The slow way to Tatsfield Village...

Sunday 8th January. Radio Four's Something Understood on Sunday morning was all about immortality. The programme, which airs immediately after the 0600hrs news at around 0610hrs, kicked off with the fact that there are only two certainties in life: death and taxes. All very depressing. I didn't want to get out of bed as the ride was our first early excursion after the traditional later start over the festive season.

I dressed and went downstairs to make tea and breakfast before I headed out, in the dark, to mount the bike and head for the green. It was dark and would remain so until 0800hrs. Fortunately I had front and rear lights having worked out a way of attaching my rear light to my rucksack.

It wasn't cold, but the balaclava always makes life a little more comfortable

At the green we decided to ride the slow way to Tatsfield Village where we noted with joy that the Old Ship pub was not going to be closed down and turned into housing or a convenience store. A man was varnishing a door so I went over for a chat. He invited me in to see a refurbished interior and told me that the place would re-open to the public on 13th January. Food would be on offer in February and, I was told, it will be traditional pub food, all home-made. There's even to be a coffee shop that will open at 0830hrs – a place to chill after a ride, I thought, and later relayed the information to Andy.

The weather was wonderful. It was dry for a start and there were clear skies. In fact, despite a lot of talk about poor weather, there hasn't been any. Over the Christmas period I was expecting plenty of abort texts due to promised storms, but we remained dry and active throughout.

When I reached home, the latest David Bowie documentary (about his last five years) was on the television. I sat and watched it and found myself getting depressed again. I thought back to Something Understood earlier this morning on the radio. Immortality, death and taxes, and poor old David Bowie who died roughly a year ago.

Later I decided to clean the bike (it was looking a bit dirty!). I oiled the chain too.

There's a train strike Monday, Wednesday and Friday and, as always, I consider riding to work. But the reality is something else. While the ride to work is simple and very pleasant, there's all the hassle of taking a spare pair of trousers and a shirt with me and sitting at my desk feeling, well, sweaty. I'll probably get the bus, which is fairly pleasant. It means I can read for a good hour and at the moment I'm reading Dave Eggers' The Circle. I've only just started it, but it seems promising and has received some good reviews from people that matter, like David Baddiel.

Bank Holiday Weekend Cycling – Part two: to Westerham for tea, toast and cake...

Of late – and by 'of late' I mean for many years – my life has been largely devoid of music, mainly because it's impossible to listen to it without some kind of interruption, somebody asking me to 'turn it down' or requesting different music or wanting to discuss something. Ultimately, whenever I consider putting on some music, I think twice and decide not to bother.

As music has basically seeped away from my day-to-day life, like a burst water main, the machinery designed to bring music into the house started to fall into disrepair too. Old speakers soon found themselves in the garage en route to the municipal tip and now there is an amplifier and a CD player sitting self-consciously unconnected and redundant in the living room.

The music itself is in a state of disrepair. CDs can be found in a draw, not inside their original packaging but somewhere else: a New Order Best Of, for instance, might be residing in REM's Out of Time packaging and vice versa, and some CDs have no packaging at all. Needless to say some of them get damaged so that on the odd occasion when I find myself driving to mum's alone or nipping out to the supermarket to buy some milk, I place a CD in the player and it jumps, so I either switch if off or listen to the radio instead.

In all honesty, music has ceased to be important. I won't listen to anything produced beyond, say, 1995 – around that time good music stopped and a mixture of hip hop and Simon Cowell took over, giving the world some of the worst music it's ever likely to hear. It's not going to get any better either so I'm left with my memories and a few damaged CDs. When I say that music is no longer important to me, it used to define my very existence by providing the soundtrack to my life. I lived my life as if it was some kind of movie with me as the big star. Perhaps we're all guilty of this.

From an early age – probably around 13 onwards – I had been listening to music, trying to find meaning and relevance in the lyrics and, occasionally, transporting myself into a fantasy world where I was the lead guitarist playing in front of a huge audience, until the record ended and I came crashing back down to earth and found myself in my bedroom or, if I engage in such fantasies now, Sainsbury's or round at mum's house. And while I really should know better, I still engage in such fantasies.

Some people put music on as 'background' noise. I can't do this. Or rather I can, but I tend to want to listen to whatever is playing, drift off into some kind of other world and, hopefully, stay there for as long as I can. But, of course, such activity is impossible nowadays as there's always something else to do and, therefore, music is no longer relevant simply because there's never any time to just sit down and listen to it like there used to be. In many ways it's sad because I've always believed that music is good for the soul.

So, this week, on a mid-week drive over to mum's, I found All Mod Cons by The Jam – undamaged. What a tremendous album. From the word go it's brilliance shines through and it took me right back to 1978, a strange and formative year for me in so many ways. It reminded me of Bon, my brother, and going to the pub in Carshalton and drinking pints of Young's and not really having any worries – no mortgages, no bills, no responsibilities.

