Residing in an edgy part of town...

It's 29 January 2020, the year has hardly got airborne and yet I'm on my second foreign trip, this time a quick one-nighter in the European capital of Brussels, and the UK is on the verge of leaving the EU, much to my dismay and, indeed, horror.

Dress it up as much as you like, it's a cheese & ham toastie

I had an angst-ridden lunch in Le Pain Quotidien (see pic above) just across from where travellers board the Eurostar at St Pancras International. It's not my favourite restaurant and the reason is simple: they take their time and I always get the feeling that they've forgotten my order, especially when the waiter I've already given my drinks order to comes back and asks me what I'd like to drink. It doesn't bode well for catching the train. And to think that I arrived well ahead of time, a good hour before departure, but slowly time runs out. One minute I'm looking at around an hour to eat a cheese and ham toasty - alright, it was dressed up with some fancy name, but it was basically a cheese and ham toasted sandwich with a small salad and some tomato ketchup on the side. It was nothing special, but it did the job and I hurriedly asked for the bill before rushing off to go through the fafferama of security, although it's nowhere near as bad as the airport.

The train departed from Platform 10 and the journey - all two hours of it - passed by pretty smoothly thanks to Serotonin by Michel Houellebecq. And when I jumped off at the other end I got my bearings and headed off for what my iphone was telling me was a 9-minute walk to the hotel, the Mercure. For a brief moment I thought I would get lost as it was dark and I'm never 100% sure that I'm walking in the right direction when I'm using the phone's GPS system. However, as I trudged along I suddenly saw the hotel, separated by a few road works and now here I am in room 209 on the second floor after what can only be described as a speedy, efficient and friendly check-in.

Suddenly, there was the Mercure Hotel...

It's a great room. Alright, it's pretty standard, although instead of the usual twin beds pushed together there's a real double bed with cushions, loads of them, well, six in total including two little purple ones. Unusually, there's a separate bathroom and toilet, which I rather like, there's a flatscreen television on the wall opposite the bed, a shower room observation window, frosted in the middle to spare embarassment and, of course, there's a desk, a table and a chair.

The WiFi was simplicity itself and, well, I'm thinking about going out and finding somewhere to eat as the hotel offers a few snacks like pizza, baguettes, chips and two mains (chicken tikka masala and spaghetti bolognaise and I'm guessing they're not homemade, although I suppose the pasta dish might be). I could stay in and order room service, but where's the fun in that? And besides, if I get back early, I can continue reading Houellbecq, which was my Christmas present.

I feel at home in this room for some reason. Sometimes hotels have it, other times they don't and it's not down to how posh they are either, it's hard to explain, but this place has it. It's not a hotel to be impressed by because it's a standard, average-priced establishment that does what it says on the tin. For me the acid test is always the breakfast. There's no restaurant, but there is a small bar by the front desk where all the items on the room service menu are going to be available, but it's not a very comfortable-looking place and I'm not keen on being downstairs close to the bustling lobby, not that it's bustling.

Room 209, Mercure Hotel, Brussels...

Out on the streets in the dark, I'm aware that the district through which I tread isn't looking too good. Outside of the extensive roadworks that have ripped up a lot of the streets, there's a menacing air about the place, brought about largely by the groups of bearded young men who seem to be peppered around as I walk in search of somewhere to eat. There are plenty of dodgy-looking cafes with Formica-topped tables and dull lighting, packed with, yes, you've guessed it, bearded men who haven't bothered taking off their coats. There are hardly any women on these streets and when I do spot one she is wearing a headscarf.

I am pretty close to an area called Molenbeek where, according to an article by a GQ journalist, all nine 'known perpetrators of the November 2015 Paris attacks had a connection with the neighbourhood'. And it gets worse: The March 2016 Brussels airport bombing was planned here by associates of Salah Abdeslam who grew up here; the guns used in the Charlie Hebdo attack were sourced from the area... need I go on? Terrorist attacks are always linked to Molenbeek, but fortunately that's not quite where I am, although, judging by those I meet on the streets, the scenario is kind of similar, although I hope I'm not sounding too xenophobic, perhaps more concerned for my own welfare.

