New Year's Eve ride

There's no fixed event, we don't have a New Year's Ride on our agenda and never have, but sometimes New Year's Eve falls on a day when we're riding so, by default, that ride becomes a New Year's Eve ride. On this occasion, we weren't really planning to ride on New Year's Eve, Andy had suggested we ride earlier in the week, I think it was Monday he was suggesting, but I said something along the lines of "I was thinking of Wednesday", which just so happened to be New Year's Eve. 

Clear skies...

The temperatures have plummeted of late so Andy suggested meeting at 1030hrs and I agreed, we didn't want to risk icy roads and accidents. I left around 0930, feeling over-confident that I would easily reach Esquire's Coffee within the hour based on my performance on Boxing Day. It was cold, but not as cold as it looked even if the weather app on my phone was saying 'feels like zero degrees' or whatever it said. I pushed up Church Way, the only real hill on the outward ride, and soon found myself on the 269 heading for Botley Hill and beyond. 

Half way down Clarks Lane the road was closed and a detour in place and then there was a short burst along Pilgrim's Lane before rejoining Clarks Lane and heading into Westerham. Andy was already there and it was fairly crowded. I took a seat, ordered a tea and then we found ourselves talking about 'third places', the idea being that we have home and work and then a third place where we chill and read and talk and do whatever. For a lot of people, the pub is their third place, but for me, my third place will always be a coffee shop or caff, Andy's the same. The whole notion of a 'third place' was to do with the development of the coffee retailing chain Starbucks, which started life in Pike Street Market in Seattle (I've been there a couple of times and, as you might expect, it looks different from the Starbucks we all know and love). In fact, I was in Starbucks in Oxted the day before yesterday and that looks like a good 'third place' to me, but having said that so does Caffe Nero just up the road, and Coughlan's across the street. Third places can be anywhere and depend entirely on individual tastes. In other words, the third place, be it a coffee shop, a leisure centre cafeteria or a pub is subjective. I wonder if there are any coffee shops called The Third Place anywhere in the world (I'll check it out on Google).

On Pilgrims Lane just outside of Westerham...

A friend of Andy's from his cycling club arrived and said hello and suddenly the place was packed. Next to us were mums with their kids playing cards, in other parts of the store there were groups of friends and families and Esquires did a good job in catering for them all.

There are many good things about Esquires Coffee in Westerham (remember, this is a franchised concept so each one is liable to be slightly different from the next one and so on). The space is large and airy (more so when it's half empty) and the vibe is good, the place has warmth and, I hasten to add, a plentiful range of cakes, cookies and savoury items and, for Andy, they cater for vegans too. I noticed a few vegan sausage rolls, but also a load of bacon sandwiches, millionaires shortbreads, the usual stuff you expect to find plus sandwiches, everything you might need.

We stayed for a couple of cups of tea and then, realising that I had no urgent need to return home, I stayed on and read Uncommon Danger, the last of the Penguin Modern Classics range of Eric Ambler novels. One chapter in and I already know that it's going to be good. I've just finished reading The Absence by Peter Clark aka Budgie, the drummer from the Siouxsie and the Banshees and The Creatures. I thought I was going to struggle with it at first until I got around a third of the way through and then I found it enlightening; it was all about Budgie's loss of his mother when he was a child and how her absence had a knock-on effect on virtually everything in his life, including his relationship with Siouxsie who, incidentally, lost her father to alcoholism when she was young. You might have thought they would be kindred spirits (and on some level probably were) but they eventually divorced and Peter later remarried and moved to Berlin where he lives with cats and dogs, his wife and children. In a sense, all's well that ends well, but I'm sure Peter might say that's not how it is, who knows. I'd imagine that losing a parent early on in life has life-long consequences. He was born in the same year as me so we probably share a few things about life even if it's as low brow as Parma Violets, Sherbert Fountains and Whacky Races.

Pilgrims Lane, nobody around!

