Woodmansterne Saturday, Bus Stop on Sunday...

It's Sunday morning, 0643hrs and Andy and I have decided to wait until 0700hrs before we decide on whether a ride is on the cards or night. All night the wind has been blowing hard and I awoke early and listened to it gusting around outside as I lay there, right hand on forehead contemplating an abort text.

Library shot of the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Today's weather similar to this.

Now I'm up, sitting in front the laptop with two pieces of toast long eaten and a cup of Earl Grey decaff (without milk) wondering what the light will bring. If it's anything like yesterday I probably will go cycling. I remember sitting here in exactly the same position having resigned myself to not going out when Bon texted to ask if I was going. I called him and said it was a bit blowy out there, but somehow decided it was okay and agreed to meet him around a quarter past eight on Woodmansterne Green.

I left the house around 0750 and headed down the road, turning left on to West Hill and then riding through Purley, along Foxley Lane, now decimated by the development of flats, and on towards the turn-off for Woodmansterne. It was a very pleasant day with the occasional gust, but generally fine.

When I reached the green there was no sign of Bon. Normally he gets there early and comes down the road to meet me, but there was no sign of him. I parked up by Jean Merrington's circular bench and waited and suddenly there he was, in his car! Now, normally I would have been pissed off with this, but clearly something had occurred. The problem was that my phone had run out of power so I didn't know what, until he told me: he'd reached the garage and found a puncture, texted me to abort but of course I didn't get it so he drove to the green instead. It was fine, we drank tea and chatted and then, around 0908hrs headed back to our respective homes.

Library shot of Woodmansterne Green...

And now I sit here, a full day later, wondering whether Andy and I will meet at the usual time on Warlingham Green, it's looking highly likely. In fact I'd better get a move-on, clean up the cups from yesterday and sort things out.

Yesterday's weather was far better than today's. Yesterday the occasional gust of wind, today a mild drizzle, wet roads and gusty winds, but on both days it's been warm. So warm that I instinctively didn't wear the balaclava this weekend. There are daffodils all over the place and some of the trees have started to blossom so there are signs of better weather to come, but we're not out of the woods yet.

Warlingham Green on Sunday morning

We decided to ride the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop and it was a good ride. We kept pace with one another, chatted about various things en route and when we reached the bus stop and found the bench to be wet (and our respective arses) we stood up and continued the conversation as we looked out on the drizzly greyness of the scene before us. There were a few Lycra monkeys around, but not many.

Andy and I parted company at The Ridge and vowed to be back in the saddle next weekend (weather permitting). I rode along the 269 and now I'm home and changed and back on the lap top writing the last few words of this blogpost. There are no images this weekend, or rather no fresh images were taken as my phone ran out of power and Andy didn't take any. The shots that you see above are what the BBC would call a 'library pictures', meaning they weren't taken on today's ride but are from the archive.

Notes from flight D82952 from London Gatwick to Helsinki...

I was wide awake at just after 0400hrs and unable to get back to sleep, not for want of trying. I tried taking measured breaths and closing my eyes, but I wasn't sleepy enough. It wasn't like the old days, when waking up in the middle of the night was the ultimate pleasure because I would feel luxuriously sleepy and ready to fall straight back to sleep. Back in the day I looked forward to a broken night, sometimes I used to set my alarm too early just so I could reset it and fall back to sleep just so I could experience the joy of lying there thinking pleasant thoughts. Somewhere along the line things changed, those thoughts became fretful and now, if I'm awake, I'm awake and it'll take a while to get back to sleep. Sometimes I fail and I simply get up and go downstairs.

Healthy breakfast at Gatwick's South Terminal

Just before 0500hrs I jumped out of bed and switched off all the alarms that I had thought would be necessary to wake me up, but, as I suspected, I didn't need them. After making myself fruit, porridge and toast I put the finishing touches to packing my bag and then waited for the taxi to arrive. When it did I noticed Gupta was at the wheel. He's a bit of racist, but believe it or not he's alright, he's simply one of those people that likes to moan about virtually everything and, of course, now he can no longer moan about the European Union because we're out. Although he still moans about immigration, one of his chief bugbears, but let's not forget his son's messy divorce and his various health ailments. But deep down, this ex-services cab driver is alright and despite previous posts, in which I probably paint a bleaker picture, I quite like him.

At Helsinki, still in the plane, looks drizzly

He arrived on the dot at 0600hrs to take me to Gatwick airport and an early flight to Helsinki in Finland. I have never been to Finland before so I'm looking forward to the trip.