Being somebody who unwittingly walked through LA gangland back in 2013, I figured the mean streets of Brussels were fine, even after dark, and while I passed many a bearded gentleman, three of whom approached me for money (but didn't accept Mastercard) I continued to mooch around. I thought it was kind of okay. It was only when I started to read about the district that I began to feel a little uneasy. I walked some distance down one street hoping the neighbourhood would improve or that I might stumble upon a decent restaurant, but the hotel had already recommended La Ruche, a French place offering a lot of meat in the shape of mainly beef and ribs and burgers. After walking away, I decided to bite the bullet and go inside. I was shown to a table for one, squeezed between a couple on my right and a young family on my left. I went against the beefy grain of the place and ordered a chicken burger with sweet potato fries and a bottle of Pellegrino and then sat down and noticed that I was the only person without a beard and a Mediterranean complexion. If this was an Isis stronghold, then I was easy meat. As I awaited my meal I looked around to see if there were any other westerners in the restaurant. I couldn't see anybody, but the place was civilised, the food was good and the service excellent and soon I forgot about the potential danger I might have been in; in fact I began to wonder if it was all a load of hot air. Everybody seemed perfectly respectable, it was just me letting the media brainwash me, albeit temporarily. I'll always remember my dad telling me never to be 'mesmerised by the media'.

La Ruche restaurant - nice burgers!

This is not, however, a pleasant part of Brussels, Molenbeek or not, and nothing like the area surrounding the famous Grand Place which, I was told by the woman on the front desk of my hotel, was only 15 minutes away. But it was getting late and I couldn't be bothered to go hiking around in the dark and then find it was too late to eat. La Ruche was fine and very reasonable: the bill hovered around 15 Euros, which was good by any standard, and the food was top notch. The restaurant was very French with its marble-topped bar and waiting staff sporting black aprons tied around their waists. There was a huge wooden-framed mirror behind the bar and elegant lighting, high ceilings and a pleasant hubbub and nobody appeared to be giving me strange looks of an Isis nature.

In all honesty, I could easily have been mugged outside on the dark and edgy streets. I was wandering around, alone, in a foreign country, in a considerably downbeat district, I was accosted on three occasions by bearded men of Mediterranean origin asking me for money, there were saunas and sex shops, men standing around in groups smoking, hardly any women about and those I did see sported a headscarf; this wasn't exactly Knightsbridge, although, these days, perhaps there's not much difference.

Just as I was about to get up and pay my bill, a man looking distinctly western was led to a table. For a moment I thought he might be English and that we could exchange knowing glances at one another. He had that Bill Bryson look about him, but without the weight, and it was only when I noticed he was wearing thick, patterned trousers (which were slightly lairy) that I figured he couldn't be English, he didn't look drab enough. Either way he appeared a little concerned about something, probably the idea of dining alone, and seemed to be looking at me for reassurance, which I don't think I provided. He and I were the only westerners in the restaurant, not that it mattered.

Inside La Ruche

I paid up and left after what I can only describe as a very pleasant dinner, and while I'm going on about being the only westerner in the restaurant, apart from that bloke I just mentioned, there was nothing wrong with the place or its clientele, everyone seemed to be getting on. It was only a short distance to the hotel, but before I got there I was approached by the last of three men who had accosted me to ask for money and for each one I had the same excuse, "I haven't got any money, just a credit card I'm afraid," spoken assertively, slightly impatiently and in a very clear and English manner, and it confused him enough for me to carry on without further conversation. The weird thing was the way the last guy came out of nowhere.

So I got back 'home', which is what a hotel becomes when I'm away on business and now I sit here writing in the room, in my little oasis of calm and safety, happy that next on my agenda is to hit the bathroom and then hit the sack. Next stop: breakfast!

It's now morning, 0618 to be precise, time for a shower and a shave and then breakfast. I won't go for a walk because it's all pretty unsavoury out there, nothing worth looking at other than a sex shop and there's nothing very appealing about it, not that I know, I just passed it by, as you do, whilst on the hunt for a restaurant. There was an old man peering through the window at the various appliances on display and I pitied his sorry soul.