I left Esquires around 1230hrs and moseyed on back home, then I drove to Waitrose to buy chicken and rolls and stuff for lunch. I always end up spending a small fortune in Waitrose. Later I tucked in to a vegetable samosa and a chicken and mustard roll as we lurched towards the boredom of Hootenanny and awful people long past their sell-by date, like Sir Lenny Henry. I switched channels constantly, watching snippets of Jaws 2, glimpses of Ronan Keating (I couldn't really take any more than a second of it) and then back to Hootenanny, which, ultimately, is rubbish. I'm fed up with Jools Holland, he's kind of past it (as is Ronan Keating, the 'family favourite'). They're both 'safe pairs of hands' and in Ronan's case, he's a very sensible man, a grown-up and the last thing we need on New Year's Eve are 'the grown-ups'! We need another musical revolution like in 1977 when the Sex Pistols arrived on the scene and shook things up a little. 

What's really annoying about new year shows is that they're not live so when you see Jools or Ronan or whoever it might be bringing in the new year, you know that it's probably recorded just before or immediately after Christmas (during Crimbo Limbo). So I can't take it seriously when he's wishing people a happy new year or when people are embracing one another as the new year beds in...because I know it's all lies.

The fireworks roared and rumbled for all of 10 minutes and then stopped, normally they tend to go on all night (or most of it) but not this year. There were calls for unity and togetherness but I sensed politics at play and wanted none of it.

My left foot... revisited (again!)

Last March I went down the gym and took an induction course. I'd joined the club to swim and then I thought I'd be clever and join the gym, which cost nothing extra so why not? While in the gym I tried various pieces of kit, one being something that required me to push my feet against something and I knew immediately that I'd injured myself in some way or other. Within a day or two I was proved right and I started hobbling around the place. So in the end I went to a local GP hub, had X rays and blood tests and nothing came back, there was nothing wrong with me, I must have just injured myself. But it's always my left foot. In the end the ailment left the building and I was back to normal again. If you check back on this blog there's virtually a whole month between my post on the subject and the next post, which was the time I rode to Sevenoaks and back and stopped off at Soprano's for lunch. Anyway, it was earlier in the year. We're now six months down the line and I must have done something (I know not what) to get the old foot ailment back again. This time I'm not going to see anyone about it because I don't think GPs know anything, they never have any concrete answers even if I'd dropped a piece of concrete on my foot, they'd still debate what was wrong and not give me any answers; it's the same with blood tests, they never tell you the results, presumably because nothing is wrong (that's what I was told, actually) so here I am, hobbling around. Well, not now, it's gotten better. Last night I awoke around 0130hrs (I've not been sleeping well). I came downstairs, poured myself a glass of water and dropped a Nurofen, just one, and then I had the best night's sleep ever, waking around 0800hrs and feeling that my foot was better. By and large it is, but I'll probably drop another Nurofen before too long. It's great to feel better, though, really great. My whole mood lifts when I'm feeling good, as I do now, but I'm not fit enough to get on the bike, perhaps tomorrow. I've had this foot thing back again since Wednesday. I was in town on Wednesday, Mayfair to be precise, and I was limping, but nobody I was meeting noticed (thank God!) as there's nothing worse than being recognised as the underdog, the disabled one, but as I say they didn't notice anything, I concealed it well. The last thing I wanted was sympathy. After a business meeting I chilled in a teashop in Shepherds Market. I'm not sure if there's an apostrophe or not, it could be Shepherd's Market, but not in the way that St James's Park has the double 's'. I sat there listening to some kind of Middle Eastern music and then left. I was going to read my book there, Eric Ambler's Passage of Arms, which is great, but the teashop or cafe or whatever you want to call it didn't have the right vibe so I refrained from reading and just sat there watching the guy outside with the shisha pipe, what a disgusting habit is that? Like smoking generally. Horrible. And I should know, I used to smoke. I started at around 19 years old, stopped when I was 25 and then 10 years later started again, for about a year, then stopped for good. Awful habit, but I just gave up, I'm one of those people, I can take or leave things, I don't think nicotine had anything to do with my smoking. I wasn't addicted, put it that way, I wasn't going to be wearing patches or chewing gum, I just smoked and then I stopped. I was more into the bits and bobs that went with smoking: the cigarettes themselves (Marlboro Reds were my favourite, or Camel or Benson & Hedges Gold); then there was the tin, when I smoked roll-ups I had a tin, full of Old Holborn, plus the papers, the Rizlas, and the Zippo lighter of course. Smoking was fun, but like all fun things it wasn't good for my health so I gave up, pure and simple, and I don't miss it, I just stopped. Likewise with drinking, I just stopped and I never looked back, never had any kind of cold turkey, I stopped and I haven't started, it's been nearly eight years. Okay, so it's Saturday morning and I'm watching YouTube videos of big waves and cruise ships capsizing (almost). Not sure what we're doing today. Somebody's coming round to collect a wicker chair that's languishing in our garage, we don't need it, but it's quite good and somebody's on their way round (we hope), meaning we can't go out until they've been and gone. As a result, it's one of those slobby mornings. After my four-part crapola lunch on Thursday (Marmite Sandwich, Mulligatawny soup, cheese and mustard pickle sandwich, chocolate HobNobs and tea) I kept up the trend with a breakfast of more HobNobs and a Marmite sandwich, no porridge for me today. Perhaps I'll keep up the crapola cuisine all day if we go out anywhere today. If the foot gets better perhaps a ride tomorrow, a 15-miler even! Who knows? Not much else to say other than next door got burgled and the burglars sound like they were pros. Doubtless they won't be caught, they never are: 'no arrests have been made'. I want that on a tee-shirt.