A few days later I found myself walking around the streets of Redhill with Jezza, a work colleague, who asked me to name any other artist – other than Paul Weller – who had not only remained relevant, but was still putting out cutting edge albums. I tried. The Rolling Stones? No, they're largely reliant upon their back catalogue. I wracked my brain and eventually scored: David Bowie. I was right, but Weller, as Jezza was keen to point out, was the only one of our contemporaries – Jezza and I are roughly the same age – who was still of massive relevance today and, of course, is still with us.

Yesterday, as I stood alone at the check-out in Sainsbury's, I spied Quadrophenia – a double CD set with a smaller version of the black and white story that's interwoven into the cover of the original vinyl offering. It was only £5. I'd earlier put a copy of the Observer into my trolley and now I picked it up and noted the price – a good £3. I cast it aside and put Quadrophenia on to the conveyor instead.

What can I say? Quadrophenia, in my opinion, is the best Who album. Better than Tommy, better than Who's Next, better than The Who by Numbers and so on. There are so many aspects of this great double album to bring out, but for now just two: Keith Moon's drumming and John Entwhistle's bass after Daltry has belted out, "Can you see the real me, can yer, CAN YER?!!!!" Driving home yesterday from mum's I found myself replaying it time and time again, it was that good. And when you think about it, what an achievement – the Who have had TWO albums turned into movies.

Another fantastic bit of drumming by Keith Moon can be found at the beginning of the track Bell Boy. Honestly, it's just amazing and, let's face it, they're all good – all four members of the Who.

Breakfast in Westerham. Pic by Andy Smith.

But right now, as I write this, my brain's in-built Walkman is playing In the Crowd from All Mod Cons. It's on from the moment I'm conscious or, as yesterday, when I rode along the Limpsfield Road towards the Green where Andy was waiting. We headed out to Westerham on what was easily the best day of the weekend – blue skies and sunshine and warmth. There was no heavy flask of water in the rucksack, no teabags and no milk as we were headed for the Tudor Rose café where we would enjoy tea, toast and the most amazing fruit cake.

The ride to Westerham was perfect. Great views, albeit with a few Lycra monkeys thrown in for good measure. We sat outside the Tudor Rose and watched the market traders setting up their stalls. Our tea arrived in a huge (and heavy) white teapot followed by two slices of thick, buttered toast and, of course, a couple of slabs of fruit cake. People walked past – dog walkers and old-age pensioners – and we sat there trying to put out of our minds the journey home and that long hill. But soon we were back on the bikes and heading towards the dreaded hill and I said something like, "Soon we'll be at Botley wondering what all the fuss was about." In truth, it was not that bad – it never is. The initial hill is peppered with flat sections and then, once beyond the Surrey Hills totem pole, it's a slow burn to Botley. We soon reached the pub and all that remained was the ride north along the 269 towards the Green. It was such a clear day we could see London stretched out before us, from the Shard to Docklands, but it soon disappeared behind the trees and suddenly we were back in suburbia.

We parted company at the Green and decided not to ride on Bank Holiday Monday, but, as I sit here now on that very day, with the time only minutes away from 0830hrs, I'm still mulling over a possible ride, although I don't think I'll bother. Instead, I'll take my exercise in the garden, sawing a few branches, pulling out some Devil's Forget-Me-Nots and sweeping the patio. Summer is fast approaching, the garden is starting to bloom... and In the Crowd is still playing in my head.

In Nice...

If I was the Camp Tramp I think I'd take advantage of the UK's membership of the European Union and move to Nice, certainly for the summer months, but only if I could still rely upon my British benefits. Yesterday I took a walk along the Promenade des Anglais. It was a cool and crisp day and the palm trees swayed gently in the breeze. The sea was blue, but I'm guessing it was very cold.

My thoughts exactly...

As the day progressed so did the weather. It was certainly much warmer than it was in the UK, but that was only to be expected considering how much further south I found myself. That said, the South of France gets a little chilly during the winter months. On Thursday night, for example, it was rainy and blustery and wet and a colleague and I took shelter in, of all places, a McDonald's. I rarely eat in McDonald's, but having only had a small chicken and bacon roll and a Mocha Iced Bun for lunch on the plane, I was in need of sustenance. A Chicken McTasty sort of did the trick, but I regretted it the moment it arrived.

Yesterday morning I walked with the same colleague to the eastern end of the bay where old people braved the wintry seas to take a dip. Apparently it does you good and to be fair to one old geezer, who we saw towelling himself dry after a bracing swim, he looked in pretty good shape. The sea was in good form too. Despite the fact that it was January, it was still blue – not the tea-with-milk-colour that characterises Britain's south coastal waters.

Up among the rocks we spotted some kind of 'camp'. Nothing major (nothing like the Calais 'jungle' – just a sleeping bag and a few blankets) and that was when I thought of the Camp Tramp. Why sit on a freezing cold Brighton beach drinking Stellas when you can do the same thing on a slightly warmer beach in Nice? Perhaps when I next see him, I'll suggest it, although I don't think the Camp Tramp is sleeping rough. I don't even think he's a tramp, just a wayward individual with a drink problem and some mental health issues. Perhaps I ought to give him a wide berth.