On the way to the terminal building after Gupta had dropped me off, I met a woman who lives in Pimlico, London, somewhere close to Lupus Street. She hailed originally from the West of Ireland and was on her way to Dublin to watch her own racehorse compete in a race, although she wasn't 100% sure that the horse would run, but was going anyway. She was flying Ryanair on the basis that they're cheap. I was flying Norwegian. In fact I refuse point blank to fly with Ryanair: I never have and I never will and it's all down to to the fact that I distrust them and the guy who heads up the budget airline.

Once I'd checked in I milled around for a while, spraying myself with expensive aftershave. It's the only time I smell nice. I bought a few things and then went in search of something to eat, nothing special. I visited the Wonder Tree restaurant where I ordered and enjoyed a mint tea, a slice of toast and something called a Berry Yoghurt Bowl (£11.45). My flight appeared on the destinations board at 0800hrs and was due to depart from gate 18 so I paid up and went in search of the gate.

On the bus waiting for the stragglers...

I am on flight D8 2952 and sitting in seat 12a, a much-appreciated window seat, affording me excellent views of tiny cotton wool clouds some distance below me. It's fairly clear outside (now that we've cleared the cloud hanging over Gatwick) and even at 39,000 feet I can still see land and sea, roads and rivers below me.

The flight isn't full. Who else would be so foolish to fly on a Sunday morning? I have an entire row to myself and that means I can spread out a little bit.

I had been under the impression that the flying time to Helsinki was roughly three hours, but no, it's two hours and 25 minutes, which is a relief, although I must admit that I'm nice and relaxed and enjoying every minute.

I've brought a 500ml bottle of Pellegrino on board, but I swear I heard them say that passengers must buy everything from the airline so I've not opened it - until now - as I think the service is over, but they will probably admonish me for my insolence.

Toasted cheese and ham and mint tea at Moi Bar, Helsinki

Last night I was on top of the world chilling out at home watching (on Netflix) The Great Escape, but conscious that I needed to be up at 0500hrs I stopped the movie after David McCallum had exited through the tunnel and will have to watch the rest on my return.

My room at Scandic Simonkentta, Helsinki

Down below I can see land, mainly a mix of large and small (some very small) islands. Miraculously the sea is blue and off in the distance there is a hazy smattering of thin cloud. This is what pilots call 'excellent flying weather' or 'conditions' and I love it when I know things are going to be relatively smooth and free from too much turbulence.

There's probably about an hour left to run on this flight and outside the land has given way to the sea, so there's little to see. In addition to being a window seat, 12a is also an engine seat.

I'm taking sneaky swigs from my bottle of Pellegrino because right now I'm really into Pellegrino sparkling mineral water. All week at work I've been downing a one litre bottle just after lunch having purchased it for £1.50 from the Co-op. It's something I haven't done for a long time, but there's nothing better and now that I'm not drinking alcohol (it's been just over two years and two months and I'm getting boring about it) I've decided to drink more Pellegrino, mainly because non-alcohol beers are piss poor and I can't be bothered to pretend anymore. In the same way that Sir Bobby Charlton and Arthur Scargill should have swept their comb-overs aside and announced, fuck it, I'm bald! Well, metaphorically I'm doing the same. It's a bit like my vegetarian sausages theory which I will now explain.

The view from my hotel window...

Okay, if you're a vegetarian why bother eating vegetarian sausages? Why would you want to eat something that resembles the very thing you've decided not to eat anymore? In the same way, why should (or why would) somebody who has given up drinking want to be drinking something that looks exactly like what he or she has given up? No-alcohol beer will never taste the same as real beer so why drink it? It's horrible and simple serves to remind you of what you are missing by not drinking. Not that I'm missing alcohol, not one bit as it happens. There are people who drink no-alcohol beer to hide the fact that they are not drinking, which is fine for a while, but once you become comfortable with being a non-drinker and don't care what others think about your decision, that's when it's good to start on the Pellegrino. Perhaps a no-alcohol beer with a curry, but that's about it.

It's 1105hrs (UK time) and I reckon there's around 30-40 minutes left to go. Outside there is no sign of land, just wispy clouds below me and the sea. I think I might read a bit more of Michel Houellebecq's Serotonin. There's 25 minutes to go according to the captain and we will shortly be starting our descent into Helsinki where it's 5 degrees, cloudy and rainy. Ugh! Just like England. As we descended through layered cloud I saw nothing that resembled land until we had virtually hit the tarmac. The landing was perfect, so smooth and soon the plane parked up to await a few buses that were being sent to ferry us back to the terminal building. We were all waiting inside the plane, some people were standing in the aisles, but I chose to simply sit there and wait it out. Soon, I was up and out of the plane, on the staircase leading down to the tarmac and the waiting buses. There was rock salt on the stairs, a clear sign that things get pretty icy here in Finland.