It's nearly 2pm. Johnny and Jake are on the TV making their own chocolate and we're still waiting for the person to come round and collect the wicker sofa. She might not turn up, a strong possibility if you ask me. The plan is a drive to Guildford, which means I'll take a trip to Anderton's, check out the guitars. I'm off next week. I need a break I really do and when I go back I'm going to be different. I'm going to keep out of the politics and just do my job and not sit there working beyond the time when I can officially go home. I'm going to chill more at home, read in the conservatory and not constantly freak myself out listening to what other people think of this and that, which just makes me angry and rebellious when there's absolutely no need. In many ways I've been foolish. The moment I let others in, that was the problem. Leaving doors open is always a problem. My advice is close all doors, lock them, don't listen to others, just do your fucking job.

The Gibson Garage

After the work was over today I took a stroll up Demonbreun Street in the direction of the Gibson Garage. There are two such establishments in the world: one is here in Nashville, USA, and the other is in London. The Nashville store was the first (and is only around 15 minutes from the Gibson factory) and the London outlet is smaller but on two floors, unlike the one in the Music City.

A Gibson Les Paul.

I guess you have to be a bit of rock lover to appreciate the Gibson Garage and, of course, it helps if you can play the guitar. I can't play a note and sometimes that makes me feel like an imposter, which I am, but, like Harley Davidson motorcycles - I can't ride a motorcycle either - Gibson guitars are something to behold. I decided a few years ago that passing my bike test and buying a Hog, as they're known, would result in an early death, so I stopped the idea dead in its tracks and haven't thought about it ever since. Guitars, however, are a little safer, so I am one of those people who promise themselves that one day they'll buy and learn how to play a guitar. It's become real and in so many ways I'm only days, hours, perhaps even minutes, from simply buying one and then watching countless videos on YouTube to teach myself how to play. They reckon that self-taught people in any sphere of life are normally the best at what they do; there are countless rock stars who taught themselves how to play and there are countless chefs who taught themselves how to cook.

So, I crossed the car park just past the old blue pick-up truck that is advertising the Gibson Garage to passers-by and soon I'm there, in the thick of it, Gibson guitars on an overhead conveyor belt threading their way around the store, rock music blaring out and books by Slash, or about Slash's guitars, on display for all to see. This is the sort of place where you can find rock stars, but the staff say little about who they are and when they're in town and, therefore, likely to come visit. Last Saturday, or was it Friday?, Metallica played here so there was probably a good chance that James Hetfield would drop by and, you know what? If he did, he'd probably be invisible, you wouldn't see him and then somebody would announce that Hetfield had left the building and everybody would be slightly miffed that they missed him.