Looking west from the eastern end of Promenade des Anglais

While away I heard that Alan Rickman had passed away. He died aged 69 of cancer. Rickman played Severin Snape in the Harry Potter movies and he was the third well-known person from the world of entertainment (I wouldn't describe any of them as 'celebrities') to die over the last fortnight, the other two being David Bowie, also 69, and Lemmy Kilmister, who had just turned 70. All three died of cancer.

Watching those old people braving the cold seas and trying, perhaps, to hold back the years – why else would they do it, certainly not for their own entertainment – I found myself wondering whether there's any point in such behaviour. When the Grim Reaper calls, he calls, and there's nothing anybody can do about it. And then I had a frightening thought: what if you could see the Grim Reaper, perhaps walking on the beach in your direction, possibly even coming for you. Imagine the horror if you dived into a café in an attempt at losing him, only to look up moments later and see him looking straight at you through the window.

View of Nice from the Meridien Hotel's terrace....

I had a day to kill in Nice and I spent most of it wandering the streets, enjoying the view (and a cappuccino) on the roof terrace of the Meridien hotel and then lunch in Le West-End hotel, where I had spent the night. A light linguini with asparagus and a glass of Bordeaux and then another walk along the sea front that was interrupted when I passed the Hard Rock Café and found a group of work colleagues enjoying the winter sunshine and some nachos. After a glass of red wine we headed towards the main shopping area and then, after a cappuccino, we walked back to the beach where some more colleagues, wrapped up warm against the cool weather, looked out to sea and sipped pints of beer served up at a beach bar.

Room 626, Le West-End Hotel, Nice...

It was soon time for me to head to the airport and a flight to Heathrow. I took the 98 bus for six Euros rather than spend 40 Euros on a taxi and soon I was at Terminal One awaiting the 2030hrs British Airways flight home. En route I enjoyed another chicken and bacon roll and another Mocha Iced Bun. The latter was wonderful and I was tempted to ask for another one, but it would have proved slightly awkward. The French woman sitting in the aisle seat next to me had ordered a salad and a roll and bun contained in a box, but while she had eaten the salad, the roll and bun remained untouched. I feared that by asking for one more – and possibly being told that there were no more left – that she would feel obliged to offer me hers. I would, of course, refuse, but I didn't want the awkwardness so I kept my mouth shut. Another roll and bun would have made the two mini bottles of red wine I had ordered just that little bit more enjoyable.

View from room 626, Le West-End Hotel, Nice...

Once on the ground, pleasantries were exchanged between myself and those of my colleagues who had opted for the BA flight to Heathrow – the rest returned to Gatwick. I took the tube to South Kensington. On the train were two people who made me smile. First a rather rotund, bald-headed gentleman with an iPad who might have stepped out of a Dickens novel. In a jovial manner he engaged in conversation with a foreigner, somebody, no doubt, who had just arrived in the UK. I couldn't hear the conversation over the clatter of the train as it raced through the dark tunnels, but they laughed and joked like old friends, catching the attention of other, equally intrigued passengers, and that made me smile.

Nice-looking crepes, but I resisted the temptation...

Next up was a younger man with a beard who jumped on board at Baron's Court with a small bottle of vodka in one hand and a similarly-sized plastic bottle of Coke in the other. I watched as he topped up the three quarters full bottle of Coke with vodka. "Don't judge me," he said, and we both laughed.

It was so cold when I changed trains at South Kensington that I opened up my suitcase, took out a woolly jumper and put it on. I was on a late train bound for East Grinstead, but I alighted at Sanderstead and then walked home along the alleys, dragging my suitcase on wheels behind me; it made such a noise I must have disturbed the neighbours who, at around 1130hrs, must have been settling down the for night.

Thoughts on David Bowie's passing

As I sit and listen to the melancholy sound of David Bowie's latest and last album, Blackstar, I'll admit to feeling very sad about his passing away, and I'm sure that many people throughout the world feel the same way.

The late, great David Bowie...

I wouldn't say I was ever a true Bowie 'fan' – I only bought one of his albums, Hunky Dory, and, later, a compilation CD – but he was one of only a handful of musicians who, over the years, have been impossible to ignore. Who hasn't listened to tracks like Jean Genie, Young Americans, Fame, Heroes, Suffragette City, Starman, Fashion, Let's Dance, China Girl, Space Oddity – the list is endless.

One thing I think I'll always be grateful for is that my generation has been given the very best on offer as far as popular music is concerned. The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, the Who, AC/DC, Hawkwind, Motörhead, Elton John, the Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Jam, the list is endless. I wonder whether today's musicians – those who have come out of television talent shows like X Factor, will be held in such high esteem as the aforementioned rock greats? In short, the answer is no, they won't be because they will never be as accomplished or talented. They will never be THAT good or that 'respected'. Having said that, I swear that my dad said something similar whenever he found himself forced to listen to my Clash and Hawkwind albums. Something about Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra being able to knock out a tune.

Blackstar is the perfect album, tinged as it is with sadness and with an almost ghostly, choral quality.

It's a shame that Bowie had to die so young.