunch of bananas and the mint tea. I only bought the water, which I am now sipping in order to rehydrate. I've been drinking water all day long and I'll probably repeat the process tomorrow. I'm going to hit the sack, but you might hear from me again if getting to sleep in the heat proves problematic.

The 1727 Brussels Midi to Dortmund...

On leaving Brussels Midi on the 1727 Dortmund train, it takes a while for the WiFi to kick in and for the train to emerge into daylight. The train crawls its way along, but at least we’re moving. Outside there is sweltering heat, much hotter - a million times hotter - than in the UK. I’d been hanging around on the platform for a whole hour having disembarked from the 1258 EuroStar from London St. Pancras, an uneventful journey sitting in seat 21, coach 2 with a little old lady for company. Now I’m in seat 64, coach 21.

A modern station en route...

Leaving the station behind, but still travelling at a snail’s pace, I look out at the overhead power lines, the trains parked up and others moving slowing into Brussels Midi. The city looks pleasant enough, the buildings daubed with graffiti.

I’m on the train for just over two hours and when I reach my destination (Dusseldorf) I’m only a short walk from my hotel, the Novum Madison, and only a short hop from Da Bruno, arguably one of Europe’s best Italian restaurants. Now I know that’s a bold claim, but I happen to like it and that’s it really. I’ve booked a table for 2000hrs, but will eventually change it for 2030hrs.

The train has picked up considerable speed, but we’re still in the suburbs. The little old lady on the Eurostar told me that it takes four hours to get from one side of Belgium to the other, but I’m not sure whether she meant by train or car or bike, probably by train. She’d been in the UK visiting her sister and was now returning home. Her husband had passed away, but when he was alive she’d spent time in Salisbury, close to where he worked, he was in the army.

The 1258 London to Brussels Eurostar reaches Brussels Midi

While on the EuroStar somebody in coach seven passed out. They called for a doctor and within minutes a tall woman passed me while I was in the buffet car. She was the doctor. I went back to my seat clasping a mint tea and a KitKat and spent most of the journey reading Saturday’s Guardian, which I had brought with me. It was only a short journey, about two hours, just over, and by 1608 I had disembarked into the aforementioned sweltering heat.

The train is slowing and we’re arriving in another city. I can see a paddling pool, further evidence of the scorching sun outside and then more trains parked up and going nowhere. A building with the logo of Stella Artois on the side of it makes me wonder if we’re in Leuven, home of the beer known as ‘wife beater’. Stella has been reduced in strength from its original 5.2% abv to just 4.8% and believe me, the reduction has been bad for the brand.

I was right, we are passing through Leuven and out the other side, past more graffiti and into a kind of semi-rural landscape of cornfields and then more buildings, office buildings, so not as semi-rural as I thought. Despite the fact that I’ve given up drinking for the last 21 months, I have a sudden craving for a pint of Stella, chilled, but the thought of breaking the abstinence worries me; I don’t want to go back, but a summer’s day (it’s 24 June!) makes me salivate at the thought of a cold beer. I wonder if I’m really doing myself any favours not drinking? What am I trying to prove to myself? Have I proved it? Should I carry on? There’s always ‘no alcohol’ beers and they’re just as good and probably as refreshing, chilled, on a hot day.

The train is now travelling through a rural landscape: fields of corn on either side of the train, the occasional farmhouse, but little more; grassy banks on either side of the track appear and then more fields.

The guard has just offered me a bottle of mineral water for free, it’s the sort of thing that simply wouldn’t happen in the UK. Earlier, when the same person had asked me to show my ticket I had to fumble around with bits of paper taken off the internet until I found something with a reference number. As always when faced with an authority figure on a European train, I think I’m part of The Great Escape, except that I’m still in Belgium, passing little sleepy hamlets surrounded by corn fields and giant propellers standing motionless in the heat, no wind power being generated today, I thought, keeping a weather eye on the landscape in case I spotted any solar panels.

Ultra light cloud has given way to a blue haze with wispy clouds, like a watercolour painting.

A word about the train: it’s comfortable. I have a solo seat, meaning I’m not sharing with anybody and nobody is sitting opposite either, which is great. The seat is red and wide and the coach has subtle red lighting. It’s all very cosy, but the air-con could be put up a notch or two. 