Gibson guitars are not cheap. At the low end you can probably pick one up for around a couple of grand, but they can cost thousands of pounds. Go to Denmark Street in London's Soho and you'll see what I mean. Gibson Les Pauls dating back to the sixties or even earlier can cost huge sums of money, like £30,000 or even more, but these are special guitars and they certainly look the business.

I actually considered buying my bass guitar while I was in Nashville purely because I figured it would be a good story, a good piece of provenance, if the guitar I owned originated from the Gibson Garage in Nashville. What a story! But it's funny how things work out or how there's no way you can escape the con of capitalism. The Epiphone Grabber bass looked like the perfect instrument for me, it was $999 and that translated to something like £750 in UK money, a considerable saving in other words if I did buy it there and then – and I could have – but there are many catches, the first being would I be happy to place my newly purchased Grabber bass in the hold of an aircraft for a nine-hour flight home? Matt, one of the sales guys in the store, who I spent hours chatting to about rock musicians, spoke of many horror stories. He said the best thing would be to buy one of those ultra-rigid cases, but they're not always the answer. There are stories about guitars in cases being ruined, being run over by those electric carts that pull the small trucks of suitcases behind them en route to the plane, and then there's the cost. How much would it cost I wonder? Small display units can set people back around £80 so a guitar might cost double that: already that difference in cost is narrowing despite the fact that the pound is running well against the dollar at present (the chief reason for buying the guitar here and not in the UK). I checked out the UK-based Amazon site and the Anderton's website listed the Grabber bass as selling for £929 – remember, brand new in the US it's worth $999 and that money converted to pounds is only (as I said) around £750. So a guitar that's only worth £750 or so retails in the UK at £929, almost £200 more than it's actually worth. But, the risk is trying to get it across the Atlantic in the hold of a Boeing 777 (or whatever the plane might be) is huge. Apparently, you can buy a seat for the bass guitar and treat it as a passenger! Imagine that! You buy an extra ticket. How much would that cost I wonder, and suddenly the guitar is costing me much much more than it's worth. You can also ask to take the guitar to the gate rather than place it on the conveyor at check-in. In short it's a nightmare and, as I say, you can't beat the system. I found that rather annoying and even more so as it seems that it's difficult to win in this world. Wouldn't it be good to be able to buy the guitar in the USA for £750, in Nashville, the Music City of all places and, for once, beat the system? But no, it's not to be; I'll be honest, the injustice of it all has been bugging me and I'm feeling the grief just a little more than normal purely because I caught a cold on the plane coming over here. I was sitting next an old bag who wouldn't stop coughing, she kept putting a mask on and then taking it off and I sat next to her for nine hours straight, probably a bit longer. I wish I hadn't been so nice to her now as I'm coughing and spluttering and my nose is running and I'm not sleeping well, all because I drew the short straw and found myself sitting next to the old bat. I'm feeling a little better but not by much so all I need is the realisation that, if I wanted the Grabber bass from Nashville I'd have to pay over £200 more than it's worth. I considered buying it online from an American website, but I'm sure there would have been shipping charges that again would fuck me over. So, my dream (like so many of my dreams) has been shattered. I won't be buying a bass guitar in Nashville, the fucking Music City, because the system is against me – and everyone else. Perhaps if I bought the guitar, hired a car, drove to New York, booked myself on a cruise to the UK, then I might get away with it, but they'd probably think of something, like customs, to get me paying that additional £200 and I can't afford to be out of the country for another week sailing the Atlantic with a new bass guitar. I'll shut up now, I'll say no more other than to say I'm disappointed.