Where doors open outwards...

In fact, I was told that the current weather in Helsinki was out of character with the time of year. There should have been at least a foot of snow on the ground, but apparently the Finnish capital is experiencing the warmest of temperatures for January 'since records began'. It was good in a sense because it meant that I wouldn't be slipping and sliding all over the place and possibly even falling 'arse over tit' in the process.

After clearing passport control I followed signs to arrivals and found myself wandering through lairy displays of alcohol, cigarettes, fragrances and watches, not forgetting fur coats and anything else you might care to throw in. Talk about the Society of the Spectacle, it's obscene. And rather than stop and buy anything I simply used the testers to make myself smell good again, based on the assumption that the Allure I'd sprayed on my face at Gatwick had worn off.

I found myself in Moi Bar opposite Starbucks where I ordered a cheese and ham toastie and a mint tea. It was fantastic and there was a real risk that I'll eat another one so took a wander.

To brighten up winter streets in Helsinki they keep the festive spirit alive

I made my way to the Hilton hotel just outside the airport where a car drove me into the centre of town and a lovely hotel where I am staying now. It's very pleasant and I'm looking forward to breakfast. The room is good, there's a minibar, a television, a decent bathroom and a desk. Add in WiFi and you could say I'm as happy as Larry.

I don't like 'temporary'...

"Let's talk about our favourite things," she said as we walked along the street. It was a pleasant afternoon, late in the day, and on the verge of creeping twilight.
"Yes, okay," said I, sauntering along the path, wearing the same clothes I'd worn earlier in the day when I rode to Westerham with Andy. I can be quite slobby at the weekends.
"I like it when it's winter time and we're watching one of those American movies that seem to go on all afternoon," she said.
"With some cake, don't forget."
"Yes, definitely with some cake, and it's raining. Remember that day when we walked to the supermarket in the rain when we didn't have a car?"
I did remember. It's an uphill walk on the way out and a downhill stroll on the return journey and it happens now and then, like when it snows and the car's stuck on the drive or when, for some reason, we don't have a car because it's in for repairs.
"I like flying too, especially the take-off," she said.
"I like settling in to a long haul flight," I said. "The meal's arrived, I've got one of those small bottles of red wine and there's about five or six hours to go."

Image: LaurenoLauren

"Clean sheets. I like getting into bed when there's clean sheets," she said, and I remembered my childhood.
"When I was a kid I used to like Monday nights – or maybe it was Sunday – when mum had washed all the bedclothes and it was the summer and we used to go to bed when it was light and the bedclothes were fresh-smelling," I said.
We turned right on to Morley and headed towards The Ridgeway and then a left on Arkwright.
"What about things we don't like?"
"Why be negative?"
"Because it's fun. I don't like British movies," she said.
"I know what you mean, but there are exceptions, although I can't think of any right now," said I.
"Chris Nighy, I don't like him," she said.
"You can't just not like somebody. You have to have a reason," I said.
"You said you don't like Jodie Foster," she said.
"Let's walk that way," I suggested, pointing in the direction of Arkwright, but not the stretch we'd just walked along; the other bit that leads down to the main road.
"I don't like Jodie Foster, but it's because I've never really liked her movies," I explained.
There was a girl in a small car sitting the wrong way around in the driver's seat.
"Wow! Now that's a nice house," said I. There was a woman inside and the house was new, possibly a new-build or a total refurb job. We passed by.
"I didn't like it," she said.
"What do you mean? It was great," I replied.
We turned into Willoughby.
"I know what I really don't like: temporary."
"Temporary?"
"Yes, you know. Like my room having no carpet, it's temporary."
"But that was your choice, you decided to take it up."
"I know, but it's still temporary."
"Yes, but you made it temporary," I said.
We headed towards Ewhurst and walked up towards Morley.
"I know what you mean about temporary. I can't stand it when somebody buys, say, a new car and then they say, 'It's okay, but I'll probably sell it next year', I find that too unsettling."
"That's what I mean," she said.
And it's true, I don't like it when people say things like that because it makes things unstable and not forever, temporary, just like she said.
"Renting, that's temporary," she said.
"Everything's temporary. Life's temporary. Where's granddad Gerald gone, for example?"
"What about gardening? That's temporary; you mow the lawn but it grows back."
"That's not temporary, that's a whole different argument, that's all about the futility of gardening. Take our house, we've been there 18 years and I mow the lawn every fortnight and yes, the grass grows back, but the garden's still the same garden, it's not temporary," I explained.
We turned on to Morley.
"Let's walk to West Hill," she suggested.
"Okay," I said and soon we were home again and it was just gone 6pm and already dark outside. The winter was coming.