The more I read about the district in which I am currently residing, the more I'm thinking twice about my nocturnal mooching last night. My local metro station is Lemonnier and there are bad things being said about the place and its surroundings online, mainly that it's dangerous and 'a Mediterranean district' of town peopled largely by North Africans. Knife attacks and theft are not unheard of round here and there appears to be some kind of argument going on about identifying certain districts of Brussels as 'Mediterranean'. The liberal David Weytsman has spoken about the unacceptability of dividing the city into districts by ethnicity in an article in Le Soir, which is roughly a year old. I'm rather glad that I'm travelling light and not hauling a massive suitcase behind me. I'm guessing you need to be nimble on your feet around here.

Chicken burger and sweet potato fries...

Breakfast was good, but I didn't over indulge. I could have enjoyed frankfurters and mustard, vegetables, baked beans, mushrooms and scrambled egg, but I opted for a bowl of granola, a glass of real orange juice (they have a machine that squashes oranges so it's fresh and real and not concentrated) and a cinnamon tea, plus a tiny bread roll.

View from room 209, Mercure, Brussels

A busy day lay ahead of me; instead of taking the metro from Lemonnier I was advised by the hotel receptionist to walk to Brussels Midi and get the train from there to Schuman. The walk back to Midi was very short, under five minutes, which made me wonder why it took me around double that on the way in. It's not a problem. Schuman, I think that's how you spell it, was further away than I thought but it was only a short walk from there to my destination. Soon the work was done and I headed back to Brussels Midi to catch the Eurostar, the 1252. But I missed it by around eight minutes. I knew I would because the seminar I attended ran over by 30 minutes thanks to a keen Chinese journalist asking too many questions, and then there was a problem on the trains, but I was rescheduled on the next train out and now I'm sitting in a restaurant across from the terminal. I've got to be back there by 1420hrs at the very latest - not a problem. Although that said, it's 1339hrs and I'm still sitting here typing this blogpost and editing it as I go along.

I've ordered home-made lasagne and a half litre bottle of Chaudfontaine mineral water and the restaurant is busy. The bill was 21 Euros, not bad. I'll be back in London by 4pm.

Mum's last week and then two foggy rides to the bus stop...

I think this is a first: I didn't write about last week's ride... until today. A whole week elapsed and I never sat down and described last weekend's one ride. I got back from Budapest the Friday before last too tired to consider a ride on Saturday. Andy was going to ride to Smallfield but had a problem with his gears, a big problem. The gear level broke and he was stuck in top gear. His Kona is now in the shop being repaired so Andy arrived this morning on his racer. Anyway, let's not talk about today just yet, it's time to discuss last week's ride to mum's. There were two problems for Andy last week: first the gear lever issue, but then, on Sunday, the lock to his garage door was frozen so he couldn't get his bike out.

I had options: cycle to mum's, cycle to Westerham or the bus stop alone or meet Bon on Woodmansterne Green. I opted for riding to mum's and later discovered that Bon had gone to Brixham so it was the right decision.

Purley playing fields around 0730hrs last Sunday morning...very cold...

It was cold outside. Very cold. Remember that Andy's lock had frozen over and that's why I was riding to mum's. I was outside, opening up the garage door when he called to tell me the bad news and because I was outside, in the cold air, and ready to ride, there was little point in going back. I stayed out and decided that, give or take, riding to mum's was probably the least painful experience.

Cold streets, icy roads, frosted grass and grey skies

I rode through Croydon, or rather I skirted Croydon, heading down the Selsdon Road, up Hayling Park Road, around the playing fields at Purley, on to the A23 and through the industrial estate towards Stafford Road, Wallington, and then into Carshalton and mum's place.

The A23 early on Sunday morning last week, it was cold

We sat in the living room talking about this and that, mainly the garden and the fact that mum, who is in her 91st year, was out there chopping back the ivy that had taken over the fence on the right hand side of her house. It goes without saying that I ate some cake, just one slice, and a cup of tea. I think I made myself a second cup, but steered clear of a second slice of cake.

Tea and cake at mum's - making it all worthwhile...