With my work done I took a stroll to the CVS along 21st Avenue to buy some Sleepy Time Bear tea, a bit of a hike for a few teabags, but I like them so I did it, then I found myself in Badass Coffee again, armed with an Eric Ambler novel. I ordered a tea, sat down on a leather sofa and read a chapter in between nodding off (put a jet-lagged me on a comfortable sofa and I will fall asleep). Well, I didn't fall asleep as such I just nodded off for a split second, it was nothing to do with the book, it was me. I've spent the week walking around a lot and, I hasten to add, eating a lot of junk food, chips with everything – apart from one Japanese meal in a restaurant next door to the Gibson Garage. I've also been going to bed really early, like before 8pm because there's nowt to do and nobody to talk to. My colleague and I have been having early dinners and then parting company, me taking an Uber back to my hotel, which is around a 45-minute walk from the downtown. 

My sleep regime has been interesting: hitting the sack around eight and then waking up around 0200hrs, calling home and then hitting the sack again after about an hour. I thought it was working well until, one day – the day before today – I never got back to sleep. Anyway, sleep patterns aside, all has been well.

As for the Moxy Hotel, something else I needed today was a kettle to make tea in the room, plus, of course, a few teabags and some 'dairy creamer' (I don't expect semi-skimmed milk). But no, if I wanted a cup of tea I'd have to come downstairs to the upbeat 'common room' from where I write this and pay for it, although noise is good when I'm writing. I know some people need silence but for me it's the complete opposite most of the time unless I'm writing an article that's a little more complicated, which I'm not at the moment. So, another lost point for the Moxy. On the plus side, though, like all hotels on trips of longer than a couple of nights, I'm starting to regard it as 'home' and look forward to the moment I get back here and head for my room, my sanctuary if you like, and I'm beginning to feel a little guilty about slagging it off, even if my comments about no wardrobe, no desk and no tea and coffee-making facilities all stand. A word on the staff, they're great (that's two words) but they are, they're helpful and friendly and what more could you ask from a hotel? Well, a wardrobe and a desk would be nice. Alright, alright, sorry, I won't mention them again!

It's 1930 or 7.30pm, I'm sorry about this post's house style inconsistencies on time. Normally I use the 24-hour clock but for some reason that's gone awry, not that it matters, let's embrace the inconsistency!

The music continues, there are the games, the travel Scrabble, the chess board, the tethered table skittles, the giant Jenga and the giant Connect Four and there are people enjoying it. I feel like an outsider, an imposter and while I'm thinking that perhaps I should eat something, one thing the Moxy is NOT good at is F&B, the food and beverage operation leaves a lot to be desired and it's a shame. I wish there was a restaurant, table service, a bit of variety on the menu, but there isn't, just the square bar offering pizza-based products like 'chicken, bacon and ranch'. I don't want that, I get enough of that sort of cuisine downtown, even in the decent hotels. 

Why are so many Americans the size of dust carts? Because of all the pizza and burgers and chips they eat, that's why. But listen, I like the Americans, always have, I just wish, for their own sakes, that they lost a bit of weight. I doubt I'll eat or drink anything now until tomorrow and then I'll visit Biscuit Love again. I'm on my own, there's nobody to talk to and nothing much to do, I've visited the local shops at the end of Belcourt and they're not that good, even Badass Coffee ain't brilliant, it lacks something, like atmosphere, and the rest of the shops up there are boutiques or those places that sell scented candles and other tat. 

Vueling Flight VY6307 1350hrs Bilbao to London Gatwick Airport

I've been having strange dreams these past two nights, dreams I can't really remember a great deal about. One involved Mulder from the X Files appearing from inside one of those office water coolers, that was a bit weird, I can tell you. There were others, but I can't recall them exactly. None of them were fretful. It must have something to do with being ultra-chilled out last night in the hotel (see previous post). I really must make a point of reading more often instead of watching television. In fact, I haven't looked at any television or, for that matter, newspapers, since Sunday last week. In that sense, you could say that I've been minding my own business and simply getting on with the business of getting through the days, travelling from city-to-city by train, checking into hotels and engaging with various people along the way. That's probably why I'm so chilled out. I haven't been subjected to media crap, be it television news bulletins, talk radio shows like LBC or chat shows or awful programmes like The One Show with it's horrible presenters and guests. Already, you can see that by just thinking of them all, I'm getting a little ratty. That said, my current chilled out state of mind saw me sail through security without getting irritated and now, at 1100hrs I'm sitting in Giraffe on the air side of Bilbao airport sipping tea and eating, yes, I know, a chocolate croissant. I didn't want any of it, but I needed somewhere to sit down so that I could pass the time of day for a little bit. There's not much here to be honest, only Giraffe as far as I can see and couple of high-stooled bar operations. 