Behind some trees I can see containers with names on the sides of them. Magetra. And now some kind of aggregates factory. We’re going through ANS and there’s nothing much there but a company called Infrabel. Just outside of the station the name has been sculpted in grass, so it’s obviously an important business for the town, if that’s what ANS is, a town. The train is slowing again. Houses, one with a swimming pool, others with windows open and more still at the top of a steep bank and then the view is obscured by trees.

It’s 1815hrs and we’re definitely somewhere. I think its Avroy, a fairly big town. But I’m wrong, it’s Liege, but not just Liege, there’s another word, beginning with G. It’s a very modern station, but there are no more signs so I’ll never know what the G stands for. I like Liege, but then I like everywhere that isn’t where I live. Suburban trains congregate outside the station and they’re all daubed with colourful graffiti. Liege seems to be surrounded by steep banks (or hills) of trees and as we hit the outskirts there are blocks of flats and more houses, three-storey affairs, a church, red and white pylons. I have to remind myself that wherever I am, everything is the same. We pass through Chenne and skirt around one of the steep banks only to find more on the other side. As the train enters a tunnel I’m conscious that we might be going through one of the steep, mountainous banks, although ‘mountainous’ is probably an exaggeration, they’re hills.

I’ve been on the train for one hour. The tunnel is long and seemingly never-ending. We’re out of it! And then back in, or not, as the case may be, we’re out again. There are a series of bridges and we travel under them, some of them seem almost like tunnels, but just when I think we’re here for the long haul, daylight reappears. On my right I can see for miles, but then my view is momentarily obscured by a grassy bank. There are trees, like florets of brocolli, houses dotted here and there into infinity and in the distance dark hills topped by surreal clouds, like Toy Story wallpaper. Houses, cornfields, poplar trees, woods.

What is it? What do I crave? Why do I look out of the window longingly? Why is it that I feel I’d be more at home here than where I am at present, even if upping sticks is out of the question and, arguably, a foolish thing to contemplate? I feel it wherever I go. “I could live here,” I’ve said a million times, but perhaps all I really want is to linger awhile, to lie in the fields, to stop for a minute, somewhere (anywhere) and not have to fret or worry about stuff. 

Hergengrath? At least that’s what I think the sign read as we passed through the station. It was gone within seconds and now there are trees, through which I can see the odd house and now another tunnel, a proper one this time, but only short. Countdown markers, another town, allotments with sheds - or are there small houses - and now we’ve arrived somewhere. More tiny houses, well kept. We’re in Aachen. Platform 8C. We’re in Germany.

The train slowly pulls out of the station. I was last here in 1978 with a punk rocker from Hull. I was en route to Dortmund and then a place called Ludenscheid. Strange memories especially of my pal Keith Collins, now deceased, who should have been with me, but he decided to stay behind. I remember that year I was going to go to Scotland with two other pals of mine, but they were a couple and I would have felt out of place. I remember my dad saying ‘go to Germany with Keith’ and then Keith not going and me travelling alone. These were the days of the boat train from Victoria and the ferry across the English Channel to Ostend and then the train, although I can’t remember the exact journey.

It’s nearly 7pm and the heat continues, the sun still shines and the skies are blue. I might be wrong, but I think the next stop will be my final destination, Dusseldorf. There’s about 30 minutes left. The wind farms are back and so are the fields and the woods. The sun shines on a golden corn field and then we pass through somewhere called something like Langerwehre, another pleasant-looking place. The landscape opens out again. I can see for miles across fields towards houses and a distant ridge with some kind of tower, like Seattle’s Space Needle. 

There can’t be much longer to go and I’m worried that there will be a rush to get off the train if I don’t pack things away now. But I haven’t packed things away, I’m still observing what’s happening outside the window; there were wide open spaces a second ago, but now there are fields hemmed in by woods or rows of trees, there are industrial buildings, more industrial buildings, and I sense that, once again, we’re on the outskirts of a big city. I’m right, we’re in Cologne. As we approached the station I could see the blackened cathedral behind the rooftops.