I followed the outward route home, which is far quicker and less painful than riding through the smallholdings towards the Croydon Road, and then turning left and heading into Purley. Going that way means grappling with the south face of West Hill, never a pleasant experience, albeit short-lived.

That was last week's riding in a nutshell and yes, had I not had a late night on Friday, courtesy of easyJet, I'd have riden out on Saturday too, but shit happens.

Today's ride...
It was fairly warm out today, around 5 degrees, so no frost on car windscreens or anywhere else for that matter. I was running late - of course I was, I'm always faffing around at the last minute - but soon I was outside and ready to rock. Well, let's not put it like that. I set off at a steady pace having texted Andy to say I was running a little late but was on my way.

Once at the green we decided to head for the Tatsfield Bus Stop (the slow way). Not ideal, I thought, but perhaps Westerham was a bridge too far today. That said we really ought to try our best to get as many rides to Westerham in as possible. And we need to visit the caff again too, although last Sunday I was in there, at the Tudor Rose, eating a toasted tea cake and sipping tea from a dainty cup. They're losing it a bit in there; whenever the boss is out of town they let things slip and people start to get a little tetchy when they're not being served (I know I am). I don't blame them and last week there was a load of mother hens in there with babies. Huge women, young women, who certainly need not only a diet but some exercise too. As a friend of mine might have said, "Never mind the boat, check out the BMI." There they were with babies and bags and loads of baby stuff, taking up space and being very annoying and clucky. Everybody was being ignored - except them.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, we rode the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop and as we neared the end of Beddlestead Lane we found ourselves in thick fog and it didn't fade out. After drinking tea and chatting we headed home, Andy riding along the Ridge and me hitting the 269, but staying on the off-road path for my own safety. I got home, had some more breakfast (I'd enjoyed porridge and fruit around 0600hrs so now it was scrambled eggs, tomatoes, onion, mushrooms and toast).

Right now I'm writing this while listening to Stewart Copeland talking, enthusing and being inspirational on the television. Last night I watched episode two and now I'm watching episode one, in fact, if I'm truthful I'm now watching episode two again as I'm watching on iplayer so episode one has ended and episode two has kicked in. I could watch Stewart Copeland all day, he's absolutely brilliant, so enthusiastic, you can read the positivity, the enthusiasm, the passion, in his face. He LOVES music and I love that. Please, more Stewart Copeland on the TV. Okay, so episode two is back on and I'm listening to it, but in truth I'm inspired enough to want to put Spotify on and listen to some of my own music, well, not music I've composed, but music I've stored on my iphone. "I'll be happy movin' when I wish to...". Now I've switched to Nantucket Sleighride by Mountain, what a great song. It starts off like a battleship edging out of the estuary into open sea and then meanders along, picking up pace...and then reminds me of Brian Waldren who in turn reminds of Yoda for some reason. Enough, perhaps a bit of heavy funk, like the Fat Back Band and Yum Yum (Gimme Some), yes, that'll do, but I'm restless, I keep flicking the tracks, now The Rimshots (an unfortunate name if ever there was one) but 7654321 (Blow Your Whistle) is brilliant, although again rather unsavoury-sounding. I used to own the single and probably still have it somewhere.

It's getting late, but it's Saturday and everybody is doing their own thing, which I like as it means I can sit here writing, listening to music like Funky Nassau - Part 1, brilliant. "Mini skirts, maxi skirts and afro hairdos" - sometimes music is so good it brings a tear to my eye, like now; I've got to pull myself together. Long Train Runnin' by the Doobie Brothers, that's good, but in all honesty, not right for my mood. Perhaps REM, Pop Song 89. "Should we talk about the weather? Should we talk about the government?"

The plan is to ride tomorrow so let's hope we're not stopped by inclement weather or punctures. I must check the bike later as I rode the off-road track this morning because of the fog. Got to do two rides this weekend!

Sunday's ride - to the Tatsfield Bus Stop!
And yes, we rode the slow way too. It was energising. I even mentioned to Andy that Beddlestead Lane wasn't that bad, because, in a way, it was magical: we had the fog, not as heavy as on Saturday and, in a way, beautiful. As we neared the end of the lane I could see the mobile phone mast, but only just, and the birds could be seen but only at close quarters, it was possible to watch them disappear into the mist. There was a mystical element to it all and when you ad that to the energising effect it all has, then it can only be good.