I awoke early and then fell asleep, waking again at 0724 or something along those lines. I showered and headed downstairs for another great breakfast and then I returned to my room to start packing away. This didn't take me long and then I headed for the airport in Taxi number 232. It was only around 20 minutes.

Outside, the skies are blue, which is nice to see and, oddly, I'm sitting in roughly the same place I was sitting the last time I flew out of Bilbao. How do I know that? Because there are four conifers that were there when I was last here a few years ago. On that occasion, I'd been further west along the coast at Aviles, green Spain they call it and it is green, not sun-scorched and barren like down in the south.

I'm flying back with Vueling and I have a window seat, seat 17F, that's on the right hand side of the plane. They're a good airline, I've flown with them once, possibly twice before. I do need to find out what gate I should flying out from, that should be on the notice boards soon I hope, in fact, I might go and look now just to see if I'm in the right place, I'm likely not to be. Hold on... I can't find anything that gives the flight details, it's not even on my boarding pass, although it might be Gate B10. I'm in Boarding Group Two and we start boarding at 1310hrs, that's a good two hours from now.

It's amazing how there are blue skies on one side of the airport and grey cloud on the other side. And guess which is which. Yes, you guessed it, the air side where the planes take off is the cloudy side. Of course it is! 

That Bilbao airport has a Giraffe restaurant is great news, but I won't be using it for more than that tea and croissant and I won't be having any in-flight snacks either. The fact that I'm flying into Gatwick means (hopefully) no circling over the airport for hours until a slot to land becomes available. It also means I'm down the road from where I live. Well, not down the road, but it's much easier than Heathrow. I'll probably get the train to East Croydon and cab it from there.

I might come back here once I've established that my plane will take off from a "B" gate. There's a crappy 'jazz' version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen playing and it's not at all festive. I want my Christmas carols sung properly by a choir, not some second rate jazz band.

Christmas beckons. One more week at work, which should be pretty chilled, then I'm off and I can relax and not think about work stuff. I'll certainly be reading, as I've found a new author, although he's not that new, his name is Eric Ambler. He's old school, his novels feature people who sport a pince-nez and the last time I enjoyed a book of this ilk it was way back and it was Graham Greene. I love Greene, Our Man in Havana, A Burnt-Out Case, Ministry of Fear, The Quiet American, Stamboul Train, The Heart of the Matter, there's many of them and I've read most of them. Ambler writes along similar lines but without the obsession with Catholicism.

I'm going to take a wander, but might well come back here later to either add more to this blog post or to have something to eat, although I very much doubt the latter; more likely I'll be back here updating this post, but in all honesty I can't think of what I would add, I was clutching at straws anyway.

The flight home was fine, no turbulence and, once above the clouds, clears skies and even clearer skies as we approached the UK. We flew over Brighton and I could see the pier clearly and then, within a few minutes we landed. I was so engrossed with Eric Ambler's Epitaph for a Spy that I was the last person to get off the plane, well, almost. I found a Pret a Manger, ordered tea and an avocado and egg mayo baguette (my lunch) and finished it before catching the train to East Croydon and a cab home.

For all of my Spain posts I'll sort out photographs on my return to England as for some reason I had a technology meltdown in the hotel room and now I have to 'browse as guest' to be able to access the blog.

