At Vienna Airport...

As soon as I engage with the mechanisms of travel, I start to get angry. And I'm not always right. Well, to be fair, I didn't get angry, just mildly and inwardly annoyed and it turned out that he was right and I was wrong. And by 'he' I mean a taxi driver who hailed from Ankara in Turkey. The thing is, I just couldn't remember as there was so much going on and it had been a few days since I last engaged with Austrian trains. To be fair, I've had other things on my mind; I'd been in Linz and from Linz I'd arrived at Wein Hbf, the central station, and for some reason, when I hailed a cab with a view to travelling to the airport, I thought I'd have to go back to the main station to pick up the so-called CAT train. Turns out that the CAT train goes from Wein Mitte. In fact, I remember, on the inward journey from the airport, that I couldn't figure out how to get to the central station from where I would pick up a train to Linz. I had to ask for information. So, on my arrival at the central station from Linz on Tuesday evening, I took a cab to my hotel, the Intercontinental. Fast forward a few days – five to be precise – and there I was sitting in the aforementioned Turkish gentleman's cab insisting that he takes me to the central station when, in reality, he was right, I needed to go to Wein Mitte. But could I be told? No. "Take me to the central station," I insisted until I realised he might be telling the truth. He was telling the truth so we went to Mitte, although he was angling for me to go all the way to the airport by cab, which would have cost me 45 Euros. Perhaps that was why I was reticent to take his word for anything – I thought he was after my money (he was, of course). But why should I take a cab to the airport when I had already purchased a return CAT ticket (roughly 12 Euros each way). So he dropped me at Wein Mitte and I walked straight on to a CAT train. Within minutes it left the station and soon I was at the airport. And that's when it got worse. 

Cafe Franzel at Vienna Airport

I tell you what I can't stand: I hate it when we're given all the work to do but the price doesn't come down. It happens in supermarkets with the self-service check-outs. Why do I have to do the job of the check out assistant? And if they expect me to, why can't I get money off? The answer is simple: capitalist greed, pure and simple. I reach the bit where I'm supposed to check in, one of those ribboned off slalom affairs, so I figured I'd save time and just duck below the barriers and make a b-line for the bag drop. Except it wasn't that simple, I needed to use the auto-check-in terminal first. I was determined not to play ball and decided instead to be lazy and let the assistant teach me how to use the auto check-in terminal, got to keep him employed, I was thinking. He did a great job and soon I was humping my bag on to the conveyor that, hopefully, would take it to the plane I'd be travelling on and I'd pick it up at the baggage reclaim in the UK.

The gate changed to G36

It all ran smoothly and so did security. I was through in minutes and then wandering around, as always, through the Society of the Spectacle ignoring the goods on offer. I bought nothing, but I was extremely angry to find that Jamie Oliver had capitalised on the catering facilities. Jamie's this and Jamie's that, I got out fast and then found myself walking alongside the automated walkway in search of somewhere decent to eat and drink. There was hardly anything.

Cafe Franzl raised its ugly head. There were hardly any seats available (and not enough seats in my opinion) and there was a queue. All I wanted was a green tea, but I couldn't be bothered to queue for it, so I walked on by and now I sit opposite said café without a drink.

Earlier, I had taken a long walk of 4.41 miles. I mooched about, went through a park, went down to the river, crossed the bridge, crossed back, found a restaurant for lunch, had some pasta and a Pellegrino and then headed back to the Intercontinental to pick up my luggage and head for the airport. That was when I met the taxi driver who insisted I needed to go to Wein Mitte. As you know, he was right. And now I wait. It's 1523hrs, my flight takes off at 1715hrs so that's almost two hours and there's not much to do here. I'm going to check out Cafe Frankl in a second to see what they have to offer, but I don't fancy much. But then they changed my Gate to G36, a hike and a half, but I got there and the first thing I saw was a bar/café and a man behind the counter shouted: "Big one?" holding up an empty beer glass. "No, I'll have a green tea," I said, grabbing a bottle of Evian. "Fancy an apple cake, Austrian, very good for you?" I couldn't be bothered to argue that the cake was probably not good for me, but I thought I'd have it anyway and I sat, but not for long, I had a plane to catch.