There was a break in routine. The flask had been replaced with two of those insulated mugs. In other words we both had our own cups and all we had to do was add a teabag.

We watched cyclists disappear and cars vanish and soon it was time for us to do the same. Once again, Andy hit The Ridge and I jumped on the 269's off-road track. It was peaceful, very little traffic and when the fog lifted I went back on the road.

I felt great so when I reached home it was time for a full English of sausages, eggs, toast and tomatoes. Later I hit 'shuffle' on Spotify and, basically, had another day of kind of slobbing around. It was great. And now it's Monday and I'm listening to Maybelline by Chuck Berry. Soon I'll be in the bathroom, getting ready for work and the week will commence.

In Budapest...

Thursday 16th January: I'm writing to you from room 501 of the Hilton Hotel in Budapest. This morning I was up at 0530hrs in order to catch the first train to Gatwick and an easyJet flight, which took two hours and 10 minutes and was pretty smooth all the way over. Heavy fog hung like a shroud over the airport, prompting some kin of instruments-only landing that mean all electronic devices had to be switched off and couldn't even be on flight-safe mode. I complied, but many people ignore such requests and that never fails to annoy me. I especially despise the know-it-all types who think they know better than those who work for the airlines. "You don't have to switch your phone off, it makes no difference," they say without a shred of knowledge.

Room 501, Hilton Budapest, the one in Buda

The journey by coach from the airport to the hotel was extended because of some kind of altercation between the coach driver and somebody in a rental car, but I eventually got here and checked in and now, at last, solitude. The room is very pleasant and peaceful; there's the usual twin beds pushed together to look like a double (they're not fooling anybody, least of all me) and the now obligatory flat-screen television plus a minibar and a round table, which doubled as the desk and dining table. Incidentally, I could have eaten a Kit Kat but chose a small tin of salted peanuts instead.

Because I was starving when I reached the room - and based on a texted photo I received from the International Man of Mystery of his burger and chips - I decided to order one myself along with an alcohol-free beer (well, 0.5% abv). It was a late lunch and much needed and took around half an hour to arrive at my door.

I was last in Budapest in late September when the weather was a little warmer, but while it is cold here, it's not as bad as I thought, even if the trees on the route from the airport were frosted in a very pleasant and festively decorative way.

Coffee and cake in Lipoti Bakery & Cafe

I'm here until tomorrow night and I'm looking forward to walking around the city after the work is completed. There's nothing better than mooching around and that is what I intend to do before boarding a return flight tomorrow night. A new pair of Doctor Marten's shoes need breaking in. I bought them in Street Talk, an amazing little store in Redhill in Surrey, having originally purchased a pair of Kickers boots that leaked - not good - so I exchanged them at no extra cost, which is also good because they were £30 more expensive and they never charged me the extra. People talk about the death of the high street, but if all shops were like Street Talk in Redhill, then perhaps there would be less boarded up shop fronts.

Was this the best cafe in town?

Friday 17th January
I didn't sleep well; I tend not to when I'm staying in a hotel, especially if I'm only there for one night. I must have hit the sack around 1130hrs having enjoyed a pleasant dinner in a restaurant close to the hotel, and while I did sleep, it was in short bursts, punctuated by fretful dreams. I remember dreaming and then waking up and the pattern persisting as the night progressed. As always, I was eventually woken up by my iphone at 0700hrs. I jumped out of bed to press the snooze button, but when it started again 10 minutes later I resigned myself to getting up, having a shower - and what a wonderful experience that was - and then getting ready for breakfast. I was in the restaurant by 0730 hrs and I decided to go mad, starting with a bowl of porridge and a couple of small pastries plus a strawberry yoghurt and a banana and then continuing with scrambled egg, mushrooms and sausages and following up with fresh fruit - slices of orange, tinned peaches and melon, not forgetting a banana, all washed down with a peach tea followed by lemon and lime tea. I half-inched a handful of teabags to take home, they won't miss them, and then I left without touching the orange juice I'd ordered.