People mill past on the platform, a man eating a slice of pizza, another man with a rucksack and a bright orange mat of some description, a black woman in a red dress. I could alight here and catch a train to Berlin, but why would I do that? There would be no point. We’re on the move again and I’m sure that the next stop is Dusseldorf. The train must be running late as I thought I would be there by now.

To Woodmansterne Green and then over to mum's...

Yesterday the sun shone brightly, for the first time in a while. They're saying June 2019 is the wettest on record and I can believe it. Last week it rained on and off most days and there's been cloud and low temperatures, but Saturday was fantastic. Andy wasn't riding and I'd arranged to meet Bon on Woodmansterne Green. I've written about the ride over there before, it's fairly suburban in nature, but in the sunshine who cares? In fact, it took me back to cycling as a kid for some reason, there was lingering vibe brought about by the scented hedgerows and the warm breeze.

Jon was there when I arrived. We found a bench and opened up the tea. No biscuits. It was very pleasant just lapping up the early morning sunshine and then contemplating a ride over to mum's.

Bon, Mum and me...

Individual Twix fingers proved to be my downfall. Four of them. I need to exert a little more self-control.

Mum was getting a quote for a new back door. She's opted for aluminium. A man arrived. He was smartly dressed and sported a shiny bald head. He said he'd get a quote over Monday and that if she chose aluminium, it would probably take a week to arrive in the store.

Bon left, but I stayed for a cup of tea, not that I hadn't already had my fair share of tea back on the green. This time, in addition to the usual flask of hot water, I'd brought along one of those stainless steel thermal cups. I'd picked it up in Pittsburgh and it sported the logo for a company called Centro-Metalcut. I'm assuming they're a steel fabricator, but let's continue with the rule of keeping workstuff off the blog.

I rode back the way I came, but more warily. The traffic had intensified and while there were bursts of off-road track, when I reached Foxley Lane I kept my wits about me; there were moments when cars were far too close so I kept checking behind me to get a handle on what was going on. Soon I found myself on Purley's quieter back streets and then there was West Hill, a steep climb, but short-lived. I reached home at 1110hrs.

Sunday's ride...
Andy and I rode to the Tatsfield Churchyard, the slow way, and it was a very pleasant trip. The weather was a little chilly first thing in the morning, but it picked up, as did my hay fever. The key is not to rub your eyes, I told Andy as I rubbed my eyes. It's like having grains of sand in my eyes, that's how it feels, but I coped with it and soon we were on the bikes and heading up the hill towards Botley where I normally part company. On this occasion, however, I felt like a safer ride home away from the 269 so we rode along The Ridge into Woldingham and parted company on the Slines Oak Road. The hill at the end wasn't too bad and I reached home around 1000hrs.

Andy at the churchyard, Sunday 23 June

The pond at the top of Slines Oak Road

To the Tatsfield churchyard on Saturday and the bus stop on the Sabbath...

The first decent bit of weather for a while yesterday (Saturday). Tee shirt weather and, for the first time, the gloves were off, no need to wear them. But as the day progressed, it clouded over. Andy and I decided to ride to the churchyard and when we arrived the weather was fine, but clouds were gathering. Soon the sun went out and we rode back in grey conditions, but it wasn't cold. We'd considered Westerham and I think we'd talked last week about visiting Flowers Farm in Godstone for tea and cake, but I've been overdoing the rubbish food, it's something that needs to stop, and I know I keep saying this, but it's true. That said - and having resolved to stop eating cake yesterday morning as I got ready to head out on the bike - I ate two teacakes in the afternoon and felt fat for the rest of the day.

Now it's Sunday morning, 0624hrs to be precise. I've been up since 0500hrs having been awake since 0430hrs. It's the light seeping through the curtains that does it. I lay there for a while, but then thought what was the point? I got up, made porridge and tea and now I sit here writing this blog.