At last somewhere decent to chill out...for all of five minutes

I finished up and paid and then wandered towards gate G36, which was a fair hike. I didn't use the automated walkway because I figured I needed the exercise after all the sitting down I've been doing. When I reached the gate there were loads of chattering young girls and I guessed it was a school trip. I boarded the plane, took my seat (17F, a window seat) and then off we went. Not only did the girls scream as the plane took over, there was also a crying baby that didn't stop for the entire flight. There were mild bits of turbulence, but nothing to get upset about, but I couldn't really settle as a result. I enjoyed the free chocolate (which I remember from the flight out) and I'd brought on board my own bottle of Evian, that was all I had. The skies weren't clear, but there were patches where it was possible to see the ground below and soon we were making our descent into London Heathrow. Once below the cloud all was clear: the Millennium Dome, Canary Wharf, the Gherkin, the Cheese Grater, the London Eye, Waterloo railway station, the Thames winding its way through the city and then the light industrial buildings in the hinterlands around the airport. The landing was fairly smooth, there was a long wait (or a longish wait) for baggage reclaim but soon I was through customs and on my way towards the Elizabeth Line, no more extortionate trips on the Heathrow Express, I thought. Hayes and Harlington, Southall and eventually Paddington where I jumped off and took the tube, the Bakerloo line and then the Victoria Line, to Victoria where I found the 2021hrs East Grinstead train. I was home before 2100hrs. 

Shabbily-dressed people at Victoria station, London

What struck me when I reached the UK was how shabby it all looked; not only were the underground trains creaking and shaking about as they ferreted their way through the tunnels, they were dirty and unkempt... and so were the people. Everybody, including me, looked shabby in old jeans and trainers, dark grey or black anoraks, the complete opposite of Vienna where the women dressed smartly, the men were well turned out and, of course, the architecture and, needless to say, the culture, was way above the level found in the grim UK.

Back at London Heathrow...

When I reached home, the house was cold and so was England. I'd been used to the 28 degrees of Austria, I'd been lying on top of the duvet all week, getting bitten by mosquitoes, but now I found myself underneath it. 

And now it's Sunday morning and the house has been rearranged, lights have been moved around and the dining table too. I'm not sure, it's all a bit gloomy-looking at night, but I need to be a little subtle about it. God! We need the fireplace sorted out as a matter of urgency. Yes, I'm back to the realities of life and it always takes some getting used to.

Sunday 3 August – to the Tatsfield Churchyard for an amazing Bakewell tart

I was feeling unwell – but not anymore. It was down to past-their-sell-by-date blueberries and resulted in yours truly feeling the need to be in tune with the location of public conveniences while out and about – but only for a day. I felt weary all Friday and by Sunday I had recovered.

A perfect Bakewell tart made by Phil

I don't often frequent public conveniences as they're not very nice places to visit at the best of times. I remember once, in Sutton, Surrey, my hometown, there used to be a public toilet at the top of the Throwley Way – it's probably still there – but the off-putting bit was the attendant who I once spied eating a Sunday roast in his small office INSIDE the public convenience in question. He must have had a fairly good view of his 'customers' doing what comes naturally and I'm guessing he was used to the putrid stench that must have invaded his space (and his dinner table) 24/7. I don't know about you, but I can think of many better places to enjoy roast beef and Yorkshire pudding (or any meal for that matter) – although he'd be in the right place if the beef was a little past its sell-by date.

"Keep away from my tart! " Phil and his Bakewell
at the Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 3 August 2014.

But enough of this crap. Suffice it to say that I wasn't feeling on the top of the world although, oddly, I didn't feel ill, which is always a bonus. I felt well enough to get myself acquainted, on Saturday afternoon, with a rather charming public convenience on the beach in Broadstairs, Kent, but I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that I was glad there was nobody waiting outside my cubicle when I sheepishly emerged from behind the blue door.

There was no cycling on Saturday morning as it was raining during the early hours so nobody went out, although Phil sent me a text to say he'd changed his mind about aborting the night before and was ready for a ride if anybody was interested. Andy hadn't bothered and my phone was off so I didn't pick up his text until it was too late. Instead, I drove to Broadstairs in Kent for a largely pleasant day of walking along the seafront and taking in the fresh sea air of the East Kent coast. I'd felt under the weather all day on Friday and had spent most of the time lazing around due to my generally weary state of mind.

Another awful pair of shorts, a silly hat and that terrible tee-shirt again. 

Yours truly holding court at the Tatsfield Churchyard early Sunday morning.

We rode out on Sunday morning to the Tatsfield Churchyard and Phil had made a tremendous Bakewell Tart, courtesy of a Jamie Oliver recipe.

When we reached the churchyard the sobering sight of new graves reminded us that life was not only too short but too fragile. Moments later and after the shock that we're not immortal – we knew that anyway, but whenever we're reminded it's always a bit of a shock – we watched as Phil unwrapped the Bakewell tart and were amazed that he'd managed to keep it intact in his rucksack on the eight-mile ride. It was in perfect condition. We were equally amazed when he produced a rather dangerous-looking knife to cut it with and another utensil to ensure it made a clean break from the base of the flan dish in which it was baked.

The proof of the pudding was, as always, in the eating and it goes without saying that it was a fantastic Bakewell tart. We drank tea, chatted about this and that and then headed home again.

The weather was fantastic too, although there was a coolish breeze as we headed out at 0630hrs. The day remained bright and sunny, however, and we were all glad that we rode out on what became the perfect summer's day. I later drove to Rye in East Sussex followed by Camber Sands.