The stunning view from Room 501...

Breakfast over, I'm back in the room...
I've had an Eartha and I'm ready for a day of walking around Budapest, a great city if ever there was one. I'm waiting for the International Man of Mystery to surface. It's 0838hrs, I've sent him three photos of my mammoth three-course breakfast and I've heard nothing back. Time, perhaps, to check out of the hotel ahead of everybody else. I thought there might a pool, but there wasn't and even if there had been I didn't bring my trunks.

I went downstairs with my book, 1971 by David Hepworth, and sat on a chair close to the elevators reading it until my companion surfaced. Having checked-in my overnight bag with the concierge we headed outside, turning left and slowly making our way down the hill to the river and, of course, the Chain Bridge. On the way we passed by the Hungarian President's work quarters, which was guarded by police and soldiers, and then crossed the Danube. Once off the bridge we carried on walking for a short while and then was about to make a left turn in the direction of the next bridge when we stopped at a cafe, Lipoti Bakery and Cafe, for a cake and a cappuccino, all very pleasant and it was good to rest our feet before resuming our journey. We were now on the Pest part of the city and heading towards the bridge that would take us back over the river to Buda. We passed small artisanal shops and old book stores where I found a Thomas Tryon novel, but not the one I'd been looking for, Harvest Home. I've been on the look-out for it for years, but have never found it and I'm left wondering why it's so rare.

The International Man of Mystery's burger

A little further along I stumbled upon a music shop and another potential passion of mine - or perhaps that should be an unfulfilled desire of mine, a need I've had since the age of six: to play the bass guitar. I say a 'desire', but not really; it's more that back then I wanted one, I didn't get one and, if I'm honest I forgot all about it, but occasionally kid myself that I want one, until I start questioning myself, asking myself, and then I think well, perhaps not. But occasionally I think I should get one and learn how to play it. For some reason my parents never bought me one; perhaps they thought I'd join a rock band - or form one myself - instead of wearing a suit and working in an office. The fantasy, the passion, the yearning (perhaps all three words are little exaggerated) have nagged at me, but I've never had the spare cash to buy one. You know the deal, there's always something else to buy. The reason I think I can play the bass is because my mum and dad were happy for me to learn how to play the violin; they saw it, perhaps, as a little more civilised (and not so 'common') and wouldn't have minded so much if I had become a concert violinist wearing tails and sporting a bow tie or whatever it is that concert violinists wear. I played the fiddle throughout my school life and even took a few private lessons with my music teacher, Frank Stapleton, who, for some reason, we all called Frog. But I changed when I reached the second year of high school, found that I was easily led and soon I became a bit of rebel who didn't really want to be in the school orchestra rehearsing. I wanted to be out on my bike down at River Gardens with my magapult breaking the windows of a derelict factory, not practising Gilbert & Sullivan's Ruddigore. When I left school I sold the violin and bought an air pistol as I figured I'd never make the London Symphony Orchestra, but perhaps I could shine in Wormwood Scrubs. Thoughts of learning the bass surfaced again around 2008 when I found myself in the New Forest over the Christmas period. Everybody there was playing guitar and I often picked one up in an idle moment, not really knowing what I was doing, but I somehow rekindled my old desire for a bass and found again that there was never enough spare cash floating about to buy one. Perhaps I should sell my useless Rolex and get one, which I eventually did, but that was to pay off a debt so the bass guitar never materialised. I'm annoyed about selling the watch too, although it never kept the correct time, needed to be serviced (at a cost of £400) and was far too ostentatious to wear out on the mean streets of London. But now I figure I could teach myself how to play the bass and besides, it would be a relaxing thing to do and a great achievement if I succeeded.

My burger! I was starving hungry, nowt went to waste...

We spent some time in the music shop. I felt like an imposter. I picked up a secondhand Fender Precision bass and then looked at a couple of acoustic bass guitars upstairs; and then we left and continued on our journey towards the funicular railway opposite the Chain Bridge. Perhaps if I'd really wanted a bass guitar I'd have bought one by now. Clearly it's not that much of a passion, even a potential passion. Perhaps I need to buy one to realise that I don't want one, who knows, although I think I'd give it a go (learning how to play) as I'm more grown up these days. The irony of the whole situation is that I have bought a book on how to play the bass guitar, but not the guitar.