Our bikes at the Tatsfield Churchyard, Saturday 15 June 2019

Last week Andy managed to shave 10 seconds off his time for climbing a steep hill over in his neck of the woods. The aptly named Waller Pain Hill Climb was the event in question. He managed 2 minutes and 49 seconds, not bad. I'm sure I'd have taken longer. What's interesting about the Waller Pain Hill Climb is that it's been in existence since the late 19th Century. A cycling club from Peckham used to ride out of London and into the country and when they reached Waller Hill in Caterham they had to dismount. As bicycles developed, the hill was eventually conquered and the challenge became an annual event that exists to this day. Put it this way, it might be that the hill has been conquered, but it's still hard work, otherwise it wouldn't be a challenge.

The Waller Pain Hill Climb in Caterham. Andy did it in 2:49

Sunday's early morning weather was not as good as yesterday. I decided to put my rust-coloured jacket on before heading for the green. For some reason I was feeling a little sluggish and it seemed to take ages to reach our meeting point. When I arrived we decided to head for the churchyard (the slow way) but as we progressed along Beddlestead Lane the clouds got darker and when we arrived at the junction with Clarks Lane we decided to roll down the hill towards the bus stop. We sat there drinking tea and chatting about this and that and, just before 0900hrs, the rain arrived. A passing Lycra monkey stopped. He decided to head back to his home in East Dulwich, based on the falling rain - a 35-mile circular trip, he said. We sat there, waiting for the rain to stop and it did. We had a window in which to race for home. Andy and I parted company at The Ridge and I rode along the 269. The rain didn't return and soon I was, quite literally, home and dry.

The bike needs a service, probably next week. The rear brake is dodgy, making stopping difficult. The big question is this: take it to Evans Cycles in Gatwick or Cycle King down the road? I think the latter might win.

Over to mum's...

The plan had been to ride to Woodmansterne and see Bon, but he had a rear wheel puncture to fix and needed to take the bike to the shop for a new tyre. I thought he might have it done and dusted and ready for a ride, but when I sent him a text this morning it was not the case. So I lolled around and almost didn't go out - or rather I almost went out in the car instead. Fortunately, when I got outside the weather hit me square in the face, it was a wonderful day and to visit mum by car was sinful so I nipped back inside, grabbed the rucksack and rode off.

Mum in the garden, she's 90 in November

I hung a right on to West Hill, then a left on to Essenden, a right on Mayfield, a left on to the Upper Selsdon Road and then left into Jarvis, past Martin's gaff and on towards the Brighton Road. I turned right and then first left and rode up Hayling Park Road, quite a steep hill, and when I reached the mini roundabout at the top I crossed the Pampisford Road and skirted the Purley Playing Fields, vast expanses of grass peppered here and with white goal posts. Soon I reached the A23 and turned right, but then I cut left through a kind of industrial estate, emerging on the Stafford Road, close to Ozzie's cafe. I turned left and rode through Wallington, past the bike shop, crossing the lights at the top of the high street and heading downhill towards the mini roundabout at Boundary Road. I crossed into Stanley Park Road and soon the serenity of Carshalton Beeches epitomised by the peace and quiet of Crichton Road. I was getting close to mum's world: the Village Bakery, Vinoteca Italiana and free-wheeled down Park Hill. The lights at the Windsor Castle were red, so I mounted the pavement, turned left past the pub and then rejoined the road to race towards the BP garage, Marks & Spencer's Simply Food, and a right turn into Alma Road. I like Alma Road with its speed bumps and parked cars. At the bottom end, St Philomena's Convent School and a left turn, past the infamous Dog Shit Alley, under the railway bridge and then a left turn. Almost there, I thought, seeing the maisonettes where my life had started. Mum and dad moved when I was about three years old, but my early life had been at 3a Rossdale. We didn't move far, just up the hill and that's where I found myself now, riding up towards mum's. The road looks roughly the same as it's always looked, perhaps more cars than there used to be.

Fortunately, she wasn't in the garden, although she told me she had just come in to do something, luckily for me. Tea and fruit cake were next and I cut myself an ample slice and followed mum into the garden. The weather was wonderful: blue skies, white clouds, planes circling around Heathrow, all reminding me of my childhood years, in the paddling pool when the sun dipped behind the clouds and the sound of an invisible, crying jet made everything seem temporarily depressing. But not today. Memories of dad in his yellow bush hat, blue shirt and shorts flooded back to me, when the kids were younger and we would sit at the top of the garden, tea and cake and possibly a couple of biscuits, the sun shining, dad explaining something or discussing whatever was going on at the time or talking to Max about the cricket. The garden was in full summer bloom, elderberry trees, dad's oak tree, everything was raging with life as I sat there sipping tea and contemplating another slice of cake and another cup of tea. "Don't worry, mum, I'll do it," I said, getting up and heading for the kitchen. I emerged five minutes later, carrying another another slice of cake and another cup of tea.