1737 Madrid Charmartin to Bilbao Abando...

My decision to dine at the Taberna La Taba was definitely a mistake. I had considered the restaurant at the Pestana but ruled it out for no reason whatsoever and decided instead to hit the dark streets of Madrid in search of something better. As explained in the previous post, what an error! A similar situation arose the following morning on the day I was due to travel to Bilbao by train from Madrid. I was under the impression that I would be checking out not long after breakfast and walking to Madrid Atocha where I assumed the Bilbao train would depart from, but not only was it not showing on the Trainline website, my suspicion was that something had happened and that there was no longer a 1205. When I spoke to the hotel receptionist and he tried the website, his suggestion was that the train might have sold out and, therefore, was no longer showing as available.

There were only two options left: one was to catch a train around 1330hrs – I think it was a little later – or catch a train at 1737hrs. Both would get me in to Bilbao around 2230hrs, but the earlier one would mean two changes. I decided to book the later train and then walked along the Calle de Atocha to the railway station to buy a ticket. When I got there I was told that the train didn't depart from Atocha but from Charmartin station which was on the other side of town, or, to be more precise, not anywhere near Atocha. This was of no consequence but it did mean that I had a day to kill in Madrid and the prospect of a walk all the way back along the Calle de Atocha, which boosted my steps to over 12,000 for the day.

I had lunch sitting outside, but kept my coat on, at the Restaurante San Millan where I ordered salmon with potatoes, some bread and a bottle of mineral water, the latter being almost too cold to drink in the winter air. The salmon wasn't the best in the world and there were a few worrying bones to contend with; I always imagine myself choking and somebody having to give me the Heimlich manoeuvre or, worst still, rushing me off to hospital for a tracheotomy. Fortunately I was careful enough for neither situation to arise but as I made my way back to the Pestana I began to wish I'd stayed there as it was a far better environment, far better food and nowhere near as cold as sitting outside, under one of those huge square umbrellas next to a gas flame that, admittedly, made things bearable. Furthermore, if I had stayed at the hotel I could have chilled out a little more (but not in the sense of temperature) and I could have enjoyed a pleasant lunch without fish bones and then simply sat there reading until it was time to go. But no, I chose the harder and more unpleasant option.

After lunch I made another stupid decision: taking a taxi to Charmartin station around 1430hrs... far too early for catching the 1737 train. I didn't like the railway station one bit, mainly because it was undergoing reconstruction in some way or other and everything was chaotic as a result. I had to go through airport style security again, which wasn't really a problem and when I came out the other side I found there was nowhere to sit and chill out for anything longer than a few minutes, ie half an hour at most. Oh for a Starbucks, I thought, keying the brand name into my phone's GPS and then following its confusing instructions which took me away from the station and into a region just behind it with three huge skyscrapers, one being a hotel, the others office blocks, and behind them a trendy development of shops and restaurants and businesses where I found a lot of 'young professionals' and a Starbucks where I ordered a large white mug of tea while I sat there like a spy photographing my receipts. I drank the tea and then, not wishing to drag my heavy suitcase any further, I took a taxi back to the station and then sat down in a small café watching the departures board as I sipped a cup of tea from a paper cup. Eventually the Bilbao train was announced as departing from Platform 20 (or was it 19? It doesn't matter) and the final train journey of the trip began. I was in coach 8, seat 19B, an aisle seat and most of the journey was in darkness so I couldn't tell whether the train was travelling through another interesting wilderness like the one seen from the window of the Barcelona-Madrid train. It was roughly a five-hour ride and pretty boring. Thankfully, I had two books (as mentioned in the previous post). On this occasion I continued to read Keith Richards' amazing autobiography, Life, and that kept my mind off the journey. When you can't see the outside world life can be very boring indeed. Passengers came and went and eventually it was just me in a group of four seats with a table in the middle. I paid a short visit to the buffet car and had a cheese and ham sandwich and a cup of tea (standard train fayre it has to be said, my diet whilst travelling has been pretty poor).

When we finally reached Bilbao Abando station, I took a short cab ride to the hotel, which was amazing. Very opulent and I have a huge room (room 710). It sports a massive bed, an amazing rain shower (the best yet) and a great restaurant downstairs on the first floor, of which, more later.