Now that's what I call a church!

Our walk continued and eventually we reached the bridge that would take us back to Buda. The plan was to cross the bridge and turn left and then head for the funicular railway that would take us back to the hotel. It was cold (around -2 degrees) but thankfully we were both kitted out with the appropriate clothing and were glad of our woolly hats that we'd pulled down over our ears. I wasn't wearing gloves, but for some reason it wasn't that bad. I think my hands were numb to the cold.

Yours truly in hat and coat

The bridge back to Buda - which is the posh part of the city - had a kind of dog leg shape to it. Half way across it turned slightly left, but trams still thundered across it and so did cars and pedestrians. Once clear of the bridge we turned left and kept walking. Soon we were on board the funicular railway and heading up the hill and back to the grandiose buildings, the presidential palace and a small cafe that we'd found inside the Prima grocery store. The cafe didn't appear to have a name, but it was quaint and cosy and perfect for when the weather was cold. We followed some stairs at the back of the store that led up to a galleried walkway to the cafe. On Thursday, the day we arrived in Budapest, we'd gone in for a cappuccino and a small triangular pastry, an iced fancy as they're known in the UK. This time we ordered a late lunch of ham and eggs and a cup of tea. There were four fried eggs and they'd been cooked with the ham and laid on top of lettuce leaves. There was also sliced tomato and peppers and a soft bread roll into which the International Man of Mystery loaded some of his ham and eggs. I left my roll to last.

Ham and eggs with a roll and cappuccino

The cafe had a pleasant ambience. It was, in fact, the place of my dreams, the cafe I always look out for but never find. I knew that I could come back here and sit and read my book and that, of course, was the exactly what I did. Nobody would find me up here, I thought! Believe me these places are rare, but they do exist.

It's that church again...

After the International Man of Mystery had departed by coach to the airport and a flight back to the UK, I did go back, book in hand, and ordered another iced fancy and a cup of tea, it was around 1600hrs and dark outside, just how I like it. There's nothing better than being in a cosy cafe as the light fades, armed with a decent book, sipping from a cup of tea and nibbling a pastry of some sort. I was living the dream - at last! But before I revisited the in-store cafe I wandered around, checked out a another secondhand bookstore, peered into other cafes, wandered into an arty clothes shop, checked out the fridge magnets and bobble hats and bought nothing. I have everything I need except, perhaps for that bass guitar.

Inside Lipoti Bakery and Cafe...

After sitting there for quite a while I considered heading back to the hotel, but was joined by two colleagues and stayed for another cup of tea. We chatted and were joined by two more colleagues and then it was time to leave. I paid up and headed back to the hotel where a coach was waiting to whisk us off to the airport and a flight home. But the plane was delayed. I wandered off alone with my book to the far end of the airport and ordered a bottle of mineral water and banana from a Cafe Ritazza before finding a table and continuing to read David Hepworth's 1971. I checked out a few of the airport shops, sprayed myself with some expensive aftershave and then, eventually headed for the gate and the flight home. It was late when we touched down at Gatwick, just gone midnight, and it would be 0100hrs before I reached home, far too late so I aborted the ride and hit the sack.

Looking down on the Danube and the Chain Bridge from Buda

Sunday 12 January - to Westerham!

General Wolfe doing his stuff on Westerham Green

I didn't ride on Saturday 11 January, but Andy rode to Smallfield alone. I didn't get to bed until gone midnight and had to abort. On Sunday last weekend we rode to Westerham. It was fairly pleasant on the weather front and when we got there we had planned to visit the Tudor Rose, but the chairs were on the tables so we set up camp on the green and got out the tea. That was it, really. We chatted, we people-watched and then we headed home, up the hill which, as I've said many times before, was much easier and less daunting than we thought it would be. Andy said goodbye and we promised to meet on Saturday at the usual place. But we didn't. I'd forgotten that I'd be going to Budapest on Thursday and flying back on Friday, but I wasn't aware the flight would be delayed and as a result I'd not be home until 0100hrs. Hopefully the weather will hold out for Sunday 19 January, the birthday of an old pal, Paul Hooper who, sadly, is no longer with us. Anyway, tomorrow with a bit of luck.