Off-road track on the ride home...

We chatted about various things, but superficially. Family stuff. How's so and so? What's X or Y up to? Did you hear about...? That kind of thing and soon it was time to head back home. I could have repeated my outward journey, but knowing how traffic mounts up as the day progresses, I headed instead for Carshalton Beeches High Street, noticing a new Italian restaurant where once an Indian restaurant had stood. I climbed Waverley Way in a low gear and turned right when I reached the top and followed Beeches Avenue, which morphed into Woodmansterne Road and then I went off-road until I reached the Croydon Road. There were lots of joggers on the off-road path plus a few cyclists and one large, female dog walker who, in contrast to her own size, had two small dogs. At the end of the path I briefly rejoined the Croydon Road, but managed to cross it and ride off-road all the way to Foxley Lane in Purley, a once pleasant road that has since been messed with; now there are blocks of flats under construction here and there. Huge houses with huge, mossy gardens, once for sale, have been bought by developers and turned into ugly dwellings set back from the road. Not nice, but it's happening everywhere. Foxley Lane can be quite dangerous, especially where it is joined by Plough Lane. I keep my distance from parked cars and I'm always looking over my shoulder to see what's coming along behind me. Soon I'm at Cycle Republic and I join the Pampisford Road heading for Fennie's, a children's day nursery. I cross the A23. Not far to go now. I weave my way around some of Purley's backstreets until I reach the Purley Downs Road, but hang a left on to Norman Road and ride most of it no hands. The road morphs into Florence Road and then Kendall Avenue and then I'm on the 269, a road that features in most of our rides, except that I'm at the other end of it where it has a name, Sanderstead Road. It runs all the way to Edenbridge. I ride up the hill and turn left on to West Hill, a steep climb up its south face,  past another block of flats under construction on the right. Soon I'm home and it's 1115hrs, time for a slice of bread and a cup of tea.

Guess where we went?

It's not hard. How about the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way? You're right, but it could have been so different. It could have been an abort text. In fact, it was an abort text. I woke up at 0600hrs and when I peered out of the window at the small puddle that always forms on next door's flat-roofed extension, I noticed it was being disturbed by rain. "Abort". I wasted no time in sending it off, but immediately regretted it. Perhaps I should leave it until later, things might calm down, so I sent another text along the lines of seeing how things develop. And when Andy texted back saying he was going for it, I said okay, meet at the usual place, usual time.

How boring is this image? My view sitting on the bench at the bus stop

When I got outside, it wasn't cold, but the skies were grey and there were spits of rain here and there. Sure, it could get worse, but I rode up Church Way, slightly sluggishly it has to be said, and got used to the fact that there was no sunshine and only cloud and the odd spit of rain. In short it was fine and I was so glad that I didn't act on my initial rather impulsive abort text.

Andy later said that when he left the house he could hear the rain hitting his conservatory roof but decided to go for it anyway.

We decided to ride the slow way to the bus stop during which time we touched upon politics again, but not as vociferously as last week. Andy had caught an interview with Lib-Dem leadership hopeful Jo Swinson and wasn't impressed. He said she spouted a kind of student politics and I knew exactly what he meant and could we really have somebody like that as our next PM? It's all starting to look a little desperate. Nobody wants the Conservatives, but the alternatives are so poor that it looks as if we'll get them or, perhaps, the Brexit Party, an awful one-trick pony political party headed by the equally awful Nigel Farage who would probably sell the NHS to Donald Trump given half the chance.

...and this ain't much better

Talking of Trump, he was in town last week visiting the Queen on a State Visit. London Mayor Khan and leader of the opposition Corbyn made arses of themselves by protesting too much, Khan being lambasted by a presidential tweet sent from Airforce One. There were a few protests, but not as many as were expected (whatever happened to the days of Class War and paint thrown on Royal vehicles - these days it's just milkshakes).