It was too late to eat anything so I decided to crash, working out the lights before turning in. As avid readers will know, I don't like sleeping in total darkness, never have, although at home we do turn off all the lights, but in hotels I like some light even if it's just the light from the city outside. There are many occasions where I test the lights and work out the level of darkness I can cope with and once this little exercise is over with I get on with the business of sleeping. The great thing about the Catalonia Gran Via is that the bathroom lights have many settings, one of which is so subtle that it's ideal for those who don't like total darkness, not that there's such a thing as a complete black-out as the curtains can always be drawn back. 

I slept fairly well and headed down for breakfast around 0700hrs. The breakfast, incidentally, was wonderful and well worth the 20 Euros I was required to pay for it. Fresh fruit, cereal, a cooked breakfast, tea, it was to die for and I can't wait for tomorrow morning as a result. The day ahead, I discovered, required two long cab rides of £120 each, it was the only way I could reach the company I had come to see and they were glad that I'd made the journey. When I returned to the hotel I had a few minutes before my last meeting of the trip, a very pleasant lunch in Zaka Restaurante, a short 9-minute walk from the hotel. Again, however, on the return trip, I managed to take a wrong turn and ended up walking for miles using the GPS on my phone. What was supposed to be under 10 minutes took almost an hour and I was feeling a little weary when I reached the hotel, so much so that I relaxed on the sofa in my room until around 1730hrs when I thought I would either go out in search of another restaurant or, what appeared to be the best option, go and sit in the downstairs bar on a cosy sofa and read Eric Ambler's Epitaph for a Spy. Now, if you don't enjoy reading, you won't understand this next bit. I started reading Ambler's novel and found it absolutely compelling, a real page turner, it was brilliant and it wasn't long before I was transported into another world. I was no longer in the hotel but in the novel and it was truly great. I don't think I've ever been so relaxed and so 'out of this world' as I was downstairs in the hotel bar. So relaxed that when the waiter came over with a menu I decided to stay there and not go outside, who needed to walk the streets for a restaurant when the food and service on offer in the hotel was far more acceptable? Not me! I remained in state of relaxation for as long as I read the book and even when the food arrived (baked salmon, 22 Euros, and a two bottles of sparkling mineral water, not forgetting a cup of vanilla tea, nothing excessive) I was still totally engrossed and had to almost physically separate myself from the fictional world created so admirably by Ambler. I've decided that I will read more of his novels as they are escapist but in a really good way, I'm not talking Lee Child or any of that sort of novel, or, dare I say it, Le Carre or other spy novelists, Ambler was/is in a class of his own. In fact, I was so chilled that I forgot to pay. I left the bar in a kind of trance of relaxation and it was only when I reached my room that I remembered and immediately took the lift back downstairs to do so, explaining that the meal was so good and I was so relaxed that I simply forgot. Not that there was any problem. I was staying in the hotel. The mark of a good writer is somebody who can take you out of yourself and Ambler certainly managed that. In fact, I can't think of a book I've read that kept me entranced for chapter after chapter. I've almost finished it! Similarly, it has to be said, with Keith Richards' book, although while fact is often stranger than fiction, it is understandably totally different. Both have the power to take the reader out of themselves, but I'm giving the prize to Ambler for dreaming up such a great tale.

I'm now back in my room and sitting here writing this blogpost. In so many ways, I have run out of track and will have to resort to flying back to London tomorrow. Earlier today I was told that there was a train from San Sebastien to Paris. I wish I had known this, but, either way it would have added another day to the trip and I need to be home. I missed my birthday to make this trip as, I discovered, did my colleague who, surprisingly, shares the same birthday, but it has been worth it. I rolled what could have been two trips in to one, hence being out of the country for a whole week, but tomorrow I return and I can't wait. Unfortunately, even Eric Ambler won't be able to take my mind off of the flight, it's already starting to bother me, but I'll have time to read at the airport so hopefully I'll be able to 'escape' again like I did tonight.

[I returned to Barcelona in June 2025, for more on this click here.