Exotic window display in a Westerham shop

"You can be a king or a street sweeper..."

First of all, let's get the elephant in the room out of the way: Trump is a cock.

Okay, what's been happening? Well, I lolled about watching television on Friday night (watching the best of Graham Norton) and ended up hitting the sack late, around midnight. When I woke up on Saturday morning I was still thinking about a ride, but because Andy wasn't riding (he had a cold) I had no motivation, no motivator, nobody to meet at the green. So I continued to loll around, but still conning and deceiving myself that I WOULD go out. I didn't. Eventually I did go out, in the car, to a store selling fireplaces. The bloke in the shop was one of those guys who didn't seem bothered whether he made a sale or not. In fact, he kept asking 'what's the point'? He tried to steer us away from spending a load of money on a coal-effect gas fire, trying instead to sell us a £500 electric 'stove' with flame effect and a balloon to blow up in order to block the chimney. I had visions of our house lifting off the ground, like in the movie Up!

We left the store and I felt a little deflated. There's nothing worse, in my book, than getting fired up (see the joke there? 'Fired up'? Fireplaces?) and then leaving without having a concrete idea about how to proceed. Still, nothing a chicken, avocado and bacon sandwich with salad wouldn't cure. After that I felt fine and the rest of the day unfolded slowly, culminating in an early night, which was much needed. In a way I'm glad I didn't go out on Saturday morning, I needed the rest. I did manage a walk around the block, possibly 3-4 miles, not sure.

Sunday I was awake at 0600hrs listening to Something Understood with Mark Tully on Radio 4 talking about mementos. It was fine for 10 minutes, but then I simply had to get up, especially when Tully started talking about getting old. I simply don't need it. For some reason, people keep trying to remind me that I'm no spring chicken. A work colleague texted me, concerned that he (and me) didn't have that much time left on the planet. I felt inclined to remind him that it's all part of the human condition, it's inevitable and it's best not to think too hard about it. "Live in the here and now," I said and then quoted a 1990s death row inmate, Robert Alton Harris, who was executed on 21 April 1992. His last words, were: "You can be a king or street sweeper, but everybody dances with the grim reaper." It was a misquote of "You might be a king or a little street sweeper, but sooner or later you dance with the reaper," from the movie Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure. It's a great quote because it puts in their place all those rich, fat bastards, the senior management who think they're a cut above the rest of us, driving around in their fancy cars, bragging about how successful they are when really they're shit scared. The truth is, it doesn't matter how wealthy you are or how big your house is, you still take a dump like the rest of us and, like the rest of us, you die alone even if you're in a crowded room.

On Sunday morning I was considering a ride to Redhill to visit the Pop Inn cafe, but I figured I eat there during the week and changed my mind. Perhaps I'd ride solo to Westerham for scrambled egg and toast in the Tudor Rose, but the thought of riding back up the hill alone without the motivation of Andy put me off. I was left with three options: do nothing, ride to mum's or ride to Woodmansterne Green to see Bon. I chose the latter because riding to mum's would have meant fruit cake and a Kitkat. Bon and I met around 0830hrs and chatted about this and that before heading home. I can't remember what time I got back, but when I did it was time to take out the Christmas tree, which this year had shed a lot of pine needles on the floor. Soon it was unceremoniously stripped of its baubles and slung in the front garden awaiting collection by the rubbish people and it looked a bit like the tree in the photograph below.

A tree in the grounds of Chartwell House, Westerham

Went to Chartwell for lunch - chicken pie, soup, coffee & walnut cake - had a brief walk across muddy ground and then headed home, ate an M&S samosa, engaged in another walk, this time a four-miler round the block. The tourist attraction that had been the local streets over the festive season had piped down their front-of-house festive displays. Some were still there, but the Christmas lights are flickering and soon they'll be extinguished for another year and I think everybody is quietly sighing with relief.