Markle made herself scarce, emerging only yesterday (I'm writing this text on Sunday morning) to be a part of some kind of birthday parade for the Queen.

Both Andy and I had uneventful weeks and when we reached the bus stop, having witnessed a watery sun trying to break through fast-moving grey cloud, we sat there in front of the long grass drinking tea and watching the world go by. I wondered when the council would get round to cutting the long grass in front of us, while hoping that they might simply leave it grow so that our bus stop was obscured from view. But, as Andy pointed out, the grasses had grown to about two feet in height and had already seeded so it was unlikely. Teabags flicked from teaspoons, we headed home, Andy taking The Ridge and me risking the 269. I reached home around 0930hrs and then drove to Petworth in West Sussex for beef and horseradish sandwiches and a slice of coffee and walnut cake, which happened to be the deli's Cake of the Day.

Brexit again as we head for the bus stop and the churchyard

Summer has well and truly arrived. And rightly so. It is, after all, the month of June. Time has flown by. Prior to my three weeks out of the saddle, it was April when I last jumped on the bike, then there was last week (the Bank Holiday weekend) and now it's June. Suddenly everything seems lush and overgrown, like being in a rainforest. Fields are full of whatever fields are full of: oilseed rape, poppies, you name it, everything's happening. There are bees buzzing around, birds singing in the trees and there are two cyclists, Andy and yours truly, on Warlingham Green deciding where to go. It's Saturday 1 June, or rather it was (I'm writing this as the time approaches 5pm on 2 June, my brother-in-law's birthday). In fact, I'm sitting in the garden, on the lap top, my relatively new Chromebook, which I thought I'd lost forever when I was in Pittsburgh recently, but as you know, if you're an avid reader, I got it back. So, where was I? Oh yes, we're on Warlingham Green wondering where to go and we decided upon the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way and this time the old-fashioned slow way along Beddlestead Lane and not the 'new route', that of Woldingham and the golf course and then turning left on The Ridge and heading down Clarks Lane. We did that last week and it was fine, brought a bit of variety to proceedings.

June is busting out all over at the green...

Last week we discussed the origins of the name Peggy as we sat in the Churchyard drinking tea. This week it was Brexit again and I remarked how Rory Stewart was probably the best chance the Conservative Party had of uniting the country and getting on with Brexit. The rest I wouldn't give you tuppence for, certainly not that cretin Boris Johnson with his Master Race, Aryan Nation haircut and his professional buffoonery. Who needs a Tory like that? Who needs a man who would look totally at home in a private members' club, snoozing under a copy of the Daily Telegraph? The country doesn't need knee-jerk politicians like BoJo or Raab or any of those who think no deal is a good idea. It isn't.

But Rory Stewart, in my opinion, is a 'proper politician'. He has dignity, he has international experience, he was a diplomat aged 22, he knows about 'stuff', he's intelligent, calm, collected, seems to have a cohesive plan, came across well on Question Time on Thursday. In fact, talking of QT, it was the first time in about three weeks that there hasn't been any shouting matches. That must have something to do with the calibre of the MPs and commentators on the panel, they were all reasonably sensible. Rory Stewart was good because he answered the questions fired at him. He ALWAYS answers the questions, he takes on board criticism if valid; in short, he has all the makings of a worthy politician who, believe it or not, is not in it for himself, he's in it for bigger reasons, the sort of reasons you hope most politicians have for entering politics. Stewart is old school, but in a good way, and he has the support of another 'proper politician' Ken Clark. What's not to like? A government led by Stewart would mean a big sigh of relief from me. Just think for a moment about the rabble in the Tory Party: Boris Johnson. Remember what a God awful foreign secretary he turned out to be, bumbling around making matters worse, especially for that woman imprisoned in Iran. And didn't he recently exclaim 'fuck business'? Yes he did, and yet there is growing support for this idiot to be the leader of the so-called 'party of business'. No. Surely not. Surely those who will choose the next leader will realise that Boris is the wrong choice.

But Johnson isn't the only idiot in the Tory party. What about Dominic Raab? Another fool who thinks a no-deal Brexit will be alright, when even members of his own party argue that no-deal will likely mean no Conservative party either. Senior members of the Conservatives are considering voting against the Government to avoid no deal and that will mean a General Election and the Tories won't win it. Just look at how they've messed up the country. Look at other idiots like Chris Grayling; nothing that man touches has any hope of succeeding, he's completely incompetent but, like most incompetent people, he remains in his job earning top dollar while messing up everything he touches. Michael Gove, who is arguing that we should remain in the EU well into 2020, purely because he thinks such a stance will get him the top job is another political cretin. Any man who bears a close resemblance to Orville should not be standing for Prime Minister. It goes on and on. Andrea Ledsom calling for a 'managed exit' from the EU, what does that mean?

I'd like to think that people are beginning to wise up to all these idiots floating around the Tory Party. And I'd like to think that having Donald Trump offering his support to Boris Johnson will mean just one thing: the kiss of death. If Trump admires you, you know you've got problems, you might want to look in the mirror and check you haven't grown a Hitler moustache overnight. Trump wants Nigel Farage to play a key role in the Brexit negotiations. No, no, no, no, no!!! The man Russell Brand labelled a Pound Shop Enoch Powell shouldn't be seen anywhere near the negotiating table. He's not an MP, he's an MEP and all he's ever done in that role is shout the odds at other MEPs and be generally obstructive, belligerent and offensive. And let's not forget his Brexit poster. And where Boris is concerned let's not forget the message on the side of the bus. And while I think there is possibly something sinister behind taking the obese moose to court, it would be good to see him prosecuted for being more than just 'economical with the truth'.

The country is getting a little fed up with Brexit. They want it done and while I don't particularly want it done (I'm a remainer) if it has to be done then so be it, although I'll admit that I'm holding out for the second referendum, even if I do agree with Rory Stewart, who says another referendum will yield the same result because the country is divided straight down the middle. No deal is not the solution and nor is a second referendum, says Stewart and I think he's probably right. At the end of the day there's one word that must be taken into consideration: compromise. To get Brexit through Parliament, said Stewart in Epsom last Thursday, the two sides are going to have to compromise because Parliament rules supreme.

The above conversation, give or take, took place over our two weekend rides. On Sunday, the weather was just as perfect as Saturday and we met once again on the green and decided to head for the Tatsfield Churchyard, our summer location. I'd suggested our newly found field, but Andy said it meant humping the bikes over a stile. He was right, a stile was involved. We chose the churchyard and carried on our conversation about Brexit. On a clear day you can see the South Downs from the Tatsfield Churchyard and there really isn't a better place to be at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning in June. I'd had a good night's sleep and was feeling particularly energetic for some reason. I kept up with Andy along Beddlestead (i'm normally around a minute or two behind him in places) and I was feeling chipper.

What bugs me is the backstop and I can't figure out why there has to be a border once we leave the EU. It's only a piece of paper that somebody has to sign to say we're out, so why should it change the way things are being done at present? Why can't the wheels keep turning, why do we suddenly need checkpoints, why can't we simply say 'carry on'? If all the security measures in place now stay that way, why should anything have to change? It's a question I'd like to hear Rory Stewart answer because he's the only person I think I can trust.

Around 0900hrs this morning we embarked upon our return journey. The ride up Clarks Lane to Botley hill is always a little trying; it is, after all, a hill that starts in Westerham and continues all the way to the Botley Hill pub. Andy branched off at The Ridge and I was sorely tempted to follow him, because riding down the 269 is dangerous at the best of times. However, going home via Woldingham means riding up Slines Oak Road, a steep hill worth avoiding. But I'm thinking of cutting out the risk of cars flying past too close and going back home 'the slow way' instead. And there are two slow ways: one involves Hesiers Hill, the other Slines Oak Road and I know for a fact that the latter is the best bet.

My bike needs a service and I need to sort it out, possibly later this week. With the weather being fantastic I'm thinking about cycling to work again, but in all honesty, it's probably best if I simply cut down on cake and do a bit of walking in my lunch break. But that doesn't mean the bike doesn't get a service, it needs one and it'll get one.